The Mystery of My History Book | Why I Never Looked Back at History Again

My History Book’s Mystery: The Context

The sky was cloudy. Muddy water lay all across the street, with craters and potholes filled with filthy drainage water overflowing onto the road. The time was early morning, between 5:00 and 6:00 a.m. Like my daily routine, I was walking—no… actually navigating—the muddy street water, splashing my legs here and there while going to school.

My friend waved his hand, asking me to stop. But I was on my way. Only ten minutes were left before the morning school prayer would start, and I really didn’t want to arrive late again. So, I asked my friend not to wait for me as I tried to limp and safely negotiate the water, with my legs doing most of the work. Needless to say, my shoes were in my hands!

In a few minutes, I reached my school. Voila! The morning prayer was about to start a couple of minutes late. So, I got some time to properly put on my shoes, head to the second floor, put my bag in the classroom, and say good morning to my friends.

Just then, the bell rang. I ran downstairs and joined the queue for the prayer. Most of my friends had also arrived by then.

The prayer was done. I wished good morning to all my teachers, including Ravi Sir (name changed for privacy purposes), who was nothing short of a modern-day filmy villain from a Bollywood movie.

The Strictest History Teacher We Ever Had

Sorry, Sir, for calling you that, but you really terrorized the entire class. Not only did he shout like hell, but he also used to slap us so hard. Luckily, I was spared most of the time until one day I also got slapped, but I am leaving it at that. I will discuss that story some other day.

You could feel the fear among his students. Just look at their eyes when he enters the class. A pin-drop silence all around… only “Good morning, Sir.”

I greeted him every morning with a smile, at which he nodded most days, but sometimes he didn’t. I dared not ask him why.

Ravi Sir happened to be our history teacher. I can still remember that he taught us history in both Class Seven and Class Eight (ICSE Medium). He taught us well, but he also gave us several sleepless nights because of his strictness and surprise class tests.

Now, talking about that particular day… the bell rang. Our history class began. Ravi Sir entered the classroom. A pin-drop silence fell all around. He was about to start with British Rule in India.

If he started a new lesson, students could heave a sigh of relief because that meant he wouldn’t ask questions. But if he started turning back the pages of the history book, you knew something was really not right… and you never knew what he was up to—a surprise class test, asking someone to write questions or answers on the blackboard, or simply quizzing us on dates. He was unpredictable, though a good teacher nonetheless.

As soon as he told us we would learn about British Rule in India, my friends and I made eye contact, feeling much relieved.

And Then I Lost My History Book Forever? Maybe Not

He asked us to take out our history books. Just to give you some context, I was never interested in history during my childhood. First of all, there were too many dates, too many kings and politicians, and too many events. Overall, these things never appealed to me.

But I can’t forget that monsoon. I got a brand-new history book. It cost around Rs. 200 (about $2) at that time… eons ago, you could say around 15 to 20 years back!

I was delighted—not because I had suddenly decided to study history from then on, but because I was simply fascinated by those colorful pictures, the cellophane paper in between, and, of course, those paintings of beautiful women by famous artists like Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, and Sandro Botticelli, which often amused or titillated our teenage testosterone. Well, you can understand how much fascination teenagers have with the opposite gender during those school days.

Now, what happened to my history book will pull the rug out from under your feet.

It was raining heavily. As every student was taking out their history book, I too opened my bag and was about to take mine out. Just then, I noticed it was missing. You can imagine what was going on inside my teenage brain.

First of all, it was a brand-new history book. Those colorful pictures… it was right around the time when my interest in history was beginning to pick up. Leaving everything else aside, Ravi Sir was a master storyteller. When he taught history, it didn’t just enlighten you—it literally took you back to those days, as if you had entered a different reality through a portal, and that portal happened to be a book.

So, I searched my bag carefully once again. Yes, my brand-new history book was missing. It was now confirmed. I formally informed my teacher about it. Even he was puzzled.

How could a history book go missing from inside the classroom? He asked all 32 students to check their bags, including me.

Each of us checked our bags, but no one had mistakenly put my history book inside theirs, as I had initially assumed.

Ravi Sir told me not to worry. He promised that next Monday, every student would contribute Rs. 7 so that I could buy another history book.

Dejected, I skipped lunch. I attended all the other classes with a broken heart, as if my girlfriend had severed all her ties with me. I returned home and had some snacks. Then, in the evening, I studied with a completely distracted mind and went to sleep.

What happened that night?

Later that night, I heard the sound of papers.

I thought it might be a cat playing with the newspapers that I had kept near my study table. But it wasn’t.

I don’t know what it was, but, literally, my brand-new history book was lying right in front of my study table.

No, it wasn’t another history book that my parents had secretly bought and kept there as a surprise.

It was the very same history book. I could clearly see the word “Done” written on Chapters One and Two to mark that I had already read them.

Chapter Three was British Rule in India, which Ravi Sir had just started teaching us that morning. I wondered how the book had landed on my study table when I had searched for it the whole day, both at school and in every corner of my house.

The Book Reflected a Divine Glow. It Was Soothing but Also Scary!

It was shining so brightly that I could clearly see it even under the dim night bulb that was switched on. I sat upright on my bed, wide awake, wondering how this was even possible.

Just then, I saw its pages begin turning automatically, as if someone was literally flipping through them. Before I could shout, the book went silent—but not before stopping at a page that showed a picture of an ancient well. Gathering some courage, I looked closely at the picture. Yes. It was indeed a picture of an ancient well. I couldn’t understand what it meant.

Where Was My History Book?

The next morning was Sunday. I didn’t tell anyone about whatever happened that night, but I also didn’t dare to go near my study table either. I thought it would be better to rest my brain. And then, just to distract my mind and focus on other matters, as I was still shocked by what had happened the previous night, I went out roaming the streets, eventually passing by my school.

My school was very near my home—not even one kilometer away, just walking distance. And then, I literally saw the very same history book, drenched inside an overflowing pothole!

I thought it might not be mine, but that of some other student in my class. But the bold letters of my name, written on top of the book in my own handwriting, left me startled, puzzled, and shocked.

I was crying. How did my book reach here when I had seen it the previous night on my study table? I ran home to check whether it was still on my study table. No. It wasn’t there.

So, was it just a dream? Or had I literally reached a different multiverse that night? Or was it just an illusion?

It was simply too much for me to understand during my teenage years.

My conclusion was that the history book was somehow trying to tell me that it had accidentally slipped out of my bag while I was jumping around that day on my way to school. The page had stopped at the picture of the well because it was trying to indicate that it had fallen deep into a hole somewhere.

And that was exactly what I saw the next Sunday morning. The drenched book was lying inside the pothole when I peeked inside.

So, how does a book come into a dream? Do you think a book is a living being? Perhaps yes, perhaps not. Can a book be supernatural? Can a book really be a portal to another universe?

Even after so many years, I am still trying to find these answers. Anyway, history has moved on from me. Nearly twenty years have passed.

But I Didn’t Move On

We crossed the year 2000 AD, witnessed the coronavirus pandemic, Nipah, wars, and so much more. Yet that memory of a history book reminding me of its fate inside a pothole shook me from deep within.

I have never looked back at history, or even a history book, with the same enthusiasm and interest ever again.

I still feel sorry for that history book. Had I been a little more careful that day, I could have saved it.

Needless to say, I am not interested in history anymore. I don’t know whether it is because I have grown up or because that incident left a deep scar within me that has never really healed.

One mistake. One dream. One reality. One lost book. Even after so many years, I hope one confession is enough.

(Atish Home Chowdhury)