Maa' m a Mia

To us all she was the ubiquitous Mrs. Chatterjee. Buxom and with a face more like Moon Sen. In my 12 years in CBS she never wore anything but the slingy sleeveles blouse.

Her physique was more like what the crowd in Chennai roots for but in Class VII she was our elixir. Even at 35 she was as coy as a newly married.

There she was getting up again with her frail son who studied in Class II. This H.B. Sarkar's bus which used to ferry us to and from school was already full. Only the seat next to me was empty (it had to be otherwise how would the story be born).

I offered the window seat. The archetypal Bengali mother allowed her archetypal Bengali son to seat while she hung on beside me.

I was still in the learning phase about the birds and bees. But very often I could hear the hum from inside but could never understand it. It was those exploratory times when you start stretching at some stages. And then one day you realise that there is also an explosion after the hum. Slowly you also discover the conditions of such explosions.

But it was early days for me. And this was 1987.

This bus'seat was a little bit higher than usual. It made my small feet dangle and made the whole thing unmanly. But today with Mrs. Chatterjee's armpit above my eyes and her pouting tummy well within sniffing distance I could hear the humming sound again.

Up and down, right and left. Keshtoda was at his tumbling best. Each time he would press hard she would press against me. And each time she looked at me coyly.

Jiyo Keshtoda. But why are u driving so fast. The 40 minutes whizzed past and I was only left with the smell. It was only a year later when I discovered the cause of the hum.

Atleast Mrs. Chatterjee was coy all through.