The Class Reunion

THE CLASS REUNION

By

Roy Mathews

The foyer of the super-specialty clinic was unusually crowded. Being a private establishment, it catered mostly to wealthy patients who paid high premiums for their health insurance. Dr. Sanjay Singh, a renowned oncologist, was in New Zealand as part of an event organized by a Christian youth charity group, consulting with cancer patients. For Dr. Singh, this was more than just a professional visit—it was a homecoming. After all, he had been raised and educated in New Zealand.

The reception staff were overwhelmed by the influx of patients, struggling to manage the growing numbers. Wiremu and his wife, Roimata, were among the fortunate few who managed to secure a seat in the front row and obtain a ticket to see the doctor before the lunch break. They had traveled all the way from South Auckland, desperate for hope after other doctors at the hospital where Wiremu had been receiving treatment declared his condition incurable. Despite multiple surgeries, chemotherapy, radiation, and every available treatment, the tumor in his parotid salivary gland continued to spread.

Roimata stood beside her husband, gently wiping away the saliva dripping from his mouth. The tumor had compromised his ability to swallow, leaving him unable to manage the saliva his gland continued to produce.

Roimata married Wiremu at nineteen, two years after she had completed her schooling with disappointing results. Her grades had been insufficient for admission to any tertiary institution. Instead, she found work as a checkout operator in a warehouse. Her family had once high hopes for her future and had envisioned her going to university, but those dreams were shattered when they discovered she was pregnant at seventeen, just before her final exams. Under immense pressure from both families, Wiremu, her boyfriend, and the father of her child, married her.

Wiremu had once been an exceptional rugby player. As the star of their school’s first XV rugby team, he was the most valuable player, and his coaches were convinced that an overseas rugby club would snap him up before he even finished secondary school. They predicted he'd be paid handsomely and live a life of luxury. But those dreams never materialized. Wiremu had plenty of admirers and was a popular teenager, especially among the girls. Even younger girls, barely thirteen or fourteen, fantasized about him being their boyfriend. But his popularity, rugby career, and aspirations for university—all that glamour—took a sudden nosedive and never resurfaced.

"Wiremu Hohepa," the nurse called his name.

"You’ll be next," she informed them.

Roimata immediately pulled out some tissues and wiped the dribble from the corner of Wiremu’s mouth. She saw the previous patient leaving the doctor’s consultation room. She tossed the used tissues in the trash and motioned for Wiremu to be ready as he stared up at the TV screen mounted high on the wall.

The nurse guided them down a narrow corridor, its walls decorated with beautifully framed paintings made by children. She opened the door to the consultation room, which had been specially set up for the visiting team from the UK. Inside, Wiremu noticed three doctors. One was Indian, easily recognizable by his attire, while the other two were of European descent.

"Wiremu, how can we help you today? I hope the wait wasn’t too long," said the Indian doctor.

"I’m Dr. Sanjay Singh, an oncologist," he introduced himself.

"I’ve been studying your case, and I have a full report on your condition right here," he added.

"So, you’re from South Auckland? That’s where I lived and went to school," Dr. Singh remarked.

Wiremu nodded, then glanced at Roimata. She pulled a tissue from her handbag and gently wiped the saliva from the corners of his mouth and chin.

"Wiremu Hohepa... Wiremu Hohepa..." Dr. Sanjay repeated the name several times as if it sparked a memory.

*****************************************************

It was Sanjay's first day at a secondary school in New Zealand, the start of a new school year in a new country. Like any other thirteen-year-old, he was excited about attending a new school. His overly eager parents had dropped him off early so they could open their dairy shop on time. He stood outside the school hall, hoping to make a few friends. One by one, the students arrived, all bigger than him, and none shared his ethnicity. A few girls glanced at him and giggled. He was well aware that he stood out, wearing a turban—a symbol of his Sikh faith and culture.

As the number of students grew, none approached him, greeted him, or showed any interest in getting to know him. Suddenly, a big boy walked by with two of his friends, all of them staring at Sanjay as if they were seeing an alien for the first time. 

One of the boys called out to the larger boy, "Wiremu, look! We’ve got a kudu here!"

The three of them glanced at his turban and pulled funny faces to mock him.

The bell rang, and the headteacher, along with other staff members, directed all the new students into the hall.

For Sanjay, school quickly became the hardest part of his routine, but he had no choice but to endure it. His parents made several complaints to the headteacher about the constant verbal and physical bullying their son was experiencing, stressing that Sanjay was always the target. The headteacher promised to do everything in his power to stop the bullying. In response, the school conducted a week-long anti-bullying program. As usual, the program featured a guest speaker, a fun sports day, and activities where students made posters and banners with anti-bullying messages.

