"Go to bed, Obing" his mother would say whenever she saw him keeping late hours. "Go to bed. Keep rest of homework for tomorrow.” But it was always when the rooster crow when Obing would finally retires to bed.
And his mother, who thought him to be keeping late hours to do his homework, felt sorry for him. She blamed the teacher for overburdening a student with so much homework. At the same time, she was proud of him and she would spare no time to announce before her friends and the women of the neighbourhood that her son, Obing, was very punctual and she need not tell him to study.
Three days before the annual examination, Obing finished his writing. He collected some colour sketch pens and wrote on the covering page ‘My Twelfth Birthday’.
Now all his worries had gone. Since ten months from now, he has been a worried boy. He was worried because it occurred to him that he might die any time: the earthquakes may rock, the volcanoes may erupt, or bullets from some wicked man may stain him. He knew what would happen if he die now: he would lay in front of his parents, friends and dear ones with his eyes, ears and mouth still with him yet unable to see so tragic a scene; unable to hear his mothers lamenting cry and unable to say a word to console her “Mama cry no more I can't bear seeing you crying.” Then, later on, he would be buried under the earth as if a useless waste. His dreams, his plans which he wanted to carry out and put before the world would be buried along with him. And in few days, he would be forgotten. So he felt urgently that he should do something so that his name lives long after he is dead.
“Write autobiography" his inner voice had told him. “Write autobiography as Mahatma Gandhi and Jawaharlal Nehru did.”
He read some passages from his autobiography and smiled. He felt like going all through it. But he had no time; he had lot to study in a very short time- only three days were left for the examination. He hid his so called autobiography in the cupboard. Then he pulled out a book from his school bag and sat down to the study table to prepare for his exam.
After a month.
Obing went to school to collect his progress report card. When he was about to enter the class, he heard someone uttering his name. He turned around and saw his class teacher, Madam Das and two women, talking. One of them was Aunt Kanya, who was a good friend of his mother. They did not notice him. Aunt Kanya was saying, "what about Obing's result? I think he stood first this year also."
"No,” said the teacher. "I'm also wondering what has happened to him. Earlier he was very good - good at studies, every thing. But this year he neither attended his class well nor did his homework. Well he is passed with very poor marks.”
"But his mother told me,” said Aunt Kanya. "She told me he was working very hard - he had even stopped watching TV - he would just sit quietly reading and writing." Madam Das shrugged her shoulder and said nothing.
"Some parents are like that," said the another women. "They just love to praise their child for nothing. As for Mrs. Fatho, I know her. She always talks about her son endlessly that he does this and that and so on."
Obing went red to hear such comments on his mother whose only fault was that she loved him so dearly. He did not enter the class but turned back and made his way straight to home. He took out his autobiography, tore it into pieces and threw into the dustbin. Now he decided to study hard, become something important, and let some biographers to write his biography.