A broken nose

“Stop making faces at me, or you’re going to end up with a broken nose,” Shyamu warned.

Shyamu was Kittu’s elder brother, three years his senior. Shyamu, or Shyama Prasad Naidu, was a spirited first-grader at St. Patrick’s in Deoli, while his younger brother, Krishna Prasad Naiduaffectionately called Kittuwas still navigating the world of Lower Kindergarten. The two brothers were as different as night and day.

Shyamu idolized the wrestlers on WWF, constantly looking for ways to emulate their punches and throws. Kittu, on the other hand, was the peaceful soul of the family, the youngest and the gentlest. For Kittu, violence was not an option, but that didn’t stop him from occasionally pulling faces at Shyamu or playfully head-butting him. It was his small act of defiance.

“Kittu, if you keep making monkey faces, your face will eventually get stuck like that,” their mother, Shyamala, cautioned. She was exasperated, hoping her words would instill some sense in them.

“Not that it would make much differencehe already looks like a monkey,” Shyamu retorted with a smirk.

Kittu’s peaceful soul couldn’t let this slide. His eyes narrowed in rebellion as he charged at Shyamu, though he hadn’t thought through what he would do when he caught him. Shyamu easily dodged, darting to the other side of the room, his laughter echoing off the walls.

“Maybe you should have run like this during the potato race,” Shyamu teased, referring to a race at school where Kittu had come in last, much to his embarrassment.

“Boys, get ready! It’s time for school,” Shyamala called out, ending their morning skirmish.

Every morning it followed the same script. The boys created a ruckus, and Shyamala played the diplomat, quelling their little wars. By nine, the house would finally fall silent as they left for school, leaving her in peace. By 9:10, she’d start missing them and count down the hours until their return.

Her husband, Capt. Naidu, left for his duties at the Army Headquarters station in Deoli by 7 AM. As the Cantonment officer, his days were long, and the responsibility of raising the children mostly fell to Shyamala. It was a situation she hoped would change soon. She was hoping to take up a job once the boys were in the senior section.

At school, Sister Alphonse, Kittu’s class teacher, was leading the children through their daily lesson. In LKG, the children were expected to master the first four letters of the alphabet and numbers up to 10. Today, she was drilling them on A to D.

“A!” she bellowed.

“A!” the class echoed in unison.

“B!”

“B!”

Each letter was etched onto the blackboard with precise strokes, accompanied by a word“A for Apple.”

Kittu, however, was lost in his own world. He was busy sketching a cat he had seen the day before. His friend David, who shared the bench with him, leaned over to admire the drawing.

“Where’s the cat’s tail?” David asked, noticing the omission.

“This cat didn’t have a tail,” Kittu said quickly, realizing his mistake but unwilling to admit it. His little fingers swiftly added a long, curling tail, shading it with intense concentration.

From the front of the room, Sister Alphonse’s sharp eyes caught the boys’ inattention. “Krishna Prasad, stand up!”

Kittu jolted up, knocking his book to the floor. The class burst into laughter, but Sister Alphonse’s icy glare quickly silenced them.

“Come here. Write the alphabet from A to D on the blackboard,” she ordered, her tone leaving no room for disobedience.

Kittu hesitated. Courage at his desk was one thing; standing before the entire class was another. He pretended not to hear, hoping she’d move on, but his hope was fleeting.

“Are you coming to the blackboard, Krishna Prasad, or should I come to your desk?” Sister Alphonse’s voice was a thinly veiled threat.

Kittu knew better than to test her patience. The “white-haired sister,” as the children called her, was notorious for her ear-pulling, and she had a special fondness for his ears. Reluctantly, Kittu walked to the front.

“Write A, B, C, and D,” she commanded.

Kittu’s mind went blank. He had repeated these letters countless times at home, but now, with the entire class watching and Sister Alphonse looming beside him, he couldn’t remember a single one. He wanted to tell her he knew them, but fear silenced him.

“Of all the children in this class, you are the dumbest,” Sister Alphonse scolded. “I don’t know what your parents do at home, but it’s clear they aren’t teaching you anything.”

Kittu’s eyes welled up, but he bit back the tears, refusing to cry in front of everyone.

“Go back to your seat,” she finally said, dismissing him with a wave.

Kittu couldn’t believe his luckno ear-pulling today. He hurried back to his seat, eager to escape the spotlight. In his haste, he didn’t see Sunil’s leg stretched out across the aisle.

Sunil, the class prankster, had deliberately tripped him. As Kittu fell forward, he braced for impact, but nothing could have prepared him for the sharp pain as his nose hit the floor. For a moment, he felt nothing, then a warm liquid trickled down his faceblood.

Sister Alphonse was the first to react. Shocked, she rushed to his side, her usual sternness melting away as she cradled his small head. She pressed a handkerchief to his nose, her hands trembling slightly.

“Lie down,” she instructed, guiding him to a bench. She tilted his head back, hoping to stem the flow of blood. “This boy has only caused me trouble,” she muttered, more to herself than anyone else.

Kittu, still dazed, couldn’t understand why she was blaming him. After all, it wasn’t his fault Sunil had tripped him. As he lay there, staring up at the ceiling, one thought echoed in his mind: “I will never understand adults, even if I live a thousand years.”