The Lunch Break

Sitting on the first bench, eight-year-old Abhishek sighed. His first-day wasn't going too well. Everything seemed unfitting. Especially the Math teacher who'd already mocked him twice. "Children, full homework tomorrow, or three on knuckles," said her insidious voice cutting through the break bell.

The class buzzed with the sounds of zipping bags and footsteps. He turned to Rahul and asked if he could join for lunch. Rahul was in no mood to go easy. He was annoyed with this uninvited neighbor who joined school two weeks late. He hurled a contemptuous stare and stepped out of the classroom.

One by one everyone did. Except for the new boy. He sat there all alone, nervous, sulking, yearning for company. The only solace being, he was where his father wanted him to sit: on the first bench.

Abhishek had recently moved to Jabalpur, the central point of India. His father, an army man, got transferred every few years. For him, it was a first. Suddenly divorced from the previous world, his anxiety trampled any excitement of the new. His father knew as much. "This will toughen you up and make you a man sooner," he pepped Abhishek. "Yes Dad," he buckled up.

He revered his father. Always wanted to be like him, look like him, make him proud.

Recently he carried the burden of disappointing his hero. His Dad wanted him to get through Saint Paul's but he couldn't. Once the waiting list conversions finished, he got admitted to Saint Leonard's. Thankfully they did not have a test for 8-year-olds.

"Don't tell anyone that you didn't get Saint Paul's, OK? And focus on your Maths. We'll try again next year," Dad prompted while fixing Abhishek's tie. "And give this letter to your teacher. It's a request for the first bench." Dad saw to it that the letter's fold was as perfect as the tie knot. Abhishek nodded in affirmation.

He then ran to his Mom and pulled her down for a hug. He didn't want to go. But he was grown enough to know that's not an option, and thus shouldn't say it. He had learned his manners well enough.

She held him tight. Running her fingers through his hair she said, "It's your first day. Things will seem different and difficult. Don't worry, soon you'll have many friends and will love the place. Give it time."

Dad added with a pat on his back, "Yes, always remember, tough times don't last but tough people do." He chinned up as Dad had taught.

Half the day down, he wanted to hold on to their wisdom. He couldn't sit inside, all alone, the entire lunch break. Canvassing empty benches ambivalently, he prodded, "What would have Dad told you now Abhishek?" That was one of his quirks. He would often speak to himself in the third person; aloud. Feeling less deserted, he stood up and cut the silence again, "He would ask me to be strong and go out there." 

And he lifted his lunch box, as though a soldier would a gun, and started marching.

The force fizzled when he stepped into the open area. Everyone had finished eating and had moved on to games. He spotted Rahul and his classmates playing chase near the Banyan tree. He braced himself and walked towards the bench closest to where they were.

"Offering lunch would be a good ice breaker," he thought. He sat and popped open the tiffin box. His eyes twinkled as much as his lips curved. It was Maggi noodles! His favorite. This popular snack was only meant for special occasions. "I love you Ma, you made my day." He cleared his throat and pitched, "I have brought Maggi! Come, have some." The announcement worked. Like in birds, there was a synchronous redirection of little feet.

Everyone loves Maggi. This couldn't go wrong. All classmates eyed the new boy's appetizing offer. Abhishek gave a welcoming smile raising the container. His pulse rose in anticipation of his new founded popularity. In a quick flash, he imagined himself in the next round of chase with his would-be friends.

And in the next flash, suddenly, out of nowhere a hand came and flipped his lunchbox. He hadn't held it tight. His hands felt loss and instinctively roved to grapple the box. They couldn't.

The human body triggers many anatomic signals when something goes wrong. Abhishek perhaps experienced all of them through the next three seconds. His throat dried. Stomach wrenched. Sweat pores broke loose. Spine shivered. Knees twitched. Body froze. This was quite too much to bear. Even for the one who likened himself to be an Army man in the future. Eyes couldn't fence anymore. The new boy in Jabalpur signed his resignation with tears rolling down.

"Look at him. What a cry baby!" came a voice with a laugh backed by others. Abhishek couldn't see him, but he didn't need to. He couldn't understand why Rahul would do this.

There are times when one loses the sense of time, place, right, wrong, why, how, when, because he forgets he exists. This very moment, it was that time for Abhishek. The world might as well end for him. He didn't want any of it anymore.

"Oye!" floated across. It was a roar. Abhishek's watery eyes wouldn't give much input. But it relayed that the boys were moving and someone was cutting through. His palms wiped both eyes in pursuit of detail. A boy, tall, broad, rugged, stepped closer, and grabbed Rahul by the collar.

"What do you think of yourself," he said with a protracted gaze into Rahul's eyes. His eyes were rousing; very.

"Get lost. All of you!" he thundered, pushing Rahul away.

Abhishek recognized him from earlier in the class. He was the curious boy who sat on the last bench; alone.

"Hi, my name is Shoaib," he said, this time in a tender voice. He kept his left hand on Abhishek's shoulder and raised his right to shake hands. Abhishek returned with a gracious smile and a military handshake.

Shoaib declared, "Those boys are just idiots," as he went for Abhishek's tiffin box surrounded by fallen Maggi strings. Abhishek instinctively reached out to avoid garnering more favors, but Shoaib had picked it up by then.

"Thank you, Shoaib. Really," came a heartfelt message. "I am Abhishek."

Shoaib replied, "I know. Everyone has been talking about you. You came two weeks late which means you tried and waited for St. Paul's. That is why they are angry. We and St. Paul's are rivals."

"Then why did you help me?" Abhishek asked without realizing the naivety of the question.

"I don't believe in all this nonsense!" Shoaib replied virtuously. "And my father taught me to fight for those who are left out. He is a lawyer you see; that's what he does." Shoaib reckoned he boasted and decided to underplay it next. "Anyway, that's not important. What's important now is your lunch. Come with me."

They walked into the school canteen.

"Abhishek, this is my elder brother Irfaan bhaiya.

Irfaan bhaiya, he is my new friend Abhishek," he formalized, before imparting to his brother a capsuled narration of what just happened.

Irfaan asked them to pull two chairs and sit. "Two Maggi noodles," he looked at the counter and shouted. And in two minutes came two bowls of steaming savory Maggi Noodles!

That day marked the beginning of a timeless friendship.

Shoaib gained a new bench-mate, and Abhishek reaped three important takeaways.

First, labels don't matter.

Second, caring does.

Years later, Abhishek ended up being a senior lawyer, a revered one at that. Unlike other senior lawyers, he wouldn't have lunch in his chambers. Instead, he would go to the fresher's canteen. And whenever he spotted a newbie sitting alone he would join the table and order, "Two Maggi Noodles." That was the third.