The kid

He followed me constantly. In his white sneakers. The kid was unshakeable. He had endless questions.

- The writer is a US-based international development adviser and had worked with the World Bank. He can be reached at [e-mail]

Why did I read the stupid books—my university texts—I was immersed in? Why should I eat the horrid vegetables our mother served for dinner? Why would I spend so much time with some dullards, my classmates, so many evenings?

No use explaining to him that one has to wolf textbooks to pass exams, whether one likes them or not. Or that our beloved mother serves us vegetables, though he finds them distasteful, because they are supposedly good for us. As for my classmates, they don't have to be scintillating conversationalists to be my friends. The irony was that the dullards found the kid to be pleasant and interesting. They thought he was fun.

He got away well with our parents' many visitors who invariably found him bright and charming, though he had only the snidest remarks about them later. How he survived in his school was a marvel, for he seemed to pay scarce attention to his school texts. He read storybooks galore and had the most bizarre comments about the legendary characters, whether it was Gulliver or Robinson Crusoe.

He was simply trouble. Everything troubled him, everything needed improvement, he said. I thought we lived in a charming colonial-era apartment, spacious, open and bright. He told me the terrace should have been wider and the windows were poorly spaced. He had scant interest in sports, but made witty, sardonic remarks about our soccer games.