I paced along the dusty street. It had not changed in the past ten years, except for a little hospitality, a derelict group of shops which were probably bought by some contractor and converted into cemented structures, there was little which could distinguish this parched piece of earth from what impressions I lived with. Patches of asphalt was all that would convince a surveyor of the presence of any heedful authority. It is early December, in the misty mornings of winter, that due to some odd chance I have to take this apprehended route. There are few people on the street, some villagers, some stray dogs barking at anything fast that goes past them. For the past ten years, that life has drawn me away to further destinations, nothing about this connection has seemed to change. Even the villagers look the same to me. They stare at me as I wade uncomfortably beside them. The chill has stiffened my legs. I don't dare to look back, what is it that holds me still? Their incriminating eyes or the cold?
This street is the one that connects my home to my school. The one I will proudly reflect upon for the rest of my life as my alma mater, my shepherd. Somerville School opened in this then-sleepy town of Noida in the beginning of the Eighties. Nevertheless, its roots appeared to me a century older. It was its matronly and benevolent attitude, a tepid yet intense connection that has always borne in me. The shy, shifty and careless school kid comes back, and will continue to do so. Its one shrine where I am without myself, where what I have done, or undone is immaterial. Even with curses on my back, culminating into agonies and surfacing frailties , pains or no pains, bliss or no bliss, finding this oasis finds me. Each detail; the kid I bashed up in ninth grade, resulting into my suspension, my horrendous and humiliating quandary, the first social mishap, with a girl also some time around ninth grade, those climbing of the stairs to collect certificates and awards... I heard they have reworked the stage up, now it has one entrance instead of two. As this district attracted more inhabitants, hordes of shoppers catalyzed its industrialization, or typically, the mall-ification and arcade-isation. Somerville advantageously built upon it, and stands a reasonable chance to be declamated for as a fairly prestigious and illustrious enterprise for education. I might never be able to judge impartially though, as I muse upon my almost fastidious compulsion. The structure has changed a bit, the main gallery looks more plush, adding a rather staid disposition to the establishment. They brought up an auditorium, boasted about by many students, including my siblings. The main garden, a verdant quadrangle of grass, bordered by chrysanthemums and magnolias, is the first feature that restores the old image, the way its always been. Even the gardener hasn't changed. His fruits of sweaty labor have developed a bond for each sapling grown in this earth, since it began to be tilled; even to the cursory observer. Where am I now? Fugacious about my bearings. Searching for a platform to stand on, so that for once, my limbs are not flailing for support.
Its getting brighter now, and the birds chirp incredulously to the rising sun, as if in resentment. A maudlin aura surrounds my immediate space, part because of this inclement climate, part as a reminiscence of those foolhardy and unruly blokes who trudged along this way, ten years ago... Bags on their backs, straps broken for some, but unfettered by this handicap, their light banter used to infuse an euphoria which took twelve years to cease. Heads thrown back, in handsome abandon, disagreements and tiffs were taken into strides, an ass was made out of anyone, without compunction or malice. It was the purest time of their lives. The dirt they kicked, on each other, or by the inconsistent frustration, the hooliganism, the embarrassment because of some fitful event in the class; the dust has settled now and has been carried to another place, another time. Now, only a handful of us eye each other in the same nostalgic hues. In fact, only a handful of us eye each other at all, probably a couple of times in the entire year. I am even hesitant to go back and dust off the old records, redeem lost contacts and invigorate collapsing relationships. So easy it is; remarkably, to turn our backs to what was the mainstay of our lives, in its most crucial phase.
I reached the main gate, and instead of turning my back again, like I have been doing since in the past, I stand and try to assimilate as much as I can in my peripheral vision. The guard comes over and asks me my purpose, I tell him, "Nothing." Something here and there, an oddity, a similarity, a nook here, a corner there, that in a frame makes it an altogether different building, housing another generation, grooming another future. But in another din, a portion of it seems still, bearing prints, our footprints; awaited by the relevant sights to be deciphered. I can see some of the old swings. I can see the surprisingly neglected shortcut from behind the waterhouse, I can see myself crossing that shortcut. I can see everything, in the front, behind the building, underneath in the basement; everywhere. I always had a feeling that some pedagogic entity, some higher authority was watching over my back, whenever I crossed from here.
Perhaps that explains the apprehension. The pillory returns. The tangibility of unconsciousness is inexorable and it outweighs whatever reasons I conjure up. It makes them diffuse to putative and kitschy excuses. I realize that, I am getting late. Like I always have been for the past ten years. I don't know whether work allows my residence here anymore. I may never get to trudge along this strip of asphalt for a long time, or even if I do return, my excursions may be decimated by the haste, which will ensconce me for years to come. I walk till I come to edge of the boundary fencing of Somerville, then after a last glance, strangely barring the rest, limited only till the fence, I think about the attention that they finally have paid to this shrub. It used to be a wilderness in "our times". Now, as a consolation, that pragmatism has surmised for me, are my commitments to myself, and promises and expectations from others.
