Time is a strange phenomenon. It has been defined, re-defined, constructed and de-constructed through the ages. It’s strange that sometimes decades seem less than a second and seconds which last you a lifetime. The realisation is daunting. It is huge.
The final bell rang at last, maybe about a minute late. Miss Lahiri silently heaved a sigh of relief. She couldn’t possibly show the children that more than them she desperately wanted to hear the sweet melody of the final bell. No, she was definitely more dignified than that and it was this very dignity that kept her in check when she so nearly felt like breaking into a run to the modest scooty of hers and speed off from the confines of this prison-house. Keeping an eye on the children as they rushed out to their freedom, she methodically and not too slowly began collecting her books and with measured steps walked towards the staff-room.
The staff-room at St. Michael’s School, New Delhi was adequately furnished, snug and comfortable and yet not so much so the teachers might settle in for a good chat over a hot tea or coffee. Krishna, the gardener asked her for a tea but that was more out of formality, suspected Miss Lahiri. Not that she was complaining because at 1.30 PM who would really want a tea? Most of the teachers were in a hurry to get back to their kids, pamper them, scold them, feed them and thus begin the whole dull story of parenthood. There were a few younger teachers, who still lived with their parents and most of this lot still had the mirth and energy to get together after school for lunch before heading back to their respective homes. Many a times had they invited Miss Lahiri to join them for lunch. But Miss Lahiri, even though not too old, had neither the intention in joining their endless discussions of some teacher or the other who happened to say something (which was then dissected and analysed) nor the time or energy in discussing how handsome some father looked when he came to drop his kid to school (or worse still, how he might be in the sack). Miss Lahiri was above all such immaturities and pettiness. Many of her colleagues mistook this for her haughtiness and snobbishness. But the few who somewhat knew Miss Lahiri, could vouch for the fact that these two adjectives could in no way be identified with her.
Gathering her bag as Miss Lahiri walked towards the parking area with slightly impatient steps, she was interrupted by Mrs Chappell, who came slightly out of breath behind her. This interruption, however, was a pleasant one. Dorothy Chappell was one of the few people in this prison-house, Miss Lahiri was fond of. ‘Hi Dorothy, what kept you so long? Do you want me to drop you home?’ ‘Oh yes, that sounds good. Where do I begin? I again had an argument with the Georgina. You know how Reshma needs tea to be made separately for her without any sugar for her diabetics. There is absolutely no logic behind stopping that. Too much gas is wasted? Is she even serious? I mean, what kind of cheap behaviour is that? Being a principal doesn’t give her the authority to take such stupid decisions. This is really too much now.’ Mrs Chappell blurted out without stopping. Quite obviously she was very angry. ‘Calm down, Dorothy. You know why the old girl is doing all this…
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