The Humber and the Half-Smile
The enigmatic high school student:
Back in the day, when the hallways echoed with the shrieks of teenagers, there was a larger-than-life character named Rohan. Among the many Rohans in Grade 10, he stood out as Rohan Upali, with a heart as big as his stature. We often wondered if he had a royal lineage, as he treated everyone with familial affection, calling us all ‘brother ‘. His friends, a few years older than me, were his trusted companions, his inner circle.
Rohan’s gang was a tight-knit group, including the class monitors Jayantha and Shirley and other towering figures Chandra, Raja, and Ruan. With their long pants, they were the epitome of the school’s social hierarchy, but Rohan, with his enigmatic smile, seemed to know something we didn’t, a secret that bound them together.
Despite his mysterious vibe, Rohan was like a big brother to everyone. Even the rookies like me felt we were part of his crew. He wasn’t a bully like some of the other big dudes. Instead, he did his own thing, chatting us up and being a silent protector, always there if you needed a hand. He never drew attention to himself. But he never said much, a few short words here and there. He’d share his notes at the end of a class, wrestle with the toughest math problems alongside us, or vanish with his giant pals, leaving the rest of us scratching our heads.
Get this: rumour had it that Rohan cruised in a Humber, a classic car straight out of a time machine. Only the rich kids were supposed to have wheels like that. His dad was prominent in the shipping business, but Rohan never spilled the beans about it. They say he drove that monster himself, even though he wasn’t much older than us. Occasionally, out of mischief, he moved it to the girls’ convent next door. Of course, he wouldn’t be caught dead rolling up in that thing to our boys’ school. So, he’d orchestrate this hilarious routine where he’d ditch the car a block away and have his chauffeur hop in the driver’s seat, switching places with him before it rolled up to the school. Then Rohan would stroll in, cool as a cucumber, in the passenger seat, acting like he didn’t know a carburettor from a candlestick. We all knew better, but he played the part well.
Sometimes, I’d be at the office paying my dues to Dawson, the school’s paymaster, when I’d see Rohan’s chauffeur park the beast — the Humber — right under the main building’s fancy overhang. Out would walk Rohan, looking squeaky clean in his white shirt and pants, strolling by like an innocent kid who wouldn’t know how to drive a tricycle, let alone a car with fins. Then he’d make his way through the halls, greeting everyone with his signature half-smile, a smile that spoke volumes without saying a word. He would then be caught up with his long white, pant-wearing pals, waiting for him while we looked on with curious eyes, trying to make sense of it all.
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