Witch in the Museum

Chapter 2

Bhatia Sir announced, “We are going to the art museum tomorrow.”
(He’s the best teacher, comes with the good news only)

The next morning, I woke up early all by myself.
(It’s a lucky day for Mom. No snooze button drama today.)

I couldn’t wait to get to school. Not just because we were going somewhere, because I’d finally get to ride the school bus.
(Everything’s fine as long as we’re outside the school boundary.)

At school:

Manju Teacher clapped her hands and said, “Children, make a queue and keep a finger on your lips.”
(Why am I supposed to control my excitement? And more importantly—how?)

I couldn’t hold it in. I started giggling.

Manju Madam turned to me, and said loudly. “Lolo, why can’t you stand quietly in the queue like everyone else?”
(She almost threatened me, but I guess, I have a short memory, and I went back to hopping.)

She sighed deeply, ignoring me like I was invisible, and turned to the rest of the class. “Alright, everyone, take your seats on the bus quietly.”

(She herself cannot keep her own voice down for more than two minutes when she’s gossiping with her friends.)

Madam said, “Lolo, you sit next to me.”
I nodded… and started picking my nose.

She made a disgusting face. “Bad manners! Haven’t your parents taught you anything?”

I replied calmly, “But, mice in my nose are troubling me. What to do?”

Madam made a face. “Go and sit at the back!”
(As you wish, my lord.)

Sitting by the window felt like magic.
No one could see me, but I could see everything—trees, shops, stray dogs, even a man trying to race our bus on a scooter.
Everything was rushing past in a blur.
It felt strange… but nice.

Finally, we arrived at the Art Museum.
It was a beautiful, big building with a front wall made of colourful stones. Bright paintings danced across the side walls.
I already loved it.

Inside, the reception and corridor were full of paintings by famous artists.

Some of them were… unusual.
Lines here, dots there—wait… what is this? Is this even a painting? I could totally do that with my left hand.

But then I noticed a few very serious-looking people staring at it like it was a treasure map.
They looked focused. Eyes narrowed. Lips tight. Almost like the painting was going to answer life’s biggest question any moment.

I was confused. I glanced at Sonia, my friend.
She leaned in and whispered, “This is called abstract painting.”

I asked Sonia, “First a difficult painting, now a difficult word. What does abstract even mean?”

She replied wisely, “It means things that can’t be explained. You can imagine anything by looking at the painting—it’s all up to you.”

I frowned. “I still don’t understand… but anyway.”

Sonia pointed discreetly, “Look at those people. They’re trying really hard to find some deep meaning in it.”

I nodded. “Yes, so they can brag later that they understand everything—life…art…sophistication. They probably believe they can read the mind of the artist.”

Sonia giggled and whispered, “I feel the painter must’ve just spilled colours by mistake and called it abstract.”

I said, “Tapas Sir, our painting teacher, says there is no such thing like mistake in a painting.”

We kept walking—or maybe being gently pushed forward by the crowd.

In the next hall, I saw sculptures made of wood and clay. Some were beautiful… and some were just strange. A few looked half-finished, like the artist had suddenly remembered they left the gas on at home.

Sonia said, “Looks like the artist got tired halfway and just gave up.”

I looked at her, smiled smugly and said, “Abstract.”

She grinned. “Now you got it.”

My favourite section was the watercolour gallery.
It felt like colours had been thrown into the ocean and turned into magic.

When I grow up… I will become a painter.
(Me and my wildly fluctuating ambitions.)

Finally, we reached a big, empty room.
The walls were painted like a jungle—trees, animals, birds flying across the sky.

But the best part?
No furniture. Just a clean, shiny floor and all the space in the world to run around.
The teachers made us sit down on the floor.
(I liked that.)

(Insert picture of the museum and the painted jungle wall)

The museum staff had planned a live story performance in that big empty hall.
First, a beautiful princess appeared—dressed in a shiny gown, a little crown on her head, singing and giggling.
(Just like me.)

Then came the wicked stepmother, who—out of jealousy—left the princess alone in the deep, dark jungle.
(Big deal. Even my grandmother can do that.)

The poor princess sat under a tree and cried, not knowing where to go.
Suddenly, a witch entered the scene—long nose, black cloak, terrible teeth.
(My granny looks exactly like her.)

And that’s when all the children, including me, screamed.
We ran everywhere—left, right, round and round.
With no furniture, we tried to hide behind each other’s backsides.
(Now I was seriously missing the furniture.)

The chaos was wild. One boy dove under a teacher’s saree by mistake.
Someone stepped on my foot. I screamed again—for different reasons.

Finally, the witch took off her fake teeth.
Oh. She was a sweet-looking lady underneath.

