SLAP!!!!!!

       The chairs were neatly arranged for us, the students! A rarity in my school. But then, it's not everyday that you are bade farewell from your school. My mind was on a totally different frequency as the students and teachers gave their speech. I was hearing only snippets of conversations and speeches passing through.

               My hands automatically joined together as the sound of applause reached my ears. My mind was on flashback mode, recounting memories, reliving jokes, re-experiencing the horror of punishments, and my lips parted by themselves, morphing into a smile.

               My chair was creaking back and forth, but I didn't care. It was the saddest day of my school life, the one that hurt the most, emotionally. I looked up to see the vice-principal on the stage, saying a prayer for us. My grin widened as another memory tore through. My eyes crinkled as I thought of the incident that had taken place on a different day, a different time...

                "Yeah, but Salman is so dashing. He can pulp anyone. Have you seen his body?" Shankar said.

                "Hard to miss it. He can't keep his shirt on in any movie. Wonder why he buys them," replied Prasad.

                "He can turn your so-called Badshah into tomato sauce. He's such a pimp!"

                "At least he can act. Your--"

                "Will you both please shut up!" I exclaimed loudly. So loudly, in fact, that the girls next to me hushed up. My friends looked at me and quickly understood the reason behind my restless eyes and twitching hands.

                "It'll be alright, Deepak. Don't know what you're fussing about. They will just scold you,  make you feel guilty and BAM--! You're back in class!" said Shankar, adjusting his spectacles.

               "Yeah. Don't take tension," added Prasad.

               "Easy for you to say. You haven't got dirty shoes. Mine haven't been washed for about two weeks! And come to think of it, my hair's a rat's nest. I'm dead!" I replied.

              "Don't--" 

             "Can't you see who's the teacher standing over there? Its Mrs. Bhatt, the Mrs. Bhatt," I cried.

             Shankar gulped. Prasad gave a low whistle. "You're dead meat, man. It was nice meeting you," Prasad clapped me on the back.

           I shrugged him off.

           " A piece of advice. Don't say anything, anything. Just stand there and make a sad, innocent face. She probably won't notice you," Shankar said.

          "Yeah, she probably won't kill you if you do so. Just some minor injuries. A broken arm, a bent back. Things like that," Prasad added helpfully.

          I ran my hand through my hair and looked at my wonderfully muddy shoes. At my age, things like that matter A LOT!

         We advanced in a line, my heart rate increasing with each step. And there she was, her eyes scouring the students like a hawk. As I reached closer, she beckoned me to step outside, not lifting her eyes. I obliged wordlessly.

         I looked around at the others who were with me. There was a boy of tenth, looking relatively at ease. A girl of eighth stood sobbing hysterically next to me. A shivering boy of my batch stood to my right. There were about five others who made the rest of the company.

         The ground emptied quicker than I had expected. Mrs. Bhatt turned around, starting to smile coldly at the prey that awaited her. Now allow me to tell you about her.

          Mrs. Bhatt is a divorcee. Rumours doing the rounds suggested that her husband had ran away with another teacher from a neighbouring school. Mrs. Bhatt is short, stout and seriously bulky. Her hands are the size of my Mathematics textbook. Each slap is delivered with tremendous power. Although, I remember controlling my laughter the first time I heard her. Her voice comes out like a rat's squeak. That's the only flaw in her ability to intimidate students, but given the power of her slap, we don't laugh.

           We were standing in a rough semi-circle as she halted in the middle. She began scolding us, as Shankar had predicted. After 5 minutes, she told us to remove our shoes and socks and get them only after the school was over. I heaved a sigh of relief.

         She was just turning around when she stopped mid-way, her eyes narrowing at me and I saw a triumphant gleam in them. I saw her take in my over-grown hair and curled her lips. She marched in my direction, halting a foot away from me. She raised her hand and I flinched. She ran her hand through my hair, her face full of disdain.

        "What is this? Is this the way to maintain your hair? What new style is this?" She squeaked.

        I tried to keep a straight face, and lowered my head, remembering Prasad's advice.

        "Keep your chin up!" She barked.

        I reluctantly raised my head by a degree. I put my hands in my pockets to stop them shivering. She wet her lips with her tongue. It wasn't forked.

         "Which class, boy?"

          

          "Sixth", came the timid reply.

        "Hmm... why didn't you cut your hair,? Do you not have money even for a haircut?"

        I couldn't think of an answer. 

        " Speak up! I asked you a question! Why didn't you cut your hair?" 

        The last time, a teacher had told me to cut my hair when they were too long. So I had assumed that when no teacher tells you to cut your hair, it means they're fine. Of course, my claim was totally innocent. The fool that I was, I voiced my thought, and in a terrible way.

        "Because nobody told me to, miss."

                       Silence.

        I heard the others around me catch their breaths, and Mrs. Bhatt's eyes widened, almost spitting flames. I realized my mistake, but too late.

        Her hand swiped through the hair as fast as a viper. I caught a glimpse of two shining rings when--

                SLAP!!!!

        My head spun as the impact of the blow staggered me. I looked up questioningly, another mistake.

                SLAP, SLAP, SLAP, SLAP and  SLAP!

        Three slaps on each cheek. My mind was too slow to comprehend what had happened. When it did, I felt warm, moist tears run down my cheek. Mrs. Bhatt was still glaring at me. I tried to control my tears, and a fresh wave of hatred clawed through.

        My breathing was ragged as I made my way to the class, wiping my tears. But new ones replaced them soon. I sobered up before reaching my class, which was a good thing. Prasad and Shankar saw my face and kept quiet. I was glad. To explain it all would be too embarrassing. I closed my eyes and slept for a period or two, being fortunate enough that my bench was at the far end of the row...