The year: 1980. The report card of the Class X term exams was a shocker. Except English, all other subjects had red lines. They meant only one thing: Failed. What’s more, there was a remark from the class teacher: DISGRACEFUL.
There was no way I could take the report card home. For amma was a teacher in the same school. She had already come to know of my ‘progress’ from the staff room. Once home, she’d tell appa and all hell would break loose.
I looked around. I wasn’t alone. Six of my classmates had similar scores. The seven of us decided to run away from school, home and everything we dreaded. The time was 3.30 pm. We took one last look at our school and walked away.
No regrets. What next? We had to have a plan. Bingo! We’d go to Kovalam and sell groundnuts for a living. Some wealthy tourists would take pity on us and take us to their country. We’d work in restaurants, petrol pumps, do odd jobs, and finally make it rich and tour the world. Five or 10 years later, we’d fly back home.
It was getting dark. We walked downhill and up the desolate road. Fear of the unknown began gnawing at our hearts. The faces of our loved ones back home flashed through our minds. We stopped at a wayside tap and quenched our thirst. We were hungry too and searched our pockets in vain. No money meant no journey. Plan Grande abandoned, we returned home.
The time was close to 8 pm. The entire neighbourhood was up and frantically searching for me. “Where were you? Appa and amma have not eaten anything. Amma is sobbing hysterically. We were about to call the police...”, a chorus of anxious voices bombed my ears. Darkness engulfed my eyes. I passed out.
I woke up around midnight. There was light in the living room. I peeped through the keyhole. Appa was reading The Holy Bible. Amma was sitting on a chair with her face down on the table, still sobbing. Sister was consoling her. I came out of my room. “Come, have supper ...,’’ amma said. The four of us ate in silence. After I had finished, appa said, “Amma has signed your report card.’’
Postscript: What became of the ‘infamous seven’? One became an artist par excellence. Two joined the Indian Air Force, served the nation and, after the ‘bond’ed years, went to the Gulf. One stayed put in the Gulf while the other returned home and dabbled in business. Two climbed up corporate ladders and hold enviable positions. While the sixth is a flourishing architect, the seventh runaway became a journalist.