The Rowdy, The Bag, and the Belt

Moving to Bangalore from a village, in the third standard, at that age, felt less like a transfer and more like being relocated to a foreign country, different universe.

We stepped into a joint family setup following my father’s transfer, bringing along steel trunks, strong opinions, and an unshakeable belief that raising a child was everyone’s business.  My English, which back in my native place had dazzled audiences with “A for Apple, B for Buffalo,” suddenly found itself demoted to background noise.

The family, displaying rare strategic patience, decided not to admit me immediately into an English-medium school. “Let him stabilise,” they said, as though I were a volatile economy. My younger sister, however, was considered stable currency, she was promptly admitted into a nearby English-medium school. I was dispatched a kilometre away to a non-English medium institution, already beginning to suspect that life was not entirely fair.

Enter my uncle, Bangalore’s four-year veteran and therefore, in family terms, a certified urban expert. School admissions, networking, influencing the right people, he handled it all. But his real genius lay in motivation.

For my sister, the deal was simple: rank within the top five. She, being effortlessly brilliant, secured second rank in her very first attempt. My uncle, never one to waste a teaching moment, remarked, “Top five was the goal, not top two.” My sister, in second standard, was understandably puzzled. The prize, however, was always honoured, targets were flexible, rewards were not.

For me, the target was less numerical and more philosophical: become English-medium worthy within one year.

The challenge was more layered.  I had to keep up with my regular schoolwork and simultaneously learn English at home, taught enthusiastically by a panel of relatives whose qualifications ranged from “reasonably confident” to “phonetically adventurous.” The objective was clear: within a year, I should be ready for English medium.

Meanwhile, my extracurricular life was thriving beyond expectations.

From 4:30 pm to 7:30 pm, I was a professional athlete, marbles, tops, kites, gilli-danda, anything that involved dust, noise, and zero supervision, fully committed, no distractions.  Inside the house, however, I was a monitored entity. Calls to return home began at 6:30 pm. By 7:30, I was expected to be seated with books, first school portions, then English.

I complied. Visually.

In reality, I had mastered the delicate art of appearing studious. I had mastered the ancient Indian technique of studying by proximity. As long as I was near a book, progress was assumed. Unfortunately, even this system has limits and even the best actors need a day off.  One day, I decided to take a strategic break. 

 

On my way back from school, I handed over my bag to a junior friend and asked him to bring it the next day. Then, walking home lighter in both load and responsibility, I began rehearsing my story.

My aunt, a powerful figure in our household, believed strongly that anyone who smoked was automatically a rowdy. This simplified my scriptwriting. By the time I reached home, a fully developed cigarette-smoking rowdy had snatched my bag near Malleswaram station.

The story was well received.  Too well received.

Before I could add disclaimers, my other uncle, not employed due to health reasons and therefore fully available for field operations, decided we should immediately retrieve the bag. My argument that the incident had occurred “ten minutes ago” was dismissed as irrelevant detail.

I was marched back to the scene of the crime, except the crime did not exist.

After a fruitless search, we returned home, where the situation had escalated dramatically. Neighbours had assembled. Bangalore’s law and order situation was being reviewed. I stood there as the only calm individual, confidently assuring everyone that my junior friend knew where the rowdy lived and would recover the bag the next day.

My plan had been simple: avoid studying for one evening.  I had accidentally triggered a community security review.

My father returned from office to this developing crisis, mentally calculating the cost of replacing all my books, while I quietly held on to the inside information that everything would be back tomorrow.

And then, at exactly 7:30 pm, the plot collapsed.  My junior friend arrived at the door, with my school bag.

I attempted advanced-level eye signalling to induct him into my story. He, however, was a man of principle and limited acting ability. He clearly stated that I had given him the bag and asked him to return it the next day. His father, demonstrating better governance than I had, had instructed him to return it immediately.  Silence.  Not ordinary silence.  The kind that suggests your future is under review and makes you reconsider your life choices.

Every member of the household looked at me as though I had just been discovered wandering out of Turahalli forests.

My father, displaying admirable calm before the storm, chose to walk the boy home, partly because it was dark, and partly to ensure he reached safely at that late hour.

The house remained suspended in anticipation.

A visiting relative, sensing imminent developments, quietly exited, proving that survival instincts run strong in extended families. My aunt, who was deeply fond of me until that afternoon, looked at me and asked, “Rowdy?”, a question that did not require an answer.

My father returned.  What followed was swift, structured, and deeply impactful. Armed with his preferred instrument, the belt, clearly his go-to problem-solving tool, he ensured that the concept of honesty was permanently embedded in my personality. I, in turn, demonstrated exceptional agility, covering all corners of the room while repeatedly offering assurances of lifelong reform.

At some point, my aunt intervened, confiscated the belt, and restored order.

Peace returned.  Dignity did not.

For a considerable period, I carried the reputation of being the boy who attempted to outsmart an entire joint family, and failed with remarkable efficiency.

The following year, I was admitted into the same English-medium school as my sister. Life improved. English stopped being intimidating. Studies became manageable. And fictional rowdies quietly retired from my storytelling.

Looking back, while the move to English medium shaped my education, it was that evening’s belt-enabled performance review system that ensured I never again launched a fictional narrative without stakeholder alignment, contingency planning, and, most importantly, credible supporting actors.

Stories, not instructions. Experiences, not advice—medical or otherwise. Data, only what the internet quietly gathers anyway. Proceed with equal parts curiosity and common sense.