Johny’s Appa

(A Memoir from My School Days)

There are some memories that do not age. They remain sharp, like the smell of first rain on dry earth. Johny’s story is one of those memories for me.

Even now, years later, when I pass by our old Government U.P. School in Aluva, I see him, thin and quiet, standing near the doorway with his school bag pressed tightly against his chest.

It was the first week of June. School had just reopened. The monsoon clouds were hanging low, heavy and grey, but the rain had not yet broken.

The noon bell rang,  tan… tan… tan…,  and we rushed out of class in noisy excitement.

But that afternoon, something unusual happened. Instead of running home, we slowed down near the banyan tree outside the gate. Small groups formed. Whispers began to travel.

“Did you hear about the new boy?” Arun asked.

“Which one?”

“Johny… Lissy’s son.”

Everyone in the village knew Lissy Chechi. She was polite, hardworking, and always walking with her head slightly lowered. But adults spoke about her in lowered voices. As children, we did not understand the meaning of their words,  yet we absorbed their tone.

Hari, who was older and enjoyed stirring trouble, leaned against the compound wall and said loudly, “You know Johny doesn’t have an Appa.”

The sentence landed like a stone thrown into still water.

Just then Johny stepped out of the classroom.

He looked small. His uniform was clean but old. His hair was neatly oiled. His eyes were cautious.

Hari walked up to him.

“What’s your name?”

“Johny,” he replied softly.

“Johny what?”

He hesitated. “Johny.”

“That’s not a full name. What’s your Appa’s name?”

A strange silence fell. Even the crows on the electric wire seemed quiet.

“My name is Johny,” he repeated, confusion creeping into his voice.

Laughter burst out.

“You see? He doesn’t know. He has no Appa!”

The word “Appa” echoed around him like a cruel chant.

Johny’s face turned pale. His fingers tightened around his bag strap. For a moment, I thought he might faint.

“I have an Appa!” he suddenly shouted, his voice breaking.

“Where is he?” Hari demanded, stepping closer.

Johny opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

The laughter grew louder, sharper.

Manu, whose father had died, stepped forward. “At least my Appa is in the cemetery. He’s dead. But I have one.”

The boys nodded proudly.

Johny looked from one face to another. He seemed to shrink under their gaze. His eyes filled with tears, but he fought them back desperately.

There is a kind of humiliation that burns so deeply it feels like your very existence is being questioned.

“Say his name!” someone shouted.

Johny’s lips trembled. “I… I…”

He could not finish.

The boys formed a circle around him, clapping rhythmically.

“No, Appa! No, Appa!”

That chant still rings in my ears. It was not loud, but it was merciless.

Johny suddenly lunged at Hari, grabbing his collar. They fell into the dust. He kicked, pushed, and fought like someone fighting for breath itself.

But he was outnumbered. He was thrown aside.

“Go call your Appa!” someone yelled.

That was the final blow.

Johny stood up slowly. His uniform was dusty. His eyes were red. He tried to hold his tears back, but they rolled down anyway,  silently at first, then uncontrollably.

And in that moment, I saw something break inside him.

A child can bear hunger, pain, even punishment,  but not the feeling of being unwanted.

Suddenly, he stopped crying. His face hardened. He bent down, picked up stones, and threw them wildly.

The circle scattered.

Then Johny ran,  not towards his home,  but towards the river behind the school.

I followed him at a distance, my heart pounding.

The Periyar river flowed quietly under the cloudy sky. A week earlier, a man from our village had drowned there because of debt. I remembered someone whispering at his funeral, “At least he has peace now.”

Johny stood near the bank, staring at the water as if it was calling him.

“I don’t have an Appa…” he whispered.

He knelt down and folded his hands like during morning prayer. But instead of words, only sobs came.

Suddenly, a firm hand rested on his shoulder.

“What happened, mone?” a deep voice asked.

It was Thomas Neelamkunnu,  the proprietor of the two-wheeler workshop near the junction. He owned a small shed with a tin roof and had two mechanics working under him. Everyone knew Thomas Chettan. He was strong, confident, and respected. He spoke little but worked hard.

