The eggs were always hard boiled. Their shells cracked, still steaming from all that morning boiling.
"Hool murning, boilin' and boilin'"our home sister would inform us in her cracked Tamil accent,greeting us with a dizzyingly white smile. A strong waft of sandal weaving into our crowd from her direction.She would have bathed and changed so early in the morning, unlike the lot of us , still sweaty from the PT.She would have this small mark of ash and sandalwood paste on her fore head, revealing not only her vegetarian/brahmin status, but also her fastidious religiosity.Not to be messed with. Her buck-tooth projecting beyond her lips, even when her mouth was closed, she hustled around , reeking of efficiency and talcum("Pond's dreamflower,from the csd," we would bitch behind her back)
My tiny roommate would make an elaborate ceremony of eating those goddamn eggs. She would shell them , with great care, then proceeded to mash them up with the back of the fork; then , she would butter her toasts at leisure. It was a test of patience sitting next to her, waiting for her to eat up . Rest of us would have wolfed down our toasts, eggs , tea in a mad frenzy.There being a valid reason to the rapid repast; for the moment tiny took a bite of her perfectly buttered toast, and was about to eat the first spoon of egg ,the bell would ring, for roll-call.
All of us then lined up, chewing our last remaining portions,hissing through tongues scalded with super-hot tea, and wiping wet hands/lips on hastily concealed hankies.
Most of our teachers would read out our names, pass a few nondescript remarks(on weather/on regular offenders/late -comers)we would giggle in acknowledgement,and the roll-call would end,on a bland note.
But some teachers, like their personalities, would make this small time -slot (roughly 15 odd minutes) memorable. This piece is a tribute to those crazy, godawful, and downright insane" imparters of knowledge."
A lady( from Haryana , I think) would ask to see if we had polished the back of our shoes. She would compare that part of our attire to" Pakistan".
Another nightmare, would bark out our names with bright -red coloured lipsticked lips, which would pout distastefully, and would send our hearts racing if they grimaced , in all their red glory.Every speck in our pristine white dresses would make themselves visible on "her" day. If she decided to check pocket articles, all hell would break loose. A mad scramble behind the backs for missing "articles" would ensue. Providing great deal of amusement to seniors lined up behind (we stood according to seniority).
"You are nightingales, you are expected to carry the "universe "in your pocket!! Get it !! " She would bark, in impeccable english, and we would gulp.Universe indeed( pocket articles included pens in three colours , ruler, eraser, pencil,a small note pad, a measuring tape, a pair of folding scissors, and a wrist watch), made our pockets, bulge and sag dolefully.
Your's truly had been sent to change her uniform on umpteen occasions , as my uniform would invariably, be grimy.
Another notable was an extremely educated teacher, with Phds under her belt, dressed indifferently, would pretend to be nasty; fail miserably; and gave us one of her famous, endearing, buck-toothed grin.
Greeting the birthday girl had its own hilarious moments. Once, I was entrusted with the job of carrying the card for the birthday girl at the roll-call.In an attempt to keep hands-free (for breakfast) and to conceal it(being a surprise) I pushed it up my shirtfront.Once the name was called out, the card simply wouldn't come out, entangled as it was, in an unholy mesh of loose wool from my jersey. Thus creating a morning of unparalleled hilarity.
The teacher summed it up as - "Very warm wishes".
Another teacher had a funny made up accent, and rode her two-wheeler with her long legs splayed to the sides; earning her the unenviable nick name of a witch(riding her broom). She was normally bad-tempered, and thinking of her as a witch would bring -on giggles, an unforgivable offence.Her duty days would remarkably, coincide with the worst food on the menu.
Brinjal and pumpkin curry,dalia kichri, gray colored mutton broth with large,uncooked, onion pieces floating in them ;all deeply loathed, inedible stuff would be doled out. The square entrance to pantry framing her, she would fix us with her basilisk glare as we stuffed our mouths with all these items that tasted almost like mud.
Yup, she would win the most-feared contest, hands-down.
