Standing up to a bully

BULLIES come in all shapes and sizes. Some are countries, some are organisations and some are people. There is always a bully that one encounters at some time, in some place. They pop out of unexpected corners and may be the most unexpected of persons. The classroom bully is perhaps the first we encounter as we grow up. Then, it may be the boss — or even a belligerent employee. Often, it is someone who, with the stroke of a pen and malice in his heart, can turn a day or a lifetime around. Not long back, I encountered someone who mistakenly decided that one was a subordinate and ought to be pushed around. That matter was sorted. One came away with a big grin, and with dignity intact.

One now realises that each bully has to be handled differently. An early lesson came from my younger sister who at the time of this incident was around nine years old. She would come back from school in a local bus designated for the purpose. En route, the bus picked up boys from another school. As she and her schoolmates boarded the bus first, they would have a choice of seats. My sister would take the one next to the front door, as then she could heft the heavy school bag with lesser trouble. The seat behind her was taken by boys who got in later. Now, one of the boys sitting behind this little girl decided that her hair, tied in neat pigtails, should be pulled. When she would get out, that boy would rush to take her seat that was near the door. This must have gone on for a couple of days, and then my sister, the apple of the family’s eye, spoke to me. ‘Big brother’ was required to be at the bus stop to put an end to this daily torture of hair being pulled.

It was the height of the monsoon season; in the pouring rain, I waited at the bus stop with an umbrella and a raincoat. I was accompanied by a back-up team of a couple of friends, also armed with umbrellas and raincoats. The bus arrived and stopped. My sister stepped out and thrust her bag into my hands and rushed back into the bus. With a smooth movement, she pulled out the bullying boy who had rushed to take her seat. The bus door slammed and off it went. In the downpour, getting drenched, stood the hair-pulling boy whose stop was still some distance away.

My sister took one look at him and then grabbed my hand, and said, ‘Let’s go home.’

A couple of days later, all she said was, ‘Now, no one pulls my hair.’