Short Story: The Distance We Were Taught

Nalin Verma shares a poignant story of childhood companions who are separated as their innocence is gradually policed by social codes of caste, gender, and propriety.

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Lakshman watched the doli, palanquin, carrying Urmila till it crossed the dense groves and disappeared beyond the horizons of Madanpur.

The women, numb-eyed, guided sulking Urmila—wrapped in yellow sari embellished with tiny twinkling silver stars and a pink shawl, ghunghat veiling her face—in the doli. The kahars, carriers, lifted it and moved rhythmically through the zigzag path furrowing through the green wheat and yellow mustard fields.

He was neither sad nor ebullient. Stoic and expressionless, Lakshman was just a part of the motley assemblage which bade farewell to Urmila for Sasural that would be her new home for the rest of her life. Four carriers—two each with sticks bedecked with small copper bells—had lifted the wooden enclosure before the sun peeped out from the haze of mist. Her mother wailed, aunts sulked, and male elders were sullen faced.

“Let us go home, son. I have to cook a meal, and you have to feed the cattle before you eat and leave for school,” Lakshman’s mother said in a sad tone. The fourteen-year-old suffered from a complex dilemma—if he chatted and laughed with Urmila, equal in age, he was judged for his morality. His father scolded him wildly when a villager whispered in his (father’s) ears how Urmila and Lakshman stole secrecy to gossip.

Till not so long ago, Lakshman and Urmila frolicked freely in the pond, played marbles, and jumped and rolled in on the heap of paddy hays and the debris of fallen houses.

Born in the gap of a few months in the same year, Urmila and Lakshman were neighbours. Their houses had similar structure and look—mud-walled and clay-tiled—but were located in opposite corners. There was another house in between. A narrow and circuitous lane flanked by mango, guava, bamboo, oleander trees and brambles and castor oil shrubs connected these houses.

Urmila’s house had a small space in its front. Lakshman’s sprawling front yard had a gooseberry tree with dense foliage in the middle and marigold flowers circled with loosely entwined curtains of bamboo and maize stems; leaves, vines, and creepers of pumpkins and gourds covering them in a corner. Squirrels hurried up and down the gooseberry tree, and butterflies in black, red, yellow, and violet flew round the creepers. Mynahs, sparrows, and crows would descend to peck in the grains and seeds scattered on the floor.

Urmila’s and Lakshman’s parents exchanged gooseberries, gourds, and pumpkins, guavas and mangos among themselves. They had an ox each which they paired to plough their fields alternatively. They were good neighbours and lived in an amicable relationship.

Their mothers walked together to perform Chhath puja in Kartik, October–November, and Kali Puja in Sawan, July–August, on the village’s northern and southern outskirts respectively. The relics of Chhath Maiya were built on the pond’s edge. An ancient neem tree canopied the mounds of Kali Mai on an intersection of farm plots.

Their mothers were best friends. They visited each other and gossiped; the babies in laps. “She is growing faster than the guava plant at our door. Her clothes get short every week,” Urmila’s mother would say. Lakshman’s quipped, “His father gets irritated when I ask for new clothes. The naughty boy has disturbed our budget.” But in a few months the children grew to break free and play on their own, freeing their mothers to chat their hearts out.

Lakshman was ever restless. He fidgeted with the kitchen wares, broke the clay pots, and uprooted the marigold plants. He strayed into the bramble bushes, pricking his legs and hands. He would shove sticks into beehives, infuriating the honeybees to sting his face and arms. His mother ground neem leaves to plaster his wounds.

Urmila had a knack to hurt herself and cry. She would burn her hands by touching the kitchen fire or oil lamp. She would poke fingers into the holes of black ants. Wounded, she would cry till Lakshman came running and played an old leather ball—chipped and dinted—with her. They would giggle, quarrel, and roll in the dust together.

At the age of five, Lakshman and Urmila began going to school, close to their homes. Master ji—the lone teacher in a soiled dhoti and kurta—sat in a wooden chair, its legs twisted, under a huge peepal tree that served as school; its green round leaves clattering all the time. Lakshman and Urmila sat side by side among others in the row of beginners. The students babbled the stanzas of the prayer song recited by the teacher. They drew lines with clay splinters on the floor by clearing the berries and leaves. They chanted the letters and numbers in sing-song style.

