CLASS ACT

So I troop in with the girls to Class XII A. I have never been in this class before. It’s closer to the toilet and far from the lover’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. “You look one among us. Don’t worry.” 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 “May-I-come-in-ma’am?” needed. The teacher is furious but he’s unfazed. “But, isn’t the class over ma’am? You are supposed to go out, not I.” I am stunned.
The teacher lets it be. “You kids have no manners these days,” 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 classmates’ centre of attention. Uh-oh, I know this. Here comes the ragging routine (I’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. “Rolled sleeves… eh? Streaked hair?” 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 tree’s gone and I have found other memories. But some things haven’t changed. For one, Brijesh and I are still together.

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.