The Last Day

I remember coming back home late in the evening and handing over the full sleeve shirt to my mother. 'Keep it somewhere and never wash it', I had told her. I wonder if the shirt is still there. I wonder if something (anything) of the names and 'will miss u' and 'all the best in life' messages that were scribbled all over it in sketch pens still remains. I wonder where all those names are right now. Yes, I still know almost everything that's happening in the lives of about 3 or 4 of them but about the rest, I don't think I care that much. It was the last day of school. Sometime in the December of 1999. And the students of St. Xavier's School (SXS) Bokaro sure knew how to create memories.

The build up that had started almost a year ago had reached its finale. And at the center of it was the signing of shirts and dupattas. The music played on and we danced as if nobody was watching. People who had hardly spoken in 12 years were behaving as if they were the closest of friends. The shiest of boys were having a laugh with the most popular girls. Some of the teachers stood back and smiled as the Y2K batch (as we liked to call ourselves) readied itself for a last party.

At SXS, we were a privileged lot. We won all the quizzes and the debates. We had the largest and the most beautiful school in town. We had the best teachers. The entire town looked forward to our Annual Fete on 14th Nov. We were the only school which had the parties and farewells. We created the best gossips. And we produced the best results when it came to academics. And how can I forget; we were the only ICSE school in the city. So when it was time to leave all of it and start afresh, it was obvious that the longing, the loving would be difficult to forget. I don't think I have ever been so carefree as I was then. Slam books were signed, promises were made to keep in touch for ever, phone numbers were exchanged and past sins were forgiven. A few girls started crying but there was no denying the general sense of bonhomie which swept us in those last days of school. Looking back, it sure seems foolish. I guess we were just conforming to the saying - Ignorance is bliss. But at the same time, it was the most natural thing to do.

As the evening went by, a few left for home. Most of us, though, headed to Vora Brother's. Had soya chilli and Pepsi there, giggling all the while. Walked in a line blocking the street. On the rare occasion, also talked about the pre-board exams starting early January. Most of us would still be meeting pretty much everyday for tuitions. But all of us knew that it would never quite be the same again.

That was eight years ago. Long time. A lot has happened since. A lot has changed. I have changed. But today, out of nowhere, that day came to my mind. That particular moment, to be precise. People walking with their bicycles in front of Vora Brother's; the night about to fall.

Writing is as close as we get to keeping a hold on the thousand and one things – childhood, certainties, cities, doubts, dreams, instants, phrases, parents, loves – that go on slipping, like sand, through our fingers -- Rushdie

Couldn't agree more.

The Way Back Home

The last few weeks have been very hectic as far as work is concerned. Late nights have become more the norm than the exception. And frankly speaking, I can't say I dislike it. Well, it could be because of my otherwise not so happening evening life or just the fact that this is a change from the usual. It might as well be the feeling that I am actually doing something which would directly or indirectly benefit me somewhere down the line. But no, this post is not about my experience in the software industry which by the way is nearing a year. That, will have to wait for a few days more.

The six kilometer stretch of road that brings me home from my office is one of the best in Bangalore. The road is wide and the traffic relatively less at any time of the day. So at around half past 10 when I hit the Outer Ring Road and put my bike to full throttle, the ride is enormously enjoyable. The smooth traffic allows me to touch speeds of 90 kmph on a regular basis and add to it the chill in the air especially if it has rained in the evening; and you have a 7-8 minute ride that robs you of your weariness of the day. It's one time of the entire day that I am completely living the moment without thinking of the past or the future. I hum along a few songs and at times even sing them at the top of my voice while racing past other vehicles on the way.

It's not that I have something very exciting waiting for me upon my arrival. Yet, the prospect of having a laugh with my flatmates, reading a bit, spending some time with my guitar and ringing up family and friends, makes me feel at peace with myself.

I can't help but reminisce about the time I used to make a similar journey back from school to my home on a cycle along with my friends. During the morning sessions before the summer vacations, school got over at around 1 o' clock and we would come home licking the 25 paise or 50 paise 'ice creams' that we bought in front of the school gate. Holding it in one hand and balancing the cycle with the other, we often rode our cycles at full speed to be able to catch some live action from the Sharjah Cup. There would be nothing, not even the scorching heat or the loo, which would slow us down during those times. Our orange coloured hands and tongue would bear testimony to the fun we had had. During the regular sessions when classes got over at 3:30, the ride would be more sedate. We went along discussing the happenings of the day, the latest affairs in school, cricket and what not. Since my house was the farthest away from school, I had to part company at some point and travel the last kilometer long stretch alone. I remember us stopping at the last junction (my friend's house) and chatting for a good 10-15 minutes before finally leaving for home. It really used to get tiring during the summers especially since the last bit was mostly uphill. But I knew that I had my prize waiting in the form of watermelon slices and mango shake kept in the fridge and at times dahi-chuda with gud. Ma would be waiting for me in the balcony with the keys to the garage where I kept my cycle and that was such a pleasing sight. She could make out my arrival merely by the sound of the gate. She said she could distinguish between the sound I made and that made by others! In later years, the scooter replaced the cycle and I became more reluctant on eating something after coming back but the pleasure of coming back home, coming back to your Ma waiting for you; well, that remained unchanged.