They progressed in their skill and drew images of cows and birds with chalk on the wooden slate. The village woodsmith fashioned the slates. The shopkeeper supplied chalks—round, triangular, and rectangular of varied sizes—that could fit in the grip of the children’s thumb and fingers.

Urmila drew sharp pictures of birds and animals, and Lakshman copied her. Lakshman shooed water snakes, leeches, and frogs from the ditches and puddles on the way and escorted her, holding her hands. They played goli, marbles, on the streets. Lakshman always won against Urmila by flicking marbles from his thumb and fingers. She cried till he returned the tiny balls and extracted the promise to let him copy from her slate. Peace was restored.

They played gilli-danda. Lakshman fashioned gilli, an egg-shaped wood with sharp edges at two ends, and danda, a two-foot-long and chiseled bamboo reed. When Lakshman flicked the gilli, Urmila caught it, and when Urmila flicked it, Lakshman did it. They swam and splashed water in the pond and returned wet to get scolded by their parents.

*-*-*

Master ji had trouble with the girls growing in limbs, muscles, and size and still mingling with the boys. With a round protruding stomach, the grumpy teacher posed as if he was never a child. He loathed the boys who played with the girls.

With the growth of bones and muscles, most of the girls would drop out of the school when they reached fourth class. The peasants—largely illiterate—respected Master ji’s ways and readily withdrew their daughters from the school in class three or four.

Urmila was the only girl student in class five now. Urmila and Lakshman were born to upper-caste parents, which gave them a slight advantage over lower-caste children. Their parents had basic knowledge of letters and numbers and could somehow read and write. Urmila’s parents wanted that their daughter should, at least, complete her education in the village primary school. But they, too, respected Master ji’s manners of ‘disciplining’ his pupils.

Urmila’s biggest ‘sin’ was soft muscles growing on her chest, arms, and thighs when she was in class five. Lakshman too had his bones and muscles firming up. Still, Urmila and Lakshman chatted and played together as freely as in the past, irking the pot-bellied teacher. He detested Urmila more than the boys.

Master ji wore a trident-shaped tikka of vermillion and sandalwood paste on his forehead that was a symbol of his morality. He came walking on his feet from a neighboring village, ten wheat, paddy, ragi, and millet fields and four orchards of Mahula, Peepal, Babul, Neem, and Banyan away from Madanpur. He carried a folded black umbrella that he doubled as a stick to keep the stray dogs and reptiles at bay.

One day, walking back home, he stopped at Lakshman’s father, inspecting his field, and greeted him. “Salam Master ji,” the middle-aged farmer said, asking about his welfare. “I’m good. God has blessed your farmland with good wheat crops. Your Mahua tree is also full of flowers this season.” The teacher spoke softly, sensing a chance to poison the farmer’s mind against Lakshman and Urmila.

He inched close to the farmer and whispered in his ears, “Your son is good. But he lacks focus in studies because of his indulgence with Urmila. Her parents should pay attention.” “What should we do?” “Keep him away from Urmila, he will improve,” the teacher, with a grave look on his face, said and walked out, umbrella on his shoulders.

The teacher’s words had filled the farmer’s mind with doubts about his son.

Gripped by anxiety, he walked to his door, summoning his wife in a corner, and whispered, “Your excessive love has spoiled Lakshman. He is losing character in the company of Urmila. God knows when will he become sensible.” He referred to his encounter with Master ji to convince his wife.

Meanwhile, Lakshman emerged, gilli-danda in hands, strolling playfully near the marigold blossoms. “Look at him! The wayward boy. He needs heavy caning to regain his senses,” the father shouted on seeing his son. Frightened, the boy hurried into the house.

“Oh! Don’t get agitated. I understand the situation now; I will speak to Urmila and set things right. Worry not,” the woman said, calming her man.

She entered home and, pulling Lakshman in her arms, said softly, “My son! You are a good boy. You are growing; don’t play with girls. Focus on your studies.”

“Amma! Why did Babu ji scold me? What’s my wrongdoing?”

“Don’t think of his anger too much. He was in a foul mood. He has worked hard all his life to build our home and dignity. Try to support him in his work,” she said, patting his head, but without mentioning Urmila or the teacher.

