When I joined Pallikoodam (which was then Corpus Christi) in the third standard, I remember sitting in the car and exuberantly singing: “Yay, I’m going to boarding school.” I had never been so thrilled about anything in my life. My life until then, I thought, had only been the prologue. The real story was only about to begin.
The jubilation quickly dimmed when I was led to the office of the principal. It was a spacious semi-circular room, and behind the desk sat the most imposing figure I had ever seen in my life. Salt and pepper hair framed a stern face. Every time she glanced at me, I felt like crawling under the table. The world, it seemed, revolved around the axis of her presence. Other than the grainy texture of her voice, I do not remember what she said to me, but I was soon bundled out of the room into the ‘parlour’, where the warden, Margaret chechi, opened my trunk and began counting the sets of clothes, bucket, mug, raincoat and gym shoes that my mother had carefully packed, with a large AM 13 (my initials plus the number I had been assigned) etched in marker pen on all my belongings.
Boarding life was an amalgamation of so many experiences, but they all bore the signature of Mrs.Roy’s ethos and beliefs. In many ways, they were contradictory. She believed in teaching us how to use cutlery and speak English with the right accent. But she also believed in making us proud of our heritage and our roots, and greeting teachers with the traditional ‘Namaskaram’ instead of a jaunty ‘Good morning’ or ‘hello’. She let the chef (the inimitable Mariamma chechi, whose chicken biryani was legendary) serve us caramel custard and bread pudding for dessert, but made us speak Malayalam compulsorily in the lower classes. Just like her, all the contradictions she espoused combined into a seamless whole that made perfect sense. She was the enchantress who could make 2 + 2 equal 5, just because she willed it so.
Mrs. Roy did not care for others’ opinions. I believe that it takes a bit of that outrageous courage of hers to truly bring about change, the way she did. We had all heard of the landmark Supreme Court case that she won in 1986, which ensured equal rights in the family property for Syrian Christian women. In many ways, the myth of Mrs.Roy was more real to us than the reality – she was more larger-than-life than anyone else I had encountered in life.
Our glimpses of her were not frequent. Occasionally, she made an appearance at school assemblies in her signature kaftan, bindi, dimples and attitude. Other times, one could see her striding around the swimming pool, her corpulent form squeezed into a black swimsuit. Self-consciousness was not a word that could be found in her dictionary. On her birthday, all the boarders would assemble outside her home and sing a song – my favourite was ‘I have a dream’ by Abba. Her grand-daughter Maria, who lived with her, was my classmate. Sometimes, after Karate class, Maria would sneak us into Mrs.Roy’s kitchen and feed us chips and cakes.
Outside Mrs.Roy’s office was a board which read, “If you can read this, thank a teacher”. I wish I had an opportunity to thank the greatest teacher of my life. I wish I had an opportunity to tell her how much she meant to me. All my laughs, tears, achievements, failures, opinions and attitudes are indelibly stamped with the personality and person of Mrs. Roy. I never told her, because I was scared of how she would react. I still don’t know how she would have, but I know that she would have wanted me to have the courage to tell her. She lived her life fearlessly, boldly, with head held high. And that’s how she wanted each of us to live ours.
