The neighborhood school where I studied, amidst the chaos of the vegetable market nearby and the peal of bells from the temple opposite the building, was as noisy as the scene outside. Kids ran helter-skelter, teachers had a hard time shouting over the babble of little voices. It wasn’t the kind of atmosphere for learning. As a nine-year-old, I didn’t care much.

I escaped the teacher’s censure by scoring just enough marks, made fewer friends and frequently found myself in the middle of bullies who teased me about my spectacle. Being the only guy in the class with eye glasses meant that I stood out and the bullies had no troubles picking me out.

The fact that I wore eye glasses must’ve had a deeper effect than I could figure, because I didn’t reach out and make friends despite being gregarious as a child growing up in a large family. I was mostly reticent and considered weird given my strange interest in the news headlines the teacher read out in the morning assembly, about the only thing that grabbed my interest.

“I watch your sorry face light up. Is the useless junk in the papers so interesting? Who do you take yourself for? Some kind of a newsreader? Oh look at him man, all blushing…” It was Jaikumar, resident of Jambrathottam, the market area where we were warned not to enter because it was often the flashpoint for gang wars. We never knew what ‘gang wars’ were, but followed the orders.

Jaikumar, the boy with a chocolate brown skin, unkempt hair, a gaunt face and a pair of egg-shaped eyes with a deadly stare, was someone I feared the most. He would yank my shirt collar from behind and hoot at my discomfort. He’d block my way out of school, walk menacingly towards me with the raised fist, then put down his hand, throw his head back in uncontainable laughter at the way he could scare me so easily.

When I was busy with classwork, Jaikumar would sneak up from behind and snatch my specs from the face. I usually drop my pen or notebook in the shock of not seeing things clearly, and though I hated it, I had no choice but to bend down and grope for the thing I dropped, much to Jaikumar’s delight.

The bullies –about four of them- circled me as I was getting home on a hot evening, shielding my eyes from the slanting sunbeams with my hands, threading through hurrying cycle rickshaws, bullock carts laden with steel beams and crowbars, constantly honking motorbikes and the occasional car that led the procession of vehicles.

The boys emerged from the street corner branching out from Rasappa lane where my school was located. I had no clue they were following, until Jaikumar pulled my shirt collar from behind. I turned around in a sudden, urgent motion, startled by the touch, and almost laughed noticing the scared expressions on their faces my movement had caused.

Dillibabu, the short, dark impish kind of a guy, was the first one to advance. Now, even Ganesh and Satish –mild-mannered while not in the company of the other two- were also walking forward, apparently encouraged by my attempt at retreat and escape.

“Look at him, he’s old man wearing a half trouser to pass off as a kid. Would you believe it.” I cringed at Jaikumar’s voice. A heady mix of fear and hatred made me spin back and run, unmindful of the manual carts laden with large iron blades and crowbars brushing past me. All that I seemed to notice was the laughter that followed.

A not-so-gentle reminder of the way I was “pissing in my pants” on that summer evening shadowed me for the rest of my school years. It wouldn’t have been any different for the other boys who were also victimized by the bullies, though none of us spoke about it openly. But the others didn’t wear glasses as I did, and never faced a taunt that touched a raw nerve, and therefore never had to cringe in shame and pain the way I did.

Watching the mirror to dress up, I saw that face, the object of such contempt and ridicule and realized I was hating it too. As I observed the well-rounded face with a long nose and bushy eyebrows watching me back, I wondered if the face would be any different without the thick, dark frame and the pair of oval lenses. The kid on the mirror bit his lips. He appeared more ridiculous with tears fogging his glasses and snot running down his nose.

I avoided the mirror for several days, letting mom coat my face with talcum powder, smear the sandal paste on the forehead and dot its center with the vermilion. And how happy I felt when not having to see that face? Especially not thinking of the spectacle straddling the bridge of my nose.

The bullies disappeared from the terrified mind on Friday evenings, when I tossed away the school bag and watched ‘light and sound’ -the title of the programme that played the latest songs from the blockbuster Tamil movies- in the black-and-white Crown TV that nestled in the corner of the hall.

And then the news, the way the anchors read the names of politicians and scientists, sending waves of excitement and pleasure through my tiny frame. I’d sit straight, hungrily observing every bit of news: April 2, 1981, Argentina invades the British Falklands Island; June 19, 1981: Indian communications satellite APPLE successfully launched; November 10, 1982, Soviet leader Leonid Brezhnev dead; November 15, 1982: Gandhi’s disciple Acharya Vinoba Bhave, hero of the land distribution movement, dead.

The fact that I was learning something new, something happening in the world, would keep me buoyant. Even the thought of the bullies wouldn’t dampen my spirit. And why not? I was learning something none of them would ever manage!

But come Monday morning, the old, funereal film songs from mom’s battered Nelco radio would blend with the blues of going to school. Not the fresh scent of bath soap on our skins, not even the alluring smell of food from the kitchen, would be adequate to lift our spirits, as we moved about like goats readying for sacrifice before the alter of knowledge.

As I walked towards the school, the fear and panic would return like a long-lasting friend. It’d make me turn around ever so discretely to make sure Jaikumar or Dillibabu wouldn’t surprise me by yanking my shirt collar or laugh at the sight of me tripping over the mound of cow dung heaped in the corner.