It's about comfort and a sense of belonging that makes the ride back home special. Whether it's to your waiting mother, or to a shared flat with friends or even a single room that you call your own. It's a journey that seldom has any surprises in store for us but one which comes with an assurance. An assurance of going back to the place you know, to the people you know. An assurance that another day has gone by. An assurance that a new one would soon begin.

Remembering Those Years

Exactly six years ago to the day, my life changed. By evening, the various coaching institutes had already come up with the solutions and the indications were fairly good. Sitting today in my home in Bangalore with one of my flatmates, with nothing better to do on a Sunday night than the usual, I cant help but think about those years that lead to it all .

School was...well...easy. I was a good student, had the best set of friends to hang out with, the teachers knew me and my parents never complained about anything. I didnt know what failure was. I didnt know that life wont always stay the same. The last two years in school were madness. Get togethers, farewells, parties, cricket; the fun never ended. What hastened it was that one of the most (ok, the most) popular girls in our batch was leaving school to study in Singapore. That was the perfect trigger to the festive spirit that continued till the end of 12th grade and a little more. Classes became a mere formality and even the teachers understood that. Especially our English literature teacher who taught Hamlet to almost empty classes. In fact there was just one boy who regularly attended her lectures sitting in between all the girls who by nature were more sincere than the boys. We made so much fun of him that he was often on the verge of embarrassment.

Anyway, we used to arrive almost an hour before the official assembly time and play what we termed as Australian Cricket. The most striking part of the entire exercise was that a 2 feet, cylindrical bamboo stick substituted for the bat which meant that edges flew thick and fast. We therefore had a slip cordon in place for all the edges. Laboratory windows were broken more than once and we went to apologise to the Vice Principal demanding a second innings! It helped that we were the 'bright' boys in school and so everything was forgotten and forgiven pretty soon. A few classes were also attended in between all the fun and laughter. Then there were the quizzes for which some of us were officially allowed to bunk classes. Lunch was quite often taken at one of our friend's house which was a 2 minutes walking distance from the school gate. Again there was some cricket that followed which on occasions extended well after the lunch period was over. In fact, I remember one occasion when the Principal on his way to school after lunch spotted us playing cricket when we should have been attending classes! What I dont remember is how we explained it. Classes got over at around 3:30 in the afternoon but school didnt. It was time to either play some really silly games or go to the nearby Vora Brothers to have soya chilli and some Pepsi.

Till the time Neha left for Singapore, we had lost count of the number of parties that we had had at each other's homes and at times in the school. It was the best time spent in school. The farewell was happening a year in advance and all because of her leaving. People got closer to each other, understood each other in a different light. Some people cried when she left, some fell in love with her, it was all very emotional and dramatic at times. She left sometime in the December of our 11th grade, after celebrating her birthday; before celebrating mine and so I made her promise to send me the first postcard from there.

In between all these, there were the Physics, Chemistry and Maths tuitions. We changed tutors and made our life hell by attending tuitions in the wee hours of the morning even during the rains and the winters in search of something we werent even very sure about (or at least I wasnt very sure about). But even the tuitions were made out to be more of fun activities than educational ones. Laughing behind our tutors, imitating their mannerisms, even laughing at how we didnt have a clue about some physics problem, we didnt realise that we were about to get the shock of our lives. What helped keep us in this illusion was the confidence our peers and teachers had in us. We were supposed to clear all entrance exams easily. There was never a doubt about it. Even slam books (that sounds so childish now!) were full of references like...'when u get into such and such college...'. So the cricket and the parties continued as a huge chapter in our lives drew to a close.

I vividly remember the day my father left me in a private hostel from the balcony of which I could see the Convocation Hall of IIT Delhi. It was a tough decision. The urge to leave everything and join DU was overwhelming. I was never a fighter. Things either came easily to me or didnt at all and I saw my first failure in life as an indication of the fact that it was not meant to be. I never saw it as a result of my foolishness, my overconfidence and my extreme optimism. My first reaction was, what the hell... I have a good percentage.. let me get into Stephen's and study Maths Hons. So standing in front of Hindu along with my father, almost ready to fill out the forms while all of my friends were either preparing for life in IIT or dropping a year in pursuit of it, he asked me one last time about my decision. I have always been instinctive when it comes to decision making and so I said the first thing that came to my mind. I said 'Ok dad, lets give it one more try.....'.
Anyway, that day when he was leaving, he just said one thing. He said 'Son, you never really deserved it this time around. You never tried hard enough. With all this fun and frolic, it was always going to be an uphill climb. Anyway, thats history. If you want to do anything this time around, just try.... a lot harder and you can get it.'
I cried. I cried for what must have been about 5 minutes. Non stop. Not because I had failed. Not because I hadnt achieved what I had set to. But because I had let down my parents and all those who thought I was capable of it. Because prior to that moment I hadnt even felt bad about it.

