The summer of Toad the third grader
The harsh equator summers always paint my face in a prickly heat rash, the courtesy of which in 3rd grade my classmates decided to name me ‘toad’; in the solitary silence of my mind, I still regard my face to be a vivid sappy green, unevenly toned and after these many years, a bit chipped and rough like an uncared-for acrylic on canvas piece.
That summer, I had gotten into 3 street fights with some rowdy boys, who had 2 summers more than me under their belts and I had come home with scraped knees and rugged elbows; “I tried on Neil’s roller skates Maa”, was my excuse all three times, and the tinge of guilt in my heart was easily overpowered by the burn of yellow sandy soil of the school ground all over my scraps. Some days, when I walk up to our front porch, prim and proper, back from my overpriced cram school, I can still feel the grains of soil colour my knees dusty yellow, few shades lighter than the earthy complexion of my skin, well hidden under my faded jeans.
That summer, I pretended to be a lost soul, staring sordidly at the cloudless horrid blue sky at lunch hour while all my peers scarfed down their food, and scurried out to play tag on the equally horrid blue-floored outdoor basketball court (fear stifled me from inside, it still does sometimes, that blue was enough to swallow me whole). Toads aren’t good at running, their limbs heavy and jumps mediocre; I wished to be a lithe tree frog, a lesser ugly green, more even faced, agile with higher soaring jumps. I still wish to be a lithe tree frog but my limbs only keep getting heavier and my face remains that uncouth sappy green even on cold winter days with no prickly heat rash, even on humid rainy days with no horrid blue in view.
That summer our art teacher had resigned, the substitute mentor told us practice elephants and yachts for our art finals. Elephants came on the paper, yachts didn’t (I wished it had, I would have painted my sail a happy teal). The small square faced boy beside me decided to paint his elephant a darling flat grey, and I decided I didn’t want my elephant to be sap green like me, even if it felt lonely to be the only toad in my class.
“What’s your favourite colour?” I asked the small square faced boy, he looked at me, his brows furrowed and hissed out “Black”. I should have frowned at his brusqueness, had he no exam-mate etiquette? But I just nodded; small square faced boy hadn’t bothered to wait for my nod.
I began, my black oil pastel tracing the borders of the pencil outline, the precision of a young toad was not admirable but nonetheless tolerable. Then I filled out the inside undauntingly, and soon it was a satisfactory glossy black. I saw the small square faced boy peeking at the painting curiously, and handing me his silver spoon, (he must have noticed my lack of it) then he whispered, “You suck at colouring, even it out dumbo”. And without a nod, I scraped out the last bits of the superficial ‘toad-ness’ off my elephant with the small square faced boy’s shiny silver spoon.
Toad the third grader, had made herself a pale black elephant, not a toad but still a plausible companion.
By: Subarnarekha Debnath
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