A whiteboard and some marker pens.

I did not cry when they sent me to a boarding school          
But other kids down there used to          
I did not cry until one day.          
           
When my hostel-warden chose to savor the experience of whipping me. My          
Eleven-year old limbs went rolling with the rest of me on the corridor.          
But in the next five long years, I learnt to deal with that type.          
           
She was allowed to meet me            
Every second and fourth Sunday of the month.          
Two hours in the afternoon. Quite the  missionary  boys' school. Enough time to check the bruises.          
           
And then came the days after that era.Twelfth standard. I lost my logic          
In a pair of almond eyes that I would steal a glimpse of twice a week.
My physics book got infested by lines succumbing to infantile rhythm and my mind smoked with worries          
           
Of falling behind what my friends would become.          
That inflatable goddess of my credulity went on to warm many a male lap. My mother once asked me about her.            
Just the one time.            
           
I tell her at times that I will have seven wives          
One for every day of the week.          
She still screams at my dad and things get mad. Old habits die hard. Maybe I won't go ahead with the plan.          
           
Tomorrow I will fly back to my office.The two hours          
have stretched to two weeks and the month has grown into a year.          
Her tawny wrinkles are holding a slice of fried pomfret not that far from my nostrils. Trying to get me to the dinner table.