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Recess

Shuddhabrata Sengupta
CYRIL Toppo always ran away. He usually managed to preempt the recess-bell by clutching his crotch and doing a little jig until a Mrs. Mascarenhas or Miss Robinson relented and let him off. Cyril ran from most things; he ran from teachers, from lessons, tests and carpentry, from the boys, from his elder brothers Immanuel, Alexander and Jonathan, from the prefects who would always ask him to fall out for his unpolished shoes, from his father the old Mr. Nelson Toppo, peon for many years in Father Putthumalli's office, from Putthumalli's stern gaze and from the kites that chased him for the contents of his lunch box. It was understood in St. Loyola's that Cyril Toppo was good for nothing but running away. He was maintained in school on sufferance, because even the Jesuits admit to Christian Charity, because his father would have been distraught otherwise, and because Immanuel, Alexander and Jonathan, between themselves dominated the centre-forward, midfield and half-back positions in the school football team. Cyril, however, never played games, never made friends, rarely spoke or did his classwork and he had never been known to sing the anthem in assembly. He operated best from the fringes of the classroom and the playground, mouthing silent abuse at the rest, content in his status as the runt of Six-D.
A few boys always got out early. Feigning full bladders they rushed out of classrooms, skidded through the corridors while the rest still droned, and proudly announced their liberty by rattling lunch box on banister, setting up a reverberation that ebbed only if they were arrested by a prefect or a predatory Jesuit. Father Patrick Putthumalli was known to prowl for those who ran before the bell.
Whenever Cryil escaped Putthumalli, he broadcast his victory from below the flagpole on the playing field with a cry as desperate as it was victorious. A wild yell drawn out of thin rib cage, splayed mouth, strained throat and flared nostril. Then, inevitably, the bell rang as if the grey eminence of the school had answered the challenge thrown so foolishly into the wind by one of its minions.
Cyril Toppo's war cry, fractions before the bell, shook every sleepy schoolboy out of his socks and into the anarchy of the lunch break. He was the muezzin of each day's call to mutiny. Until, that is, the day when he flew too high.
St. Loyola's lived on in the memory of better days, when the city's elite had not yet deserted the leafy avenues of Civil Lines. Even in those days, no one had ever dared question the authority of the lalas in the school. They were called lalas because generations of their families had run the wholesale trading establishments in the old city. Their fathers donated generously to the school's building funds, their mothers brightened sports days with brocade, chintz, jewellery and smart sandals.
The sons themselves were never too bright, but ran the school with an astute combination of sadism and pocket money. They had formed tacit compacts with the offspring of university professors who quizzed and debated, play-acted and glee-clubbed, won prizes and wrote bad poetry in the school magazine. It was not unusual at St. Loyola's for stable alliances between Dr. Bose's son and Mr. Khandelwal's scion to mature into a mutually beneficial relationship that would occasionally outlast school, and prove useful as the boys became men and took on the mantles of public life.
Then one day Cyril Toppo was done for--the day he hissed 'Mota Lala, Pil-pi-Lala' under his breath at Anurag Khandelwal during Civics, not long before the lunch bell. The teacher was elaborating on the finer points or urban renewal in Shri Sanjay Gandhi's five-point programme for the nation, when Khandelwal stood up and said that Cyril was a bhangi and that his family was being shifted across the river; he said he knew this for certain because Cyril's mother had stopped coming to work at his cousin's house. The class broke out into a disciplined titter. A few heads tuned to look at Cyril, and then looked away. The teacher asked Khandelwal to sit down and went on to the next of the five points--about planting trees.
Cyril was not ordinarily given to name-calling, he knew that it could provoke sudden brutalities in the corridors, and that if reported Putthumalli would pin him with his eyes and with a smile ask: 'What will it be boy, Tea or Coffee?' (fifteen strokes with a Malacca cane on the arse, or thirty on the knuckles and the knees with a broken footruler). And name-calling was the one thing that his mother said no good Christian boy should ever do. Cyril had tried out sounds inside his head, even dared to whisper expletives like the unspeakable yet often spoken 'Behen-c---e' in the ears of the dog that hung around in the school canteen (and dogs did not recognize the incest taboo), but not even the mildly affectionate 'chutiya' nor the innocuous 'saala' had actually ever escaped his lips. He made the right shapes with his awkward mouth, but never provoked enough attention for anyone to lip-read what he had in mind.
