Monday, February 7th, 2005
10 years out of 100
On the first day of school, I cried.
Everything else is a blur. But this much I remember clearly. On the first day of school, I cried.
The ten years I spent in school were significant not just in the history of the school but in the history of India and, indeed, the world. Maybe everyone thinks this way of their formative years but, even with the tempering brought about by hindsight, I still believe the seventies and eighties were a great time to go to school.
The USA and the USSR were waging a cold war. John Lennon came out of exile but was assassinated soon after. Emergency was declared in India. Sanjay Gandhi became a young and restless political leader to reckon with but died tragically (in what was to be the first of many gruesome deaths in the family but at least Sanjay Gandhi’s death was an accident or so we’re told). The seeds for Maruti as a people’s car were sown. India hosted the Asiad. Colour television made its debut.
And closer home, or should I say closer to school, there were no girls at St John the Baptist High School. The school started enrolling girls only around the time my batch (the class of ’84) was preparing to bow out. So it was something of a boy’s club.
But some of the most inspiring figures were women. Teachers who taught us, reprimanded us, shaped us for life. Some of them were stern like Miss Faria in class one, Miss Gladys in class four and Miss Violet in class ten. Some of them were gentle like Miss Elizabeth in class two, Miss Martha in class three, Miss Naik in class five, Miss Kamal in class six, Miss Mavis in class eight. Two of them were mother figures: Miss Moses in class seven and Miss Alu, who was vice principal and taught math in class nine. And one of them was, and continues to be an inspiration. Miss Coral in class nine. I’m sure every writer has an English teacher who he would like to thank but cannot find the words. 20 years after leaving school, I’m still struggling to find words to thank Miss Coral.
Apart from teaching us reading, writing and arithmetic, I believe these teachers also fostered in us a deep sense of respect for women. India is still largely a sexist, chauvinistic country and going to all-boys school can only fuel more sexism.
Of course, much water has flowed under the Thane Creek bridge since the days I went to school. St John’s is now co-ed. And we live in a time when a woman has stepped aside and allowed a man to take the prime minister’s chair. Never mind that the Gandhi family was in power in the early eighties and they are in power now. The more things change, the more they are the same.
So I look back through the blurred windscreen of time and I wonder. Do they still have elections in school? Is there still a bank on the ground floor of the central wing where we first learned to save money? Is the canteen still at the mouth of the new wing? (That, incidentally, is where we first learned to spend money.) Does the school still lay emphasis on extra curricular activities and shape newer generations of orators, dramatists, musicians, athletes?
In a city where builders usurp space by the millimeter and hawk it by the square foot, St John’s is that rarity where three basketball courts, an open playground, a table tennis court, a well stacked library and a cavernous convention hall occupy as much if not more space than the classrooms. Anyone studying here can’t but help have an education that’s well rounded.
There is a lovely Portugese Church at one end and a cemetery at the other, standing there like the bookends of life. A reminder of where we all come from and where we shall eventually return.
From most parts of the old wing, there are spectacular views of the Masunda Lake. My last memory of school is standing at a window of the convention hall and staring at the lake.
At one point in the farewell party for the class of ’84, Sir Alex was playing the piano, Sir James, a fine science teacher, stood in the aisle. Sir Lawrence was singing Vaia Con Dios, a Spanish-English farewell song. The words ran to the effect that this is just adios and not goodbye.
But I knew this was goodbye. Somewhere inside me, a dam was bursting. I tore myself away from my chair and stood in the window, my back turned to the gathering. In that private moment, my eyes welled up and my vision blurred to a point where my tears and the water in the lake seemed to merge.
On the last day of school, I cried.