Child Sex Abuse and Disabled Children - Part #1

Written by Dilip Muralidaran on February 18, 2009 – 8:26 pm -

Parthasarathy lived in a lowly neighbourhood. He attended a local school. Back in the 80’s English medium Anglo-Indian schools were like the equivalent of breast implants and Liposuction craze of today. Gentlemen please take no offense, let me say its also the equivalent of Penis Enlargement claims that come in spam emails that read on the subject line “make her cum and moan with pleasure with ur megadik!”. Parents would just have an orgasm that read “Holy”, “Mary”, “Anglo”, “Christ” and any of the aforesaid old and new testament biblical terms in the name of the school. At least, the ones around partha did or he assumed.

Nevertheless, the difference between partha and other kids was quite simple. He was physically challenged. He had cerebral palsy and his lower limbs were affected. Having CP is fun, really. Why? Cuz partha couldn’t stand for long in the sun and the boring school assembly ran for about 35 min - 1 hour everyday in the morning. Whilst every other loser kid in class stood in the scorching sun to listen to the usual gyan that the principal of the school blah’ed over the mic, partha sat in class and he enjoyed the sadistic pleasure of seeing his class mates go through the same boring bullshit everyday in the morning.

The scout boys and the NSS guys would come everyday to check the empty classrooms to see if some kid was hiding under the bench to avoid going to the assembly. They would bully the one or two kids who lied down on the desk because they were sick or had a headache or injury that prevented them from going to the assembly. Mostly, it was the smart ass ones who pretended to fall sick and bunked assembly only to rush with the unfinished homework or dig into a little of what they had brought for lunch or from someone else’s tiffin box.

Partha had fun watching the silly interrogation methodologies of the Scout boys and NSS folks, repeatedly examining the resting (assembly bunking smart ass kid) for genuine temperature, sickness etc., Then they would come to him and ask “hey! why the heck aren’t you attending the assembly” to which partha would irritatingly answer “because i can’t stand in the sun for that long and i give you the same answer, everyday!”. The Scout kids would bah at his answer in sheer jealousy and leave. It was their ritual. They had to ask the same dumb question everyday even though they knew the answer already and they have been doing it for years. Apparently, it was their 60 seconds of fame by trying to enforce authority and show how big daddy they were cuz they were “Scout”.

Partha’s life was simple. Go to school, no assembly, no doing stupid exercises during P.T class and sit and day dream alone in class or practice his marksmanship skills with compass or divider on wooden benches. He had been doing this since kindergarten and he was now in 7th grade. Cerebral Palsy was a blessing in every form that he knew. Little did he know that life would have confusing surprises that he would experience and come to understand of it only after 2 or 3 years into the future.

Partha was glad as usual, practicing his compass art skills on his wooden bench. A gentleman in white pants and white shirt came to the class and started a conversation with him. Duds like this one were usually parents of other kids who came to school to meet the principal or teacher for their kids. They were often unbelievably boring and had standard template questions like

“How did this happen to you?”
“What do you want to become in life when you grow up?”
“Does it hurt when you walk?”.

If it weren’t the questions, it would be emotional and over sentimental blessings aka statements like…

“Your wife will be the most prettiest woman in the entire world!”
“God is loves you the most of all kids and wants to constantly watch over you. You are special, which is why he made you so”
“You will certainly go to heaven!”
“You are handicapped? oh poor sod! How pretty the face but how sad you are crippled.. sob, sob!”

Partha had by now heard all sorts of irritatingly boring statements. Partha would just wait for it to get over and these losers to leave so that he can go back to day dreaming and think about the things that moved him like Michael Jackson, Bill Gates, Rangoli designs for the competition that is closing in…

Nevertheless, this white and white fellow came and he asked partha the same old questions. He then said something extremely different that no one else had said before.

“I’m a doctor and i can cure you in 2 weeks”.