The neighborhood school where I studied, amidst the chaos of the vegetable market nearby and the peal of bells from the temple opposite the building, was as noisy as the scene outside. Kids ran helter-skelter, teachers had a hard time shouting over the babble of little voices. It wasn’t the kind of atmosphere for learning. As a nine-year-old, I didn’t care much.

I escaped the teacher’s censure by scoring just enough marks, made fewer friends and frequently found myself in the middle of bullies who teased me about my spectacle. Being the only guy in the class with eye glasses meant that I stood out and the bullies had no troubles picking me out.

The fact that I wore eye glasses must’ve had a deeper effect than I could figure, because I didn’t reach out and make friends despite being gregarious as a child growing up in a large family. I was mostly reticent and considered weird given my strange interest in the news headlines the teacher read out in the morning assembly, about the only thing that grabbed my interest.

“I watch your sorry face light up. Is the useless junk in the papers so interesting? Who do you take yourself for? Some kind of a newsreader? Oh look at him man, all blushing…” It was Jaikumar, resident of Jambrathottam, the market area where we were warned not to enter because it was often the flashpoint for gang wars. We never knew what ‘gang wars’ were, but followed the orders.

Jaikumar, the boy with a chocolate brown skin, unkempt hair, a gaunt face and a pair of egg-shaped eyes with a deadly stare, was someone I feared the most. He would yank my shirt collar from behind and hoot at my discomfort. He’d block my way out of school, walk menacingly towards me with the raised fist, then put down his hand, throw his head back in uncontainable laughter at the way he could scare me so easily.

When I was busy with classwork, Jaikumar would sneak up from behind and snatch my specs from the face. I usually drop my pen or notebook in the shock of not seeing things clearly, and though I hated it, I had no choice but bend down and grope for the thing I dropped, much to Jaikumar’s delight.

The bullies –about four of them- circled me as I was getting home on a hot evening, shielding my eyes from the slanting sunbeams with my hands, threading through hurrying cycle rickshaws, bullock carts laden with steel beams and crowbars, constantly honking motorbikes and the occasional car that led the procession of vehicles.

They emerged from the street corner branching out from Rasappa lane where my school was located. I had no clue they were following, until Jaikumar pulled my shirt collar from behind. I turned around in a sudden, urgent motion, startled by the touch, and almost laughed noticing the scared expressions on their faces my movement had caused.

Dillibabu, the short, dark impish kind of a guy, was the first one to advance. Now, even Ganesh and Satish –mild-mannered while not in the company of the other two- were also walking forward, apparently encouraged by my attempt at retreat and escape.

“Look at him, he’s old man wearing a half trouser to pass off as a kid. Would you believe it.” I cringed at Jaikumar’s voice. A heady mix of fear and hatred made me spin back and run, unmindful of the manual carts laden with large iron blades and crowbars brushing past me. All that I seemed to notice was the laughter that followed.

A not-so-gentle reminder of the way I was “pissing in my pants” on that summer evening shadowed me for the rest of my school years. It wouldn’t have been any different for the other boys who were also victimized by the bullies, though none of us spoke about it openly. But the others didn’t wear glasses as I did, and never faced a taunt that touched a raw nerve, and therefore never had to cringe in shame and pain the way I did.

Watching the mirror to dress up, I saw that face, the object of such contempt and ridicule and realized I was hating it too. As I observed the well-rounded face with a long nose and bushy eyebrows watching me back, I wondered if the face would be any different without the thick, dark frame and the pair of oval lenses. The kid on the mirror bit his lips. He appeared more ridiculous with tears fogging his glasses and snot running down his nose.

I avoided the mirror for several days, letting mom coat my face with talcum powder, smear the sandal paste on the forehead and dot its center with the vermilion. And how happy I felt when not having to see that face? Especially not thinking of the spectacle straddling the bridge of my nose.

The bullies disappeared from the terrified mind on Friday evenings, when I tossed away the school bag and watched ‘light and sound’ -the title of the programme that played the latest songs from the blockbuster Tamil movies- in the black-and-white Crown TV that nestled in the corner of the hall.

And then the news, the way the anchors read the names of politicians and scientists, sending waves of excitement and pleasure through my tiny frame. I’d sit straight, hungrily observing every bit of news: April 2, 1981, Argentina invades the British Falklands Island; June 19, 1981: Indian communications satellite APPLE successfully launched; November 10, 1982, Soviet leader Leonid Brezhnev dead; November 15, 1982: Gandhi’s disciple Acharya Vinoba Bhave, hero of the land distribution movement, dead.

The fact that I was learning something new, something happening in the world, would keep me buoyant. Even the thought of the bullies wouldn’t dampen my spirit. And why not? I was learning something none of them would ever manage!

But come Monday morning, the old, funereal film songs from mom’s battered Nelco radio would blend with the blues of going to school. Not the fresh scent of bath soap on our skins, not even the alluring smell of food from the kitchen, would be adequate to lift our spirits, as we moved about like goats readying for sacrifice before the alter of knowledge.

As I walked towards the school, the fear and panic would return like a long-lasting friend. It’d make me turn around ever so discretely to make sure Jaikumar or Dillibabu wouldn’t surprise me by yanking my shirt collar or laugh at the sight of me tripping over the mound of cow dung heaped in the corner.