It was befitting for the elderly upper-caste women to visit one another’s homes and resolve their issues among themselves. Next day, when their children were out in school, Lakshman’s mother walked to Urmila’s, who warmly welcomed her. The two women confabulated in hushed tones for half an hour. Urmila’s mother stepped out to whisper into the ears of her husband feeding cattle at the door, and returned to Urmila. Now, Urmila’s and Lakshman’s fathers met the teacher privately and confabulated. After all, it was a matter of honour of the two upper-caste families.

They jointly worked out a plan to separate Urmila and Lakshman without letting them know, in the manner of saanp bhi mar jaye aur lathi bhi na tute—a clever solution where the problem is resolved but the tools used remain safe. In consensus, they decided that Urmila and Lakshman would go to school alternatively. From now on, Urmila would wear the garments ‘suitable’ for her age.

Next morning, Urmila was made to wear a full-sleeve shirt, a pair of pajamas that covered her from waist to ankles, and a red shawl across the small protrusions on her chest. “You are so adorable; don’t soil your clothes by jumping and rolling with boys,” her mother said, sending her off to school.

Urmila was excited for her new clothes. Lakshman was absent today. But it made no difference; Urmila chirped and flaunted her dress before her friends. “Chhuti,” the children shouted in chorus and ran like a flock of birds breaking free from a hunter’s cage.

She stumbled upon a long snake slithering out from the maize bushes as she hit a puddle near a neem tree behind Lakshman’s house. She shut her eyes and screamed, “Lakshmaaan… Lakshmaaan.” Soon Lakshman appeared, and she caught him in her arms tightly. In a fit of fright, she fell down in the puddle holding Lakshman, who, too, lost balance. “Oh! Don’t fear. It was a water snake,” he mumbled, lifting her by holding her hands and escorted her to her door.

But her mother, instead of consoling her, pulled her hair and screamed, “You have dirtied the new clothes. Money doesn’t grow on trees. Despite our poverty, your father bought the clothes for you. But you don’t have shame in your eyes.” Urmila was shocked. Her father was grave-faced.

Lakshman’s father screamed and thrashed Lakshman with a bamboo stick, perhaps, for the first time. His mother intervened but warned, “Learn to behave… You are growing up.”

Now, the two children were not seeing each other. Lakshman had vaguely figured out that his parents didn’t like his proximity with Urmila. Urmila attended the school, but was demure. After almost a year, Urmila and Lakshman got together to write the final examination of class five—the last class of the school. But Urmila was made to sit in a separate corner alone, whereas Lakshman wrote his, sitting in the row of boys. They exchanged fleeting glances but avoided meeting each other.

Lakshman was admitted to a high school at Bariganj in Uttar Pradesh, two miles away from Madanpur in Bihar. Lakshman walked on foot, crossing four groves of Mahua, Peepal, Mango, and Babul trees and several ploughed fields to reach his school. But it offered him a deliverance with new teachers and new friends.

Madanpur and Bariganj were similar in terms of dialects, soil, crops, and lores. But the setting was different—he emerged as a ringleader of his lot. He grew taller. He was robust and agile. His friends loved him for hitting the mangoes with his slingshot with precision, and teachers praised him for his diligence. He excelled in playing football and kabaddi.

Urmila mostly lived under four walls. She helped her mother in the kitchen. She had two aunts and their families having separate kitchens in the same house. She talked to them and her two younger nieces and sometimes stepped out to pluck spinach and mustard leaves for vegetables near her house.

Years after, Lakshman and Urmila crossed their path at the ghat of the pond for Chhath puja. The women, men, boys, and girls had gathered for the festival. Urmila had grown charming—deep expressive eyes, radiant skin, and dark shining hair snaking down to her waist. They exchanged glances and shared a few words. But they noticed disapproval in their parents’ eyes. Lakshman overheard a man and a woman whispering about them.

It was the last time when he watched Urmila covered in bridal attire when the kahars lifted her in the doli and carried her to her sasural.

Time rolled by. Lakshman cleared his matriculation examination in first division, learnt typing and stenography, and became a clerk at Tata Motors in Bokaro. His father married him off to Sushila—a girl from a respectable family of Bariganj. Before his marriage, he hadn’t seen Sushila, for his high school had no girl students. On his marriage, he took Sushila to his workplace; he had been allotted a modest house in the TELCO colony of the industrial township.

