Riding a brand new scooty, the stranger pulled up in one corner, comparatively quiet, about a hundred yards away from the main entrance. It remained wide open after the bell had gone for the lunch break. A bunch of curious onlookers watched the outsider scan the south front and the playing field, now boisterous, chaotic, confusing and disorienting like when a team wins a match.

At first glance, the gender of the stranger, wrapped in sky-blue windcheater, a pair of Ruffle Hem trousers and a helmet with a plastic safety visor, was not conspicuous but as the person started taking a few steady steps, the female form was unmistakable.

She intercepted a boy lagging behind his mates and enquired something of him. “There you go,” he almost shouted, his finger pointing at the physics teacher Abhik Sarkar and rushed after his pals breathlessly.

Abhik babu was talking to someone on his mobile on the outer part of the building and basking in the warm winter sunshine, his right leg on the trunk of a palm tree. As she walked on in that direction without removing the helmet or without fixing her gaze on anything or anybody, she stamped on the legs of a sleeping dog sparking moans and groans. Unfazed by the cur barking awfully at her, she moved forward with confident steps, as if she’d got what she wanted.

Abhik babu’s glance fell on the stranger wending her way across the ground towards him and when she was face to face with him, he abruptly terminated the conversation saying, “More in the evening, OK?”; He disconnected the line and turned an inquiring eye on her. A slight frown creased his brow as she stopped before him.

She saw before him a tall, bespectacled man in his early 50s, with a beaky nose and thick lips, which gave him a very harsh look. She chanced upon his photograph only recently but learnt that it was taken 22 years ago. 22 years! Long enough to wrinkle his face and whiten his hair. The person whose photograph she was carrying now looked quite different. “It’s natural,” she muttered, “Who can escape the ravages of age?” She unstrapped her helmet, took it off her head and fixed him with a straight no-nonsense look.

Abhik babu glanced sidelong at the girl, about five feet five inches tall, her facial expressions as innocent and angelic as those of a baby and her eyes as dreamy as stars.

Although her complexion was not very bright, it was healthy and glowing.

“You’re Abhik Sarkar?” she asked, “You live in Kirnahar?”

“Yes… But who are you? I don’t know you. Nor have I ever seen you,” he muttered under his breath.

“I’m a woman,” she snapped, looking inscrutable.

“I can see that, what of it?” he raked his fingers through his hair.

“So some women don’t matter to you?” she felt a blind rage of indignation flaring up within.

“It’s not your business to judge that,” he retorted. The young woman’s brusque and abrasive manner made his hackles rise.

“It is. The person who gave birth to you is a woman. The person you first married was a woman. The person you married for the second time is a woman. You didn’t abandon your ma, you’re living happily with your second wife but you ditched your first wife, didn’t you?” Her chest rose and fell with rapid breaths.

“I don’t understand how my personal life should concern or affect you,” he snapped.

“There are many things you don’t understand or never will,” she stared at him with a feline glare, “you will never understand that your second wife is infertile because of the tears shed by the mother of a new-born baby girl. You will never understand that your cousins have remained childless because they provoked you to abandon your first wife and onemonth old daughter. It’s called divine retribution. You will never understand how a young woman, divorced by her husband, could sacrifice all the pleasures of life in the face of temptations of marriage proposals from a good number of guys.” She paused a little to take a breath, to collect herself and then asked, “Do you know why she didn’t want to remarry?”

“How would I know?”

“Yes, yes, it’s impossible for a person like you to know it. Well, she feared she’d not be able to give her daughter the time or attention she needed.”

“Really?” he mocked in sheer disbelief.

“Oh, yes. But she’s only one regret,” she appeared enigmatic.

“What’s that Ms Omniscient?” he tried to make fun of her.

“She forgot to slap you in full public view for your insensitivity and medieval mindset before returning to her parental home permanently. But I’ll do what she couldn’t do.” And before he could duck or spring to his defence in any other way, she landed him a hard slap on the face.

“You deserved it long back,” she panted.

“How dare you slap me publicly? I’m of your father’s age,” he uttered a yelp while rubbing his hand across his cheeks.

“Father! Don’t you dare to utter that sacred word,” she fumed.

“Who the hell are you?” he asked, “Are you . . . please tell me, are you . . .?”

“Bye!”

She put on her headgear again and began to walk back to the spot — as defiantly as before — where she had parked her vehicle. She turned on the ignition key. The vehicle bounced along the main road and soon went out of sight.

“Is she . . .?” he racked his brain, recalled a face from a plethora of images and faces but couldn’t find any resemblance. How could he? The face had almost faded from his mind long ago.

