Surviving the Sting: A Boy's Brutal Lesson in Hostel Discipline

Trigger Warning: This post describes physical punishment involving intense pain and potential trauma. It reflects on outdated practices once common at United Christian Boys Hostel but since reformed. Reader discretion advised. Based on my direct experience; the study incharge system was abolished years later after seniors, including myself, pushed for changes.

## The Hostel World of Rules and Ranks

At United Christian Boys Hostel, during my 5th-grade year, life felt like stepping into a mini-military camp, worlds apart from the day schoolers who commuted from home and knew nothing of our isolated routines. Away from family, 12–14 boys crammed into each sleeping room filled with cots and double-decker beds, sharing tight spaces, whispers, and the weight of unyielding rules. Study hours, bedtimes, and silence after lights out were enforced with iron fists—academic performance was non-negotiable, with each grade having its own "study incharge" appointed by the warden to oversee progress.

My incharge, a 6th or 7th grader barely older than me, was responsible specifically for us 5th graders. One evening after dinner, right in our crowded sleeping room amid the cots and double-deckers, he conducted an English test for us, 5th graders. I scored zero marks—a complete wipeout in his eyes. What followed wasn't private counseling but my most painful ordeal ever: a relentless hand caning, administered in the same room amid watchful eyes from my fellow 5th graders.

## The Relentless Assault: No Mercy, No Breaks

The punishment began with his sharp command: "Stand at the center of the room." The air thickened with tension as the other 12–14 boys shifted on their cots and double-decker beds, eyes fixed on the makeshift stage amid our sleeping quarters. We both stood facing each other, the wooden stick gripped tightly in his hand, his posture radiating the weight of his delegated authority.

With zero marks as "evidence," I extended my right palm first, as instructed, bracing for impact under the dim light and collective gaze. He swung down with full force, the strike landing like a thunderclap, sending a jolt that reverberated through my frame. Without pause, I switched to my left hand, and he repeated the blow—another full-force hit that echoed through the room.

Back to the right, then the left; the cycle continued mercilessly, alternating hands in a grueling rhythm. I lost count around 60, but it dragged on to what felt like 80–90 hits, each one delivered without restraint in front of the silent audience. The wooden stick's impact started as a fiery sting, quickly building to deep, throbbing bruises. My palms swelled rapidly, skin tightening over hematomas, while the pain radiated up my arms in waves of burning pressure.

There were no breaks for recovery—just this nonstop alternation that kept the agony fresh on both sides, all under the gaze of roommates who knew the stakes. Muscles trembled, sweat beaded, and my body screamed internally to pull away, but I held firm, clenching my jaw against the overwhelm. I came perilously close to breaking point, the kind where control slips entirely—teetering on the edge of screaming out a plea for mercy—but sheer willpower kept me silent. It was a grueling marathon of endurance, far beyond what any child should face for a single bad test, especially in such a confined, exposed space.

## In the Heat of the Moment: Power and Resentment

In that haze of pain, surrounded by peers in our shared room, he seemed like an unrelenting force—a peer wielding borrowed authority with overzealous swings, all because of those zero marks from the after-dinner quiz. The age gap felt vast; his position amplified a sense of betrayal from someone who should have been an ally, not an enforcer, especially with everyone watching. Hatred surged amid the physical torment: hatred for the rules, the system that delegated such power to a kid barely more experienced than me, and the helplessness of it all unfolding in our sleeping quarters.

Hostel culture normalized this back then, tying punishment directly to academic slips in these intimate, high-stakes settings, but looking through a child's eyes, it was raw injustice—public humiliation layered onto the brutality. No adult oversight tempered his fervor; he was just navigating the warden's expectations, perhaps eager to prove his mettle as incharge for our grade. Yet, in the moment, every strike deepened the resentment, pushing my limits to the edge without mercy.

## The Aftermath: Healing Hands and Hard Lessons

Recovery was slow and agonizing, shared in whispers with roommates who witnessed it all. My hands were a mess—puffy, discolored, and stiff for days, making even simple tasks like writing impossible. Nerve endings throbbed with every movement, a lingering reminder of the trauma. Emotionally, it left scars too: waves of anger and vulnerability that took time to process, especially knowing it stemmed from one failed English test in the chaos of our room.

But as years passed, reflection brought a surprising shift. What I hated with every fiber back then— that raw, boundary-shattering intensity—has lingered in my mind in ways I never expected, resurfacing now as a vivid, almost haunting memory that stirs complex feelings. That punishment, though excruciating, forged something unbreakable in me—a grit born from surviving the unsurvivable under prying eyes. It highlighted my capacity to endure when pushed to the brink, teaching resilience I carry today, even as the recollection carries an undeniable pull years later. The incharge? In hindsight, he was a product of the system: a young boy handed unchecked power without the maturity to wield it wisely, especially over something as fixable as test scores in a packed room. No villain, but a figure whose role in that defining moment echoes in unexpected ways.

## Why This Matters: Critiquing Corporal Punishment

Experiences like mine underscore the dangers of corporal punishment, especially when enforced by children on children in shared living spaces and linked to academic failure. Hand caning—relentless strikes targeting nerve-rich palms—causes not just immediate agony but potential long-term damage: chronic pain, nerve issues, and psychological trauma, amplified by public exposure. Studies from organizations like the UN and child rights groups show it erodes trust, stifles learning, and violates human dignity—punishing zeros with brutality in front of peers solves nothing and scars deeply, sometimes in intricate, enduring patterns.

In hostels where day schoolers remained oblivious, these internal rituals added isolation and shame, with grade-specific enforcers intensifying the peer pressure. Peer enforcers blurred lines between discipline and bullying, turning sleeping rooms into arenas of fear. At United Christian Boys Hostel, practices eventually changed—when we became seniors, we pushed back against the study incharge system, leading to its abolition years later. Today, such punishments are banned in many places for good reason—positive reinforcement and tutoring build character without breaking bodies or spirits. If you've faced similar, know it's not your fault; advocacy groups like End Corporal Punishment offer resources for healing and change.

## Reclaiming the Past

What was once my most painful memory now stands as a testament to survival—and the strange ways trauma can evolve in the mind over time. It exposed flaws in authority and my own hidden strength, shaping views on discipline that prioritize empathy over force—especially when a bad grade doesn't warrant such extremes in a shared room. Sharing this isn't about blame—it's about owning the narrative, acknowledging how some experiences defy simple categorization, celebrating the changes we fought for, and calling for kinder systems that bridge the gap between hostel realities and the outside world.

Have you encountered rigid hierarchies in your youth? How did they shape you—or linger in unexpected ways? Share thoughtfully in comments below. Let's discuss moving toward compassionate education.