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“Won’t you change your birth year?” my class teacher had asked with a confused look. She was processing the paperwork for changed birth years in our class nine cohort, and amidst all the “new” 1992s and 1993s, I was one of the two “original” 1991s left.
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June 12—World Day against Child Labour—wasn’t supposed to be just another Friday. It would have been the launch day of my first book, containing stories about street children.
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Growing up in a joint family had its perks. For example, there was hardly a chance to get bored. On the rare occasion I did get bored, I vividly remember my mother threatening to make me memorise my time-tables if I complained. It was a much dreaded punishment. It makes me wonder how the children are coping in this pandemic.
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As my students entered the exam hall, their faces were a tad bit more tense than usual. I was nervous myself. I would finally find out whether our efforts to make the course different had been a whopping failure.
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”It’s going to be a long night,” I thought to myself as I pressed the redial button for the fourth time.
