Author: Girija Prakash
I vividly remember my first day in the primary section of my school. I cried inconsolably, as my parents were about to go back home without me . I wouldn’t leave their hands and held them tightly. I wasn’t the only child behaving that way. But half of the kids were wailing and whining while the teachers and ayahs had a tough time pacifying us.
They had to sternly ask the parents to leave the classroom immediately. After a while, things settled down and everything became normal. Because we kids knew that, how much ever we shouted out or cried, our parents wouldn’t be allowed to stay with us.
Our class teacher was a fair lady, slim and fragile and of an average height. Her name was a Vasanthi. Since my admission process, my parents had already interacted with her many times, I felt more comfortable with her. In fact, if she wasn’t visible , I would begin to cry my heart out. But she was such a nice teacher that she often put up with my tantrums, take me in her arms, cuddle me and pacify me . That had a magical effect on me. I would stop crying and obey her meekly.
One of the reasons was that she reminded me of my dear mom, with whom I was always very close, being the youngest among the three of us. Sometimes she would hum some inaudible tune, which was very melodious to my ears. She had a long plait, which would move rhythmically behind her back, whenever she walked in the classroom,
My primary school was a temporary one, run in a community hall, which was bifurcated into various classrooms. The main building of the school was still under construction and so we juniors were put up in this place. Every day my father accompanied me to the school in the morning. And in the evening, it was my mother’s turn to pick me and my second elder brother Balaji and escort us back home . As he was senior to me by two years, his classes were in the main building.
But during lunch time, he would come running to me , hug me and bring along our lunch boxes. We both would sit at a cozy place and hurriedly eat our food. Sometimes it was upma, at times idlis or lime rice or dosas or curd rice with some pickle on it’s top. Mostly we had our full meals before we came to school. So during lunch we ate some light tiffin or curd rice.
After we finished eating, my brother Balaji would wash both our tiffin boxes and take them away with him. This way I did not carry any extra load other than my school books and pencil box. I used to carry a plastic water bottle, which I hung across my neck, while going home.
Though I was an above average student in studies , I always waited eagerly for the classes to get over, so that I could meet my mom again and reach home as soon as possible. I liked playing with my friend Meena. We played all sorts of games, played exclusively by little girls during those times. We played with wooden kitchen sets, cooking, serving and eating imaginary food. Sometimes we brought little bit of eatables like bread, biscuits, chapatis or chips. We would also play with uncooked rice and lentils, brought from our respective houses and eat them raw. Meena was younger to me by 3 years, but that made no difference. We loved to play with each other, the whole evening, till one of our mothers would call us back home. Reluctantly we would go home, waiting for the next day, to meet again in the evening.
During summer vacations , mostly I along with my mother and second brother, went to our native place. Our father would join us after a fortnight or so because he couldn’t leave his business commitments half way. My eldest brother was studying in the native place. He completed his graduation in South India and then came down to Mumbai permanently.
There’s so much to talk about those days, sometimes I just think why the days pass by, why those caring and beautiful days don’t stop for some more time, but its life and let us live it keeping the little child in us alive forever.