My father ventures off to the bustling city to pursue his studies, which is basically a fancy way of saying he’s about to forget how to do undry.

  Every evening, we gather around the telephone to chat—this ancient device feels like it belongs in a museum.

  It connects us to the outside world, serving as our lifeline, and honestly, it's the only thing keeping me from turning into a hermit with dirt under my nails and a questionable retionship with the local wildlife.

  As I sit in the fields pnting seeds in the rich, dark soil, I often wonder what life is like outside our Silverwood Vilge.

  The wind swirls around me, whispering sweet nothings about all the cool things I’m missing—like pizza delivery and air conditioning.

  Because let’s face it, there’s only so much beauty of nature I can take when I’m constantly dodging cow dung.

  It’s like an intense game of hopscotch, but the only square is a pile of poop!

  In my otherwise charming family life, ughter fills the air like the smell of fresh bread—if that bread is mixed with a hint of “Oh, no! Is that a cow pie?”

  Despite the giggles and shared meals, a storm cloud seems to hover above, threatening to rain on my carefree little parade.

  That’s when my great-grandfather decides it’s time for me to go to school, which honestly sounds like a punishment for something I didn’t even do!

  In our vilge, there’s one government school and one private school, and my great-grandfather sets his sights on the private school.

  Why?

  Because “intimidating teacher” and “only one teacher” sound like the perfect setup for a horror movie.

  Imagine this: there are no csses until third grade, so basically, we are all preparing for an academic version of waiting for a bus that never arrives.

  I find myself sitting in this dimly lit room, trying to blend into my chair as my great-grandfather sits quietly in the corner, looking like a wise wizard who’s run out of spells.

  The teacher—who appears to moonlight as a nightclub bouncer—looms over a group of five-year-olds, brandishing a stick like he’s about to summon the forces of darkness.

  The kids stare at him in sheer horror, as if they just saw a ghost—or maybe just awful math problems.

  He teaches them the multiplication table of 12.

  Who thinks of these things?

  I can barely count to ten, while here I am witnessing the educational equivalent of an amusement park ride—up one moment, terrorized the next.

  The teacher and his wife transform old haveli-style houses into a school, giving it the vibe of Hogwarts but without magic or a decent snack bar.

  Each cssroom has its own personality, like “The Desk That Screams” or “The Chair of Awkward Silence.”

  Finally, the teacher arrives, and it feels like we are waiting for a celebrity’s entrance.

  He steps in with a smile that says either, “Welcome,” or “I hope you’ve done your homework.”

  He turns to my great-grandfather and asks with exaggerated respect, “What is the purpose of your visit, Dada Ji?”

  Honestly, I consider pulling a disappearing act and pretending I’m just a potato!

  Stay tuned for all the test updates on this story—don’t miss out! Follow me for more shenanigans, insights, and the occasional cow dung dodgeball update!