The year went by amidst some serious studies and realising the mistakes of the past year. There were several trips to home. There was VVS Laxman's epic innings in between. New friends were made in the hostel. I grew up. A lot. Living alone, caring for myself, cutting out on the fun things in life to achieve something. These were totally new experiences for me but I somehow managed. The experiences of that year, the ups and downs, the agonies and ecstasies are too much to put in this post.

The last day before I would leave for home having done with all my entrance exams, we were having one last bakaiti session. All of us had done reasonably well in the exam and so were expecting a call. The brightest amongst us by a long way had his birthday on the 18th of June, the same day the top 1000 would have their counselling session at IIT Delhi. I told him, 'Chal yaar, milte hain 18th ko Delhi me tera birthday manane.....'. He didnt make it.

There are a lot of factors that affect our lives. Instantaneous decisions, luck, surroundings, circumstances. In hindsight everything looks much more clearer. The mistakes that we made, the what ifs. But thats life. These lines from Rushdie's Midnight's Children put it aptly.

Reality is a question of perspective; the further you get from the past, the more concrete and plausible it seems - but as you approach the present, it inevitably seems more and more incredible. Suppose yourself in a large cinema, sitting at first in the back row, and gradually moving up, row by row, until your nose is almost pressed against the screen. Gradually the stars' faces dissolve into dancing grain; tiny details assume grotesque proportions; the illusion dissolves - or rather, it becomes clear that the illusion itself is reality.

Those were memorable years. In more ways than one. I dont want to get into the paths I could have taken other than this. That's not the point. Remembering those days which have largely shaped the person I am today, is.

Bose Miss

Someone recently told me how my blogs and stories are always about some point in time and rarely about someone. So here's to one of the finest human beings that I have known.

We knew all about her even in standard 3. The transition from Primary to Middle school was not only a matter of changing buildings, there was more to it. We had heard tales of her strictness and her love, of her collection of comic books and the year end party at her home, of her excellence as a teacher of English grammar and Mathematics, of the small hikes that she took her class to and most importantly of her approach to teaching, of changing students forever for the better. So when I was assigned Class IV-B, I knew I was one of the few fortunate ones.

The class was divided into 2 groups named Rose and Lotus if I remember correctly. There were the Red Stars and the Black Stars for your performances in the class tests and your house got points for the same. There was ample incentive to finish the test or any assignment before time. You could then submit your copy and take the keys from her to unlock the cupboard which had the best and the most varied collection of comics that a 4th grader could ever come across. Tintin, Asterix and Archies rubbed shoulders with Nagraj, Chacha Choudari and Super Commando Dhruv. Throw in a few Tinkle, Champak, ChandaMama and some other story books and you have an amazing collection to devour for the entire year. Once every week (or twice maybe) she had the last 2 classes of the day and invariably one of them would be spent outside the class room, playing Dodgeball, Langdi-choo, and all sorts of wierd games. Then there were the Samosa and Jalebi parties which she arranged for in the class room without any notice and quite frequently. Everybody loved her. She was the oldest teacher in school. When we were in 4th grade, our school had completed 25 years. So too had she and we remember the sense of pride in each of us as she was called to the podium to speak about the school on the occasion of the its silver jubilee celebrations. She was easliy the most loved and respected teacher that I ever knew. Till 3rd standard my best performance in class was a mere 69%. In IV-B, I stood second in class and got 84%, the turning point as far as my academics in school were concerned, one which sadly I could never better. The position I mean, not the percentage!

I remember the last day. The famed last day of IV-B when she took all of us to her home. We watched two movies (Deewar. Not the best movie for the occasion though! and another one which I dont remember), played games, all 50 of us, ate Khichdi , I played a few tunes on my Casio SA-1 which I had taken there and came back by the evening. Its been so many years but I can still remember it, not clearly but enough to feel it.

I still have the english grammar copy. The table of tenses; present, past, future and the perfects and the participles, active and passive voice, gerunds and propositions, subject verb agreement, clauses. Important parts underlined in Red ink. It was very much my Wren & Martin. I never needed any and I would like to think I have done just fine. The last time I talked to her was probably class 7 or so. Then we changed buildings and somehow amidst everything, I no longer met her.

She was a lady with a golden heart. For the first month she was very strict and would scold us at the slightest of mistakes. That was her style, to get her students to love and respect her. After the first month, you would never want to hurt her or do anything she wouldnt approve of. She was the best. The best teacher I have ever had, and probably one of the best human beings I have come across. Her name was Mrs. Dora Bose. We called her Bose Miss. The next time I go home, I would try to meet her. Its difficult to say after all these years what would happen but I am sure she would remember the name at least.