Butterflies and Hurricanes

We were sitting – some of us almost lying down – in the garden on a chatai, soaking up the winter sun. First Step kindergarten school’s class of ’93. Our class teacher was engaged in a lively conversation with a fake parrot perched on his forearm. Every now and then, he’d touch his finger to the bird’s beak and shriek out in pain, twisting his face into animated expressions of mock pain. The class was in hysterics, some of us literally rolling over with laughter.

I still remember how white his beard was. Not grey – speckled with some whites and a few blacks – but pure white. It looked even whiter out in the sun. I guffawed along with the class, but I was careful not to laugh too hard, or for too long. I had to focus on sulking, and looking solemn.

I’d had an argument with mum in the morning. All I had asked for was a packet of Crax. Those divine rings made of corn. The ones you could place around your fingers, and eat with abandon. One finger at a time. She knew it was my favourite snack, and I knew she had it. After I was done whining, stomping my feet all over the house, refusing to wear my socks, and hiding under the bed, I accepted my fate. As I sat grumpily drinking my milk and honey, my mom handed me my Little Mermaid backpack. She said she didn’t have any Crax at home, but if I prayed hard enough, I will find it in my bag. But only if I honestly, truthfully prayed with all my heart.

The entire time I sat in front of Papa on the scooter, I was fraught with pressure. I closed my eyes shut, squeezing them tightly, praying to the only god accessible to me. As I entered the gates of school, I knew I had to focus all my energies and work really hard at being good. No mischief today.

After we were done with the colouring lessons (where I was extremely careful about staying inside the lines by the way), we moved on to the rhymes. We learnt a new poem about how fish survive in the ocean. We also learnt that if we place one hand on top of the other and wiggle our thumbs, we could make our own fish come alive. What a fascinating world school was!

When the break was announced, I devoted five full minutes of intense and focused praying with a lot of earnest dedication. This should work, right? How could it possibly not? I was on my knees and everything, chanting a silent made-up mantra like a fanatic. Then slowly, I opened my bag. There were my books, my hanky, my name-tag, and my tiffin box inside. My face fell.

I took my lunch box out. It was light green and shaped like a long-ish dog. Probably a dachshund? Can’t say for sure. Mum had tied it up with a rubber band so it would stay in place. She had given me jam and cream sandwiches, with the sides cut off. I sat there munching slowly, stung. Maybe I hadn’t prayed hard enough.

After we were done, I kept the empty box inside. School was over, and all I had to do was wait for Papa to pick me up. I fiddled with a stick and made shapes in the sand. Suddenly I sat upright. I grabbed my bag, undid the zipper, and reached into the other side of the bag. There was another section! I slipped my hand inside. It was there. I saw it. I felt it. A shiny new packet of Crax that had been waiting for me all this time.

At that moment I was so utterly, completely blissful. I honestly believed that it was my fervent prayer that had brought the packet into my backpack. Only because I wanted it so bad. How could it get there otherwise?

Maybe it wasn’t such a smart thing for a parent to do. Maybe I believed in something that wasn’t real. But I was only three. And miracles took place all the time when you were three.

That day, as I happily sat clutching my hard-earned Crax packet close to my chest, I learnt my first ever lesson in hope. Which till today, I believe is the loveliest, most powerful emotion. One that can move mountains. One that helps you swim across the biggest tides, jump over the deepest abysses. One that makes you look out for the smallest traces of light on a cold, dark night. One that lets you believe that good times will return, no matter how bad life seems to get.

In fact, I believe hope is the mightiest of emotions. Because it can make packets of chips appear magically in little girls’ bags. I mean, what could possibly ever trump that?