It was March 2, 2007 when I entered my new classroom – 9A.The feeling of taking a step ahead in school was exciting, not only for me but for all my classmates ? at least those that had not failed. As my school, Convent of Jesus and Mary, was only till class 10, I was just one step away from being a part of the senior-most class in the school.

When I was in the middle school classes, I often heard students talk about a word in hushed tones – ?ragging? and sometimes, very rarely, I saw it happening too. But till now I didn?t know what it meant. Was it something that involved hurting, or torturing others?

?

I never wanted someone to rag me, whatever the word meant. At first, I thought that I was in a senior class so I would be a bit safe, but when a girl named Ann – from class 6 – entered our class and asked for me, and my close friend Ziya, we found out that we were being called out by class 10 girls to be ragged.

She further added, ?They are waiting outside the church.?

I was a bit scared and there was only one thing going in mind -?not the very first day of the new session.?

We tarried towards the Church, but every step towards the church made our heart beat faster and faster, till it seemed that it would pop out of our mouths anytime.

We finally saw our Seniors; there were nine of them against the two of us. I thought it was very unfair, but what could we do.

?What are your names?? they asked us, politely enough. We told them.

?Introduce yourself properly.? The words had come louder and harsher this time.

Then it began. One by one a lot of questions were put to us – where is your tie going? Why is your hair parted on the side? Why is the first button of your shirt open? Why are your socks so short? …and many more on the same lines.

We just froze. The thought in our mind was that were we nursery kids to wear knee length socks, have centre-parted hair,and? have the first button of our shirts tucked up. Of course, we did not have the guts to tell all this to our seniors.

At one point I noticed that they were not a bit like they wanted us to be. They, therefore, did not have any right to tell us what to do. Their socks were ankle length and their hair-style was not the same as they demanded from us.

Yet, we silently bore our fate; arguing with them would not have helped us anyways. I was especially confused why the teachers – who were regularly walking past us ? did not take any action. Could they not see the agony on our faces?

Things took a turn for the worse when one of the seniors asked Ziya to unfold all her hair. Ziya?s face told a sad story at that moment – she was almost ready to cry. Then, they took a comb, covered it in dust and dirt, and started combing Ziya?s hair with it. Not stopping at that, they applied a full bottle of oil on her hair.

I felt sorry for Ziya because I am sure she had washed her hair that very morning, for the first day of the session and these seniors were undoing all her hard work, and creating more work for her. I was scared because I didn?t know what evil these unfair and cruel creatures had planned for me. Finally they were done withZiya?s hair. She looked like some strange doll.

Before they could turn towards me for their entertainment, the freezing bell – a bell that rings to mark the beginning of morning assembly – rang. How many times had I cursed that bell? But, that day, no sound could have made me happier.

As we started walking away, Ziya got a parting warning not to unfold her oily and dirty hair. One of the seniors tucked my top shirt button, while another pulled my socks up. Despite her straining and pulling, she could not make them any longer than they were.

After the Assembly, I went back to class. I did not want to tell this experience to anybody, so I sat quietly, immersed in deep thoughts about what had just happened. I thought about killing a couple of seniors, but that, I realised, would not do. I wished that all should be of the same age, and then nobody would be a senior or a junior. I decided that when my time came, I would not do the same to my juniors.

My decision, though, did not last long. A year later I was in class 10 and had a little fun of my own with my juniors. The details of that might make a part of another story some day.

(I now think that ragging is just another stage in life, and one that cannot be neglected. It has been happening, and it will happen ? unless the seniors are very dumb, or the juniors are cleverer. I think Ziya also feels the same way. I can only give one message to all juniors: don?t worry about ragging. For whatever happens to you, YOUR TIME WILL ALSO COME.)

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(The MAG in no way endorses ragging or feels that it is a practice that should continue. This is just a story meant to entertain)