My digital image.
When I was small, I went to a school where our uniform was checked vigorously. It happens to be one of the oldest vernacular language schools in sub continent. My father rode on his British made bicycle for my admission interview in the first grade. Although, the forceful headmaster Mr G.N. Butt already knew my father.
Honestly, I still do not know my admission was on merit or it was due to acquaintances with my father.
Roughly, I daily travel about 10 miles both ways back to home. Those clear days were refined years where fathers’ positions and status was irrelevant for teachers.
Accepting beating, or call it punishment, that was a matter of virtue training we faced when late in the morning or when improperly dressed. Punishment was in the form and shape of getting slashes of fat bamboo stick on our palms. This ‘Weapon’ was kept oiled neatly above a large cupboard placed in one corner of headmaster’s office.
Not me, many of my school mates virtually peed in the pants. As a matter of confession, my rate of facing this traditional ordeal was about 7 % in a year. By gauging the travel distance of my home to school, perhaps, this track record is bearable.