The Hug of My Life 

Robert Fulghum wrote a small book titled, "All I really need to know, I learned in my kindergarten." I did read the book several years ago. It starts with the nursery rhyme, “Itsy bitsy spider…” and makes oblique extrapolations of life and living by connecting with childhood events that could otherwise be easily dismissed as trivial. I was not so much fascinated by the contents of the book, as by the title. I feel that the title weighs heavily and in itself carries the necessary punch to make the, what I would consider as a drab, book to succeed.

I learnt a bit about life and living when I was just seven years old, while in my third standard.

In 1976, during emergency we moved from Furnishing Colony to a nearby neighborhood. An aayah (maid of sorts) used to take me and a few others (may be four of five kids at most) to school and back. We kids loved her for several reasons. She was always kind and soft spoken. Her language was sweet and refined. Several other ayyahs were rough, rude and somewhat unkind. She was the only aayah who did not allow children to carry their bags. All the other aayahs wouldn’t even touch the bags of kids. But my aayah would come every day with a huge bamboo cane basket. We children would dump all our bags in it. She would make a small cushion for her head out of her towel and solicit help from a passer-by to lift the basket atop her head. The load on her head used to be very heavy; yet she had never winced nor sighed. Her voice would always be sweet and she would always be gentle in goading us to stay away from traffic. Thus she not only took our burden but was always watchful for our safety.

We kids loved her so much and took her for granted so much so that intuitively we felt that it was our aayah’s innate nature to be meek and kind. I remember my aayah as a dark complexioned moderately built woman in her early fifties, wearing a worn-out cotton saree.

On two occasions she fell down. The first time was when one of the kids crossed her path, tripping her. She fell with a big thud. She fell down prostrate on the road with the basket flying-off her head. All the bags were scattered on the road. She simply got up, dusted herself, placed all the bags back into her basket and once again raised it up her head and continued to walk. The only phrase she uttered to the kid (responsible for tripping her) was, “enna kannu, ippadi kurukkum nedukkumaa nadandhaa aayakku kashtama irukku illa? nera nadakkanum. paaru – vizhundhutten.” The second time she fell down was when she tripped on a stone. It is far too difficult to carry a heavy basket and yet be cognizant of obstructions on the road.

As a child I was simply fascinated to see how this aayah, on both occasions, took fairly painful falls as a matter of fact! I was convinced that nothing would anger my aayah. Kindness and forbearance were in her blood. My love for her was great. My aayah was an epitome of patience.

During this time, I was in third standard “C” section. My usual place was in the second row, next to V. T. Selvan, far away from the entrance door. There was yet another one by name G. T. Selvan.

Nursery School had two teachers by the name Rajee. One Rajee was Mrs. Rajeswari - fair and stout. She taught me in fourth standard. The other Rajee was perhaps a Rajalakshmi – dark, slim and oozed evil in every pore of her body. This Rajee was the class teacher for third standard, “C” Section.

On one occasion, at around 2:00 PM, the dark Rajee gave us class-work on English composition. The school bell used to ring at 3:00 PM and this Rajee said, “Finish the class work and those who have completed can go to PT.” All the kids finished the work – one by one – and left for PT. I was so engrossed in the activity, that I did more than what the teacher had asked me to do. V. T. Selvan cautioned me. He told me that I was doing more than required. I continued my work however and V. T. Selvan went for PT. I was the only one left and it would have been around 2:45 PM.

Rajee was getting impatient. Her curt glances started becoming abuses. Perhaps she wanted to have an urgent bathroom break and here I was holding her, in turn making her hold her bathroom – just my guess. Around 2:50 PM, I showed her my notebook. She did not even look at it. She took it and flung it back on my face. The notebook hit a little above my right eyebrow. I was shell shocked. Here I was, expecting a pat on the back for going beyond expectations and what I receive was a blow – a cruel injustice.

I simply took my notebook from the floor and sat down. She cursed me and told that I am not allowed to go for PT, and left the class. I was seething with anger, sadness and humiliation. I stayed on until 3:00 PM. The bell rang and I took my bag. My aayah was waiting for me. She took my bag and looked at me.

I couldn’t hold it any longer. With tears in my eyes, I looked at aayah and said, “aayah, I did all the work teacher asked me to do and yet she threw my notebook on my face.” I just wanted to vent out my sadness to my beloved aayah.

The aayah, as usual, was unruffled. Quietly she drew my hands and with her sweetest right palm raised my chin and looked at my eyebrow closely. Then she drew me even closer to her and gave me a nice, warm and tight hug. Wow! I felt great. What if the whole world abandons me! Who cares! I have my aayah by my side. This was the best hug I have ever received in my life – period.

Then she did the unexpected. Gently she took me by hand and walked me to the office room. She shouted at the office room, “emmaa… teacher amma… konjam veliya vaa…” A couple of teachers came out. My ayah held my chin-up and showed to the teachers. There was some blood oozing out of my eyebrow. My aayah shouted at the teachers – a shout that I would not forget. She ripped the education system apart. I could see rudra kali in her speech. My aayah was fury unleashed; tempest unbottled and volcano uncontained. The teachers were simply no match for my aayah.

My aayah stood-up for me! The only person in my life who had unconditionally stood-up for me ever was my aayah. 

I was stunned, stupefied and experienced mixed feelings. On one hand, I was scared of the repercussions. I cannot, as a small child, face the wrath of the school system. Yet, it was so heartening to see that someone, for my sake, has stood up to what she felt was unjust.

I understood what character was. My aayah demonstrated that meekness is not weakness. My aayah proved that goodness comes out by choice and not by compulsion. My aayah taught me never to bow-down nor get cowed-down by an unfair system. She taught me courage. She taught me to stand-up if the situation demanded so. 

My aayah was, and still is, my hope for the mankind. 

I went home, never uttered a word to my parents. The next day, our head-mistress Ms. Sulochana walked me out of 3rd C and put me in 3rd D (Revathy teacher’s class). I got my well-deserved freedom from the vixen called Rajee.

Love between a child and parent is biology; love between spouses is chemistry; love between friends is physics (wavelength). But the love I still cherish with my aayah and her affection for an insignificant seven year old little child is called dharma (righteousness).

My aayah might be long dead and gone from this material world, but in my heart she has always retained her exalted place.