The sound of the bell ringing is overshadowed by the loud laughter of your friends and you in your class. You look at the clock and are struck with the bittersweet feeling of leaving your friends but being allowed to escape school. Despite your realised information, the teacher in front of you, demonstrating the perfectly Indian lack of punctuality, continues to lecture you on complicated Maths theorems that even Aryabhatta would roll his eyes at. You, and the thousand other students in your class, stare at the teacher with your Bade-Bade Aakh signalling sheer impatience. Disregarding all your hopes and desires the Adhyapika continues her teaching but is luckily interrupted by the trusty speaker at the dusty top corner of your class.
The mysterious celestial voice coming from an unidentified being commands you to stand up to recite a prayer as if it were some Bhagwan himself speaking to you. You quickly say the value-inducing words whilst slowly inching towards the door, not noticing the humanitarian benefit the prayer so fortunately provides you with. The duty ends in a matter of seconds and you rush out into the corridor with the Buddhu people you call your friends towards the Canteen. The aroma of hot Samosas fills the school, suddenly making you hungry for some hot potato-filled pockets of flour. After standing in a long tedious line, you finally bite into a freshly fried prism of delight and are greeted with a flavour of perfect spice. Of course, this level of spice is only perfect for your special Indian Taste as for any foreigner, such food makes them go searching for milk -a method of combat alien to you.
Whilst eating, you bid your friends goodbye and head out to catch an Auto Rickshaw -not the bus because this time you need to go to another school. Tuitions, practically a second school that almost every Indian child attends. The warm polluted air swiftly blows through your hair as you look out at the bright, busy and bustling life of India. Sounds of unnecessary horns and that strong stench of urine disappoint you because again you know your country is made of the kind of people who can do so much better. Your disappointment is recognizably replaced with a satisfying smile when you see a child biting into his first Kurkure and when you notice the innumerable deep worlds each little shop or house lives in. The little barber shop advertising an old Justin Beiber haircut, the convenient stores with their Dabbas of Centerfresh, London Dairy, Falero, Boomer, Melody, Eclairs and whatnot, the convoluted Markets with Aunties shopping for sarees and Mummies and Dadis conducting last-minute searches for specific coloured clothing for the upcoming Annual Day, Bal Satsan, Assembly or whichever name their child's school uses to describe their celebratory event. The Mithai shops with buzzing flies, the little department stores with English names written in Hindi letters, the crowded Ganne Ka Juice stalls bring you pride and joy.
The auto reaches your second source of knowledge. You jump off, catching a glimpse of the fare as displayed on the Metre. You fish out the note of a much too large amount because your mother gave it to you to get it exchanged. The Bhaiya asks for Chuttha and you shake your head. Reluctantly, the man pulls out some notes from the breast pocket of his brown uniform and realises that he needs more. He pulls out the typical brown leather wallet that is a treasure chest hosting his precious savings and hands you the remaining money. You quickly check whether the Maths is right using simple concepts you learned in 6th Standard and mentally scoff at the complicated formulae you were taught less than an hour ago.
Walking through the plethora of green banyan trees, you climb up the brown-yellow stairs of an unmarked building and find your second classroom. You enter and sit with your first school's friends and are scolded by your second teacher for being late or noisy or something or the other but you brush it off as most tuition teachers tend to have a hot temper. Finally understanding what you were taught in school and learning the next year's portion alongside, you feel enlightened and intelligent and subsequently tried and tired. You wish farewell to your buddies and walk out to breathe in the cool evening air. The smell of snacks and clutter of cars has grown as rush hour has begun in all its infamous glory.
You catch another auto, feeling the same feelings you did before. Getting disheartened by the same errors and then falling in love with your country once again. You reach home and walk into the house. You take off your black school shoes and wear your Chappal, achieving the cleanliness adored by the southern entirety of your continent. Your parent greets you and drowns you in warm Doodh or, if your parents are both working, they call you and force you to drown yourself in warm Doodh. You go change and pack your bag for the next day following the Time Table at the back of your Diary or the one pasted on your wall.
You watch TV for a bit and then have a seat at your third school and study everything you studied earlier that day once again. You do this because you know that there are a billion other people in your country and a large chunk of them want to achieve the same dreams you do. This fact that the competition is extremely high is drilled into you every day and puts you under a pressure you imagine to be similar to having a Gaaye sit on you. You push aside the grey clouds of fear and tension and sadness and worry because you are Majboot. The mental Strength your heritage has brought you is something you fail to appreciate. The level of determination and grit we have is amazing and that is what gets you through life even though you may never realise it.
You finish your studies and you are called to the Living Room to end the day exactly how it began: a hearty meal with your family. The smell of Roti and Chawal and Sabhji and Dal and Curry and Achaar and Adrak-Lehson and Sarso Ka Tel and Anda and all of the wonderful spices invite you and as if on cue, your stomach growls. You sit down and eat your food with your hands to properly taste your food. You chew and taste and talk and connect and laugh and grin. You live an Indian Day in the Indian Way.
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