My home in Madras was my grandfather's. I could say my home is 'open house'. Anyone looking the house from outside can tell how many doors and windows the house have. It is a two floor house with an open passage in between and rooms on the either side. The staircase to the first floor 2 rooms is outside. If my mother was asked to manage the house, she will be having 9 to 10 keys with her. Not the locker keys but the door keys. That is not the case. My grandfather is the 'key man' and he kept the keys near the window which anyone can take. I am not going to tell more on this, my actual story is below.
My story goes back to 4th or 5 th standard. One of the doors in the house lead to 'dinning hall' because it had the dinning table. This is a place where I put all my books around and do my home work. What is that home work. I never understood anything. I was asked to copy whatever is there in the book to my note. Actually, I was writing a new book. My sister is 3 yrs elder to me. I suppose she did the same thing. But her school is strict than mine. She has to do the home work and go. Mine is strict too but do not remember getting caught.
Table is big enough to hold both of our books and notes in that. We spread all our books and it is a mini library. My mother sit next to me to help me write the home work. (actually, it is not helping me as if I am struck somewhere in middle of a problem. She sits next so that I do the home work). She will have an eraser in her hand and if I write wrongly she will rub it and will not tell what is wrong. I write the same thing again and again and she rubs it again and again. I win that game. She will be bored and tell what is wrong.
My handwriting is another trouble. No one understood what I wrote, so do I. It is hard time for the teachers to understand what I wrote. But few did understood that. My social teacher was giving back the social note book we gave for correction. It contained the homework we did two days back. She was shouting that one of the fellow's notes are full of spelling mistake. It was Sheshadri's. She asked him to get up and scolded him for spelling mistakes. She displyed the notebook to everyone in the class and it is full of red ink with spelling corrections. Similar to the proof reading my father do for a book. She threw the note to Sheshadri. Poor guy.
My instinct told me that it is not Sheshadri's notebook at all but mine. I was write. Sheshadri passed the notebook to me. Anyway, he is the poor guy. Got scolding for me. I wondered what was wrong. two days back, I was typically copying the English letters in the book to my notebook. My sister came in and I asked her to dictate so that I can complete fast. She did so. Oh man.. that was the source of problem. What ever part I wrote when she dictated had full spelling mistakes. At that time I decided one thing. Not to ask anyone to dictate for me.
PS: I remembered this event when I was taking bath today. Eureka !!!