It was a long, long time ago, I remember…
Twenty of us…or maybe even less,
huddled together in a group,
Crumpled shirts, splashed with paint,
the colors of childhood…
The uncle with the camera,
having a hard time,
getting us in order,
And then, the stern voice of Ma’am Roberts,
floated in through the room …
A flash illuminated the small classroom,
and it was done,
Stained clothes covered with dirt,
but our faces ever so bright…
And through the window,
the morning sun piercing through the crisp winter air…
That was KG, I remember…
The long column of desks joined together,
with tiny chairs of various colors
on either side.
You sat opposite me then,
and there was Eric, Vaiz and Partha,
giving us company.
A formidable gang!
But there was peace,
and we did make our way to the land of the Big Bhaiyas…
Class one.
Ma’am Roy…
I still cannot find the words to describe her,
Perhaps there are none.
All of us stood as she entered the class
for the very first time.
Our legs shaking in fear…
But we all know how special that year was,
how special she made it.
And when the year was done,
I still remember her parting words,
“This is a very happy, and yet a very sad day…”
We did not live so close to each other back then,
The car rides home started much later…
but the rest of junior school had it’s charm…
Trading FX cards, hastily tearing through the chips packet,
waiting eagerly for a good card.
The trip to the jute mill in your Bolero,
with Spandan Ghosh by our side,
and Dhir in the front seat,
sitting beside Bimal kaku,
or Bimli as you fondly called him…
Then the time came for the transition,
Into the land of the Bigger Bhaiyas.
and Ma’am Dutta was there to guide us,
through that crucial time.
She continues to guide us,
to this day.
I had moved into Jodhpur Park by then,
Those trips back from violin class,
and those stories and discussions,
fiddler’s fancy, fiddler’s…
Middle school was so very different,
Mr. Pitts, and his illustrious legacy,
Those times we spent, building our stock,
And even selling them,
to those in need.
“In 1757, a 17 year old Frenchman…”
We were introduced to the terror that was detention.
Even though we never gained the experience.
Ritu Singh, and her Academy of Fine Arts,
comprising of boys in class eight…
And Royan’s “You Mister…”
We strode along the path,
stumbling in places,
but rising again…
“I want to meet your mother…”, said a familiar voice.
But we were quite used to that by then…
He certainly taught us a great deal.
We were in senior school,
wearing long pants,
but as D.Dutta reminded us,
we were not long ourselves…
Class Ten went by like a storm,
and before we knew it,
we were ICSE pass…
But we never seemed to reach that stage,
where you suddenly become Big Bhayia…
Our class had undergone a lot shuffling by then,
but we were never separated…
Probably the only ones in our batch.
And suddenly we knew,
that we were moving slowly, but steadily,
towards the end of our school lives.
But the fun never ceased…
You jumping out of the window,
much to Raja’s amazement.
The cheeky comments from the back of the class,
much to Sur’s discomfort…
Srijit never stopped.
The fun never ceased…
And as the final months approached,
more and more cameras were smuggled in.
More pictures went up on Facebook.
Pictures which I could not see.
Should have signed up earlier…
The last days arrived.
Signing on shirts, more photos with old teachers,
Carving names on the Grand Staircase…
Yet something was amiss…
Something not complete,
there was a strange vacuum somewhere,
somewhere in my mind, where I could not reach….
And then I found it.
While rummaging through old books.
It was covered with dust, and stained with time,
The crumpled shirts were painted with the colors of childhood.
but our faces ever so bright…
And through the window,
the morning sun piercing through the crisp winter air…
Written for Souransu Nandi a few days after our last day at school.