CLASS ACT

Our correspondent goes back to school for a day. In the corridors are old memories and a few rude shocks

Almost ten years after I left classrooms, blackboards and puppy love, I am off to school8212;to be a student for a day. This time, I8217;m driving there in my car and not the school bus. My thoughts are of the past: our fights over the window seat and chalk missiles flying out to hit bull8217;s eye any hapless pedestrian with a slow gait, my first crush and the memories of growing up. But, before I know it, here we are. Bhartiya Vidya Bhavan, the same old gate. What hasn8217;t changed, I wonder.

Well, I still have to wear the uniform my insistent, pestering copy editor made sure I did. It waits for me at the principal8217;s office. One look and the fashionista in me quails. The skirt is a poor version of what we called a ghaghra in my days there I go. So, after thanking principal G S Negi, I dash to the uniform store and ask for a shorter size. This rule has not changed in all these years: the shorter you wear, the smarter you look. The uniform wale uncleji as we fondly called him takes one look at me and says, 8220;Waist size 32.8221; Hello? I might have put on some flab in the last 10 years, but 32? 8220;No way, give me a 28,8221; I shot back. And, yes, I did fit in.

So I troop in with the girls to Class XII A. I have never been in this class before. It8217;s closer to the toilet and far from the lover8217;s paradise the bridge-like corridor that joins the primary and the senior section, where I met my first crush.

The first class is economics, not my forte. My mind wanders. How am I looking? When will the next period begin? Bhavana, the class monitor, senses my discomfort. 8220;You look one among us. Don8217;t worry.8221; I give her a look of gratitude. The next class is psychology, far more comforting than the forces of demand and supply. The young teacher lists the causes of depression and I am hooked. Almost at the end of the period, an unkempt classmate barges in, no 8220;May-I-come-in-ma8217;am?8221; needed. The teacher is furious but he8217;s unfazed. 8220;But, isn8217;t the class over ma8217;am? You are supposed to go out, not I.8221; I am stunned.
The teacher lets it be. 8220;You kids have no manners these days,8221; she murmurs. I agree. Even the rowdiest kid in my class was more polite.

But lunch break is still welcome. As the teacher leaves the class, I am my classmates8217; centre of attention. Uh-oh, I know this. Here comes the ragging routine I8217;ve led many in my time. But nope, these kids keep their distance. Thank God for Bhavana, who takes me around and introduces me to everyone. The oddity of a journalist in school uniform breaks the ice. 8220;Rolled sleeves8230; eh? Streaked hair?8221; I am suitably embarrassed.

However, we are friends now. And we do what I did best: bunk the next few classes and explore the school. I can sniff the same aroma of paranthas with mango pickle; there is a familiar queue at the cooler, girls splash water on friends. The cooler looks cleaner and is better tiled. The canteen too has spruced up and stocks a variety of food. In our time, we got to choose between a samosa and a burger.

But time, I find, has redrawn the space of my past. In place of the playground stands a new school building. There was a tree here once. Under its shade, childhood sweetheart Brijesh and I shared canteen burgers and the paranthas that I brought every day. The tree8217;s gone and I have found other memories. But some things haven8217;t changed. For one, Brijesh and I are still together.

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Soon, time to go home. The school buses have lined up. Even their route numbers had changed. The uniform is folded back. I go to the office to thank Sir Negi and give him my visiting card.
I am a journalist again.