I had been taught by Catholic nuns who were well known for the strict discipline they enforced on the girls in their charge, from behaviour to speech to handwriting. There was a nun—we will call her Sister St Francis—who seemed to have developed a deep aversion to one of the girls in my class, an Indian girl named Brebowathi, regularly singling her out for the sternest disciplinary measures.

I suspect it was because Brebowathi who lived in a rubber plantation with her parents and numerous siblings, used to be late in paying her school fees: once the nun made her stand for hours in the sun for this remissness. But it was probably because Brebowathi was such a plain-looking child, with bad skin and teeth, compared to, for instance, a dainty girl named Lian Choo whose father was the manager of the town’s only cinema, and who always came to class with neat clothes and a handkerchief in her pocket.

But Brebowathi had a superior feature—her hair. Worn in two long tight plaits that hung stiffly down her back, it made no claim to any distinction. But one day, when Sister St Francis was expected to be still on medical leave, Brebowathi came to school with her hair in a riot of ringlets, tied with blue ribbons, cascading down her back and shoulders. Suddenly, for the first time, we took notice of her, and gazed at the newfound glory, while she stood simpering, actually looking pretty in the sheer pleasure of being admired.

Then somebody whispered, ‘Sister St Francis!’ True enough, the nun was seen getting out of the black Ford that brought her and her fellow nuns to the school every morning from their convent residence in a nearby town. Instantly, Brebowathi went into a frenzy of self rescue. She pulled off all the ribbons and straightened the ringlets. Then she tied them into the two usual, inoffensive plaits hanging down her back. By the time, we assembled for morning prayers led by Sister, Brebowathi’s one moment of glory and pride was over.

I remember I had helped Brebowathi in the frantic task of the hair-dismantling. I also remember thinking, though I could not have expressed it in those words then, how easy it is to rob another of her one pride and joy.

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About Vignettes...

A continuing flow of little, readable pieces that will constitute what I feel is an important 'legacy of values' to leave behind. Read more about Vignettes...