I am late and I know it well. As the Ambassador swerves sharply and passes the tall church gate, I know I am late. I want to grab the steering and press the accelerator, but I know that I cannot do both together. My limbs are tiny for I am only five and I study in Upper Nursery at Modern School, Barrackpore. The whole world finds it funny when I say that proudly in my Minnie Mouse tone; But, that truly is my worthy identity. One day when I acquire my father's baritone voice they will perhaps pay more heed. But, today I am late and the loud heart beat in my ear is telling me so.
As the car screeches to a halt in front of the iron gate I pop out and run even as my school bag precariously clings to me like a primate on a delicate branch. I meet Naushad-uncle at the gate. He is wearing the same khaki uniform I painted him in last week in Robin uncle's class. But the smile is not there. He ushers me in but wants me to stand under that asbestos-shed with the unfortunate latecomers. The churn in my stomach is forcing me to chalk several escape plans. I want to go home feigning sickness. But the gate is closed and the car has fled anticipating my escapade. I can jump the boundary wall and run. But what if I fail and am caught with a bruised knee? Besides there is a Doberman on the other side of the wall. I curse the neighbor who pets such a ferocious dog beside a children's school. I am late and I deserve the reprimand I am about to receive, I pacify myself.
Meanwhile, the bigger smarter ones have already thought of the best excuses of the day. Traffic jams, a punctured tyre, a doctor's appointment, a bus strike, they have all been taken. And I am left with a head dangling low with the burden of being the only one who is genuinely late. I curse those ten precious minutes of sleep. As Nandalal rings the bell (which is but a sequence of a metal rod hitting a sonorous metal disc), I pray. I am not in line with my classmates today and I am not seeing "all things that are bright and wonderful, and all creature that are great and small.." that they are. So I pray that the day may just pass without much event. As I pray, I see her approaching in her navy blue saree. The ears catch a distinct jingling of the key bunch she always keeps tugged around her waist. I have always wondered what secret doors those keys opened. Now I will never know. Perhaps it is better that way. What good are life's secrets if they aren't secrets anymore.
She is walking towards the shed and my comrades are reciting their excuses like chants. And as always the proverbial cat has found this most opportune moment to catch my tongue. So, Isaac-aunty sizes up this entourage and goes from one to another, listening, judging, admonishing and letting go. Twenty five years later when I revisit that scene through a pair of very foggy glasses I wonder the plethora of human faculties she must have had. Patience, discipline, affection, fortitude, among others that an average mind is not privy to. Was she born with them? Did she acquire them along the way? I do not know and never will. As she looks down at me and demands the reason for being late, my eyes well. I keet quiet and look down. She lets me go. Ironically, that was the longest conversation I had with her in my seven years at Modern School. Perhaps that is why I have so much left to say to her, today.
Memories have a strange way of showing up when the mind is receptive to it. Today, I remember her in all her grandeur, her power, her authority, her strength. Today, is the day to celebrate the life she lived and the lives she made worth living; Our lives. Outside, the moon has lit up the treetops. I can imagine that across the world from atop the deodar trees it is throwing its rays down the hallowed grass of the school ground. The lady of the house has left, but her shrine remains and the few thousands of us who owe to her will remember her in our own little ways, through our own little memories. To thank her would be to disrespect her. To live a life the way she envisioned her students to live would be more in line with her liking. As for me, I arrived late to bid her farewell. But knowing her I know mine is not the last folly she will pardon.
As the car screeches to a halt in front of the iron gate I pop out and run even as my school bag precariously clings to me like a primate on a delicate branch. I meet Naushad-uncle at the gate. He is wearing the same khaki uniform I painted him in last week in Robin uncle's class. But the smile is not there. He ushers me in but wants me to stand under that asbestos-shed with the unfortunate latecomers. The churn in my stomach is forcing me to chalk several escape plans. I want to go home feigning sickness. But the gate is closed and the car has fled anticipating my escapade. I can jump the boundary wall and run. But what if I fail and am caught with a bruised knee? Besides there is a Doberman on the other side of the wall. I curse the neighbor who pets such a ferocious dog beside a children's school. I am late and I deserve the reprimand I am about to receive, I pacify myself.
Meanwhile, the bigger smarter ones have already thought of the best excuses of the day. Traffic jams, a punctured tyre, a doctor's appointment, a bus strike, they have all been taken. And I am left with a head dangling low with the burden of being the only one who is genuinely late. I curse those ten precious minutes of sleep. As Nandalal rings the bell (which is but a sequence of a metal rod hitting a sonorous metal disc), I pray. I am not in line with my classmates today and I am not seeing "all things that are bright and wonderful, and all creature that are great and small.." that they are. So I pray that the day may just pass without much event. As I pray, I see her approaching in her navy blue saree. The ears catch a distinct jingling of the key bunch she always keeps tugged around her waist. I have always wondered what secret doors those keys opened. Now I will never know. Perhaps it is better that way. What good are life's secrets if they aren't secrets anymore.
She is walking towards the shed and my comrades are reciting their excuses like chants. And as always the proverbial cat has found this most opportune moment to catch my tongue. So, Isaac-aunty sizes up this entourage and goes from one to another, listening, judging, admonishing and letting go. Twenty five years later when I revisit that scene through a pair of very foggy glasses I wonder the plethora of human faculties she must have had. Patience, discipline, affection, fortitude, among others that an average mind is not privy to. Was she born with them? Did she acquire them along the way? I do not know and never will. As she looks down at me and demands the reason for being late, my eyes well. I keet quiet and look down. She lets me go. Ironically, that was the longest conversation I had with her in my seven years at Modern School. Perhaps that is why I have so much left to say to her, today.
Memories have a strange way of showing up when the mind is receptive to it. Today, I remember her in all her grandeur, her power, her authority, her strength. Today, is the day to celebrate the life she lived and the lives she made worth living; Our lives. Outside, the moon has lit up the treetops. I can imagine that across the world from atop the deodar trees it is throwing its rays down the hallowed grass of the school ground. The lady of the house has left, but her shrine remains and the few thousands of us who owe to her will remember her in our own little ways, through our own little memories. To thank her would be to disrespect her. To live a life the way she envisioned her students to live would be more in line with her liking. As for me, I arrived late to bid her farewell. But knowing her I know mine is not the last folly she will pardon.
1 comment:
You have almost made up for being late! The description conjured up vivid images from the not so distant past.I have been in your shoes, and could almost see the noble lady walk up to me. Thanks again for the essay!
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