No one knew what possessed Cyril that day when he called Khandelwal a squishy lala, and somehow it seemed far more lethal an abuse than Behen-c---e, deadlier and more accurate--and that too in an audibly hissy undertone. But once he had done it, he knew he needed to hide through the lunch break, because Khandelwal had turned and looked at him as he placed his large rump on his chair, and Toppo could tell immediately by the way he was being looked at by fat boy Khandelwal and his chums that the Khandelwal family honour was at stake. A message reached him from the desks ahead--'Habshi, bhangi, runt, c--t, we will f--- you in the lunch break.'
Cyril ducked his head, although no missile, stone or otherwise, had in fact been thrown at him, and as he ducked he raised the lid of his desk far enough to be able to retrieve his aluminium lunch box. He clasped this with more firmness than was necessary and with his other hand trembling over the crotch of his shorts leapt out of his desk, stood on one leg and then on another and pleaded 'Miss, bathroom, pleeeeze, quick, miss...' The class sniggered, this was a familiar routine to them, 'No, Toppo, not again', said the Civics teacher, but let him go.
Cyril ran as only Cyril could run, down the stairs, past a surprised prefect. Before the latter could catch him, Cyril ran around Putthumalli's office where through a glass he saw his father's sad face, and into the playing field, right up to the flagpole. Gripping it with one arm he flung himself around and exploded into his scream. The bell rang instantly.
Cyril did not linger there today to be excluded as usual from the games in the playing field. He knew he had to leave before Khandelwal made his entry. So he chose a circuit that was his own, an eccentric circumnavigation of the grounds: in Loyola's the best way to hide was to stay alone and be on the move.
Hidden from the rest of the school by a wall, Cyril saw two lanky seniors chew at the down on each others' lips. One of them was a prefect feared by every junior schoolboy. Then, seeing tongues dart and hands fumble with zippers, Cyril moved to have a closer look. He had seen this happen before but he still
wondered how the toughest bully could become so helplessly tender at Hortie's wall.
The school had once been the Ritz Hotel. American soldiers were lodged here during the Second World War, and Hortie's wall was a spot in a deserted corner near the tennis courts where a Carl Mulligan of Chattanooga, Tyennessee, USA, had inscribed his desire for a certain Hortense Williamson in graphic terms. Cyril traced his fingers over the intertwined letters, and whispered the magic sounds of Chattanooga and Mulligan to himself. Other names too were carved here, Amit's mingled with Sanjay's, Suleiman reached for the uneven scrawl of Mahesh and Mark embraced a name that had been scratched out with considerable violence.
Bored with the prefect and his lover, Cyril walked towards the tennis court, stayed to hear the 'pock' sound of the tennis ball hit the racquets and then, trailing his fingers through the wire mesh that surrounded the tennis courts, turned the corner that led into the goldfish pond.
The goldfish pond was out of bounds for all but the seniormost boys, because the padres at St. Loyola's had rooms overlooking it. Detention plus caning in Assembly was the standard measure meted out to boys who strayed in to feed the fat goldfish and the turtles that lurked in the waters of this sanctuary. This meant that Cyril was safe here. In the water, a turtle rippled tiny concentric circles with its feet and the fish puckered and unpuckered their mouths foolishly. Cyril imitated the fish with his lips, and felt a twinge of pride as he recalled the sound of 'Pil-pi-Lala'. A dragonfly settled on a tall stalk of grass by the water's edge, almost level with Cyril's eyes. Dragonflies were called Helicopters because of their ability to hover drumming gossamer wings motionless in mid-air. Helicopter hunting was a favoured sport, and dismembered dragonfly wings were treasured in Geometry boxes, and could be traded for favours as well as commodities. Cyril reached for the Helicopter on the stalk with bony, dark, and now greasy fingers. He felt the queer flutter of the precious wings on the insides of his palms, but before he could close in on the insect the Helicopter had flown. With dips and sudden rises it flew towards the flock of dragonflies that hovered sunning themselves in the currents of warm air on the playfield. Cyril gave chase. Goldfish, turtles and Khandelwal were all momentarily forgotten. Cyril ran past the chapel, past the swimming pool with its dirty green water, past the tree from which hung a punching bag where the boxing team was at work, past the carpentry shed, past the buses in the bus-yard standing in puddles of muddy water rainbowed by tiny oil slicks, till the dragonfly came to rest on the shoulder of St. Francis Xavier's alabaster effigy, which with raised crucifix surveyed the playing fields of Loyola's. The dragonfly joined its innumerable companions and was lost to Cyril, who now turned his attention to life on the field.
