I hated school. On my first day of kindergarten in Calcutta, India, my mother was late picking me up. I stood on the steps with my bag and water bottle, convinced that it was all an elaborate ploy to abandon me.
Amitava, my new classmate, tall, with sticking-out ears, stood next to me, similarly abandoned. Biting our lips, we stood silently, bound by our common misery. By the time our mothers arrived, we'd become friends. When my father had heart problems, Amitava spent the night at the hospital with me. When I left for America, he drove me to the airport. I flew back to India for his wedding.
It was in school that I learned that some lessons can last a lifetime.
Father Bouche taught me that. A pink-faced Jesuit priest from Luxembourg, he was the prefect at my missionary school. He was the terror of generations - both fathers and sons had gotten a taste of his cane. He would be fired in America. He caned. He smoked. He even blew secondhand smoke on the boys. But he taught me to write, to tell stories simply. We spent hours hanging out in his room, rummaging through his books, begging to see the bullet wound in his knee - a memento of World War II.
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