The power of the brass bell
The brass bell in our school spelt power. Its ring meant the end of classes, liberation from the confines of the classroom and boredom of lessons, to breathe free again, to play on the school grounds, to chatter uncontrolled and go home. The bell, shined to glitter, sat on a brass plate, equally regal on an ebony peg stool with a red velvet top just outside our Mother Superior’s chamber. There was something ceremonial about it. Owing to the proximity of their classroom to the bell, the girls of Class 9 were privileged to ring it at the appointed hour as long as everybody could remember. They considered it their divine right, their prerogative, bestowed on them with special grace. The ringing of the bell was a rite, a moment of power, of authority exercised over the whole school by a single girl who would do justice to the job with fervour and gusto. Schedules were drawn up meticulously and there was a fierce adherence to duty.
The bell changed hands every week. When it was my turn, I rang the bell with all my strength, thin and scrawny as I was, and announced the dissolution of classes with much satisfaction. One of those days, I was asked by the class teacher to bring a box of chalk from the office downstairs, minutes before the time for ringing the bell. I ran down at top speed, got the box of chalk and realised I would be late for the bell. With daredevilry, I decided to take the shorter route by running up the marble staircase which was the exclusive territory of the nuns and teachers and was declared out of bounds for us lesser mortals who took the iron staircase to the classrooms. Halfway through, I stopped in my tracks, petrified at seeing the Mother Superior coming down the stairs in all her majesty. She looked at me and asked: ‘And what, may I know, are you doing on this staircase?’ I had no excuse simply because no excuse would be acceptable. It was a serious transgression.
Before I could recover, she said, sensing my confusion, ‘You may proceed.’ I sprinted up, thanking her with all my heart, and nearly banged into the girl standing there with the bell in hand. I grabbed the bell as she asked me, ‘Didn’t you see Mother going down?’ I nodded breathlessly. Then she asked, ‘How did you survive?’ Survive I did and lived to tell the tale.
Years have rolled by and those girls of Class 9 are scattered all over. Some did extremely well, some just got by and others did not do so well, but during that glorious year, they all made their first ‘power point’ as they rang the bell with pride and zest.
