The Two Schools

On my last trip home, I visited the two schools I had studied in, the old and the older, full of signs of decay, and growth. A new ugly section had been added to the 160 years old structure. It was a lab I suppose, a functional eyesore funded by the usual grants and donations our schools thrive upon while our government decides whether or not our kids have a right to education, whether to add or not another piece of dysfunctional tattered beggar’s cloth named fundamental rights.
Height changes perspective, so does age, I realized this as I walked through the empty classrooms and courtyards which were a large chunk of my world for many years. They looked different when I was little, my older school looked much bigger then, even daunting, awe inspiring. I remember clutching to my cache of prizes during probably my last year at the school, feeling proud in my father’s presence, and then growing smaller little by little as the prizes and their recipients kept coming and going on stage, and it hit me that evening was over for me, there was nothing more to do, no more prizes to be had beyond the ones I had already collected.
It is important to feel pride for your accomplishments and yet be humble, these annual ceremonies made me realize. That night was cool and breezy, and we were happy, full of chit chat and banter while we were returning. I remember taking a resolution to memorize a long poem at behest of one of my father’s friends, and being mesmerized as he broke into a deep passionate song, a long Sanskrit ode to lord Shiva. Happiness often comes in hindsight; we never realize that it could be over in a moment, that what we take for granted will one become precious, elusive mirage.
It did not occur to me then that this will be my last night at the school, it did not till the moment I returned to the empty auditorium these many years later.
When I spent my last day in this school, I was a kid who thought the world would last forever, when I went for first time in my next school; I had grown up, woken up to a world that did not last beyond a moment.
And yet this place accepted me, someone moved a bit to share space in the classroom, we chose our favorite places, our neighbors, our playmates, and somehow I no longer felt unsure of myself.
I know what I would do if I see some adolescent who thinks he is grown up and understands the world and it’s sadness. Or do I? I don’t mind if he understands all about fragility and sadness of world, yes one should know that, but then there is this game to played, there is this interesting story to heard, there is this beautiful song to be learnt, and all of these exist as much as sadness does. It’s a matter of choosing to live with sadness and happiness in their fair share, and not closing doors, not saying presence of one precluded possibility of other.
World of memories always looks smaller than the one in front of eyes, but it carries much more life in it...A large part of living is about remembering, being nostalgic, telling stories, some true, others make believe…I don’t know how important truth is, but I know that the stories are almost always interesting...