How I Lost My Virginity
This is perhaps sometime in the nineties. Things were very different then and experiencing something new was more difficult to come by; and good or bad, your luck had to play a role.
I was in my class, perched on a front seat. Our seats used to rotate every day, so my position would be second from the front the next day and so on. But that afternoon I was in the front seat, unsuspecting and unaware that things are going to change just a little bit. Mrs Jyotsana Mukherjee used to teach us social studies. A plumb lady — may be in her early forties, I remember her as kind, gentle and motherly — and also someone who had a certain liking towards me. You know, one just tends to like some people more than others — I am sure there is some science behind it somewhere.
Recess was over and I had just finished talking with a friend about his next moves to get closer to the girl he liked. Feeling accomplished in that front seat, I was waiting for the next class to begin. The plan was simple — try to avoid eye contact in the next four classes, sit in the second seat the next day and feel much safer. It wasn’t her turn, but Mrs Jyotsana showed up in the class. The class turned silent and everyone took their seats — both out of respect and out of curiosity. She was looking for something or someone. Since she was a tall woman, her natural gaze extended towards the end of the class. Somehow — I told you about luck earlier — she asked me a question “Have you ever delivered news in the school assembly before?”. While still struggling with my thoughts of ‘Me? Why Me?’, I said “No Ma’am”. “Very well then, you will be delivering news tomorrow morning”.
When I regained consciousness, she had already left and our Maths teacher had stepped in. Pardon me for having no recollection of what happened in the four classes that followed. I was stunned into zero right until the final bell rang. A bell that usually signalled joy and relief, was worthless today. Where were all my friends? All those assholes who took advice? Where were they now? No one walked up and said, ‘hey, it is going to be alright’, or ‘I have done it before, and it’s not so hard’, or ‘you are going to nail this one’ — nothing. No one came. I walked to the cycle stand, pulled my blue cycle out and walked it to the school gate where I began to ride it home.
It was a 25-minute ride back home. Was the afternoon sunny or cloudy? Sorry, can’t remember. I placed my cycle under the stairs and climbed up the stairs to our first floor, one bedroom apartment. You know how moms are. They just know. So I told her what happened and what I was up against. I told her how my life had turned upside town in less than two seconds. That I am ruined and wanted to cry. She gave me glass of water and reminded that I was crying already. “So what are going to do about it?”. Right — that’s when I realised for the first time that day, there is something that needs to be done as well.
If some of you are thinking what’s the big deal about it, here is some context: This is from the nineties. There are no news apps on the phone which you can use to conveniently write out the news headlines and blurt it out the next day. There were no Apps. Because there was no smartphone. Because there was no cellphone at all.
But, there was TV. Which had Doordarshan. Which only had Doordarshan because it was free and Dad wouldn’t pay for the Cable TV. And Doordarshan — my solitary hope — had news every night at 9 PM. So basically, all I had was one shot. Thankfully, I had one more thing — a tape recorder and a blank audio cassette. If you don’t know what an audio cassette is, you can go back to playing Candy fucking Crush — that’s fine.
I was ready at 6 PM for the 9 PM news. The blank cassette had been rolled back using a pencil and placed in its holder, the tape recorder was placed right next to the TV to ensure clear recording, the TV was wiped clean. Okay, I still don’t know why I wiped the TV, but I did. It took bizarrely long to be 9 PM. At 8:55 I had started recording already — didn’t want to miss a thing. God was kind. There was no electricity cut. I didn’t forget to start recording, Dad didn’t get a sneeze attack, Mom didn’t yell in the background and the TV anchors continued to dwell in mediocrity. At 9:30 PM, I stopped recording.
I was too anxious to to have dinner. I took the recorder to our dining table and began playing back the immensely monotonous news recitation — you know, the opposite of what we get today. I stopped at the last part where they summarise the entire news in headlines. I rewinded and listened to the headlines about 15 times. I had on a piece of paper the final product — the five headlines from yesterday. Dad asked me if I had written about our third PM this year and that is when I added another point to make it six headlines to recite the next morning.
Next Morning. That thought was devastating. I was blanking out. Sweating. My tiny heart had sunk so many times I had stopped counting. No kind words from anywhere yet. Did I tell you about my elder sister yet? She said “I don’t know what are you going to do tomorrow”. I didn’t have to wake up the next morning. I dragged myself out of bed, shat my pants again, and readied for school. That piece of paper had never left my hands. Every time I had tried to rehearse, I had gasped for air. I was going to be fucked — and everyone would be watching.
My school choir chose the shortest song possible that day. And news was the first thing everyone wanted to hear — apparently. I walked towards the podium, fighting to stay alive. Desperately hoping that I do not embarrass myself. I took my position and unfolded the piece of paper. And I began reading from the paper. I had a single point agenda — read it clearly enough. The podium had a wooden front, so no one saw my trembling legs. No one except my principal, senior teachers and a bunch of choir students. Was my voice shaking? Was everyone looking at me? Were they able to understand? I don’t know. My focus remain steadfast on ensuring I was clear and of course that I didn’t collapse.
Six long headlines and God only knows how many minutes later, I briefly looked up. To my relief, nothing had changed. No one was laughing. No one was crying. But everyone was looking at me. I stepped back and returned to my queue. Weights were off and I was the lightest boy on earth. I was singing a happy song within. I was so happy, also relieved, that it was all over. I could finally breathe. And smile. And go back to helping my friends with their love affairs. It was not until a while later that I began to wonder how my performance went. Did I manage to save the day?
Two weeks later, Mrs Jyotsana Mukherjee was on her prowl again. Her natural gaze spotted me sitting somewhere at the back. “Asher, you will be delivering the news tomorrow morning”. “Oh, Sure!”, I said, before she left.
Oh wait, you thought this would have something to do with sex. Yeah. Sorry.