*-*-*

“Papa! Get up and have your coffee,” Urvashi shouted, stroking her fists in the blanket covering her father and thumping her feet on the floor. “Oh! I will have it,” Lakshman said, pulling his head from the shroud and covered it again. “You are too lazy. It’s 8 am. I will pour water on you if you don’t wake up right now,” she screamed, shaking his head. Lakshman sat up meekly and looked at her lovingly.

His wife Sushila had died delivering Urvashi twenty-four years ago. Lakshman’s world had shattered. But he lived to raise Urvashi. Changing her nappies, feeding her, carrying her on his shoulders when she cried, singing lores of moon and stars, and sleeping and waking with her—Lakshman did it all.

On Sushila’s death, his parents came and asked him to marry again. They offered to raise Urvashi. But Lakshman refused and dedicated his life to Urvashi. His colleagues, bosses, and colony dwellers were all supportive of the kind-hearted and compassionate father.

Urvashi, a brilliant student, graduated from the Government Engineering College, Bokaro, and was now an executive with Tata Motors. She was allotted a decent accommodation, befitting her status, and shifted into it from the modest one that her father had.

Now, she was a boss in her office and super boss of her father. Lakshman, who had never imposed his will on his daughter, happily allowed her to dominate him. She had deployed servants to take care of household chores but herself monitored what and when her father was eating, sleeping, and walking.

She loved Krishna, her college friend who, too, had become an engineer with the Railways and lived in the Railway colony five miles away. But he visited Urvashi every Saturday and Sunday and talked with her for hours. Lakshman loved Krishna—a smart and handsome boy—but never interfered in their affairs.

On a Sunday evening, Krishna knocked at the door. Lakshman opened it to receive Krishna and stepped out to stroll in the verandah. After a while, he overheard Krishna and Urvashi quarrelling loudly. Soon, Krishna stepped out, boarded his car, and drove off.

Lakshman went to the dining table and called Urvashi for dinner. He didn’t say anything, but Urvashi read the anxiety on her father’s face; she couldn’t see him sad.

“Papa! Krishna repeatedly proposed to marry me and I, too, had no problem. He lives with his mother, who is very possessive about him. He wants me to live with them after our marriage. I want him to bring his mother to us and live with us. I can’t leave you. That’s why I finally said no to him.”

Lakshman was an old man and had weathered many storms in life. He said softly, “My daughter! I wish to pay a courtesy call to Krishna’s mother if you and Krishna have no problem?”

“But why, Papa? Why should you….”

“My daughter! Please, call Krishna. I will speak to him.”

Urvashi dialled Krishna and passed on the phone to her father. “Son! I wish to meet your mother if you have no problem.”

Within half an hour, Krishna came back driving, touched Lakshman’s feet, and requested him to get into the vehicle. Urvashi accompanied her father in the rear seat, with Krishna driving the car to his house—a decent Railways bungalow.
His mother was waiting in the drawing room.

“Urmila! You! Are you Krishna’s mother?”

She was equally surprised, “Lakshman! You….”

“Do you know each other?” a surprised Urvashi asked. Krishna, too, was stunned. Soon, Krishna and Urvashi stepped out, letting their parents talk among themselves.

Urmila had her hair grey, eyes sunk, but looked dignified in a simple sari on her frail frame. Her husband, a mechanic in the Railways, had died following the fall of a boulder on his head when Krishna was barely two years old. Tragedy befell her. Her in-laws abandoned her after her husband’s death. But the Railways offered her the job of a maid on compassionate grounds, with which she lived in the Railways colony and raised Krishna.

Over an hour passed. Krishna and Urvashi didn’t hear from their parents. They entered the house together.

“My lovely daughter, my life…,” Urmila said, embracing Urvashi and kissing her all over.

Lakshman, looking at Krishna, said, “My son, my everything….”

Author Bio

Nalin Verma is an Indian journalist, folklorist, and author whose work is deeply rooted in rural life and lived experience. His short stories have been published by Kitaab and other literary platforms. His books, Sacred Unions and Other Stories – Tales from Purvanchal(Om Books, 2026), Lores of Love and Saint Gorakhnath (Penguin India, 2025), and Greatest Folk Tales of Bihar (Rupa, 2019) explore faith, folklore, and cultural memory in north India.