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Narative Essay

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The Indian Box of paints As I walked past the corridor, tactfully evading several paper rockets, I caught a slight preview of what lay ahead...As I walked into the classroom, I was lost in thought. My mother's constant instructions of what to do and what not to do seemed to get lost amidst the murmurs and mayhem of the classroom. As I entered the classroom, all eyes turned towards me and when I stood there in denim jeans and a full length T-shirt, a sudden gush of self-consciousness came over me. The reaction I got was almost incomprehensible. It was a combination of hatred and fear. My presence was proving to be rather disturbing to the others. I took my seat and after a quick "good-bye" and "best of luck" from my mother, I was left alone to endure reality. The examiner quickly handed out the question paper. It was bad enough to be giving an art exam in a municipal school but to give it alone, which just put the icing on the cake. ...read more.


This strange barrier existed between me and the rest. They were strangely attracted to me and I was strongly appalled by them. The more I ignored them, the more they glared. The more I tried to be nice, the livid they got. It seemed to me that my presence was driving them mad. My thoughts were interrupted by the shrill screech of a glass object. The girl sitting diagonally opposite to be had dropped her paint kit. The screech was followed by a bout of wailing from the girl, her carefully oiled braids were messed up as she cried for her paint bottles. If someone at my school cried for a paint bottle, I'd probably have laughed. The wailing was getting on my nerves and my work on the aster was showing little progress with all the unwanted distraction. My heart and my brain were having a little internal conference. My brain seemed to tell me to ignore the wailing and my heart was begging the brain to do something. ...read more.


She walked over to my bench and dropped my water bowl to the floor. The strange thing was that she didn't spoil my painting. It seemed to be a warning to me to stay in my place and not interact with the rest. She hated me but I didn't know who to blame for this hatred. I was born in to my life and was given these material privileges and they had been brought up to crave those privileges and hate those who were born into them. To her, my life was simple and unproblematic. I looked back at the clock. One minute left. My aster flower was the best I had ever done, and I was sure my teacher would be proud. That flower was filled with memories with my encounter with "the girl". Every time I look out of my Mercedes and see a school girl walking on the road with neatly oiled hair, I search for "the girl". Two years later, I appeared for my intermediate exam and guess where I chose to go? I went to the same municipal school. But this time I walked in with a simple box of Indian paints and the impeccably oiled hair. ...read more.

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