To an untrained eye the playing fields of Loyola could appear almost idyllic, with laughter and high-pitched horseplay, alternated by stately adolescent pairs in animated conversation. Here each morning the school assembled and howled its ghastly anthem in a chorus of broken voices. Restless schoolboys at half-hearted attention transformed a march into a dirge as they sang.
From the russet stones of glory, From the marble halls of fame, Rise the ghosts of sundry great men, Bidding us be 'Great' again!
Plaaaay the man, sir. Plaaay the man Loyola's legion -- plaaay the man.
But Cyril knew its terrors well. In every knot of boys playing at being men he could distinguish the bullies from the bullied. He could tell even from this distance the bespectacled eggers-on who provoked fights and made sure they lasted until someone was injured at least, some teeth broken. Above the boys, lost in their vicious pastimes, hovered the squadron of dragonflies, and far above them circled the kites along lazy spiraling thermals.
Cyril emerged from St. Xavier's shadow into the light of a September mid-morning. His keen eyes had scanned the field well and no Khandelwal was seen. Secure in the
realization, he decided that before the break ended he needed to get to the swings. He jumped down the steps that led from the statue to the field, and skirting the field's edge made his way towards the jungle-gym yard.
The Khandewal had not gone to the field at all. Instead he had stuffed his face with bread pakoras at the canteen with his gang. Then, licking orange bars they set out in search of Toppo. Enquiries indicated that the runt had been seen near Hortie's wall. They went there but were chased away by seniors. They followed Cyril's trail and looked everywhere barring the goldfish pond. En route they attacked a new student and broke his glasses. Someone shouted 'Dare you to get the new boy' and so they had pounced on him. A dare was an opportunity for bravado that no one let pass at Loyola's. So you could be 'dared' into throwing a stone at the beehive, attaching condoms on to a water tap, spitting in Assembly and so on. These gestures meant a world to those who enacted them, and Khandelwal was very 'daring' in his particularly vicious way. He enjoyed the diversion afforded by the new boy's broken glasses, but Cyril Toppo was still not to be found.
Once Cyril got on to the swings he came into his own. He had waited patiently in the jungle-gym yard for two others to finish their turn, and then, with a slight run to the sand-pit below the swing's wooden plank, he leapt on to the plank, his knees still bent, and secured his grip over the thick iron chains that were suspended from a beam slightly more than twenty feet above the ground, as high as the tall neem tree next to it. Initially there was nothing he had to do really, only vary the swing's general direction with pressure from either of his feet. Then, when he had had enough of looking at the swaying sand-pit immediately below him he rose from a doubled-up position to his full height--all of four foot and a quarter, and with all the strength he could muster in his body he bore down on the swing with his knees, forcing it to rise in a widening, creaking arc. Little spirals of dust stirred giddily below, and the branches of the neem rustled in the sudden breeze that followed in Cyril's wake.
One more shove and he went higher still, and among the other elements that made up the receding ground below him Cyril caught sight of Khandelwal. The best thing to do now was to keep swinging. If he dropped to the ground he knew they wouldn't let him go.
