Piklu is a character in several of Ghetufool’s stories, a boy who’s not like others at his age, but wants to be. I’ll try and find others.
— OK, very good, now tell me how many wheels are there in a rickshaw?
— Three.
— Hmmm…pretty impressive, observes one teacher. “This boy is clever,” says the aunty in yellow saree. “Smart-ass,” opines another. “Preposterous!” — final verdict of the head-aunty.
— Who is the Prime Minister of India?”
Piklu gives the right answer. Hearing the teachers’ applause, the headmistress concludes this boy is too clever. She’s going to scrutinize his every move in school from now on. He’s too small to realize all this. He longed for some escape-route from all these fierce pairs of eyes. Birds are chirping outside. Khudi must be kicking his football, covered in mud. Why do I need to go to school at all? He loses himself in reverie.
— What is your father’s name? the headmistress thunders.
Piklu is gazing out at the sunset. Two squirrels are busy cracking nuts. Interesting creatures: they never fight, always share their food. They jump, dance playfully, catch each other and dash up the nearest palm tree for a safe view of the world below. Squirrels are Piklu’s favourite—the happiest and jolliest animals in this world. .
— I asked for your father’s name.
— Squirrels.
— Your father’s name is squirrel? General laughter.
Piklu goes red, ashamed. Three years old, a big boy now, stung by the lack of respect.
— So your father is a squirrel? says a teacher.
This mocking is unbearable.
— No . . .
— Oh Miss Pamela, you don’t understand, his father is not a squirrel, his father’s name is squirrel, explains the yellow-saree aunty. General laughter again, all except for the head-mistress again burst out in laughter.
— You know what? You’ve failed this test,” says the elderly head-aunty, winking mysteriously to the other aunties.
Do I have to say thank you now? Mother spent ages teaching him to be polite when anyone speaks to him.convey thanks whenever somebody says something. But surely if someone asks you a question and answers in the same breath, there’s nothing to thanks. So he follows a golden rule for inteviews: when in doubt, leave it out!
— Can I go now? He looks round anxiously
— What you will do, if you gonow?
— Lots of things. Play football with Khudi and Gora, finish filling up our pond, put in some young Tilapia. Then we will do circus.
— Circus! What kind of circus will you do? Clowning around?
— No, no. First we’ll catch ants. Then plant broomsticks in the pond and put the ants on them. They’ll run down, reach the water and go back up. Lots of people come to our circus. It’s fun. And sometimes we throw the ants into the pond. With sharks coming up to gobble them you won’t believe how fast they swim to the shore (shows how with arm movements.
So I’m going now. I’ll tell my mother Ive failed.
Without a by-your-leave, he gets down from the chair, makes for the door, free at last. Hungry too. Mother promised to buy me a cake if I did my best.
It was so fast and unexpected that the teachers didn’t get the chance to stop him. Even the worst villain in TV cannot stop him. If he has decided to go, he will go. Just before pulling the door open, he remembered his last lesson. Before leaving the interview hall what he was supposed to do.
“Thank you…” he finished the interview process and rushed outside. His anxious mother was waiting. She rushed towards him…started showering him with questions. But he was desperate. He grabbed his mother’s wrist and looked for the watch. The big hand was in six and the small hand was in one. That meant it’s 1.30 pm. That meant the game was over. That meant the fun was over. That meant he wasted one precious day in his life. These poker faced people wasted his game. His mother also conspired against him. Tears came out like a cloud-burst. Before his mother could hold him he was crying frantically and rolling onto the ground.
With all these commotion going on, the head-mistress came out. “What happened, behave yourself, you pesky brat.”
Piklu stood up. Wiped his tears. Went to the football-shaped witch. He gathered all his strength on his left foot and…BOOM…what a mighty kick it was. The head-mistress couldn’t control herself. After trying to balance for a few seconds, she thumped into the floor.
It was a foul. If you hit somebody without the ball, that’s a foul. Khudi had taught him.
The head-mistress stood up, stern-faced. Grabbed the thin wrist of the brat. Turned to his mother and said, “come in the evening to take him. Don’t worry, we will give him food and everything. We are admitting him from this very day.”
Piklu’s playful, carefree life was finally over.