Of all the subjects I hated at boarding school, I hated maths the most. In 1998, maths was taught by Mr Manoharan, a sharp-tongued, short man with skin the colour of night. He threw sticks of chalk at us, hit the boys who scored low marks and talked openly about how little he thought of girls. Every day, I’d hunch over in my seat, eyes down, scribbling random numbers in my notebook as he taught. Nothing he said made sense to me. It wasn’t that I didn’t care; I was too afraid to ask. I didn’t want to be humiliated in front of everyone. I was almost thirteen years old, and I didn’t understand numbers – algebra, fractions, geometrical angles, it didn’t matter. When I looked at numbers on a page, I just saw chaos and confusion. There was no logic to why they were written the way they were. I couldn’t figure out why the answers that came so easily to most of my classmates didn’t come to me. So I kept my shameful secret. I never raised my hand and asked a question because I was terrified that I’d be found out, exposed for being stupid. Whenever Mr...
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