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. I sat down and quietly arranged all my material on my desk. The other students, whose school I was giving the exam in, seemed unusually drawn towards me. They seemed to be mimicking me. They took out their materials. Besides the awkwardness of it all, the examination hall wasn’t exactly my definition of pleasant. The benches were slurred with words I had never encountered previously and students had engraved little illustrations on to the desk. The blackboard seemed centuries old and the floor was obviously not well-tended to. The over-flowing dustbin seemed to be the only object with any similarity to my own classroom. But the smell had to be the worst. The lavatories, which I wasn’t allowed to use were filthy and were breeding-grounds for all sorts of insects. Who would believe, they actually existed! The smell was a mixture of the fish market I passed every day on my way to school and the unique odor of Mumbai in the monsoon…Damn! I had drifted away.

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       I stared at the large clock above the blackboard.  Eleven twenty nine. Only two hours and one minute to go.  After a quick mental debate on whether or not I should listen to my I-pod, I looked back at my half painted aster flower. The glares I was getting were becoming more and more vicious and my level of comfort had sunk deep. The combination of my complete incognizance of my over-whelming presence and my full-sleeved T-shirt enhanced my perspiration.  There were people leaning over my back and people pushing by my side. It was all starting ...

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