“Baby, come for breakfast. Your milk is getting cold,” called Bhaiya, my elder brother. I quickly put on my slippers, picked up my favourite doll, Beeta, and rushed out into the verandah.
The school bell rang. Recess at last! We rushed out of the classroom. I took the ‘gulli ° out of my satchel before I ran out. Khushal took the ‘ clan da and followed me.
Tanaji Malusare was Shivaji’s childhood friend and companion at arms. He was very brave and daring. Shivaji proudly called him his Sivnha or Lion.
It was Bina who first got wind of what was happening. She happened to be passing the school kitchen where they cooked meals for the nuns and boarders.
Humayun lay in a coma. His father Babar stood beside his bed, sad and worried. The Chief Vizier and the nobles crowded behind him.
I stood on the deck of S.S. Rajula. As she slowly moved out of Madras harbour, I waved to my grandparents till I could see them no more. I was thrilled to be on board a ship.
“You good for nothing fellow!” one slap. “You naughty boy!” another slap. “You rascal!” a shower of slaps. I could see stars dancing at midday!
“I won’t, I won’t, I won’t. He’s a greedy glutton and I won’t take him to the party,” said Leeladidi* stamping her feet as she stormed out of the room.
We were all very excited. This holiday was to be spent in Dindigul where Grandpa had decided to settle down, because the climate there was good for people with weak lungs.
The Time Machine, by H. G. Wells [1898] I The Time Traveller (for so it will be convenient to speak of him) was expounding a recondite matter to us.
Safdar, Ajay and I dashed out of the classroom as the bell rang. It was the lunch break, and we had a whole hour to play. Safdar was the tallest, also the strongest amongst us. He was our leader.
Preparations had begun for our school annual day. Two plays were to be staged. The senior section was to enact ‘Merchant of Venice’ and the junior section, ‘The Story of Rama’.
Ponni sat on the footpath in front of Berywood Girls Primary School. She sold knick-knacks for little girls.
Oscar Wilde. The Canterville Ghost I When Mr. Hiram B.
Once again, father was transferred. This time to the sleepy town of Palai in Kerala. On arrival at Palai, we moved into a house, surrounded by banana trees, beds of tapioca, roses and chrysanthemums.