First things first, merry Christmas everybody! It’s a relief of a holiday for parents, which means my face is administered a thorough check-up by Mom, and all possible remedies for those blackheads/ whiteheads/ pimples/ what-not are peacefully ignored as I go on practising my classy albeit slow rendition of N.I.B. by Black Sabbath on my guitar (whose story can be found here).
I’d been to my school yesterday, and the breathless wait notwithstanding, I shuddered when I reached the gate and in another one of the now-common panic attacks that I have, I feigned a phone-call and went past the gate some five more times, waiting for a mate to turn up to give me company. But, fate is cruel to cowards, and as I ran out of balance and patience, I mustered enough courage to walk till the portico and start running through the notice boards. Ah, nothing’s changed, I thought to myself as I ran through the list of school’s achievements. Cowardice still had me in its grip, though, as I didn’t dare to step inside fearing a barrage of teachers to wish, and catch up with. Wait a minute- this is what I had turned up for! But, I continued to stand, stare, feign a few more phone calls until one of the organising alumni turned up, and a few greetings and conversations later, so did the mate I was waiting for.
Unfortunately, I had conveniently forgotten the fact that school functions rarely begin on time- we had reached dot at half past three and there were only four souls to be seen in the hallowed quadrangle, and I looked at the stage where the morning assemblies were held, a smile on my face. Mate and I then proceeded for a walk around the school’s corridors, revisiting many an old classroom, and also commenting on what a disgrace it was to put class ten on the first floor alongside ten-year-olds. The old store-room, later converted into a room for the then-newly restarted class eleven had now been made the maths lab. Mate said he still felt like throwing around things in that room; for us, it’d always be the dump yard.
Old teachers were greeted, names forgotten and retold, memories revived, many a smile here and a smirk in jest there- nostalgia was clearly the order of the evening. Two hours later, spent roaming around in the grounds and the cycle stand, we went back to the quadrangle to see more excited pass-outs bumbling about, and a few girly shrieks were heard and ticked off. The teachers were definitely having a ball- some even posing for pictures with every single alumnus they met- God only knows when, or even if, you people will turn up again. I was disappointed to see the sea-change in one of my favourite teachers- the prim and proper (as in that wonderful story in class six whose name I forgot) lady was now a hasti-khilti friendly teacher. The earlier avatar was so much more memorable, I thought to myself. The favourite class-teacher was seen, too, and after a gasping exclamation of ‘Murty!’ she was lost in work and other alumni, not to be seen again for the rest of the evening.
The school in twilight and dark has always fascinated me, and as the clock went past 180 degrees, the alumni meet officially began. By this time, most other batch-mates had duly turned up, and after an initial measly four, it was our year’s batch with the highest strength, and also the highest level of complacency as we totally ignored the speeches, poems, woeful anchoring and the usual hullabaloo associated with social occasions. People from many a batch came and spoke about their colourful memories from school- no one, unfortunately, was in a comic mood, and as my erstwhile classmates continued to push me onstage, my reservations took over and I stayed put. Meanwhile, one by one, people went on stage, spoke something into the mike, and went to receive what-looked-like-mementos from the new principal. What’s he ever done that I haven’t in school, I muttered. Later, I found out, everyone was going on stage at random, giving their name and what they were doing now, and then went on to receive some tokens of gratitude. Pulling along a friend who said she still hadn’t overcome her stage fright, I went to those steps to the stage where I’d been so few times, but each being memorable in its own right. The friend went, spoke uncharacteristically confidently into the microphone, leaving me to follow as she went on to collect her souvenir. Yours truly put a spring in his step, jumped up to the podium, put his mouth to the microphone, and spake thus:
“Good evening, everyone! My name’s M.V.R. Murty and I’m from the class of 2005. Questions asked- What’s your name, batch and what’re you doing now? My name and batch I’ve told you already, and what am I doing? Well, at present, I’m embarrassing myself on stage!”
Most teachers who cared to hear in the front row either gasped, put up a contorted expression, or just said- Still the very same. He won’t ever change!
The principal said while handing me the souvenir, “I didn’t get a word of what you said. Still, hope to see you next year!”
Same here, Ma’am! Same here...
P.S.- Oh, did I forget? I’m scrapping the lists idea. I’m too lazy to make those lists. I’m too lazy to change the title as well.
P.P.S.- The accompanying friend later thanked me for helping her fight her stage fright. When asked if I ever had some, I quipped “Didn’t you hear me speak into the mic?” and smirked confidently. She said “No, obviously!”
