School Bully

When you were in school, did you have somebody who was a bully? Well, my time, we did.

His name is Siva Charan Singh (705) and he would invoke fear into the hearts of all that were smaller or younger than he. That is, until the day he made me cry.

I was in 6^th standard and Singh was 2 years older than I. I remember one day our usual game of hide and seek was well under way in the Palace. Singh was also playing with us. But he taunted me with his unpleasantness. He was calling me names and, most importantly, he was calling me the worst word possible. He was calling me a tuss. (Rhymes with the word puss as in "Puss in Boots.”) His ridicule was more than I could stand and I started to cry. He called me a sissy and I could not stand it any more and I kicked him. Kicked him hard, you know where?

His smile turned to a frown and he started after me but instead of running and for the first time ever, I stood my ground. I kicked him again and then punched him in the stomach.

He started to cry and ran to his house bawling like a newborn babe. 

The game continued without Singh until I was called by our house master,

"Ravi! Come here!" There was a definite stillness in the air.

As I walked inside, our house master, suppressing a smile, and knowing fully well about Singh's bullying said, "Did you hit Singh?"

"Yes Sir," I said.

"And why did you do that?"

"Sir, he called me a tuss!"

"And what is a tuss?"

I didn’t know. As a matter of fact, nobody had ever told me what that meant and I had never bothered to ask. I wasn't sure if anybody knew what it meant.

"It's a bad word, Sir," I said.

"Well, I don't want to hear about you fighting with Singh again! Do you hear me?"

"Yes Sir!" and out of the door I went before he had the chance to dictate punishment.

I discreetly asked many of my friends, "What does 'tuss' mean?"

My best friend John Cornelius (732) explained it to me this way,

"What? You mean you don't know? I can't believe you don't know. You're serious? You really don't know? Well, if you don't know, I'm not going to tell you." 
That was the best and most complete answer I could get from any of my friends and for the time being, it seemed to satisfy me.

Several weeks later a group of us were playing French-cricket. For those of you who are unfamiliar with the game, it is played just like cricket except that you use a bat, or what ever looked like a bat and a plastic or rubber ball. The batsman is confined to a small circle with his legs together and has to swing his bat wildly at the ball not allowing it to hit your legs. If the ball hits your legs, you are out. Singh was throwing the ball and I was at the bat. I hit a straight drive. The ball went sizzling at a good 100 KM per hour as it hit Singh's head. The ball skipped off his head like a flat stone on a clear pond.

He grabbed his arm and started to cry as he limped back to the house.

That's right, he was hit in the head but grabbed his arm and started limping.

I wanted to know why; he grabbed his arm and limped after he was hit on his head.

But didn't bother to ask.

That pretty much put an end to Singh's harassment. The reign of terror had ended.

But for thirty years, that question remained, why will anyone limp when hit on his head?

Just two days back, I was at the Railway station and saw Singh there. I was sure it was him. It was thirty years since I last saw him. I had a feeling he too saw me but was trying to avoid me. The station was very crowded. But I managed to pull his arm and say “Hi!” and I asked him that very question. Why; he grabbed his arm and limped after he was hit on his head.

He cleared his throat and said.

"What? You mean you don't know? I can't believe you don't know. You're serious? You really don't know? Well, if you don't know, I'm not going to tell you."