Partha’s curiosity was kindled. He was not convinced but he was impressed by the statement. Partha knows best how many doctors his parents had taken him to. The English doctor, the homeopathy, the sidhdha doctors, the unani, the saint who heals via prayers, the church father who sprinkles holy water to cure people, the bad breathed muslim grandpa who blows air into your face and brushes you with peacock feather and blesses you. He knew them all and none of them could fix them. Partha was a natural skeptic, he never trusted anyone but nevertheless he was curious as a cat when claims de extraordinaire were made.

The gentleman in white now shined in different light. He said “Let me see you walk”, which was a standard thing everyone asked of partha. Even most of these parents had the pleasure of making partha get up and show them how he walked. It somehow satisfied them in ways partha could never understand. Partha got up and walked for the gentleman. He followed partha and keenly observed his walk. Often the doctor would comment on how fast partha walked and how me must learn to be patient. Partha was tired of hearing such things again. This doctor gentleman would frequently show up at his classroom once or twice a week, randomly.

Days passed and during the conversation partha informed the doctor that he had been operated the famous “Dr. Soundarapandiyan” in his thighs and he walks better now than how he used to when he was studying in 1st grade. The doctor in white suddenly had more interest in the surgery. He said “Let me see where the surgery was done”. Partha was not sure if this was right. Possibly instinct took over and he asked “Where is your stethoscope?” and the doctor paused for a moment frozen and quickly recovered and said something to the sort of it not being necessary since partha was not sick. He proceeded to unbutton partha’s trousers and examine his scars in the thigh. Something was different with this doctor though. His touch was different. His whole way of rushing into the examination was different.

Suddenly the 7th graders mind raced with a million questions. Why wasn’t this doctor in the P.T room in the ground floor? Why does he not have that hammer that doctors usually have that they hit on the knees that give you electric shock? Why does he come to the class to talk to me everyday when even the very sick kids were carried to the doc room in the ground floor? Most importantly, the school did not have a resident doctor at all?! After all the school was on strike for half of the year cuz the teachers were not paid salaries, why would they get a doctor?

Partha excused himself from the doctor and lied to him that he had to go the the toilet immediately and went and hid inside the toilet that was seldom used by any of the kids for their cleanliness issues. This doctor would come once every often and examine partha. Partha would use the same excuse and go to the toilet. Partha had a friend in his adjacent class named bala, who was also physically challenged, his blessing was polio. He too stayed back from assembly grounds. Everytime partha left for the restroom, he would find the doctor in his friend bala’s class. Possibly several months since this had been going on partha and bala happened to catch up at bala’s house accidentally. Bala discussed the doctor who came to examine everyday and talked about the doctor and the irritating examination which was so weird. Both of them decided the next time this doctor would come to examine them, they would say no.

Bala was the first victim of that irritating doctor check-up, that Monday morning. Partha stayed with bala for the first time, in his class. Partha waited for bala to say no but the doc stayed in bala’s  class for long, did some physiotherapy finally and came to partha’s class. Bala followed the doc to partha’s class. While the doctor unbuttoned partha’s trouser for his routine examination partha shot a question?

“My father would like to have an appointment with you, doctor.”

The doctor in white stopped. He smiled, he left without saying a word. He was never seen again…

None of them spoke of the doctor or recollected the incident after that. Parthasarathy would go on and blog about this incident 12 years down the line. He does not know where Bala lives now. He does not care.

There is a different agenda however and the need for some awareness is long pending…

To be Cont. in Part #2…

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Immanuel is a Pundai

Written by Dilip Muralidaran on October 27, 2008 – 2:45 am -

No, we are not swearing at somebody here. Not certainly me. This post is merely an inspiration from this post. I was tempted to write. Immanuel was our School math teacher during 9th and 10th grade. Immanuel master was special. Why? Because the kids knew how to pass a math exam. He taught tuition classes that costs you Rs. 80 per month and if you went for those classes it means you get a guaranteed 40% and pass the math exam. Not just that, he was sight adchifying the cute 18 year old french teacher, whom most of the kids in the class were sight adchifying too.

