The Boy who Spoke up

I couldn’t take it anymore. Not more of the same. The elongated, excruciating bus rides, those rude and arrogant teaching staff, the hostile and scary school environment and the almost inedible mess food were just a few aspects of my horrible experience at LRIS. The key highlight though, was the time I got punched in the face. The time I got blackmailed, bullied, beaten up and thrashed, both physically and mentally. That was the icing on the cake.

I didn’t tell my dad about those expensive movies. About those late-night outings. Those times when we went on to literally vandalize school property. Those times we smuggled Doritos into the school and framed innocent students when caught. I believed you. I trusted you, and I couldn’t have made a bigger mistake.

When I joined LRIS, I wanted the journey of my time there to be something I would never forget. And indeed, it was, though for all the wrong reasons. LRIS will, for almost eternity, be etched in my memory. All those times I stood by you when you brutally shred students to pieces, all the times we would DM, on Instagram, those teachers, through fake accounts and swear at them, that Scouts camp, that got me more immersed into your vicious web, those walks on the beach and to sum it all up, that imprint of the dusty black shoe on the front of my face will forever be remembered.

And don’t think I have forgotten the good things you did for me. I haven’t. In fact, for that one great deed, my heart would say, your other atrocities would be forgotten. My mind, though, would say otherwise. You helped me bring myself together. Your punches helped me grow stronger. Your chops helped me build myself. Your verbal volleys helped put myself together mentally and your constant rants, your sudden outbursts, your beatings and your narcissistic way of thinking, they helped my attitude and personality grow stronger. I sincerely thank you for that.

Moving from Madhava Kripa to a humongous Catholic school was a big deal for me. Meeting the star-studded line up of the LRIS football team, right on the first day of school was even bigger. Knowing, or at least thinking, that I had the captain of that team as my “friend” was thoroughly reassuring. I trusted you. I had faith in you. Believed you. Followed you. And yet you didn’t give two hoots about me.

But I was okay with that. You see, what you didn’t realize before backstabbing me was that I had already been through a lot. I had experienced, in the past few years, more sorrows than you would experience in your whole life bloody put together. The girl I had a crush on for so long, the girl who had held my hand and the girl who cared for me, the girl who understood me, her parents royally screwed me, both on the phone, and personally, face to face. I had constant fights with the bus conductor who tormented, and picked on me, all because I was the one to speak up against her autocratic, harsh rules. I had to persuade authorities that I wasn’t disrespectful to elders when the conductor took the matter to the school board. It was me who had to deal with that crap. Not you.

It was I; whose mother selfishly and joyfully ran away to Australia to sleep with a waiter than be at my birthday party. We shared the same birthday; I called, and she didn’t bother to pick up. She must’ve been too occupied sleeping around. And I dealt with it. I dealt with the fact that for the entire eleventh year of my life, even on my birthday, I had to go to the district court, the Child Welfare Committee and record statements, talk to judges, go to the houses of lawyers and fly out to Australia with dad, to consult legal officers, all because of one sin my inconsiderate mother committed.

I had to deal with my best friend moving away. I had to make so many compromisations because there was nobody at home. Dad was also working, trying to provide the best life for us. He did the job of a father and a mother. How much could one man do? Maruti was in second grade, he couldn’t do much. I had to help dad with housework. I had to suck up my feelings when I found out that because of my stone-hearted mother, we couldn’t go back to Australia, the country of my dreams, permanently. I had to do it. I had to bear the sorrow. All of it. Not you.

When people who were “supposed to” love me, themselves, either made no attempt to talk to me or ran away like a coward, duping my dad of lakhs of rupees, leaving us broken-hearted, what made you think your betrayal would affect me? What made you think your absence would have an impact on my life? When I, a second grader, learnt to get over my bloody biological mother cheating, having an affair and then running away, why on earth would I be troubled by your leaving?

When you first came home, and literally sucked up to my grandfather, licking his boots, my grandfather was too innocent to realize it. Too nice to even think that you were capable of such a thing. I was livid when you tried to make a customer out of my grandfather. But I kept mum. I said nothing to you. When I paid for your every meal out here, every fungi pasta we had, every mutton biryani you nourished enjoyably, I didn’t say a fucking word. And yet, you had the audacity to do what you did?

You know the time you left your wallet here and took off? I could’ve most easily stolen the seven thousand rupees, the innumerable cards and other valuables. I could’ve taken the wallet and acted as if it was never there to begin with. But did I? No. Not at all. Because I cared about you. And when you returned, within minutes of my call, what did you do? You started counting the money. Not one word of gratitude came out of your ungrateful mouth. You started counting off notes, recalling how much you had and how much was there. And I kept watch. Silently.

