The Report card

Captain Ramakrishna Naidu was furious. He clutched his son’s report card as he stormed into the house, parking his motorcycle hastily behind it. His wife, Shyamala, was absorbed in a film magazine while their two boys, Shyamu a.k.a, Shyama Prasad and Kittu a.k.a Krishna Prasad, chased each other around the room.

Kittu, wearing his Superman cape, was after Shyamu, who sported a Batman mask. Though comic book friends, in the Naidu household, they were sworn enemies.

“I’m going to make you pay for your crimes, Batman!” Kittu shouted.

“Ha, no way, Superman! I name you Zeroman!” Shyamu teased, slipping out of his brother’s grasp.

“How dare they fail him!” Captain Naidu growled, shaking the report card.

“What happened?” Shyamala asked, lowering her magazine.

“The boys’ report cards have arrived.”

“And?”

“They failed Kittu! His teacher called me and said he’ll have to repeat Lower Kindergarten!”

“Repeat? What do they mean by that?”

“They want him to spend another year in the same class.”

“I know what ‘repeat’ means. Why would he need to repeat?”

“That’s what the teacher said. I told her that wasn’t going to happen. I’m going there tomorrow.”

“I’m coming with you,” Shyamala insisted.

“Bring Kittu too. We’ll leave by ten.”

“Why do I have to go?” Kittu, who knew his vacation stretched for another two weeks, didn’t understand why he needed to visit school during his break.

“Your teacher says you don’t know the alphabet or numbers. They’re going to make you repeat LKG.”

“What does ‘repeat’ mean?”

“You’ll stay in the same class for another year.”

Kittu didn’t see why that was a problem. He liked his classroom, especially how the sunlight would creep across the floor, and how beautiful yellow butterflies would sometimes flutter in, delighting the children. Another year in Lower Kindergarten sounded fun to him.

“I don’t mind staying in the same class,” he said.

“Kittu, you don’t understand. You can’t fail a class. We’re going to talk to your teacher.”

“But my friends will still be there. I can sit at the same desk.”

“No, Kittu. Your friends will move to Upper Kindergarten. You’ll be with a new group of kids.”

That was news to Kittu. He would miss his friendsDavid, who he talked to constantly, and Laxmi, the teacher’s pet, who wasn’t really a friend but had once given him a green crayon when he lost his.

“Do I really have to come?” he tried again.

“Yes,” both his parents replied in unison, effectively ending the discussion.

The next morning, the family of four squeezed onto the motorcycle and set off for the school. Kittu sat in front, holding on to the handlebars, while Shyamu was wedged between their parents on the seat. The school was a five-minute walk from their house, but on the bike, they arrived in just a minutefar too fast, if you asked Kittu.

Captain Naidu, dressed in uniform, had taken half the day off for the meeting. His anger was still evident as they walked straight to the principal’s office. They didn’t have to wait since they had an appointment. Shyamu was asked to sit outside, much to his relief.

“Please come in,” Sister Francesca, the principal of St. Patrick’s, said from behind her large desk. Standing beside her was Sister Alphonse, Kittu’s LKG teacher. Captain Naidu marched in, followed by Shyamala, dragging a reluctant Kittu. The boy wanted nothing to do with the principal’s office, especially not during vacation.

“I demand an explanation for this report card!” Captain Naidu almost shouted, his voice strained with frustration.

“Calm down, Captain Naidu. Let me take a look.” Sister Francesca examined the report card. Kittu had scored poorly in several subjects.

“Is this your son?” she asked.

Shyamala nudged Kittu forward. Sister Francesca studied him for a moment. “I think I remember you.”

Then it came to her. “Ah, you’re the child who didn’t run during the potato race! What’s your name?”

At the mention of the potato race, Kittu squirmed. It was an event he’d rather forget, although Shyamu still found it funny and never missed a chance to tease him about it.

“You’re a special child,” the principal said kindly. “But what happened with your report card? Sister, wasn’t he in your class?”

“Yes, Sister,” replied Sister Alphonse. “During the exams, he couldn’t recite the first four letters of the alphabet or the numbers one to ten. That’s all we teach in LKG.”

“Is that true?” the principal asked. “Your child should know the first four letters and the first ten numbers. That’s the basic requirement.”

“He knows the entire alphabet and can count up to 100,” Captain Naidu asserted.

Sister Alphonse stifled a laugh, but the principal shot her a stern look.

“Is that so? I’d like to hear it right now. Come here, Krishna Prasad,” she said, reading his name from the report card.

Kittu stepped forward, relieved that the principal seemed nice. She was nothing like Sister Alphonse, who constantly pulled his ear in class.

“Can you recite the alphabet for me?” Sister Francesca asked.

Kittu took a deep breath and began. “A, B, C, D…” He paused, and Sister Alphonse almost smirked, but Kittu continued, “E, F, G…” He flawlessly reached Z.

“Now, can you count for me?”

Kittu counted from one to 100 without a hitch.

Sister Francesca was stunned. The boy who was supposed to have failed knew far more than was expected of him. Even the Upper Kindergarten students didn’t know as much. Sister Alphonse was equally shocked. The quiet boy who rarely spoke in class, except to chat with friends, turned out to be one of the brightest students.

“Kittu, can you recite ‘Jack and Jill’?” Shyamala prompted.

Kittu obediently recited the nursery rhyme and a few others he had learned at home.

“I’m sorry, Captain Naidu,” Sister Francesca said. “We completely misjudged your son.”

“So, will you correct his report card?” Captain Naidu demanded.

“Not only will I correct it,” the principal said, “but I’m going to give him a double promotion. He’ll skip UKG and move straight to Class One. Your son is not only smart but honest. He deserves this promotion.”