Nevertheless the point of this post is not about Mr. Immanuel our math teacher or his sex somersaults but its about toilets. Yes, toilets in the school. Wait, i know you wan’t to know what it has to do with the title. Allow me to explain.

"Immanuel is a Pundai" was the most scribbled text in all toilet wall’s in the school. Of course, other teachers having sex with weird unexplainable things and being castrated or crucified in horrendous ways were also a vital part of the loo art that you would find in these toilets but Immanuel master topped the hate list followed by our biology teacher susan rajan who was precariously described as slime. Why? Because she was the only person on earth who would eat with her right hand and dissect a cockroach off the left, peel things off it and explain things to students will she munched food in her mouth. Brilliant! Yes, she was!

Of course, we had Miss Sheela Christopher who was our Chemistry teacher. I’m not sure how good her chemistry was but her language was pathetic. She always used to point out to our unruly class leader and yell "munnadi pora yeruma maadu ozhunga ner kodula pona than, pinnadi vara yeruma maadu ellam ozhunga ner kottula nadakkum" and she added "munnala pora yeruma maede seri illa, pinnala vara erumaigalellam enna pannum?". Of course, she was promptly rewarded with fantastic  pictures of her riding yeruma maadu’s in the nude and also giving birth to a yeruma kannu kutti. Utter genius in artistic expression. I remember winning 4 rangoli competitions in school successively from 7th - 10th grade during the childrens day festival and project days/exhibition. If only the judges visited the toilets to see the art on the wall, i swear i would not have had a chance in the remote possibilities of planet earth.

I studied in a "All Boys" school till 10th grade. The world famous in perambur "St. Mary’s Matriculation Boys Higher Secondary School" and all of our school toilets were famous and had so much culture and history as much as our school did. Everyday we failed to do homework and we had to kneel down outside class and the cute french miss walked by laughing at us we would rush to the toilet to draw such weird things of the oppressing teacher of that particular period, what awesome a way it was to take it out on them. It was a fantastic channel because the staff toilet which was close to the staff room was cleaned on an hourly basis and kept well compared to the students toilet which was cleaned only when there was a cholera break out amongst school kids, housed in the classes close to the toilet.

To start with, none of the toilets had doors. Yes, no kidding! Im not talking about urinals where you stand and take a piss, im talking about toilets where you squat. No doors, the school management believed doors were too much of an expense and we were "just kids" and deserved no privacy even while taking a shit. Nevertheless, no sane person in their realistic senses would ever go shit there and most of us never did with one or two of those weirdo kids who found these places habitable. We stayed away from those folks all the time, we knew they were of an elite kind. In fact when a kid goes to the toilet we know of what hard bound stuff they are made of and finally they get elected to be School Pupil Leader (SPL) and Assistant SPL. That was our test, the ultimate one that makes you SPL.

To conclude, i would kindly request we relocate all teaching activity in toilets because i think that is the only place where young boys have the utmost concentration and intense dedication when it comes to doing some work. Look at those drawings, breathtaking! I mean, sometimes i used to see women with so many tits, i could not even count them with my poor math skills. Some sex positions were so impossible, if not innovative, they would beat the crap out of kama sutra. I think what we should have is a public addressable system with isolated toilets with walls to separate each kid. This teacher can speak over the mic and deliver the lecture material via the speakers installed in each kuckoose and you will see the artistic potential of each and every kid revealed to the best possible extent.

I also suggest we fire all these useless old blokes and hire chick 18 year olds as teachers (like our french teacher) and ensure that in this way the students behave themselves and look their best and the teacher has the complete attention and control of the class. I think this is the best formula for any boys school. I hope St. Mary’s school is listening.

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Posted in comedy, daily life, funny, humour, incident, opinion, personal, rantings, school, short story | 5 Comments »