I still remember those nights, once every week at least, when you’d come home when dad was abroad and grandfather was sleeping, at around eleven at night, and literally buy out the whole convenience store nearby, using either my money, or telling the shopkeeper that I would pay later. For the next few months of my life, I wouldn’t have the gumption to ask dad for money, since I would have already blown it on a worthless cause. I wouldn’t have the guts to allow my dad to go down to the store and purchase a packet of milk. I would go instead. Whatever time it was. I would make up excuses to not get dad to go there.

The shopkeeper would tell me, “Hey boy Prahlad, you’ve made me more money in the past few months than I have ever made in my life”, and smirk at me, while I would sheepishly, quite guiltily, think of what I had done. For those few months, I would have to steal from my father’s wallet and give you money for your alleged phone to get repaired. You never answered me when I asked you why you couldn’t ask your other friends. Why was it only me from whom you took those three hundred-rupee Threptin biscuits? Why was it only me from whom you would take regular cash to fund your leisurely activities? Why not your classmates? Why not your schoolmates? Why me?

I have come to your house enough times to know that you are a multi-millionaire if not a billionaire. Yet, you used to ask me for money. Yet, I would be the one paying for your meals and buying you Doritos, Lays and Sting, things I would never enjoy eating or drinking at all. I would pay for your movie tickets. I would buy footballs for your practice. Why? All because I was duped into thinking that you were my friend. All because I would hope that you would do the same for me. But I have a habit of being wrong, and this indeed was no fucking exception.

I was wrong when I paid for the movie tickets for ‘Infinity War’. I was wrong when I paid for your drinks and the humongous amounts of popcorn you hogged. It was I who organized transport for your gang, I who paid the money and I didn’t even bother to ask for the cash, because I thought it would be too lowly of me. I was wrong.

Maruti kept telling me, “Don’t talk to him anna. He isn’t a good guy.” And I used to shush him up by describing you as a god. As a messiah. And that was where I was wrong. The only problem was, I was too naïve to notice it. I was too blind to notice how, day in and day out, you would use me, and you would illtreat me, constantly swearing, sometimes throwing at me, verbal abuses. And I wasn’t the strong guy back then. I was the guy who cried when a teacher yelled at him. I was the guy who used to obediently go to bed at nine o’clock and listen to every word of my knowledgeable father. I was the only guy who, in sixth grade, when most of the kids have already “developed” their apt vocabulary, was yet to do so. I had no idea about the meanings of the words you used and yet, I followed you.

But this wasn’t the worst part. I am sure you know that. Making me bring those bags of Lays and Doritos, making me pay for all your expenses, mentally and physically bullying me, these “antics” of yours, were just part and parcel of being associated with you. What I saw on the bus ride to the Scouts Camp and what followed was what disgusted me. What made me despise you. What made me question myself, and then you. Thanks to that experience at the Scouts Camp though, I learnt how to handle myself, both physically and mentally.

It was quite a sunny day, I remember. We were sitting on the last seat of the bus. My best friend, who was unfortunately quite silent during the time, myself, your four friends, and of course, yourself. In front of us were four girls, two on each side. They were happily munching up a bag of Doritos and were chit chatting until suddenly, one of them turned back. And gently caressing her lower lip, as she gathered a bit of saliva onto her index finger, making the lip ricochet with a ripple effect, she brought her hand over to the backseat, pointing at us, and put her finger on your lip. Gently kissing you and then looking at me, she asked, and I quote, “Jealous?”.

I was too bloody disgusted to say anything at the time. There I was, I had seen live, my first kiss. And it was ugly. It was horrible. The whole ride went on as the both of you kept smooching and giggling as the incompetent chaperones paid no attention. But that wasn’t even the beginning of the troubles you would cause me over the course of the next few days.

From the cooking competition, where you attempted, and succeeded in spilling marinara sauce all over my trousers, to you throwing sand in my eye, taking away my towel so I couldn’t bathe, even when we were all aware of the bathroom circumstances and spitting in my food when I would be enjoying my meal quietly, you never failed to disappoint me when it came to downgrading and degrading my friendship experience with you.