The Khandelwal circled the sand-pit to face him, the rest followed. He looked up and told Toppo 'stay on the swing, c--t', and then with the disdain that naturally came to a ten-year-old he said, 'Dare you to swing as high as the swing can take you. Dare you to cross the neem tree. Bhangi.' At this the rest sniggered and someone took up the refrain, 'Habshi, Bhangi, runt, c--t.'
Cyril would have run if he could. He had never taken on a 'dare', he didn't want to now. But if he stepped off the swing, at the very least his shirt would be badly torn, apart from injuries to his person. A torn shirt would require a great deal of explanation. He decided to stay on the swing, reasoning that the bell would ring again soon. The chant below him continued for a while as Cyril took a higher arc, and then one higher still. The leaves of the neem swayed closer now than did the ground. And despite the cool rush of air he could not but help feel an unbearable heat in and around his ears. He had looked up at the sky so far, but when he looked ahead he sensed the building swinging like a pendulum towards and away from him, matching each movement of the swing with a lurch of its own. The iron chains creaked in sympathy with the occasional vibrations in the beam overhead, but Cyril was aware most of all of the hammering in his chest and the sweat that soaked his grip, beginning to make it slippery.
The jungle-gym yard was emptying now, the lunch break would soon be over, and groups of boys ran kicking dust into the air towards the building. Finally only the still swinging Cyril Toppo and the Khandelwal gang remained in the yard. Ratan Sinha, a 'good boy' in a crew cut who basked in the protection of bullies, screamed 'Touch the tree, Toppo.' Then the chant began again, not very loudly but with a variation inspired by Ratan Singh. 'Habshi, Bhangi, runt, c--t, touch the tree and we'll let you be.'
Cyril's knees were giving way now, but with one mighty effort he made the swing go higher than anyone had ever seen it go in St. Loyola's. Then, in obedience to the command which seemed to come now from very far below, he extended one hand to snatch a few leaves from the elusive branches of the tall neem tree. The swing shuddered and moaned in mid-flight at this sudden displacement of weight, and then his other hand, slippery with the accumulated sweat of the day's terrors, lost its fragile grip on the swing's remaining iron chain.
The swing had reached its apogee just then, and began a confused, contorted spiraling descent as Cyril Toppo shot through the air above the jungle gym yard like a stone from a slingshot. Perhaps from his vantage point in mid-flight, Cyril surveyed Hortie's wall, the playing field, the alabaster saint who guarded the playing field, the goldfish in the goldfish pond and the puny mugs of the Khandelwal gang. All of these for once were beneath him. Perhaps he surprised dragonflies and the kite perched on the flagpole because no one had ever seen a schoolboy fly so high before.
As he flew, something like his flagpole cry but more desperate was heard, and the Khandelwal gang ran into the building seconds before Cyril's head met the outer wall of Five-C. A window opened and a head peered out just as this happened, and then several other windows clattered open one after the other like bursting sores on the grey face of the Junior School building. Cyril Toppo bounced on to the ledge below Five-C for a moment, and then slid straight to the ground, crumpling slowly as he fell, leaving a wet, sticky trail behind him on the wall. Then the bell rang again.
Next morning at Assembly the choir sang 'Lord I'm coming home, never more to roam, O God, Now I'm coming home.' Prayers were said by Putthumalli for the transport of Cyril's soul, for Nelson and Mrs. Toppo, for Jonathan, Immanuel and Alexander, and for all the boys of Six-D who had lost a dear friend.
The jungle-gym yard was declared out of bounds until further notice. Then in an orderly line Six-D walked across the playfield and into the old cemetery that adjoined the school, where they watched Jonathan, Alexander and Immanuel comfort a strange, small, dark woman with soft words in a clickety-clackety language they had never heard before.
Eventually Six-D turned into Seven-D, discarded shorts for ill-fitting long trousers with the flares of the mid-seventies. Cyril Toppo was not missed when the boys were arrayed for the ritual class photograph. They had grown in girth and height, and easily filled up the little space that Cyril would have covered.
But it was a long time before anyone remembered another war-cry before the bell. It was probably never heard again, although the bell continued to shrill the school's authority, as if in answer.
Shuddhabrata Sengupta is a writer and documentary film-maker who lives in Kolkata.