An undercurrent of relief passes and I think about my destination. It is an old friend's house. A friend from Somerville. I cant return to it, but I can keep it alive in my own implicitly trivial and spoony ways, like a phantom of eternal delight, in thought and belief, in actions and memory, in the present and the past, within and beyond myself... As I walk an empty street, in the boulevard of broken dreams.
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This street is the one that connects my home to my school. The one I will proudly reflect upon for the rest of my life as my alma mater, my shepherd. Somerville School opened in this then-sleepy town of Noida in the beginning of the Eighties. Nevertheless, its roots appeared to me a century older. It was its matronly and benevolent attitude, a tepid yet intense connection that has always borne in me. The shy, shifty and careless school kid comes back, and will continue to do so. Its one shrine where I am without myself, where what I have done, or undone is immaterial. Even with curses on my back, culminating into agonies and surfacing frailties , pains or no pains, bliss or no bliss, finding this oasis finds me. Each detail; the kid I bashed up in ninth grade, resulting into my suspension, my horrendous and humiliating quandary, the first social mishap, with a girl also some time around ninth grade, those climbing of the stairs to collect certificates and awards... I heard they have reworked the stage up, now it has one entrance instead of two. As this district attracted more inhabitants, hordes of shoppers catalyzed its industrialization, or typically, the mall-ification and arcade-isation. Somerville advantageously built upon it, and stands a reasonable chance to be declamated for as a fairly prestigious and illustrious enterprise for education. I might never be able to judge impartially though, as I muse upon my almost fastidious compulsion. The structure has changed a bit, the main gallery looks more plush, adding a rather staid disposition to the establishment. They brought up an auditorium, boasted about by many students, including my siblings. The main garden, a verdant quadrangle of grass, bordered by chrysanthemums and magnolias, is the first feature that restores the old image, the way its always been. Even the gardener hasn't changed. His fruits of sweaty labor have developed a bond for each sapling grown in this earth, since it began to be tilled; even to the cursory observer. Where am I now? Fugacious about my bearings. Searching for a platform to stand on, so that for once, my limbs are not flailing for support.
Its getting brighter now, and the birds chirp incredulously to the rising sun, as if in resentment. A maudlin aura surrounds my immediate space, part because of this inclement climate, part as a reminiscence of those foolhardy and unruly blokes who trudged along this way, ten years ago... Bags on their backs, straps broken for some, but unfettered by this handicap, their light banter used to infuse an euphoria which took twelve years to cease. Heads thrown back, in handsome abandon, disagreements and tiffs were taken into strides, an ass was made out of anyone, without compunction or malice. It was the purest time of their lives. The dirt they kicked, on each other, or by the inconsistent frustration, the hooliganism, the embarrassment because of some fitful event in the class; the dust has settled now and has been carried to another place, another time. Now, only a handful of us eye each other in the same nostalgic hues. In fact, only a handful of us eye each other at all, probably a couple of times in the entire year. I am even hesitant to go back and dust off the old records, redeem lost contacts and invigorate collapsing relationships. So easy it is; remarkably, to turn our backs to what was the mainstay of our lives, in its most crucial phase.
I reached the main gate, and instead of turning my back again, like I have been doing since in the past, I stand and try to assimilate as much as I can in my peripheral vision. The guard comes over and asks me my purpose, I tell him, "Nothing." Something here and there, an oddity, a similarity, a nook here, a corner there, that in a frame makes it an altogether different building, housing another generation, grooming another future. But in another din, a portion of it seems still, bearing prints, our footprints; awaited by the relevant sights to be deciphered. I can see some of the old swings. I can see the surprisingly neglected shortcut from behind the waterhouse, I can see myself crossing that shortcut. I can see everything, in the front, behind the building, underneath in the basement; everywhere. I always had a feeling that some pedagogic entity, some higher authority was watching over my back, whenever I crossed from here.
Perhaps that explains the apprehension. The pillory returns. The tangibility of unconsciousness is inexorable and it outweighs whatever reasons I conjure up. It makes them diffuse to putative and kitschy excuses. I realize that, I am getting late. Like I always have been for the past ten years. I don't know whether work allows my residence here anymore. I may never get to trudge along this strip of asphalt for a long time, or even if I do return, my excursions may be decimated by the haste, which will ensconce me for years to come. I walk till I come to edge of the boundary fencing of Somerville, then after a last glance, strangely barring the rest, limited only till the fence, I think about the attention that they finally have paid to this shrub. It used to be a wilderness in "our times". Now, as a consolation, that pragmatism has surmised for me, are my commitments to myself, and promises and expectations from others.
An undercurrent of relief passes and I think about my destination. It is an old friend's house. A friend from Somerville. I cant return to it, but I can keep it alive in my own implicitly trivial and spoony ways, like a phantom of eternal delight, in thought and belief, in actions and memory, in the present and the past, within and beyond myself... As I walk an empty street, in the boulevard of broken dreams.
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