My journey in the world of English began with her in grade 8. I still remember the first ever class I had with her. The first thing that caught my attention was obviously her beauty. But by the end of the class I was equally drawn in by her intelligence. And as and when I attended more of her classes, I found that there was more to her than just her looks. She is someone who makes people reconsider their typical thoughts that beautiful women aren’t intelligent. She changed that mindset of mine too. I truly admire her for the person she is. I remember how everyone in class used to get really annoyed when she wouldn’t punish me for not completing my homework. If I remember right, she hasn’t ever punished me in the two years that she taught me. Hmm…looks like someone has a favourite! Even though she isn’t officially my assigned teacher anymore, I still learn from her in every conversation that we have.

She walks into class gracefully, taking small careful steps. Placing her books on the teacher’s desk and crossing her arms, she clears her throat softly to get everyone’s attention. What she doesn’t realise is that all of that is completely unnecessary, as the moment she set foot in class, everyone’s eyes had turned to her immediately. Her attempts at being stern go all in vain, as everyone looks at her, totally dumbstruck by her mere presence. Her flawless radiant skin and eyes that shine with dignity and intelligence captivate everyone. Tucking a light strand of hair behind her ear, she waits for the class to settle down. Introducing the topic of discussion to us, she waits for a response from our side. Occasionally she plays with the ends of her shawl and comments on the weather as the class slips into a deep trance looking at her spellbinding exquisiteness. Resplendent in even the most simplest of attires, she is no doubt one of the most stunning yet distinguished women in the world. A slight smile peeks out of the corners of her mouth as she suppresses a soft giggle and rolls her eyes at the vague remarks of a few boys. She tolerates up till a limit, but at the slightest rudeness, she points towards the door and sweetly asks the offender to leave. If he resists, she throws what seems like a mild form of a diva tantrum, and the boy leaves obediently, absolutely amused by the range of different expressions her face displayed in a very short period of time. Her sensible and highly sagacious thoughts are understood by very few, and she finds humor in the faintly bewildered expressions of the few who were too lost to even hear what she said. “I hope you’re straight” she jokes when a girl passes a flattering remark on her, and the student is left in her thoughts wondering about the same. A sweet blush forms on her cheeks when someone compliments her as she turns around to leave the class.

“Walk?” one asks, and the other two immediately rise. Leaving their marked territory in the corner of the class, they take a look at the timetable. And before anybody fully understands exactly what is happening, SAM is out for a midday stroll around school. Just one fleeting glance inside the classes they pass by tells them that there is no replacement for them once they pass out of school next year.

They stumble down to the basement, laughing like a bunch of drunkards, and set their first target as the library. Ah, the library. A room filled with books (objects that two out of the Trio didn’t seem to have any relation with).

“Ma’am, can I borrow a book?” one of them asks as the other two wonder whether he even knows how to read.

“You wouldn’t by any chance have the Indian Constitution here would you?” another asks politely, with an innocent expression masking his inner mischievous self, as curbed laughter in the form of shameless sniggers comes from the remaining two.

The librarian glares at them threateningly as she musters all the strength that she has, to control her hands from strangling the Trio. And as expected (and as desired too), they get kicked out of the library ruthlessly. They roam around hopelessly bored when suddenly something catches their attention. An empty room. The music room. Setting their eyes determinedly on their destination, they take a short leisurely walk till there.

“Just the thing for lazy people like me, the keyboard. It does all the work itself, all I have to do is press a few buttons here and there” one says as she takes her place behind the instrument.

“What an instrument it is, the Harmonium. Alive with music rooted deep in its soul; it needs oxygen to function just like all living beings” he says, as he settles himself contentedly on the mattress.

“A wonderful instrument, the Guitar. Six strings and more than a million different tunes to produce from them. Place one hand for support on its slender neck, and use the other to strike or even beat the strings as per your whims. Why use two hands when you can make music using only one?” the other says, seating himself on a chair in the corner.

Vocalists by birth and each one a maestro in their own instrument, they begin with their music. Not a trace of harmony, no sense of tune and absolutely no presence of coordination, their music or rather cacophony resounds in the empty basement. And then all of a sudden, someone emerges from the shadows. The music teacher.

“Play something for me. Let me see how much you know” he says, stepping into the music room.

“We would love to sir, but with all due respect, we don’t want you to feel intimidated by our natural talent in music, so I think we’ll just leave” one says, as SAM steps out in glory and returns to class by taking the longest route possible.

That day is still fresh in my mind when he entered my life. I rushed
home after school, running up the stairs as fast as my little legs
would allow me to, to meet him. 24th January, 2011, I reached
home to find a fluffy little black package of fur huddled up on a
cushion in a corner of my room. I couldn’t see his face at first, but
gradually as I approached him, he lifted his tiny little head to gaze
up at me with his lovely almond shaped and slightly confused
brown eyes. He whimpered as I leaned in to pat him. But even at
the tender age of twenty five days, he could very well differentiate
between good and bad, and he let me cradle him in my arms like a
child.

Eagerly, he lapped up all the milk in his bowl, spilling most of it on
his face as he tumbled in. He had brown patches on his chest, paws
and jaws which stood out from the rest of his jet black coat. His
eyes shone with mischief as he trotted along the house inspecting
his new home while leaving a trail of muddy paw prints behind.

Once, unfortunately my mother found him scratching away to
glory, and decided to give him a bath. For the rest of the week, that
poor little pup smelled like fresh strawberries! He himself got
annoyed with his scent and each and every time that his paw came
too close to his sensitive wet nose, his nose would start twitching
with irritation. He had a peculiar habit of staring at pigeons as they
sat on the windowsill, and as soon as they used to take off, he
would start barking frantically, clearly disturbed at their sudden
disappearance.

Each evening he would take me for a walk. Yes, HE would take ME
for a walk, and not the other way around which is ideally how it is
supposed to be. That adventurous pup would grab simply anything
in his mouth, be it a cigarette, a flower, or even a stone. He would
muster all the little courage that he had in him and walk ahead of
me, leading the way, taking different routes all the time and
exploring our entire neighbourhood. But the moment a stray dog
would meet his eyes, he would whine, rush and hide behind me.
The first time he saw a cat; he tilted his head, blankly stared at it
for a while as if going through his memory trying to figure out
what creature stood in front of him.

“Go. Make me proud!” I said as I let him loose. He gave me a
questioning look in response.

“Chase the damn cat!” I exclaimed. Again the same curious
expression. I shook my head in shame and ran behind the cat
myself, demonstrating what was expected of him. And what did he
do? He just sat there, panting with his tongue drooling all over.
Then I realised that I had never made him watch cartoons, hence
he wasn’t aware of the dog-cat enemy relationship. So he is not to
be blamed. My fault.

“Wonderful guard dog you will be one day” I always said to him,
and he would look at me with an expression which clearly said “I’m
still a pup! Wait till I’m older”

He wasn’t just a dog; he was a part of our family, a younger
brother to me.