I was sent to preschool when I was about 3 and half, without knowing a word of English. I don’t remember everything clearly, but some moments still stay with me.
That morning, my mom woke me up early, dressed me, and gently forced me to drink milk before sending me off in a school bus that stopped right in front of our apartment building. Everything felt so new and unfamiliar.
As the bus drove through a few turns and a roundabout, I felt sick and ended up throwing up. I was so embarrassed and didn’t know what to do. When I reached school, the teachers asked me something in English—but I couldn’t understand a word. I tried to explain in Malayalam, but they didn’t understand either. I remember they were North Indian teachers.
They were kind, though. They cleaned me up and sprayed a floral scent on me. Preschool hours were short—just four hours—and soon I was back home, telling my mom everything that had happened. That night, I remember her sharing the story with my dad, and together they taught me a few simple English words I would need every day.
I wasn’t even four, but that day stayed with me. It’s been almost 37 years, and I still remember it so clearly.
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