Reflecting on My Life: Trying to be responsible
Here is the fourth part of the story—how my school started, what happened on the first day, and so on.
It’s hard to accept but sometimes we all make mistakes (Part 4).
The one-week break was almost over, and August 15th had passed. Now, it was time for my first day at the new school. I was ready, wearing everything new, and full of excitement. I headed to the bus stop in the morning, but I wasn’t quite aware of the bus schedule. In my usual rhythm, I reached the bus stop late and missed the bus on my very first day.
However, I was persistent and determined to reach the school at any cost. I knew that if I went back home, my mom would be ready with a stick, making sarcastic remarks about my irresponsibility, reminding me of all her sacrifices, and questioning how I planned to study if I couldn’t even catch the bus on the first day.
Missing the bus wasn’t a new event in my life. I had done it many times before, especially while living in the village and attending school in a nearby town. The bus would come early in the morning, and I often missed it on purpose, telling my mom that it hadn’t arrived. Eventually, she caught me red-handed and scolded me for not being serious about my studies, emphasizing the efforts and money my parents were investing in my education.
This time, however, things were different. I was serious and determined to change things for myself. I didn’t want to be called irresponsible or any other negative term anymore. I wanted to go to school at any cost and prove that I could be responsible.
So I decided to walk to my school. After walking 2–3 kilometers, I met an uncle. Since my school was APS (Army Public School), it was in an army area.
I asked the uncle which direction APS was, and he said, “It’s around 10 kilometers away from here. You can’t reach it by walking alone, and you’re already late for school. Just go home today and catch your bus on time tomorrow.”
After hearing his advice, I reluctantly started walking back home. It took me an hour or two to get back. When I finally reached home, my mom was surprised to see me and asked, “What happened?”
I braced myself for her reaction, knowing I had to explain why I was home so early and why I had missed my first day of school.
I said, “Mom, I missed my bus, so I tried to walk to school. But it’s too far. After walking 2–3 kilometers, an uncle told me to go back home because I wouldn’t be able to reach the school on foot.”
She said, “It’s okay, just make sure you reach the stop early tomorrow and catch the bus.” I could tell she was relieved and happy that I had finally gotten admission to a good school after so much of her struggle.
She wasn’t wrong to scold me, and I realized this when I was in the 10th grade. She explained that when my father was not home and unable to monitor my studies, the entire responsibility fell on her shoulders. If she failed or if the kids did not get on the right track, the whole society would blame her. And she was right because that’s how our society operates.
Society doesn’t allow widows to live peacefully and blames them for everything. It historically hindered women’s progress and imposed numerous restrictions. Because of these societal pressures, parents sometimes have to be hard on their kids. While it might seem like parents have a choice, often they really don’t.
So the next day, I reached the bus stop on time. My bus was not a proper bus; it was a truck without seats. In the army, most trucks are converted for students to use as school buses.
It was something like a truck bus without seats, and I had to stand along with everyone else or sit on the floor of the truck. It was fun, but I was surprised and amused. Everyone was asking me where I was from and similar questions.
I answered the questions and told them I was in class 6A. There, I found a boy named Amit from class 6A. I asked him to tell me where the class was or help me find it. My school was quite big, a huge and long building with more than 300 rooms, so it was difficult for me to search for the class. Amit took me to the class, which was full of students like any other class on the planet. I immediately settled on the last bench and then went for the prayer.
One girl asked, “What is your name?” I said nothing because I had hardly talked to any girls before, or maybe I had, but not in English. The entire class spoke English, and most of the students spoke English, but I was not that good at English, so I just stayed silent and moved along the way to prayer.
After the prayer, I went back to class quietly. Our class teacher, Mrs. Bindu, came in. I remember her name because she pampered me and never beat or scolded me for anything. She asked my name and where I was from. I answered, “Pushpender Yadav” and “I am from Agra.” She taught SST (Social Studies) and was also our class teacher.
Then she told me that I was very behind and needed to cover all the homework and previous work that had been assigned before summer vacation. She then allotted me a seat next to a girl named “Meenu”, who was the topper of not just our class, but all four sections.
Then “Meenu” told me how much I needed to catch up on and gave me her notes to take home. The first month was hectic for me as I copied her notes. It was difficult to keep up with all the work, especially with my problem in English, and the course being already in progress.
Slowly, I started to catch up. As midterms approached, I realized I was not prepared for anything. I had just copied the notes and nothing else. I hardly had a grasp of the subjects.
But there was nothing I could do. Midterms arrived in September, and I barely passed. I was okay in math, Sanskrit, science, and Hindi, but I scored low in a few other subjects. Overall, I passed with satisfactory results.
My mom visited PTM and the teacher said he is making progress, but it will take some time to catch up with other students.
So everything was okay, at home my mom was teaching me morales and she was like never fight with anyone every girl is your sister like and so on.
With all this tutoring at home, I started considering “Meenu” as my sister, and I often asked for her help. She never said no to me. She helped me with homework, covered some subjects, and even did my drawings. One of “Meenu’s” skills was drawing; she had magnificent talent and used to win every single competition held in school and outside.
Whenever she drew in my notebooks, I would ask her to make it a little messy so that the teacher wouldn’t ask for any explanations from me.
However, it was obvious that the teacher could recognize her writing and drawing, but she never said anything. By October, I had managed to cover all the subjects, and I could answer questions and understand a bit of English, too.
All of this was good. I don’t remember most of the things that happened during those days because I was happy.
One thing I realized over time is that we often forget our happy moments in life and keep our sad moments in our minds. I think sad moments have a deeper impact on our minds than happy ones.
Today, I hardly remember where “Meenu” or my other friends are. I never talked to her after school, even though she helped me with most of my studies and I used to consider her my sister. I never had her number or any contact information. She never thought of me as her brother, and she used to say, “Stupid, we can’t be brother and sister and all,” whenever I called her my sister. It was a funny moment because “sister” was a trigger word for her, and she would always make a face when I said it.
There was one more funny thing about “Meenu”. Since she used to top the class, she hardly had any friends (true), and maybe some were jealous of her, or some were just competitive.
But I had no such feelings towards her. To me, she was different; she used to help me a lot. Another thing she used to do was on our result day, she would come along with her mom, and I would go with my mom. When we attended our PTM, she would check my results as well and say to my mom, “Aunty, he works hard at playing, that’s why he can’t score well.” My mom would agree and say, “Yes, he plays the entire day and all.” She used to do this every time there was a PTM. Lol.
After the PTM, on the way home, my mom would tell me to learn something from her, saying how intelligent she was and that she also helped me. I would respond, “She studies the entire day, Mom,” and the conversation would go on. Lol.
Slowly, my school year in class 6th was about to end, and I was also able to make some friends. I was able to talk to them, and I almost knew my entire class, which was kind of segmented in its own way.
Everything was okay, and the rest of the story will continue in the next part, Part 5.
Pushpender Yadav
Pushpender Yadav
Pushpender Yadav
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