But then, as clever as you were, you found a way to turn things around. A way to get me back on your trail, back into the vicious web of yours, more immensely than ever. All it took was two words. “I’m sorry”, you said quite arrogantly, and I believed you. Obviously, I wasn’t one to question you. I was ecstatic that you apologized to me. The thoughts of me leaving LRIS to go back to Madhava Kripa were drifting away now. “What if he really is a nice guy?” I thought to myself. Since you had apologized, I didn’t think of you as a tyrant anymore. I had forgotten about all the times you had harassed me physically. The times you swore at me, harsh enough to make me cry. It seemed as if this was a fresh start. As if I had forgotten those horrendous acts of yours. That was the power of just a single word.

And that single word, for the next few weeks, made me overlook those times in the bus when you would order people to bow down to you, keep your feet on their head, just the way Vamana did to Bali, and then, ask them whose kingdom it was. I remember how you beat up one of my friends when not taking your name while asked the question, and as he screamed at the top of his lungs, cried almost, begging you to stop, I could do nothing. That was the reality. All because of one word. I was bound by your “unconditional” apology. That evening though, I promised myself to stand up to you, and the next few days passed by quickly, with me either staying home from school, or not talking to you on the bus ride, using a test or an examination as an excuse. Both of us knew that couldn’t have gone on for a long time.

And again, quick wittedly, you approached me. Sat down next to me and asked, “Hey Prahlad, you know that smoking hot girl? The girl you saw on the ride to Scouts Camp?” “What about her?”, I asked quite curiously. What followed was a series of dialogs with you, and I am sure you haven’t forgotten about how you traumatized me, telling me how babies are made, what slang terms you guys use for various cuss words and what signals you used. That was pathetic. But that wasn’t the only thing.

What started as a normal conversation between the both of us, ended with one of us making a huge mistake. And we all know it wasn’t you. Somehow, you had convinced me to tell you that I had a thing for her. That I was crushing on her. And though I secretly was, I knew nothing could never possibly happen between us. I knew very well. But despite that, I ended up telling you that I liked her. That was the blunder. And this is where the blackmailing started.

Nobody knew what you knew. Nobody. I didn’t want to make myself famous in LRIS for the wrong reasons. And I didn’t have to. You did it for me. Thanks to you, in the next few weeks, people in grade ten were taking my name, talking about how I was crushing on the “hottest” girl in the school. People in my own class started asking me, my friends started avoiding me because they thought I was a bad influence. But I couldn’t blame them. I couldn’t blame you either. I could only blame myself for trusting you.

And then you went one step further to exploit my trust even more. You told me that she liked me too. Now, despite all the lies you had told me, all the rumors you had spread, all the torture you had given me, I still fucking believed you. I still trusted you. And thus, everyday for the next few weeks, I would bring either a Dairy Milk Silk, or a Bubby, or some fancy chocolate, that I wouldn’t even plan on eating, and give it to you. You would then, allegedly give it to her. Now I never doubted any of this, I never questioned you. Even when you were the only medium of contact between me and her.

But, day by day, expensive chocolate after expensive chocolate, sooner or later, I had to stop. And I confessed. I told you that I couldn’t do it anymore. That I couldn’t buy love anymore. That the way you guys recognize love was redundant. And you grilled me for standing up to you, as expected. You had only a one liner as your response. You heard me out, waited patiently for a while, chewing your gum, quite unclearly, you said, “It’s a pity the principal has to know.” This was when it all started. All the fun for you, all the terror for me. The constant messages, the threats and calls instructing me to bring what was ordered, be it cash, food or something else. The constant visits to each other’s houses where you would plan the next part of our plan. Where you would instruct me on how to go about what we were planning to do.

It was terrifying. Knowing that we would, from anonymous accounts, swear at teachers, vandalize school property by putting gum under tables and doing much more But, I was bound by my following of you. I knew what I was doing was wrong but the threats you’d give me, the number of people asking me about that poor girl, the teachers who knew, who were always spying on me and treating me quite harshly, my dropping grades, there were so many consequences if I followed what you were doing. And yet I did. And yet, on that chilly Friday morning, I tried to smuggle, on your command, three sting bottles, two bottles of Thums Up, two boxes of threptin, packets of Tasty Nuts, Lays and Doritos. When would I ever learn?

I wouldn’t. Because of you. When you threw that wrapper outside the window, and the teacher got suspicious, when she came and enquired, you bloody blamed it on me. You insensitive bastard! I did so much for you. I bore your taunts, your abuse, your harassment, your beatings, your blackmail and your personality. I did whatever you wanted me to. And now, this? This was what I deserved?

