Part - 1 "Saturday"

Hot water kept flowing slowly and lethargically to the potbellied cup. The coffee vending machine at our school cafeteria had always been this slow. Waiting for water to reach a level sufficient enough to blow away my morning drowsiness I looked at my watch. It was 9.00 Am, I had a reputation of never being late on my tiring job, but I was glad it was Saturday.

With a hot bustling cup of coffee in my hands I stepped into my office, it was supposed to be brimming with positive energy. Being a child psychologist/counselor I had the repute of cleansing the mind of today’s youth. The school children confused with drugs, pornography, and peer pressure were to talk to me, and I, their savior was to release them from the bondage of our modern education system. My hard earned psychology degree was displayed proudly in a corner of the wall and everyday it used to laugh at me. I had to agree, with a first class degree from a very reputed university this was not the job I had imagined for myself. I took a sip of my coffee and smiled. At least, it was a Saturday.

The alarm at my office table beeped annoyingly to announce my first case study had arrived. To be very honest I had dreaded this confrontation since the moment I was told about it. The kid I had to provide mental assistance with had been declared a lunatic by every teacher in his block. He was a trouble maker and had beaten up three of his classmates with a brick bat, and two of them happened to have a highly influential father in the circumstances.

After an eternity the door finally opened and a guy not older than thirteen years walked straight into my room and my privacy. I had the chance to look at the hooligan for the very first time; he was every bit of what I had imagined, disheveled hair, untidy clothes and a very uneasy appearance. His right hand was covered with what appeared to be a white cloth, every corner of which was scribbled with letters and figures I could not make out. Earphones were blurting loud music to his ears and he smelled like garbage. I signaled him to stop the screeching music and sit down.

He stared directly into my eyes with a defiant look, his eyes complaining of the early morning ordeal I had subjected him to. I glared back, enforcing my superiority and the fact that at the meager pay I received I couldn’t care less for what he thought and what he wanted. However, the basic protocols had to be fulfilled; I had to ask him questions and I had to submit a reply to the school board declaring his rustication. But amidst all this I was happy; at least it was a Saturday.

I glanced at his case file and enquired “So, I see here that you hit three of your classmates with a brick bat, causing two skull fractures while the third was lucky enough just to be bruised and injured, I would like to seek an explanation for your actions, why did you do it? Before you answer you should know that I am here to help, if you don’t provide me with all the necessary details, I will have to recommend your rustication to the school authorities”

“Sir, I did it because I wanted to” he replied. A strange calmness engulfed his face. “No one forced me and I was not tricked. I felt like hitting them with a bat, I did. If I had felt like hitting them with an iron rod, I would have done that too”

‘This was going to be easier than I thought’ I said to myself. I was half way through already; the boy had accepted his wrongdoing and did not want to plead guilty or to ask for a plea of forgiveness. But I still had to go through the rules and a few more questions before I could close the case and declare him guilty.

The questions and the answers followed for another three quarters of an hour. And with each question the boy’s voice had brimmed with arrogance, pride and hate. With nothing much left to enquire, I rounded up on my last question “Did you sustain any physical injury in the course of your actions?”

His face turned pale and he moved his cloth covered right hand under the table, hiding it from my scrutiny and my incessant glare. “What happened to your hand? Why is it covered? Take the cloth off. I need to see your hand”

He looked straight into my eyes again. The arrogance in his eyes had been replaced with a meek surrender, pleading me not to make him do this. I ordered him again and grabbed his hand in a sudden motion placing his outstretched palm on my table. He cried out in pain.

I thought he trembled with fear, but then slowly removed the cloth to show me his palm. I was disgusted to have a look at it. He it seemed was born with six fingers, a common genetic disorder but his sixth finger, or the elongation of his little finger had been chopped off to be replaced by a bitter scar. Blood had clotted all over it and the swell appeared to be a martyr on the barren wasteland of his palm.

My repeated enquires failed and he didn’t confide to me the reason/accident which led to his loss. I had to dismiss him. After 2 hours of intense interrogation I had failed to reach a conclusion. I needed to know how he had lost his finger. His aggressive, annoyed and repulsive behavior reflected disorganized thoughts, not violence. The report on his rustication was due on Monday. I decided to look further into the matter and stormed out of my office. I grabbed my favorite chocolate chip muffin from the school cafeteria and started reading his file once again. And yes! The chocolate chip muffin was the reason I was happy, it was a Saturday, I could get it for free.