My god. Innocent children like me can be scared by anything.
Even Manju Madam’s regular makeup.
What to say about this?

The teachers settled all the children, and the story continued.
The jungle animals distracted the witch and saved the princess.
The princess followed the singing birds to a beautiful place, where she met a prince—her true love.

The world thinks girls are fools, and let me tell you… we are.
All the boys sat there, unaffected by the story. They’re never told to look for true love. They just focus on their careers.

Well, I enjoyed the story. They gave us sweets and sandwiches, and that completed my happy day.

On the way back in the bus, Manju Madam said,
“Children, we might reach the school before time. Shall we take up the English dictation? I will give a word and you spell it. What do you think?”
(I think either you die or I should… that would be much better… you)

Renu shouted from her seat,
“Yes madam, that will be great.”
(Is she out of her mind?)

Some over-enthusiastic children joined in.
(How rude.)

Then, many of my stupid classmates shouted from their seats,
“Yes teacher, we are eager to have dictation!”
(Fakers. I would never do that—to please a teacher or anyone.)

Shalini said,
“Madam, let us do it !”
(I am shocked.)

I felt left out. What would madam think about me?
Should I also pretend that I’m happy about it?
I remember last year when I did that — and madam actually started the dictation in the bus, trying to make it sound like a game.
(A very bad game.)

No… no. I don’t want to end this happy day tragically.

Now the tension was eating me.
What if we do reach school before time?
How do I escape the dictation?

Only God is my saviour now.
I was holding my breath and praying hard that we’d be late.
(I don’t even mind a bus accident.)

Luckily, we got stuck in traffic.
(Definitely a better idea.)

I was relieved, but seeing the teachers and children still being overconfident left me feeling strangely sad(under-confidence)

The moment we entered the school, the bell rang, school was over.
(That was the best part of the day.)

Now, all those students who were earlier so excited about the test were jumping in joy.
(Hypocrites.)

The next day at school
Tapas sir, our drawing teacher, asked us to draw and paint something we liked.

Everyone got busy sketching mountains, rivers, the sun, and villages.
But I just sat there, thinking…

Suddenly, I remembered the princess in the forest—sitting all alone, looking sad, wondering where to go.

I sketched her on the paper.
I liked how it came out—the expression on the princess’s face had something… something real.

But now came the challenge: painting it with watercolours.

The trees, the log, the forest, the birds—I managed to paint all of it somehow.
But when it came to the princess’s face, I froze.

I was too afraid to touch it with colour.
What if I ruined her expression?

I went up to Tapas Sir with my painting and handed it over.

He looked at it and said, “Very good. Now finish it by colouring her face.”

I hesitated. “Sir, it’ll ruin everything. I can’t do it.”

He smiled and said, “Don’t worry about getting everything perfect. Just do it.”

(It’s easy for him to say.)

I carefully dipped the tip of my brush in water, then into the colour, and began painting—very, very delicately.

As expected, it turned into something else.
The expression on my princess’s face… it was gone. I felt disappointed.

But Tapas Sir looked at it and said, “Don’t you see it? It’s different now—but in a good way.”

(That means I’m good at dancing, singing, and painting now.)

He held up my painting high for everyone to see.
“Look at how Lolo has used the colours,” he said to the whole class.
“And the expression of the girl—isn’t it amazing?”

No subject teacher had ever done that for me before.
(I love my school.)Everyone congratulated me. A few jealous classmates were whispering among themselves.
(Now I like it even more.)

I was sitting at my desk, happily soaking in all the attention, when suddenly—Renu walked toward me.

She usually never talks to me. She’s one of those studious types.

She came close and said,
“If you think this is some kind of achievement, let me tell you—it’s nothing. The teachers and principal only care about students who do well academically. Singing, dancing, sports, painting… these are just extra-curricular activities. They don’t mean anything without good grades.” (Bitter… but true.)

The moment changed. My smile disappeared. I suddenly felt… small.
Everyone was looking at me.

Say something. Anything. Don’t just sit there with a dumb look.
(Yes, I am dumb, but I don’t have to look like one.)

I said, hesitantly, “You’re just jealous.”

Renu made a face and walked away, back to her seat.

What? That’s it? No fight? No argument?
Now I felt embarrassed. (She should feel bad. But why I am feeling it.)

Renu is an influencer. The rest of the day she kept ignoring me and turned everyone against me. How did she do that and I can’t do anything about it.

Suddenly I started feeling guilty. I should have not said that to her. It would have been better if I simply be quiet. (looking stupid is far better than feeling miserable).

Anyway, I kept my head high, I am the hard one to break at least I can pretend that. (Misconception)

READ CHAPTER 1