It was me you blamed it on. Not the gang of friends you had. I was interrogated by the head teacher. It was my bag which contained the remaining eatables. And I paid the price for it. Not you. Nor your gang of alleged “friends”. It was I. And I still didn’t snitch you out. I remember very well what happened that evening. I was in tears while describing to grandfather what I had done, what actions the teachers took and what I would tell dad. I knew dad would be irate.

I had no option but to block you. And so, I did. I took a stance, a firm one at that, and you did too. As promised, you revealed to the whole school, about that one girl I had a small crush on. Even though you exaggerated it heavily, people believed the football captain. You were popular. They listened to you. They had faith in you. They trusted you. Just like I did once upon a time.

But this time it wasn’t me who was following you. I was on the sidelines, watching as you posted pictures of that girl and tagging me, and listening as you spoke to other influential people at school about me and how I was madly “head-over-heels” for her. I endured those judging eyes, those preposterous questions, those scornful comments, those vivid allegations, and those excruciating abuses. They really took a toll on me. But I had to stay strong.

My social life was shattered, I had no friends, no girlfriend, I feared people who seemed strong, my teachers were furious with me, my grades were dropping, and I had my exams in two weeks. I was down, mentally. Thoughts of acting sick, thoughts of running away and much more horrendous thoughts popped into my mind. I wanted to talk to someone. But who was there from me? Right from my biological mother, everyone had failed me. I had only my brother, dad and grandfather. But how would they possibly understand?

But boy, I couldn’t have been more wrong. My dad, whom I thought of as strict, rigid and quite dominating in fact, was so compassionate and understanding when I narrated these terrorizing incidents. As soon as I was done, he gave me something I needed very badly. Something I craved for amidst this terrifying period. Some love, and a very warm hug.

And with compassion and love filled inside of me, I went to school for two weeks, silently watching as you would continue your horrid behavior. From the outside you acted all ecstatic, bold and courageous. But we all knew you were frightened inside.

You see, I still hadn’t revealed your name to the vice principal. I could do that anytime. It would hit you suddenly, when you would not expect it at all. For the first time in over a year, I had the upper hand. I just had to play it calm. I could expose you. Show everyone who you truly were. And slowly, but progressively, I did just that. And all you could do, was watch

I wasn’t going to let go of this golden opportunity. After numerous attempts, I finally succeeded in persuading dad to get a transfer certificate and get me admission in Madhava Kripa. We called the school up and they said it would be ready on the day of result declaration. It was confirmed. I was leaving the school.

Now I could expose you. I could bring to the eyes of everyone, the real you. I had no solid evidence, and I knew you would use that against me, but the journalistic and lawyer part of me had that covered. After showing to him a photograph of yourself, I quickly recorded the shopkeeper’s statement admitting that you were here. I did the same with the security guards at the main gate. And then, to top it off, my friend, I took a few screenshots of our conversations, on WhatsApp, and Instagram. You wouldn’t know what hit you. Because I had absolutely nothing to lose.

The next few days went by, quite rapidly in fact. I was studying hard. Really hard. It was the final examination. I hadn’t done as well as I would’ve wanted to throughout the whole year, thanks to you, and I deemed it the right time to inverse the opinion that most teachers had on me. Soon, our exams were done, and I was confident I had done well. Better than last time, at least. I was on my last bus ride home. I wouldn’t be bullied anymore. I wouldn’t be sworn at anymore. I could finally be happy. I was leaving LRIS.

Then, to ruin what could’ve been an amazing moment of freedom, my stupid mouth called out your name. When you turned back with your disgraceful stare, and a grunt, as you examined my face very closely, I did, nothing. I stood silently until you came up close to me. We were face to face. You were slightly taller; I could feel your breath right on my face. It was scary. I was sweating, shivering in fact. If only I hadn’t called out your name.

“What do you want, you b*tch?”, you asked, quite conceitedly. I was lost for words.

I was sweating, nervously. I hadn't any idea what to say. I panicked, and in the heat of the moment, uttered the only thing I wanted to tell you. As you turned back and started walking, thinking that I wouldn't open my mouth, I did. I proved you wrong. "Madarchod!", I shouted, at the top of my lungs, the word, echoing in the narrow walls of the bus. I was proud of myself. For proving you wrong. For standing up to you. For finally showing you what I was made of.

