Fossilized Memoris

Every one of us bemoans those distant childhood days that seem so far behind us. Childhood has become a treasure trove of memories, and sometimes, in the midst of our monotonous routines, we manage to evoke that nostalgia. It’s a momentary escape when our overtaxed brains stumble onto recollections buried deep in our own secret gardens, where the memories bloom, and we inhale their sweetness, realizing how precious those times were.

We recall waking to our mother’s gentle voice, which quickly turned into a raised one when we wouldn’t budge. Our father would step in for a morning kiss, and we’d pull him close, clinging to that warmth just to snatch a few more seconds of sleep. Eventually, we’d give in, finding our mother busy in the sacred place we call the kitchen, preparing something that smelled positively divine. We’d creep up like a stealthy cat, give her a hug, and earn a mild scolding for interrupting her “pure” cooking.

Then came the daily ritual: rummaging for socks and shoes, fetching our crisply pressed uniforms from the wardrobe, and counting the days till we could wear our next “color dress.” We’d double-check our homework, hoping the math or geography teacher would be absent, and praying the P.E. teacher was healthy enough for class—nobody wanted a missed games period!

We’d grab our bike—or cycle—handlebars, pedal as fast as possible, and spot the watchman inching the school gate closed as the first bell rang for assembly. We’d flash our brightest smile, offer a polite “Namaste,” and slip through the narrow gap with our heavy bag and sports cycle. Parking it somewhat deeper inside (to pretend we arrived earlier), we’d drop our book bag and lunch bag in a random ground-floor classroom, then line up for assembly with our classmates, trying to appear like the ever-punctual “good kid.” The head girl would acknowledge us with a smile, effectively marking our presence. Any lingering fatigue from the bike ride would vanish under the cool breeze from the yellow-flowered tree, swaying at the edge of the grounds. We’d smile with gratitude at its topmost blossoms.

“School, stand at ease! School, attention!” came the school pupil leader’s voice. We’d obey like robots, singing those lengthy prayer songs, half-closing our eyes. The news would be read in multiple languages; we’d hear various thoughts of the day, all while fretting over the lunch bag we’d left in that unfamiliar classroom. Meanwhile, the head girl, ever-vigilant, might catch us chatting and note our names for an imposition on the Big Black Board. After the formalities, we’d recite the Indian pledge, hands on our hearts, and hear the school captain announce class attendance: “VI A—Boys present: 21, Girls present: 23…” all the way up to “XII C—Boys present: 9, Girls present: 6.” The assembly ended with the chant of “Hare Rama Hare Rama, Rama Rama Hare Hare,” followed by a cheerful clapping routine. Finally dismissed, we’d head back to class, where our closest friends created the memories that now seem etched in our minds forever.

In the classroom, we’d listen halfheartedly, doze off, get caught whispering, and commit every kind of harmless mischief. On Mondays and Wednesdays, we had evening drills—an excuse to play matches with seniors or just watch friends sprint around the grounds. Tuesdays brought “special classes” we tried to skip (often unsuccessfully), and Thursdays and Saturdays featured co-curricular activities. Some of us showed our “classical” dance moves then, while on Fridays, bhajans took center stage. Though not everyone was deeply religious, we’d still walk into the prayer room to watch our buddies perform and to savor the “Maha Naivedhya Prasadam”—delicious sundals. Our friends’ little hands would beat percussion instruments, and their sweet voices would sing, “Radha Rasikka Vara Raasa Vihaara…” Those 45-minute sessions felt like a feast, whether you were the lead singer or simply soaking in the atmosphere.

Then there were those geography exams where we’d stare at squiggly lines on a page, supposedly maps and borders. English grammar—“is,” “was,” “were,” “had been,” blah blah blah—was equally puzzling. Finger-on-your-lips corridor walks were probably the only times we truly grasped the concept of silence. If our names ever got called over the mic, even if for mischief, we felt like royalty. And once the final bell rang, we’d snatch our satchels, race to the field, unlock our bicycles, and exit through the grand grill gate. A quick glance back gave us a burst of joy: we were free for the rest of the day and could hang out with friends on street corners.

Who could forget annual days and science project exhibitions? Sanskrit classes, Sanskrit dramas—watching seniors conversing in that ancient language and falling hard for it ourselves. Sports moments, inter-school chess competitions, personality development camps at Thenangoor or Thekkady—wherever they took us. We beamed with pride when our school triumphed over its sister concern. We also held exhibitions and celebrated Raksha Bandhan on Independence Day, envying kids from other schools who got a holiday. If our parents applied for a “restricted holiday,” we’d happily stay home to enjoy the festival with our grandparents.

We fought for window seats, swapped colorful sketch pens (especially the fluorescent ones), and pasted charts all over the walls. We endured aural-oral competitions and holiday homework. We played UNO with siblings, watched Kane and The Undertaker in the wrestling ring, and cheered on Sachin Tendulkar in cricket matches, oblivious to diagonal or horizontal lines—just enthralled by Sachin’s batting. The next day at school, we’d excitedly replay every move with friends. (Sachinism probably deserves its own write-up.)

And here we are, wishing God had a reverse button to take us back to those good old days. Back then, “Google God” was too expensive a concept to fathom; we simply relied on libraries or Doordarshan. JGHV—Jaigopal Garodia Hindu Vidhyalaya—played an enormous role in my life story, teaching me values that shaped me into a near-complete individual.

We learned what family means, understood the essence of friendship, and experienced genuine love. Every one of us holds a rich legacy of memories—let’s cherish them and do our best to pass a bit of that magic on to our kids. I inhale a deep breath of hope, leaving you to wander back to your own childhood.

P.S. Thank you, Padmaja, for prompting me to write this, and thanks to the many friends—Madhuvanthi, Janani, Shakthi, Srivatsan Jagannathan, Aishu, Kavitha, Abi, Krithika, Vaishu, Suju, Usha Mam, Gaju Mam, Sathya Sir, Sankari Miss, Kumar Sir, Princi Mam, Nalini Mam, and all those teachers who not only appear in this piece but also fill the pages of my life. A special mention to Lalitha Mam and Uma Mam of JGHV—my T.S. Eliots—who first recognized my ability to write. I only wish they could read this piece of mine!