THE GIRL IN CLASS 10TH

CHAPTER 4 - NYSA

A few minutes ago, I was cherishing – for the first time – my moment of being inside a classroom. It was like stepping into a dream world. I was mesmerized to see the solar system themed painted walls and orange door. ceiling was not plane white. It was painted like a night sky – dark with glittering stars. The moving white ceiling fan acted like a round spinning strainer and I couldn't keep my eyes off the stars behind it. It felt like they are teasing me and playing pee-ka-boo through the fan.

I smiled at them and my smile broadened seeing the cute looking small colorful desks and chairs. They were arranged in a systematic manner for the kids to sit. I had never seen so many colors in one room. And I was so excited about it.

But now, my eyes were giving up. I didn't want to sleep but I couldn't stop myself from closing my eyes. I didn't know at that time that I was starting to get unconscious. It was a nightmare for the newly appointed young, tall and curvy teacher, to hold a 5-year-old girl, who was on the verge of losing her consiuosness because of excess loss of blood.

The incredulous petrified look in her eyes were clearly suggesting that she had never ever encountered this kind of situation before. Nobody would. After all it was one of THE RAREST incidents. The other kids hovered around. They all looked shit scared, even the one – another 5-year-old girl – who was responsible for this state of mine.

The principal (female, age 50, wheatish, overweight, dyed black hair) came running inside the classroom. Her mouth wide opened in shock at the sight of me. She moved the kids away so that I could get some ventilation. It was useless. I didn't need air. I needed my father. Only he would tackle this situation. I knew in my heart.

The principal was stupider. She started asking how, when, why from the classteacher and as she asked all this, the girl responsible for my situation moved a step back and hid herself behind other kids. Nobody noticed that. Fortunately, the principal didn't get any answer and the discussion didn't prolong as the classteacher was too terrified to say anything. Apparently, it was also her first day as a classteacher and under the given circumstances it was not at all going good for her. And that made the two of us – first day turning into a horrible day!

I was almost gone in the arms of sleeping beauty, but I could still hear the faint voices of the elders panicking about POA; whether to get MORE first aid or call a doctor or an ambulance. I knew the answer to that with utmost surety. I uttered one last time in a feeble and broken voice – CALL...PA...PA...

"Call him" were the principal's words that I heard before I went off to sleep.

I had a dream. It felt real, very real. I saw my father in the dream carrying me in his arms and making his way through a crowd. I saw him screaming "MOVE!!!". I saw him carefully putting me in the backseat of our car and laying me down. I saw him assuring me - "Everything will be fine daughter, papa is here". I saw my classteacher sitting beside me and holding me. That was weird. Why was she in my dream and more importantly in our car. My mom had told me once that dreams were random. They might or might not make sense. I settled with that logic.

I then saw my father driving. He was driving fast which was again a little odd. He always used to drive slowly when I was in car. he was frequently looking at me in the rearview mirror and constantly telling me to remain awake. My classteacher was rubbing my feet. "THAT!" ...still weird. He was not the 'normal—calm —composed—father'. He was a 'panicking—bashing the horn—hitting the steering wheel –father' in my dream. My mom was right. I couldn't understand the dream. But one thing I was certain of – if I was in a problem even in my dream, my father would rescue me.

I opened my eyes slowly. I felt I was in a deep deep sleep. I had a big bandage around my right arm near the elbow. I also had a thin pipe attached to my posterior part of the left hand, which I later came to know in my science class that the term for that part of the hand is opisthenar (and the anterior part is well known as palm), and the other end of the pipe was attached to an upside down faintly translucent plastic bottle on a 5 foot long steel rod stand. Long explanation short - I was on a drip.

I was lying on a bed, but it was definitely not my bedroom or any other room of my house. I was in a hospital. I saw my father who was sitting beside me on a chair, his head down and both hands resting on the bed. I instantly felt a ripple of excitement inside my belly seeing my father. I tried getting up and blurted out.

"Father! I saw you in my dream!!!"

And as I said this, something pinched inside me. The momentarily excitement turned into a wince. I couldn't get up. It was pain that my nervous system perceived from my wounded arm and sent it to my brain. My father got up with a stark from his chair.

"Don't get up daughter. You need to rest." He held me and laid me down slowly.

"Thank god, you are awake." He kissed me on the forehead. There was everything in his eyes at that moment - concern, love, affection, happiness; redness and water too. He closed his eyes for a second and exhaled - a relief to see his daughter awake. There was a relief in my eyes too seeing him - I was safe. But the pain was unbearable. My eyes welled up.

"It's paining, father."

He softly rubbed my injured hand to comfort me. he seemed in pain too. It was always contagious. My pain always made him ache too.

"It will be fine soon daughter. You are in a safe place. You are in a hospital."

Safe place was where my father was, I thought. And my happy place was in my mom's arms. I looked around for her. The door opened precisely at that moment and I saw her. She had gone to have a chat with the doctor about my condition but actually she wanted assurance from him that I would be getting consciousness soon.

She saw me and the moment she acknowledged that I was awake, she just rushed to me and hugged me and kissed me, again and again. Tears kept shedding from her eyes. Neither her tears stopped nor her kisses. My father kept his hand on my mom's shoulder and assured her.

"Don't worry. She is fine. And she always will be."

My mother turned and hugged my father. He held her and instead of stopping her, he let her sob a little more. He always knew what's best for both of us. We were like the three sides of an isosceles triangle (nonetheless to reiterate that I learned the term much later in my math's class) – Me and my mom being the two identical sides of the triangle and my father being the third non-identical side but acting as the firm base for both of us.

Both my parents sat next to me on either side of the bed. They held my hands softly, lovingly. I knew what was going to come. There was a big question unanswered yet. My father asked that question.

"What happened in the class daughter? How did you get hurt?"

I started narrating THE INCIDENT.