On the final day of the week, each class presented their posters and banners at the assembly, and a few students performed a musical number, complete with loud drums and guitars. No one could quite make out what they were singing. Sanjay knew that such programs, while well-intentioned, wouldn’t penetrate the thick, clay-like brains of his classmates.

Sanjay often avoided going to school because he couldn’t stand how some of his classmates treated him. They never invited him to join their games during lunch breaks or wanted to sit with him in class. Group work and discussions were a nightmare, as none of his classmates ever included him. He found solace in staying home and studying on his own, which felt far more rewarding than enduring ridicule at school. His classmates would regularly steal from his school bag—pens, pencils, rulers, and even his lunch. On many occasions, he had to borrow pens from kind teachers, whom he believed liked him because of his strong work ethic and high test scores.

Wiremu, the big boy who mocked him on his first day, was in Sanjay’s class during his second year. Wiremu was an athlete who played rugby and other sports for the school, which made him a favorite among some teachers, especially in the Physical Education department. Sanjay saw him as the most racist person in the entire school. He thought to himself, After all, everyone in this world is racist, at least in its mildest form. Skin color and religious beliefs divide people. But in a school where most students were either M?ori or of Polynesian descent, he didn’t expect to face such harsh treatment. He was wrong.

It’s all because of my dark skin, turban, and English accent. It’s so hard to change any of these attributes kindly gifted by God, Sanjay lamented to himself almost daily. In desperation, he asked his mom one day,

“Why can’t I cut my hair and get rid of this turban? Why can’t I dress like a normal kid, Mom?”

“No, my son,” she replied. “This is our great tradition. Wealth and status mean nothing if we lose our language, tradition, and culture.”

“I’ve been hearing that for so long, but, Mom, I’m the one who is suffering because of these stupid traditions!” Sanjay groaned.

“No, son, don’t rebuke our culture. It’s part of our religion, and God will never forgive such thoughts,” she said firmly.

“What God? You mean the God who watches people mock me and bully me every day? He must be a sadist who enjoys His creation’s suffering,” Sanjay shot back.

It was a rainy day, dark and gloomy outside. During the lunch break, most students took shelter in their classrooms or the school library. As usual, Sanjay decided to stay in his classroom, reading the book they were studying for English. A few girls were in the room, chatting, taking selfies, and munching on their lunch. Suddenly, the door flung open, and Wiremu, along with three other boys, barged in.

"Hey, guys, what’s that smell in here?" Wiremu said.

"It’s curry, man!" one of his friends called out.

"I wonder where this smell is coming from," another boy added.

"Let’s investigate the source of this rotten curry smell," Wiremu ordered.

They approached Sanjay, and his heart pounded in his chest as if testing its limits.

"Where’s your curry pot?" one boy asked with a smirk.

"It’s on his head," another boy suggested.

"Yeah, that’s right! Can’t you see the bulge?" chimed in the third boy.

Wiremu walked over and lifted Sanjay’s turban, exposing his long hair. Sanjay broke down in tears, something he never imagined would happen to him in a country like New Zealand—a country that prided itself on being welcoming and secular.

The girls sitting nearby came to Sanjay’s rescue.

"Leave him alone!" one girl shouted. Sanjay looked up—it was Roimata, the girl who always greeted him with a smile every morning. The other girls also stood up and moved toward him. 

Wiremu and his friends, realizing they had no support from the girls, made the wise choice and quickly left the room, pretending nothing had happened. Outside, the heavy rain had fogged up the classroom windows, and the heat inside made the room feel like a steam engine at full power. 

Sanjay didn’t plan to report the incident to his tutor or anyone in charge. By then, he knew exactly what would happen if he did. It would make no difference at all. The harshest punishment the school could impose would be a three-day suspension. After that brief exile, students like Wiremu would return as heroes, like war veterans who fought for their country and were unjustly imprisoned. For them, it was a stepping stone to earning even more admiration from their peers.

“Sanjay,” Roimata called. He adjusted his turban and looked at her.

“Sanjay, you need to report this to the dean,” she insisted.

"I’ll go with you. You can’t let him humiliate you and your culture like that," she added.

“You could even complain to the police,” another girl chimed in.

The school board eventually gave Wiremu and his three friends a more severe punishment: a ten-day suspension and a season-long ban from playing rugby. The biggest blow for them wasn’t missing lessons or assignments—it was losing rugby.

Sanjay knew he had wounded a herd of wild elephants. Hurt them, and they’ll go away, but they never forget the pain. One day, they find you, use their tusks and trunks to toss you into the air and crush you. Sanjay anticipated an aftershock, a big one, to come before the end of the year.

