I used to be a very naughty kid, a spoilt one. I was numero-uno in both deeds and misdeeds. Hardly a day passed by when I would not be entertained by the sticks rather than the carrots. There were teachers, who vehemently, projected themselves to be the ‘Clean-Indian-Woman’. Always in saris and bindis, they used to boast around about Indian culture and Indian (ness). And these were the same ones about whom we would, out of blue, get the BREAKING NEWS of their ‘wed-lock’, that too to a teacher who stayed in the same school hostel accommodation provided by the school authority, where the lady teacher used to stay !

And I guess we were just too little young ones in class IX and X, to have understood about the ‘source’ of this companionship. A school too far away from the main town on the outskirts, located 500-600 meters away from the main road (national highway), surrounded by paddy fields on all the four sides. The icing on the cake were the shady trees all around .The compound, mostly inaccessible and invisible after dark. All these ingredients provided the ideal blend for a perfect romance to build up. And who the hell needs a bed and a room to fulfill the sexual gratification, if one has the plush green grass carpet and the open sky? And the bonus in the form of cool breeze all around because miles and miles on either side of the compound had only paddy fields and not even a single soul to bother you in your expedition to explore the lusty avenues!

And here was a lady from Punjab, married to some engineer and settled here in my town. She was dark, slim, had a well tuned waist, long legs, well groomed long hair, perfect beauty parlor toned eyebrows, thick eye lashes, and above all the dazzling ,starry, misty, almond shaped wide and broad eyes . The lips she had would give all those Madonna’s, Lopez(s),Mariah Carays, Sonali Bendres, Madhu Sapres…run for their money and could even give a guy high of his life time ! She had one thing in her which no other lady teacher in our school had , and it was her I-don’t-give-a-damn-to-you attitude in the looks , in her words, in her actions and above all, in her dress.

And coming to talk of dresses , I will never forget the record breaking initial 14 days of her in the school, when she came to the school full of sari clad teachers , in a breathe taking body hugging dresses, exposing her well tuned figure to the envy of the rest of the lady teachers. Till the time she had happened to us, we were bored of seeing sari-clad ‘mams’ (whom we were supposed to address as ‘DIDI’, according to the school rules. And till date I haven’t been able to figure out the rational behind this.). It was only occasional exposure of the midriff, an accidental fall of the Sari pallu owing to the sudden breeze that used to be so rampant because of the open space all around, the consequential throbbing out of the cleavage, were the LITTLE THINGS that we used to get to see and remain contended.

And here was Miss Black Rose (I had nick named her).

Sexy, suave, sleek, poised, affluent, seductive, knowledgeable, intelligent, very human, and above all, not a hypocrite. She knew since her complexion was dark, she was supposed to wear those dresses which could get her noticed in the crowd. And I guess there was nothing wrong in it. And why should there be anything wrong in it? She had the perfect figure – the one which might give Tom cruise to rethink about Nicole Kidman. Honestly speaking I used to adore her. Not because she was beautiful and sexy, but because she was very different from the rest. One could very well figure her out in a crowd of females. Always better than the rest. She was the only one in my life time (still) who used to pronounce my name exactly the way it should be. Punishment to me was like a routine or rather a sine-qua-non sort of thing. Come to think of it. The day I wouldn’t get punished, I would fell very much suffocated, as if I ‘m missing something most essential to survive. Something like air.

She never punished me .Never. She used to teach us chemistry and botany. Chemistry was fine with me. But the latter somehow didn’t give me enough impetus to care more for the subject. Miss Black Rose, used to give me a very fishy smile, call me by my name and then in her polite enriched continental English accent say “ I know you are naughty. You get a lot of the canning and rest of the teachers fume at the sight of you. I think you already get so much from the rest that I don’t find any reason to give you more. But I know you are intelligent as well. And I know if you work hard you can be there –at the TOP. And I know, one day you will make it to the top. Next time study hard and answer my questions. Ok? No need to get so scared, so tensed or frightened. So what if you weren’t able to answer this time? There is always a next time you know.”

These words still remain my most memorable ones. Not because it was spoken by Miss Black Rose in continental accent. Not because the words were so soothing. Not because she didn’t beat me up. But, only because she was the one who knew how to be kind and human.

