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Harsha hadn't liked his first day at this new school at all. The main, and so far only, reason could be summed up in two words: the Bomb. There are those who are frail and those who are strong. Then there are those who are who are small and those who are big. But the Bomb (nobody seemed to know his real name) was not only big and strong but also extremely mean. Harsha remembered the Bomb walking up to him and, without a word of introduction, demanding, what he called, protection fees. Harsha had wanted to know what he had to be protected from whereupon the bomb had twisted his (Harsha's) ear through 360 degrees and said, "you wouldn't want that to happen to you again, would you?"
That is how it came about that at a quarter past three that evening saw Harsha carrying a kilogram of chocolate cream biscuits to the Bomb's room. He had been told by his new classmates to offer them on his knees with the traditional betel leaves. This ritual completed he was invited into the Bomb's room.
"Have a biscuit," the Bomb proffered.
"No thanks." Harsha replied, knowing from another boy's experience, that accepting would be regarded a disrespectful act. As punishment he would be forced to chew on the biscuit for three minutes after it had been dunked into salt water before swallowing the goo.
"Come on. They're pretty good." invited the Bomb, as if they had been his grandfather's property.
"No thanks."
"Have some, I can't finish them all."
Harsha reached out with his right hand.
"Well, well well! you would disrespect a senior, would you? We've got to teach you manners," the bomb said dipping the biscuit into a salt water container, conveniently placed in a nearby drawer, "chew this for five minutes, start now!"
Harsha was new to this kind of game. The Bomb had just left the room to share biscuits with a friend after ordering Harsha to stand on one leg. Harsha kicked the Bomb's bed, boxed his pillow and spat into the photo lying on the writing table. He would have continued his lone tantrum further had he not noticed the scene in the photo. It was a holiday snap, with a waterfall in the background and all, with the Bomb in the centre. But what struck Harsha was that the Bomb was smoking. At this school smoking was a major misdemeanour, only beaten to a second place by being out of the boarding house after curfew. Harsha pocketed the picture.
The next morning Harsha placed the photograph in a new envelope, addressed it to his class teacher, whom he knew to be strict enough to at least get the Bomb suspended for two weeks, and deposited it in a post box with a smile that would have made an imp look good. That should take care of the mean brute. And good riddance. Events were to occur which would alter his attitude.
It has been implied earlier that the bomb was an exceptionally large, strong and boisterous specimen. In this aspect he was unrivalled at school. However he was outdone, a hundred times, by Moustache - in meanness. Moustache was the nickname of Bala Kalansuriya for obvious reasons. It was to this bully that Harsha got caught on his second evening at school. The bomb only twisted ears. This bloke pulled your hair and pinched your nose. When Harsha cried, this fellow laughed. He definitely had a sadistic streak in him as Harsha was learning in that corridor. At this juncture the Bomb made his entrance.
"Hoy!" he shouted, spotting Moustache, "What the -unprintable- are Hell do you think you are doing?"
"Mind your own business."
"I'm jolly well minding my own business, that kid's paid me protection fees."
Moustache's hand, which had been tearing out Harsha's hair by the roots, stopped abruptly. Mishandling juniors under another's protection was a no-no in the bully code. He knew what he had coming and accepted it. He was seen running around with a black eye for a whole week after this incident.
"Why didn't you tell him you was under my protection?" the Bomb queried.
"I didn't know," blurted out Harsha as the Bomb left through the corridor. A transformation took place in Harsha's heart. How could he have thought ill of this good angel. The god send Bomb was a blessing in disguise, a big brother... He continued to be in this pleasant state of mind when, suddenly he remembered the letter.
If that letter reached his class master his benefactor, the Bomb, would be done for. He would have to face Moustache alone, a prospect which even the most obstinate buffalo (for that's what Harsha compared himself to for dispatching the letter) would shrink away from. Even if the Bomb did survive he would definitely be anti-Harsha and with both the Bomb and Moustache on the opponents flank life would be a torture. All through maths Harsha contemplated his problem. The insignificant ones on the blackboard did not catch his attention. Who could care what the area of a parallelepiped was when confronted with capital punishment?
"....length of this side, you there new boy," the teacher said when Harsha, realizing that he was being addressed, was jolted out of his reverie. He thought how much the shape of the maths teacher's head resembled a bird's. The whole class was focused on Harsha.
"Yes sir," he said at length, hoping that the birdhead would be satisfied.
The birdhead was evidently not satisfied and gave Harsha a stern lecture on paying attention but Harsha didn't catch the latter part of the sermon as he had just hit on a bold solution to his real problem. He perfected his plan during the rest of the day paying scant attention to the subject at hand.
That evening he sought out Moustache, who was nursing a bad eye, in his room and proceeded straight to item one on his scheme.
"The Bomb hasn't yet forgotten the incident."
"What do you mean?" Moustache seemed bewildered, "this shiner is worth ten of those incidents."
Part I of original Short Story by
Rumey Jiffrey
76/1, Matale Road,
Akurana.
1997
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