Chapter 1


    I still remember that day. The only moment of my life such years ago that i can even recollect.


    I said GoodBye to my parents who stood by the school gates, watching eagerly as i took my little steps towards my first day of school. My mother turned her head away as she could see me notice the tears streaming from her eyes, but my father stayed straight and strong.


    He was proud of me even when i simply stood. Proud as a peacock when i took a mere step.


    For him, it wasn''t the day in which his precious daughter would spend some hours away from him. It was the first day of thousands that she would take towards an education, towards achievments and towards success.


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    I sat in a group of three or four other children, all around the age of 5. They were all weeping and calling out towards their parents who stood peering through the classroom windows. The thought of crying hadn''t even crossed my mind until i saw everyone else crying. It ruined the whole ''first day of independance'' vibe, and so I too, let my tears flow.


    That was until i felt a little arm make its way around me, in an attempted embrace which didn''t do much to consolidate me but the thought. I slowly looked towards the little boy who stood next to me, his lips bent into a frown and his eyebrows narrowed as if he were comforting me to convince himself he wasn''t upset. It was a funny sight. And so I laughed.Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.


    But his face turned red.


    Of embarassment or anger? i guess i still don''t have much of an answer.


    He shook me violently while i continued to laugh, until a teacher made her way from between the wailing children and questioned him.


    ''She was making fun of me when i was trying to help her!''


    Help me? I thought. How were his baby hands of any help to me?


    I would like to think that i told the teacher what i thought of that but i was a brown girl, born and raised in India, who was now in a foreign country around people who looked, acted and spoke much differently to me. While i could understand them, to reply was not practical.


    A ''no'' would''ve been a realistic guess of how i reacted. Or perhaps, even that would have been too much.


    The teacher didn''t look back at me. Instead, she asked the boy to not lay hands on a classmate ever again and that introducing himself would be a better start.


    ''My name is Thabo and I am six years old.''


    Your parents must not care about your education because us Indians lie about our childrens age so that they can be enrolled in school before they even learn to walk. And here you are, alive for whole six years and still in in Kindergarden.


    Of course that was simply just the thought of a five year old.


    ''My name is Meera and i am five years old''


    We slowly smiled at eachother. And that day, 12 years ago, for the first time, i sat with him, laughed with him and learnt with him.


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