This is in continuation to my blog Summer of 79 and is dedicated to my dear friends of the Class of 79 who would be meeting again on August 8th 2009)
SUMMER OF 79 – The early days
“If you find me ignoring you, it’s because I love you so much”, she typed.
“And if I hound you, it’s for the same reason,” he replied, as the chat box consummated, bulged, delivered and waited for the next entry.
“Fair enough”, she ended and moved on to another topic as she normally does, obviating the disquietude borne out of an intense exchange.
Ravi had finally found his long lost love. In an instant, his mind flew back to a makeshift car garage turned classroom 35 years ago where he first met Priya.
***
Until 1978, our school was housed in a palatial mansion which used to belong to a business tycoon who went bust. It presently houses the district telephones office which stands with fortitude, struggling to salvage what remains of its past glory. In a sudden nostalgic fit on a recent trip to Calicut, I decided to pay a visit to the structure that housed my alma mater, in an attempt to mop up remnants of our spirits left behind those environs.
I walked past the rusted wrought iron gate and stepped on what was once the school ground, which extended up to the two car garages at the far end. Heaps of telephone cables, wires, fuses and other junk were dumped at different places on OUR GROUND - near the old goalposts, the boundary wall and at the far end. Almost instantly, I recalled shrieks of, “Pass, Pass” and exhilarated shouts of “Goaaaaaaaal”; Images of frenetic football action and innocent, unrestrained rollicking flashed across my head.
This is the same very ground where our elaborate school assembly started with prayers followed by the mandatory sequence of - Thought for the Day - Moral Education -The News (lifted verbatim from “The Hindu” newspaper) - School Song – and National Anthem. I could at once relive the rendition of …
“Daya kar daan vidya ka,
Hamein paramatma dena”
; and instantly, a funny incident that happened 35 years ago came to mind!
I remember being nudged by my good friend Sujit when the school was in rapt attention. He gestured prompting me to look in front at our corpulent Principal MKSN Iyer, who was facing the congregation. I could hear a giggle here and a chuckle there which soon spread like Australian Bush fire - slowly enveloping the entire assembly resulting in irrepressible laughter let out in fits and starts. I saw that Iyer had his zipper open with the white string of his old fashioned jockey swaying in the light morning breeze – enough reason for ten year olds to recount and rejoice for the rest of the academic year.
This was the same ground where we were also made to rehearse a mock routine in preparation for the arrival of Prime Minister Indira Gandhi at the West Hill Maidan. The events were enacted time and again; the highlight being the group rendition of “Chodo Kal Ki Baatein, Kal Ki Baat Purani” in perfect sync with the passage of the PM’s motorcade in front of our group. The sequence was practiced to perfection - the Vishraam, Saavdhaan routine - the mock PM passing by looking at each of us - the music teacher giving us the cue - and we taking off in unison “Chodo Kal Ki Baatein……”
When we arrived at West Hill Maidan on D-Day, we saw that the entire town had turned up there, more to witness the arrival of a helicopter than anything else. As the PM alighted from the copter, pandemonium broke out. Shouts of Indira Gandhi Ki Jai rent the air - the crowd jostled – chaos ensued. Unlike the mock PM, the real one was placed at a distance. As our overawed music teacher strained to apply her vocal chords, the motorcade zipped past us - our feeble attempts to follow her rhythm drowning in the cacophony. The sequence went for a tumble and hours of preparation down the West Hill drain.
***
Ravi stared at her profile picture and read her features intently.
Her dimples attained greater depths.
Faint signs of dark circles beneath the brow actually enhanced her chiselled looks
- Her hair strewn lazily across the forehead to deadly effect.
He perched the reading glasses on his nose and moved closer to the computer screen.
What do her eyes convey? Does that pout evince boredom or reflect stifled excitement?
Ravi was blissfully unaware that his eyes tried to read meaning into random facial expression captured by photographic lens in a microsecond.
***
“Please stand straight and look at me. Don’t blame me if the picture comes out bad”, shouted the photographer. It was the end of the term and the customary class picture was being shot in the courtyard at the back. This was where we started our football and cricketing lessons before graduating to the ground in front. The area was surrounded by the chemistry lab on one side, a verandah on the other, a short corridor at the side, and the PT sir’s chamber at the far corner; now a dilapidated urinal for the telecom staff.
Jagan, the PT sir, was a short, dark well built man with blood shot eyes and dressed in visually suffocative tight fitting clothing. His lurking presence bred terror more out of his ferocious looks than his actual demeanour. How he could successfully woo an attractive yet overweight Prameela Miss, our lethargic English teacher, was a matter of debate among the sneaky little inquisitive souls we were.
The verandah served as our classroom for a couple of years - a room with distracting sights of other kids literally having a ball while we had equations shoved down our heads by Achukuttan sir, a stern taskmaster with a booming voice, an admonishing look and a pronounced limp. Or having to memorise Sanskrit shlokas under the threatening presence of Vamadevan Master -whose strong hairy arms came down “thud” on our backs for non compliance - earning him the sobriquet “Erumakkaran” (or buffalo-man) for meting out this brute form of punishment.
My seat in class was next to Rajesh, known for his passion for “Sudden” novels and western flicks shown in Crown theatre. We looked forward to his narration - how a gunfighter earns the nickname "Sudden" because of his lightning speed with a gun. Rajesh’s scene by scene reproduction of “The Good, The Bad & The Ugly” complete with background music was considered entertaining enough to give the actual movie a skip. The daring feats of fiction influenced this diminutive chap in no small measure as he once boldly stood up to our stocky senior Nilesh Katyal, twice his size. Nilesh confronted Rajesh for teasing his sister Vibha but little Rajesh managed to emerge unscathed, thanks to cowboy courage backed by some forbidding finger wagging – a la Clint Eastwood.