This little gesture of her was enough motivation for me. So I decided, I would take up tuitions with her at her house. Unlike rest of the Indian-culture-rich sari-clad lady teachers , who were so mad after money that they hardly had enough time to teach their own children, because they were too tied down with coaching classes in their make shift coaching centers at the home , Miss Black Rose wasn’t greedy at all. When I approached her for the tuition, initially she was hesitant. And she was very honest to give the reason of her denial to take tuitions at home. She replied with honesty “I want some time for me and my family. “

But seeing my enthusiasm and zeal, she agreed. And it was only when I reached her residence, did I realise why she had been denying for the tuition’s.Because she knew how to live a life completely. Because she knew how to enjoy the small things in life. Because she knew how to relish each moment of life to the fullest. Because she knew she had an adorable husband back home and she wanted to spend time with him, the way she preferred.

With the knock on the door, came out Miss Black Rose. In a transparent knee-length sleeveless nighty! She had an amazing sense of colors and which matched variant moods. It was a light sky blue nighty with the perfectly done embroidery in it. She had worn a dark, perhaps a black panty and no bras at all! Her hairs were wet. Her henna colored hairs were so soft. And no, I didn’t touch it. One can guess it if he only knows how to ! With the long spread out hairs stretching out to the naval at the front, and the wetty ones at that, she was looking more gorgeous than ever before. Without those customary lipsticks, her lips were now looking more juicy, seductive, sexy and appealing than with those May Be Line lipsticks. If there was any trace of make up, well, she just had a bindi and the lines drawn with an eye liner on her eye lashes . That picture of her on that drizzling Saturday evening, still remains to be one of the sexiest women that I have ever encountered in my life.

She opened the door. Greeted all four of us. Asked us to come in and have our sit. I think we were at the wrong place at the wrong time. This was what I had thought the moment I entered the room and could smell a very puffy smell and was getting curious to deduce the source of the smell, until I saw the two glasses of whisky on the floor beside the mattress. It had two pillows on it. And the bed sheet looked too clumsy just the way it looks when we wake up early in the morning from the bed . More shockingly, I noticed a pack of condoms and two used ones with the fluid scattered all around. She excused herself ,picked both the glasses of half left over whisky, mattress , the pack of unused condoms and went inside .When she come out after few minutes , she was in her usual body hugging salwar.

Well, those days , I guess I was too young to understand what is called a personal life. Now looking back at this incident, I feel so much to like Miss. Black Rose ,so much to respect her, so much to learn from her how to be my-self, so much to know from her ….about nothing else—But how she managed to be so cool during the whole ordeal. In normal circumstances, any female would have preferred to do just the reverse of what she did. Yet, here she was. The one who had no qualms, no brooding, no hypocrisies instituted in her veins. Just plain stance of being thyself. Living her life on her own terms. It was her house. It was her husband with whom she was having sex. It was their money with which they had bought the whisky. It was their knowledge how to have safe sex using the condoms. It was their good time they were rejoicing, without bothering anyone and without breaking any of the rules of the god damn SOCIETY ! And the million-dollar-question is, while doing so , why the hell should they fell ashamed and of whom ?

I have never seen any female wearing high heel shoes the way she did ( I was told it is called pencil heel ) And, as if that wasn’t enough, I didn’t see any bold teacher like her who refused to wear sari and come to school only because the culture police of the school didn’t approve it. Another reason could be the school authorities didn’t like her as an odd-man-out in the horde of sari clad female teachers.

I didn’t see in my twelve years of schooling in that school, a teacher who refused to fold hands for the prayer, because, I believe she had her own way to be close to god. Moreover, none of the spiritual or the mythological epics, make it compulsory to fold hands to show respect to god. What it needs is the sincerity with which one prays. And she had that sincerity in abundance. Its only that, the authorities quite didn’t like someone breaking and defying their conventional rules. I had many a times found her, closing her eyes during prayers, but folding her hands?…..Never. She was the only teacher whom I saw spending her idle time in the library reading books after books ,whereas the rest of the Indian-Culture-Rich sari clad bunch of teachers preferred idle gossiping ( some even brought their knitting gears and the accessories , and were very often found busy idle gossiping and sewing the sweater for their hubby and kids! ).

Looking retrospectively, I often wonder , how she managed to gather the courage to be different .