He never told his parents about any of these incidents. That would be like pouring oil on an already burning fire. He didn’t want to add to their burden, knowing they were struggling to keep their small business afloat while being weighed down by a large bank loan. Every night, his parents came home exhausted. His mother would ask him the same questions, and Sanjay would give the same answers.

“How was your day at school, Sanjay?”

“Good, Mum.”

“Do you have any homework, son?”

“Yes, Mum.”

“How was your math test?”

“Good, Mum.”

Then she would fall asleep. His mom never knew that he was just describing the cool ash that covers the red-hot lava that has been quirting out from that volcano ever since he enrolled in this school. To him, the volcano was still active. Some days it remained quiet, but most days it erupted with fury, spewing hot lava everywhere.

Time didn’t wait for anyone. Five scorching summers and five freezing winters passed by like performers taking their turns on stage. For the students in Sanjay’s final year, those five years flew by like a missile launched from a navy vessel. But for Sanjay, they crawled by, like a slow drive into Auckland City on a Monday morning.

During lunch breaks, Wiremu and Roimata met secretly in hallways where no other students passed by. Sanjay didn’t want Roimata to keep hanging out with Wiremu. Though he never expressed his feelings, he silently hoped she would find some sort of spiritual guidance to end her growing bond with Wiremu.

The last day of school was an exciting one for everyone, but for Sanjay, it was a great relief. He had been dreaming of this day for the past five years. He hadn’t seen Roimata for a while, and she had missed the mock exams as well. There was gossip circulating among the students about her relationship with Wiremu. Even the spirits of ancestors couldn’t help when living souls were determined to pursue destructive paths. After all, once spirits depart from this world, they reach a blissful state where our prayers and cries are like a child throwing stones at a distant star—they never reach, and those spirits are so captivated by their bliss that the grievances of mortal men go unheard.

Sanjay won top prizes at the awards ceremony in all his classes, as everyone had expected. He could visualize his proud parents in the audience—a lifetime achievement for a newly immigrated family—which made him emotional. Roimata was awarded the top prize for music. The academic dean called her name, and everyone looked around to see the winner, but she was nowhere to be found. Wiremu received the award for best rugby player of the year, a much bigger trophy than what Sanjay had earned for his academic achievements.

Then came the announcement of the most prestigious award, the one everyone had been anxiously awaiting: the DUX. All eyes were on Sanjay, but to everyone’s astonishment, the principal called out a different name: Moana Harris, the head prefect and the most popular girl in school. Amid a sea of applause and camera flashes, Moana stepped forward to receive the top accolade. After all, Sanjay thought to himself, DUX is the brand name of a plastic company that makes toilet seats. He comforted himself with this thought.

Before the decision was made about who would receive the DUX prize, teachers and senior staff had debated it fiercely. Most teachers were in favor of giving the award to Sanjay.

"Why don’t you look at his grades?" Sanjay’s tutor raised his voice.

"Yes, exactly!" several teachers agreed.

"I know, but you have to consider that Moana Harris is the most valuable student," one of the deputy principals argued. "She’s everywhere—helping out in different ways, not just sitting and studying to get good grades."

"But this is the top academic prize we’re talking about, for goodness’ sake!" his biology teacher protested.

"She’s M?ori, and she’s very presentable," the deputy principal added.

"So that’s the issue here!" lamented a teacher of Indian origin.

Racism lurks in all of us. Packaging matters. A great product in poor packaging is often overlooked.

Sanjay wasn’t surprised in the least. His focus was now on passing his scholarship exams, which would take place in two weeks. He walked out of the hall before the award ceremony concluded. As he left, he saw Wiremu. The seeds of hatred Wiremu had planted years ago had now grown into a fully matured tree. Sanjay could see that hatred in Wiremu’s eyes.

Wiremu spat at him. A large blob of saliva landed on Sanjay’s face, dripping down his cheek and into his trophy, followed by the ugliest racial slur Sanjay had ever heard.

*****************************************************

"Dr. Sanjay! What’s your prognosis?" one of the doctors asked, waking him from his thoughts.

"So you’re Wiremu and Roimata," Dr. Sanjay said, standing up.

"Do you remember this face? I’m that Sanjay, your classmate," he said.

Roimata dropped her handbag and rushed to Dr. Sanjay, hugging him tightly—a hard and warm hug that lasted for minutes. Two wet patches on the shoulder of Dr. Sanjay’s overcoat grew wider. As she held him, Dr. Sanjay looked back. Wiremu was searching for a tissue to wipe the saliva that was still dripping from his mouth.