Johny looked up at him through tear-filled eyes.

“They beat me… because I don’t have an Appa.”

Thomas Chettan’s face grew serious.

“Who said that? Everyone has an Appa.”

“I don’t,” Johny said, his voice trembling.

Thomas knew the story. The whole village did.

He crouched down to Johny’s level.

“Come,” he said gently. “Let’s go home.”

Lissy Chechi’s house stood near the rubber plantation,  small, white, always neat. When Johny shouted “Amma!” she came out quickly.

The moment she heard what happened, her face changed. Her lips trembled. She hugged Johny tightly, almost desperately.

“I wanted to jump in the river,” Johny sobbed. “Because they said I don’t have an Appa.”

Her body shook. She held him so tight it was as if she feared losing him again.

Thomas stood awkwardly at the gate.

And then Johny turned to him, eyes swollen from crying, and asked the question that changed everything:

“Will you be my Appa?”

Silence swallowed the evening.

Lissy looked up at Thomas. Shame, fear, dignity, longing,  all flashed across her face. She had already suffered the cruelty of society once. Could she risk it again?

“If you won’t,” Johny whispered, “I’ll go back to the river.”

Thomas swallowed hard.

“What is your full name?” Johny asked.

“Thomas Neelamkunnu,” he replied softly.

Johny repeated it slowly. “Thomas Neelamkunnu…”

“Then you are my Appa.”

Thomas lifted him in his arms. For a brief second, I saw tears in that strong man’s eyes.

In the weeks that followed, Thomas often passed by Lissy’s house after closing his workshop. He would stand outside respectfully, speaking softly. Gossip began to spread again.

One afternoon, Hari taunted Johny once more.

“If he’s your Appa, why hasn’t he married your Amma?”

Johny said nothing. After school, he went straight to the workshop.

The shed smelled of grease and petrol. Two mechanics were fixing a scooter. Thomas was tightening a bolt.

“They say you’re not really my Appa,” Johny said quietly. “Because you didn’t marry Amma.”

The workshop fell silent.

Thomas leaned against a bike, deep in thought.

One mechanic cleared his throat. “Lissy is a good woman, chetta. She raised that boy alone.”

The other nodded. “People talk anyway. Let them.”

Thomas looked at Johny,  small, hopeful, frightened.

That evening, under a sky trembling with stars, Thomas Neelamkunnu went to Lissy’s house in a clean blue shirt.

Lissy stood at the doorway.

“It’s not right for you to come like this at night,” she said softly.

“I know,” Thomas replied. His voice was shaking,  a thing I had never heard before. “But I didn’t come to talk. I came to ask. Lissy… will you marry me?”

She stared at him, stunned!

“I have already been talked about enough,” she whispered. “I don’t want more shame.”

Thomas stepped closer, his voice steady now.

“Let them talk. I am not afraid. I don’t want Johny to stand alone again. And I don’t want you to fight alone anymore. If you agree, I will stand with you. As a husband. As father.”

Tears rolled down her cheeks.

For a moment, she covered her face with her hands.

Then she nodded.

That night, in that small white house, something broken began to heal.

Sometimes love is not loud or dramatic. It is simply the decision to stay.

The next morning at school, Johny stood up during lunch break.

His lips were trembling, but his eyes were shining.

“My Appa is Thomas Neelamkunnu,” he said clearly. “He married my Amma yesterday.”

The playground fell silent.

No one laughed.

No one mocked.

Because everyone knew Thomas Neelamkunnu,  the respected workshop owner with two employees, the man who helped stranded riders, the man who worked from dawn to dusk without complaint.

Johny’s chest rose proudly.

“And now,” he added, his voice breaking with emotion, “I have Appa.”

It was not a shout. It was not a challenge.

It was a declaration of belonging.

In that moment, I saw not the boy who had been ridiculed,  but a child who had reclaimed his dignity.

Blood may create life. But courage creates family.

Years have passed. The banyan tree still stands near the school gate. The river still flows.

But whenever I think of Johny standing there that day, saying with quiet pride, “Now I have Appa,” my heart tightens.

Because that was the day I learned what fatherhood truly means.