That moment of pride though, all vanished within seconds, for I woke up, staring into the eyes of the bus conductor, who was holding a tiny washcloth to try and clot up my bloody nose. Blood was gushing out of my nose quite heavily. That was all I remembered before I woke up, quite fresh, but smelling of blood, all tweaked up, in the doctor's office. Turned out I had been punched and even a toddler would guess whose doing it was. My dad was livid. Furious, in fact. He was in half a mind to go over to the police and lodge a complaint. He was irate. And I couldn't blame him, could I? There it was, the last bus ride home from LRIS. Quite eventful and one i would remember for a long time.

But I had a feeling. That you wouldn't let this go so easily, and for once, i wasn't wrong. That wretched call, where you insulted me heavily, calling me a prostitute’s offspring, a mistake, a transgender, a gay man, the son of a whore, the sun of a roadside romeo, the son of a rowdy, and innumerable other derogatory terms, I wont forget that. I won't bloody forget how you insulted my father, calling him illiterate and one who begs on the streets, disrespecting his profession, calling him a “madarchod”, calling him your slave. I won't forget it. I can't. But on that day, I bloody did. I was frustrated for not shooting back at you then and there, but I had that recording with me. I maintained my composure. Because, my friend, when i would expose you, you wouldn't know what hit you. And until i would do so, both of us would have to wait. One for his pleasure, the other for his darkest times.

Then came summer vacation, and with that, my master plan to expose you. I was at it day and night, working hard, writing, recording, taking photographs, collecting evidence, and interviewing. In short, for the first twenty days of summer, I was an investigative officer. A detective. And I could tell that I was doing my job quite diligently and precisely. Because I was determined. To embarrass you. To expose you. To hurt you. Just like you had done to me.

Those first two weeks passed fairly rapidly and we were closer to receiving our results. But like any other student, I wasnt that worried about my grades. I was thinking solely about you, my friend. I was thinking about how I would expose you and show everyone your true colors. And then it struck me.

I had to wait for only four more days. And so I did. Ever so patiently.

Until it was here. The day you would go down. The day I would triumph. And get revenge for all your sinful days. That day was here! I rushed out of bed and put my bulky folder into the backpack I was carrying. Soon, we left towards LRIS and I was boiling with rage. It would only be a few more minutes till my plan would come into action. We got out of the car and entered the huge assembly hall. I looked at you, four rows behind us, showing me your middle finger. But that didn’t trigger me. Your chance was over. It was my time to rise, amigo. Because what i would do to you today would be a thousand times worse than what you have done to me. What I was going to do would be remembered by everyone. For a very long time. I was sure about it.

As usual, the teachers gave their speeches and now it was time for the results. The first category was for proficiency in academics, for students who got more than ninety-five percent in their core subjects. Fifteen names were called out in the whole grade, and I was overjoyed when mine was one of them. Not because I got the award. Not because I had done really well in the examinations. But because this was the opportunity. And I had to seize it.

I went onto the dias and received my award, posing for the photograph simultaneously. I quietly asked the dignitary handing out my award if I could speak for a few moments about my “wonderful” journey in LRIS and, almost obliged to, he nodded in agreement. This was my time. My moment in the sun. I could expose you. Tell people about each and every horrifying deed committed and tell them who was behind it. You. I could safely tell them about you. And that is just what I did.

For the next twenty minutes, I spoke. About how you had terrorized me. Bullied me. Blackmailed me, when you thought I would snitch you out. Exploited me. Robbed me. Broken me, both physically and mentally, on a plethora of occasions. I took out my anger that day. I traumatized individuals by describing to them the despicable actions you took. I wasn't going to protect you now. For so long, I had done that, and that punch on the nose was what I deserved?

The teachers deserved to know what a tyrant you were. The authorities needed to know how horribly behaved you were. The management needed to know. Your juniors needed to know to stay away from monsters like you who would terrorize them if they even thought of speaking to you. The whole world needed to know. That demons like you weren’t eradicated yet. That you still had to be controlled, and removed from our society.

Many people, including yourself, may have thought that I was a bit too harsh on that fateful day. But people who have been tormented, people who have been bullied, recipients of your terror, they will be able to relate to me. And with that in mind, knowing that I would reach out to at least a few people with that long talk of mine, I climbed down those four, brown wooden stairs, off the stage, knowing I had my consciousness well intact, believing that I had done the right thing.

With that, looking at everyone’s mouths wide open, I smiled, for the first time in quite some time, thanks to you. I looked around that building for one last time until, with a transfer certificate in hand, more confident than ever, I strode out of those glass doors, got into the car and sped off, out of the wretched gates of LRIS, knowing that I was now famous there. Not for being the boy who was targeted. Or bullied, or thrashed, left, right and center. But for being the boy who spoke up.

THE END.