I still recall the time, albeit in patchy frames; my mother-s smiling face as she told me that I had done "well in my interview." As a four-year-old, who the hell knew what that meant except that it resulted in me heading home with a slab of Cadbury milk chocolate. In those days, and thank goodness for that, children didn-t need to head to school as 12 and 15-month-old babies. We entered school at kindergarten, yes, we turned out fine.

At my first ever connection with the June 13 factor, I remember a feeling of dread. Immense dread. As I realised I had to let go of my mother-s hand by the school gates, a nun in a habit waited to usher us bachchas inside the -fortress-. She was a gentle soul, and tried her best to calm me down. The tears and wailing were in full flow by now. The headband that was meant to keep my curls in check had failed miserably, and my stubborn locks had now fallen on my eyes. A shabby mess. That first day of school was this mix of blurry images, and plenty of squealing. Yes, from all corners of the classroom. Mrs Lobo, my KG class teacher was a jovial woman with a booming voice. Her motherly avatar soon made her quite the darling, and the fear and trepidation that I had carried in the initial months of my first year in school, had diminished.