Our first lessons in Marketing were learnt in the same classroom when the salesperson of a confectionary company made a sales pitch to his wide eyed audience. At the end of the presentation, he urged us to answer out loud to his query:-
“Now tell me, which is the best toffee in the world?”
“NUTRINE, NUTRINE we screamed in excitement – more in anticipation of earning the two golden colour wrapped toffees than out of brand loyalty.
Talking about food, lunch time presented picks galore in the shops outside the compound and from hawkers along the school wall. Topping the popularity charts was the unassuming 1 paisa bulbul mithai – tiny, round shaped hard boiled jaggery that stuck to one’s molars and stayed there long after. And the salted raw mango slices and goose berry; and then the refreshing coloured ice sticks -10 paise for a whole piece, 5 for a distorted one, and free if you beg the vendor for the sediments at the bottom of the wooden ice box.
In 1977, we moved from the verandah classroom to an exalted location within the building – the classroom at the front which our seniors used to occupy – the room with an exclusive view of the main ground. It was in this class that I befriended Harikrishnan – a soft spoken, well mannered, handsome fella and an awesome cricketer – a bonding that has weathered time and transcended distances for over 32 years till this very day.
***
“Where is this taking us?” typed Ravi, now a cardiac surgeon of repute.
“The fact that we’re going nowhere is what keeps me going”, replied Priya after her customary pause.
She was enigmatic and ambiguous in her response at times – her lines offered hope and denied them in equal intensity. Her words were calculated to strike exactly at the centre point between solicitation and repulsion.
Ravi realised that despite years of education and training in his field of work, he was still clueless in matters of the heart.
***
A building that once resonated with romance and brimmed with the fragrance of love now reeks of the stench of termite infested files. I passed by corridors that were witness to passionate encounters that would put The Titanic to shame. I remember how our handsome senior Patrick used to wait with persistent patience for his junior Veena outside her class just to offer that winsome smile. And how our hero Prahlad gestured from behind a grilled partition to his love Supriya stationed across the corridor. The personification of love had set the surroundings aflame and consumed our little minds with scandalous thoughts! We idolized our seniors especially the lookers, achievers and sports stars. Each of their actions seemed worthy of emulation – the way they spoke, walked, bowled, batted, scored goals and professed love.
The open area at the rear of the edifice was where the lavatory was located - the place where we were first exposed to graffiti of the graphic kind, the most popular one being –
“India’s future is in your hands”.
At this very location, we were for the first time enlightened by the mystery of the little white balloons found floating in the drain – our clandestine encounter with the male contraceptive amid speculation about its potential uses and users within the campus.
***
“I’d like to think you’re my new year present” she conveyed
Ravi was at loss for words. His keyboard waited with bated breath for some action.
“It’s a nice feeling to have you around” he replied for want of a better response.
“I know the feeling”, she said, this time without a pause.
“I’ll keep a watch over you from the skies” he replied with a feeble attempt at appearing soulful.
“I’ll wait for you”, she ended and signed off in an instant.
The imaginary scented whiff of Lux which lingered in his nostrils during the past hour, suddenly vanished into thin air.
***
An earthy aroma arose from the ground - it had begun to drizzle. Like sights and sounds, smells too bring back memories in a jiffy……….the fragrance of rose as Srividya Miss entered the classroom; the rancidity of boiled coconut oil when Harish put his arms around me; the freshness of Liril as Anjana turned around; the aroma of flavoured supari as Vignesh Patel started to sing; the stench of fish as Rahul burped after lunch; the malodour of wet canvas school bags when the rains lashed down; the gummy smell of freshly bound books as school re-opened; the scent of jasmine as Revathi passed by; the odour of soggy pappadams and tiffined sambhar as we opened our lunch boxes in the front verandah – the magic of the olfactory system on our power to recollect is astounding!
As the rain intensified, I sought refuge under the sunshade in the front, the same spot where our senior fell to death – a tragedy in our portals – a pall of gloom followed – but everyone was back on track in a few days. The resilience of young minds at play with an amazing ability to forget and move on!
I then walked across the ground to the rectangular piece of land on my left. There used to be a sandy surface here where we took our first lessons in high jump and long jump; the same place where we also mastered the game of chulliyum kolum (called Gilli Danda in the North).
I finally walked back towards the gate and turned around with a familiar feeling – the same funny feeling we experienced in 1978 while moving out of these premises into a spanking new campus on East Hill.
With one last look, I tried to soak in the myriad memories of the past hour so as to carry them back with me to where I belong today.
“When and how are we going to meet? I am dying to …” Ravi stopped typing, reviewed his words and then decided to delete them from the chat box.
The chat box is often like an obscure receptacle in your heart, its contents hidden from the world, yours alone. Feelings are given a form – thoughts reexamined, refreshed, retrospected - then withheld, erased and rendered inaccessible to the outside world.
He then re-typed, “I will see you at the get together on August 8th”
“I will try my best to avoid you...why give gossip fodder about us?” she replied
She had said “us”. It sounded reassuring, coming from her.
“Do you think I’d give us away?” he asked
“No. Neither would I” affirmed Priya.
“Let’s remember”, she concluded, “Tell your secret to the wind, but don’t blame it for telling the trees”.
- Sunil Kumar
(All names have been changed. Some characters are fictitious)
what a beautiful piece of writing !
ReplyDeletestory travelling at the pace u wanted it to...!
well done sunil !