W - Good at Maths

Good at Maths

This time I was the victim of her anger. I was in class seven in St.
Joseph's Girl's High School and Sister Agnes an Irish nun was the Maths
teacher. She was tall, slim, with a very sharp nose, her lips never
parted into a smile, a face that always carried a grave look and her
gaze was so stern that no one dared to look into her eyes. She was new
to this school and taught Maths in all the three sections of class
seven. Her cane, she carried with her when she moved along the
corridor, and once she settled herself in her chair in the classroom,
her cane lay on the table, one end waiting for her strong grip and the
other end ready to bash the calves or the palms of the child caught by
her frenzy.

Children had become habitual to her punishments. Always a sense of fear
lingered in our minds when she entered the class.

When Sister Agnes came to our school our seniors told us that Sister
Agnes was just out of a mental asylum as she had been suffering from
depression for the past couple of years. So she was very rude in her
behaviour and was harsh towards children. All we had in our minds was
the picture of a very strict teacher. Many a time's a girl or two was
made to stand up or kneel down before the class for the entire Maths
period, a punishment better than caning.

I still remember, we were given to work out an exercise for homework,
it was page 123, exercise 12. That morning Sister Agnes stormed into
our class in a very bad mood. As usual she placed the cane on the table
and said, "children have you completed the exercise? Who will work
out
problem no. 9 on the blackboard, raise your hands?" No hands went up
for none of the students had worked it out. I sat there silently not
daring to put up my hand though I had worked it out, I felt my method
of working it out was wrong. I had always got full marks in Maths and
thought to be very good at it by my teacher. Sister Agnes looked at me
and asked me to show her my notebook. Fear had gripped me and my palms
were wet and slowly I walked up to her with my note book. She looked at
it and the next moment she caught my shoulders very roughly and shook
me mercilessly. It hurt me a lot, tears came to my eyes and I felt
ashamed. She said, "You are very stubborn, go and stand in the
wastepaper basket facing the wall for the whole period." She did not
punish the rest of the class but worked out the problem on the
blackboard. The bell rang and as she was about to leave, I went up to
her and said, "Sorry Sister." She didn't speak a single word, gave a
stern look and left the classroom.

All the while, standing in the wastepaper basket I had tasted the salty
tears that flowed down my cheeks with my head bent down with shame. I
felt humiliated, tortured and ashamed for what???

I was good at Maths but I landed up in the wastepaper basket, the
humiliation that I cannot forget in my life. Till today I don't know
whom to blame, me or my teacher?