15/08/2025
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Oh, those school days! They were a whirlwind of mischief, lessons, and moments that shaped me into the person I am today. I can still feel the sting of the teacher’s cane on my palm, that sharp *thwack* that echoed through the classroom like a warning bell. But you know me—I was particular about cleanliness, almost obsessively so. After each strike, I’d wipe my hand on my trousers, give it a quick inspection to ensure no speck of dust lingered, and then, with the confidence of a seasoned warrior, I’d thrust my other hand forward, ready for round two. My teachers probably thought they were disciplining me, but I was just keeping my hands pristine, you see. It was all about maintaining standards!
My teachers, bless their hearts, had a unique way of showing their “respect” for me. I was the kid who was *always* asked to stand during class. Not because I was naughty (well, not *always*), but because they held me in such high regard. They’d say, “Stand up, you’re special!” and there I’d be, towering over my classmates, the unofficial mascot of the classroom. I like to think they wanted me to have a better view of the blackboard—or maybe they just wanted to keep an eye on me. Either way, I stood tall, basking in the glory of their “admiration.”
And oh, how they loved my handwriting! My teachers were practically collectors of my work. I’d write an answer once, and they’d insist, “Write it again! No, no, ten more times!” They’d marvel at the loops of my letters, the way my pen danced across the page. I was their personal calligrapher, churning out masterpieces for their viewing pleasure. I bet they framed my essays in their staff room, secretly admiring them over cups of chai. My words weren’t just answers; they were art, poetry in blue ink.
Then there was the matter of the chalk—oh, the chalk! My teachers trusted me so much that they’d toss their precious sticks of chalk my way, expecting me to catch them like some cricketing prodigy. But, alas, my hand-eye coordination wasn’t as polished as my handwriting. The chalk would slip through my fingers, tumble to the floor, and—more often than not—end up smacking me right on the forehead. I’d laugh it off, though, because what’s a little chalk dust when you’re the star of the show?
There were days when my teachers, in their infinite wisdom, decided I needed “special security clearance.” They’d station me outside the classroom, standing like a sentinel in the corridor. They called it “ensuring Z-type security,” but I knew it was their way of giving me a front-row seat to the world outside—birds chirping, the breeze rustling through the trees, the occasional peon walking by with a tray of samosas. I stood there, alert and unwavering, guarding the classroom from imaginary threats while soaking in the freedom of the open air.
And who could forget the times I was “honored” by being asked to stand on the bench? Oh, those were moments of pure glory! Perched atop that wooden throne, I was the beacon of inspiration for my classmates. “Look at him,” my teachers would say, “a shining example for you all!” My peers would gaze up at me, some with envy, others with amusement, as I stood there, the classroom’s very own Statue of Liberty. I’m sure they were inspired—either to study harder or to perfect their own bench-standing technique.
On particularly hot days, when the classroom felt like a furnace and my classmates were wilting under the ceiling fan’s feeble breeze, my teachers would graciously “invite” me to step outside. “Go, enjoy the sunshine,” they’d say, and out I’d go, sitting under a tree, feeling the cool breeze on my face while my friends sweated it out inside. It was their way of ensuring I got my daily dose of Vitamin D, I suppose. How thoughtful of them!
My teachers often told me, with a mix of exasperation and admiration, “Why do you even come to school? You don’t need it!” And honestly, I took it as a compliment. I was the kid who knew a little too much, asked questions that made them pause, and probably drove them up the wall with my antics. But deep down, I know they loved me for it. They’d even ask me to bring my father to school—not because I was in trouble (perish the thought!), but because they were too intimidated to “deal” with me themselves. I was, after all, destined for greatness—a would-be shrink, a master of words, a connoisseur of clean hands and clever quips.
Those were the days, weren’t they? Days filled with laughter, lessons, and a bit of rebellion. I was the “handsome” scholar, the boy with the golden pen, the one who stood tall (sometimes literally) and left an impression on every teacher’s heart. My school days weren’t just a phase—they were an adventure, a story written in chalk dust, cane marks, and the ink of my beloved handwriting. And I wouldn’t trade those memories for the world.
Yours truly,
A “handsome,” ever-hopeful student,
Penning nostalgia with a grin.
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