The Momo Lady

There was this lady seated perpetually on the stone red seats in the shed by the canteen in our school. Her earthly movements consisted in wrestling the stubborn lid of her pleasingly mauve casserole open and handing out momos and pouring the red, red sauce flecked with chillies on top, while holding a plate stitched from dried betel leaves precariously in her other hand, and reaching out and plucking the crumpled notes tenderly from our hands, like a mother prising a poorly drawn scenery from her child's reluctant hands, and maybe smiling at a known face or two amidst the usual crowd of ravenous children, jostling past each other in the proverbial feeding frenzy that is break time. She was beautiful. She was fat. She was fair. She looked Chinese. I distinctly remember a mole to quietly inhabit the wrinkled skin at the edge of her thin lips that opened ever so often to ask "How many?" or croak "10 rupees" or croon soothingly into the ears of an injured kid when she wanted to.

And such a delight they were. The momos. And the injured kids. Such a delight to grab by the collar and shove aside while we leapt at his lonely plate of momos, unwittingly forgotten on a dusty seat. And they bawled. And we gnashed our teeth. And we preyed on the weak as scavengers are wont to do. And when the battle was inevitably lost and all the hurley-burley dealt with, she would console the sorry kid, wipe his dirty face dry with her shawl and hand him a fresh plate. And then croak "10 rupees".

Several coconut trees watched in silent mortification, the scenes that played out at the shed and canteen across the pavement. Planted there a gazillion years ago by some ancient coot of a gardener without an trace of aesthetic sense in the world, these trees craned their trunks and towered, and when the day was done, maybe tugged their roots out of the mud and stretched, and sprouted hands and fingers that they cracked and yawned and perhaps, wished each other a pleasant day before walking over to the shed and finally resting their tired feet. If that's what they did, they'd probably have had about as eventful a conversation as we could ever have with the momo lady. 'Good day, ma'am'. 'Good afternoon to you, tree'. 'How are you today?'. 'Good. And you?'. 'A little rusty, but otherwise fine. My, the momos look delicious.'
'Thank you.' 'Mind if I taste one?'. 'Yes.' 'My, what gigantic breasts you have.' 'Thank you.' 'Mind if I taste one?'. 'Yes.' 'My, you left an ass print on this stone seat.' 'Thank you.' 'Mind if...screw it.'

Break bell rung twice and all the juvenile monsters accounted for in their respective classes, we would sneak out and lurk in the shadows behind the pillar in the canteen, Keshav and I, and watch the antics of our honoured members of staff. It is true that the rightful places for them to plant their posteriors were the very assprints on chairs in the classes they were supposed to teach, but the momos were cocaine. They were Belgian chocolate. They were the One ring that called out to us, my precious. And thick and fast, they came at last, to answer the call of our lady. D'Souza, newly appointed Discipline-in-charge, a title as flashy as he was capable. D'Souza was a retard. He had a ruler and the right to use it. He was also the head of the Photography Club. He had a camera and no idea how to use it. He ate momos and looked contemplative.

Vincent, 70, and a strong contender for the next person to succumb to heart attack, mercilessly thrashed our 'lazy lot' during our practices for Sports' Day. A little discipline is what we needed is what he said. I don't know if we were supposed to listen to the sharp smack of it on a 12 year old's buttocks or try our best to jump out of its way. He taught art. And seemed mighty proud of it. 5 years and a possible lobotomy later, he mellowed down and resigned himself to teach juniors Physical Education. God knows he needed some himself.

Twice failed suicide artist, Mr. Sengupta, liked his boiled food and insipid water. He was on medication for every disease known to mankind and more, smoked cigarettes by the coke stall with a packet of samosas in his hand, and shot himself full of horse tranquilizer at night. Missing several teeth, sporting a brown, stately tie and a throbbing vein on his bald scalp, he was as thin as a stick and as myopeic as a bat. He was Mohammad-bin-Tughluq. He was a benevolent despot. He looked at us, and smiled. His gums looked decayed. 'Bunking?'said he.
'No sir' said I.
'Whose period?' said he.
'Doga,' said Keshav.
'Mr. Dasgupta,' I corrected.
'Don't bunk my period,' said he.
'No sir,'said we.

An androgynous teacher by the name of Debroy who baffled us with his effeminate ways and sudden bouts of PMS, caught us by the collars and unless he was planning on lifting two hulking 18 year olds by the scruff of our necks with the strength of his pudgy wrists, I really didn't know what he intended to do.
'Come with me.' he growled.
We felt an overwhelming wave of sadness wash over us that such a creature could ever have passed out of our own school.
'Where, sir?'
'To the Principal.'
'It's a free period sir'
'It's a free country sir.'
He let his hand linger on Keshav's shoulder, long having resigned himself as incapable of the Herculean task of lifting us by the collars and considered the possible ramifications. We looked at him as crows at a disgusting dead rat they wouldn't touch. He looked at us as if he were about to cry. He always looked that way. Sengupta flicked his cigarette butt into the trash can and paid for his food.
'You mean to say it's a free period and nobody else decided to come down and play?'
'Sir, we didn't decide to come down to play.'
'Sir, let's play dumb charades.'
'I'm not a 12 year old girl.'
There was a note of wavering self-satisfactory conviction in his voice which only seemed to suggest that he had his doubts about it.
'I'm taking you to the Principal.'
'Oh for the helluvit!'
'Ya, let's meet the old walrus!'

And D'Souza and Vincent and Sengupta by the counter and the Momo Lady watched as we were led to the Principal's office by a perspiring, fat gumball machine called Debroy and eventually indicted with bunking classes, willful disregard of the teacher's orders, felony, perjury, arson and rape.

We were found guilty on all charges. The punishment was a week of detention which we didn't attend.

2 years later, Debroy left the school with the dreams of making it as a teacher in Dubai( where he was promised higher wages and better health care), but his hopes of a happy valediction may have been dampened when someone put up molestation charges against him on all the notice boards in the school building. He cried. He really was a 12 year old girl.

Sengupta retired and adopted a cane to suite his decrepitude. He had drunk sulphuric acid once but cheated death twice. He tried to jump off the ledge off the second floor when his son slapped him across the face in the staff room after his divorce. Retribution, he said, for what Sengupta had done to his mother. He looked tired at the parting ceremony.

With the moral turpitude of an army man and the untrammeled temerity of a man refusing to give in to his age, Vincent works his 'lazy lot' even today. With the sweat of his students' brow and the blood shooting to his face, he makes them toil, builds character and helps them take those baby steps on God's way. A bit closer to heaven. Or Hell. Just a heart attack away.

D'Souza had a daughter and mellowed down for a bit before being made House master which spurred him up again. He has an office next to the Principal now where the accountant used to be and has taken it upon himself to cleanse the school of misfits. I hear it was his idea to paint the buildings blue and white. He's come a long way for a man who didn't know jack about Chandragupta Maurya when he taught us history in class 8.

And after all that's done, the Momo Lady, gets up. A layer of fat stirs its inertia and rumbles like a wind blowing through a field of wheat across the vast expanse of her belly before coming to a jiggling halt at her gargantuan bottom. She looks up towards the dying sun, fixes shut her casserole and tucks it under her arm. A job well done. The day comes to an end to the wailing of the Maulvi immersed in evening prayer in the distance and the sobs of the injured child that haunt our lives.