Groups of students were still outside the school premises. After tasting delicacies like dahibara, phuchka, chanachur or mixtures of different ingredients, they were trooping in, painfully aware that the much-relished lunch hour was almost over. Fortunately, they didn’t witness his discomfiture.

The few who witnessed the scene rushed towards him in a body. She left the place like a storm, leaving everyone stunned. Had the person been a man, they would have run after him and overpowered him.

“Sir, what’s the matter?”

“Oh, it’s nothing. Don’t worry,” Abhik babu tried to downplay the attack on him.

“Why did the woman slap you then?”

“A case of mistaken identity.”

“Mistaken identity?”

“Yes, the cheeky girl is daft as a brush. Still, she mistook me for the husband of a relative of hers who has been humiliated by him,” he took a moment to spin the story.

“Why didn’t you return the slap and teach her a lesson?”

“She seemed to be distraught. Moreover, she lost no time to ask forgiveness when she realised her mistake,” he cooked up a plausible explanation.

‘Still, you should have judged whether she was lying or not,” they found it very hard to buy his argument, and thought it was just an attempt at face-saving.

“Well, what can I do? Suppose a daughter of yours made the same mistake; wouldn’t we forget and forgive?”

Just then the school bell rang to Abhik babu’s rescue. He waved the crowd off and went in. He entered a classroom in the last period to teach his scheduled class but instead of being attentive to the lessons delivered, a section of learners whispered to each other and smirked with devious smile. He felt he’d been stripped of all his dignity.

Being slapped by his own daughter was an experience that would haunt him for the rest of his life. For the first time he felt he had got his just deserts.

                                                                              ***

At the beginning, the gathering for the felicitation ceremony was small but soon it turned sizable. The podium of a spacious classroom was beautifully decorated. What was a departmental affair became a matter of celebration for other departments as well. Words spread that a girl student from the department of applied psychology had qualified as an IPS officer while studying in her final year. Soon students from other departments came in their droves to attend the ceremony, which was chaired by no less a dignitary than the vice-chancellor himself.

Once the felicitations were over, Shalini was told to say something on her goal in life. She seemed to be the epitome of feminine elegance with a svelte figure and a confident yet pleasing personality.

“In our country, girl children grow up in a cocoon. They are brainwashed into believing they belong to the weaker sex. Often men who don’t get the women they fancy throw acid on their faces or stab them to death. How many victims get justice? Justice in such cases is often delayed and denied. Most attackers get away with a light punishment. Imagine a situation when the survivor throws acid on her attacker or stabs him to give him a taste of his own weapon. ‘No, no, no, don’t do that. You’re a woman, for heaven’s sake, you can’t do what men do,’ most of our parents would be the first to dissuade us. They are scared that even prisons aren’t safe for women, gang rape being a strong possibility. I think both this mentality and scenario should change. Girls need to be as tough as guys to cope with difficult times. The only way to counter male chauvinism, sexual innuendoes and macho posturing is to take on the offenders head-on. . .

“There’s been much debate about women empowerment. Most women like to be engaged in jobs that do not involve risks. They want to be receptionists, clerks, air hostesses, teachers, engineers et al. Job reservation is a definite step forward towards that goal. Why not reserve 50 per cent jobs in IPS, state police and judicial services to contain incidents of domestic violence? When a couple with a new-born baby is divorced or separated, the wife often brings up the baby. The husband merrily marries another woman thinking that he’s done a great service to the woman by being a sperm donor and helping her to become a mother,” she paused as tears shimmered in her eyes although she had been able to fulfill her mother’s unfulfilled desire.

“My father left my mother for giving birth to a girl child. She didn’t even think of avenging this huge insult to her womanhood and returned to her parental home anticipating harm to her baby. When I was three months old, she had to rejoin her job with a private concern. She would see me twice a week; for the rest of the week I was left in the care of my grandparents, who, despite their age and frail health, took utmost care to give me everything a baby needs. They taught me to bring out the best in me. As a student, I had only one New Year resolution — I’d become an IPS officer and see to it that victims like my mother get justice,” she concluded her speech to a thunderous applause and standing ovation.

The department had arranged a car to drop her home — the vehicle was almost bursting with the boxes of gifts, souvenirs and bouquets she had received. As the driver cranked the engine outside the university gate, Abhik Sarkar appeared from nowhere like a genie.

“CU is my alma mater. I come here often. Today I was walking through the corridor to see a student of mine who teaches mathematics here but stopped in front of the classroom where you were being felicitated. I even listened to your speech. All the best!”

As he waved goodbye to her and melted into the crowd, the car roared to life.

Shalini leaned her head against the cushioned backrest. She felt the real loser was Abhik Sarkar and not her mother.