Me Nam is Didi

 

In a classroom dimly lit by thin streaks of sunlight coming from the glass-less windows and ventilated by two wooden fans barely hanging on to the ceiling, awaited fifty pairs of eyes glistening with reserved excitement. For the first few days of class, I was simply the new “miss.” From the morning greetings of “Good morning miss” to common questions such as”You nam (name in Hindi) miss?” despite my efforts of crying out “Me nam is Min!” the replacement of the two “ss’s” with an “N” seemed nearly impossible.

Of all the classes, the Bengali class 7 and 8 was the shiest, yet the most diligent, and eventually the most memorable. To be honest, after the first class, I secretly hoped to change classes to that of a lower grade; I had dreamt of something less quite, more aggressive, and fun. Then on the next day, I dragged myself into the same class, wishing that it would end even before it started, frustrated already at the thought of being called “miss” all day.

I carelessly started handing out two sheets of colored papers, not really minding what pair of colors left my hand. Everybody seemed happy with what they got, pink and yellow, purple with light green, blue and red, but except for Pinky, who kept on looking down at her papers in an attempt to hide the disappointment in her face. And not thinking much about it again, I switched one of her two brown papers with a pink one; she was“Pinky” after all. “Tangku miss” she replied to me with such an over-sized smile that it almost embarrassed me. So everyone was satisfied in the end, excluding myself, working on their “bird in the cage" eye illusion crafting where you draw a cage on one paper, a bird on the other, and spin to see the “bird in the cage.” I was so bored I could almost hear a clock ticking over the dull, monotonous sounds of pencils scratching.

Another 40 minutes seemed to have somehow crawled past me without any deviations. However, just like any other surprises, mine also came at the very end. 5 minutes remaining for class, I was going around taping the two papers on to a stick so I could finally wrap up my boredom. It became Pinky’s turn to give me her papers for taping but instead of handing me the paper, she told me to lean over the desk and bring my ears closer as if she was going to whisper a secret to me. A bit annoyed, I did as she told me, I leaned over the desk to hear her little secret in an exaggeratedly enthusiastic manner. Fortunately, she didn't seem to care nor be suspicious, with her simple hesitant action, she just left me in a state of sudden shock. For the first time something deviated from my expectations, for the first time in India I was called by the name“didi” and for the first time ever in my life, kissed by a girl on my cheeks.

 

From that day on, I don’t know what Pinky did to her classmates, but class 7 and 8 certainly became my favorite class. They seemed to be thankful and happy even of the most minor things we did for them; for example individually asking their names and telling mine in return. All of the girls started calling me “didi”, we held hands when walking on the same direction on the street, and on the last day of class, Pinky brought her hair bands to braid (braiding the hair in two strips is the most signature hairstyle in school) my hair just like she braided hers. Even until the day I left India, the class stayed quite, gave me a bunch of bashful smiles and was not exactly referred to as “Min”. But rather, something more than just “Min” and I guess for them, that was a sister or “Didi” as they used to call me.