This story is about an ordinary day in the life of an ordinary man back in the childhood. Its about the fun of being a child, the joy of a day in the school. In spite of a flock of challenges and difficulties (I won't call them adversity) we had to fight each day, the vivid memories of the school are only sweet.
The school had five rooms, no furniture, except for a chair meant for the teacher. The chairs usually dilapidated. Always like they are carrying the weights of the bulky bottoms of the overgrown teachers for one last time. The plastic stretching beyond the elasticity it could afford to. Besides the chair there was a blackboard, it was of course, black, I don't know where the board was. It was but a two dimensional flattened section of the wall painted black. Right below it deposited the white chalk dust. Forming a thick heap of all the letters, all the languages, all shapes ever drawn on the board. Like a glorious past buried in the ruins. We the students occupied most of the classroom, of course. The rough floor was for us. Few would carry a mat everyday. But most didn't. We never cared. The cement floor had some smooth parts,marking what it was supposed to be and had numerous tiny ditches revealing its reality. When we went to school, each morning, the cyclic ritual of brooming the floor was the duty, students would dispersed that in an ever changing responsibility. Followed by the assembly for prayers and the classes. More than often we found broken beer bottles, strewn food and broken bricks lying around the floors. They silently spoke of the "civic" acts executed by the 'grown ups' after school hours. Yes, there was no such thing as security guard or a fence for that matter. It was just an array of five rooms and a porch stretching along those rooms. Many windows and doors broken, giving access to anyone who seek darkness to commit darker acts in the night. Oh, the classroom had no lights or fans. Sun was our source and the breeze our comfort. We absolutely loved rain. For the most part rain would mean a holiday. The roof was made with red clay, placed one over another in rows. Many of them broken exposing holes. You get to see the holes on a sunny day as the sun rays stream through making the dust busy in their Brownian motion visible to the naked eyes. So when it rained, we would see water pouring through those holes and to exponentiate it, we would run on the floor with muddy feet making sure it looks convincingly unsuitable. The open field was our toilet, as well the playground. The uniform comprised of a crimson half pant and a white half shirt. The shirts were rarely white. Often carrying marks of your games from yesterday and ink from you pen, letting everyone know what ink the friend behind you uses. Each class was a torture for the most part. We would be asked to keep quite and teachers would assemble to gossip. Some female teaches would use the time to sew sweaters for their kids. And us? We are left to either boredom of silence or the joy of playing funny games among us. A day would pass as the clock rushes past 4PM. The long bell would be sounded and we leap throw the doors racing, like water from a dam. Happy, unassuming, innocent. Clinging to the dangling piece of hand sewed cloth, we called bag, we ran, barefoot brimming with energy, teeming with joy. Towards our home, restless for the evening games of cricket on the streets.
The school was a unifier. A leveler of sort for the society. Kids from all classes of economy were there. Well almost all classes. I had friends who would help their fathers sell Idlys on the thela outside our school. One who helped her father in the butcher shop. And many who came from a family of daily wage laborers. Many from lower middle classes. All castes, every religion. And we would eat, play, read together. It was a great occasion where you learn to love, everyone. Eventually all of us made it. Few followed the suit of their fathers, few became migrants, like me. Few managed to get a promotion over what their father did. For many of them their kids are having a better childhood and education than what they had. We all have come a long way. The school has come a long way, the red clay roof has since then been replaced with concrete. It has got fence and electricity in the classes. For the standard of education, is the only thing that's stuck in the past. Couldn't get anywhere. Someday, may be someday!
Truly
Abinash
The school had five rooms, no furniture, except for a chair meant for the teacher. The chairs usually dilapidated. Always like they are carrying the weights of the bulky bottoms of the overgrown teachers for one last time. The plastic stretching beyond the elasticity it could afford to. Besides the chair there was a blackboard, it was of course, black, I don't know where the board was. It was but a two dimensional flattened section of the wall painted black. Right below it deposited the white chalk dust. Forming a thick heap of all the letters, all the languages, all shapes ever drawn on the board. Like a glorious past buried in the ruins. We the students occupied most of the classroom, of course. The rough floor was for us. Few would carry a mat everyday. But most didn't. We never cared. The cement floor had some smooth parts,marking what it was supposed to be and had numerous tiny ditches revealing its reality. When we went to school, each morning, the cyclic ritual of brooming the floor was the duty, students would dispersed that in an ever changing responsibility. Followed by the assembly for prayers and the classes. More than often we found broken beer bottles, strewn food and broken bricks lying around the floors. They silently spoke of the "civic" acts executed by the 'grown ups' after school hours. Yes, there was no such thing as security guard or a fence for that matter. It was just an array of five rooms and a porch stretching along those rooms. Many windows and doors broken, giving access to anyone who seek darkness to commit darker acts in the night. Oh, the classroom had no lights or fans. Sun was our source and the breeze our comfort. We absolutely loved rain. For the most part rain would mean a holiday. The roof was made with red clay, placed one over another in rows. Many of them broken exposing holes. You get to see the holes on a sunny day as the sun rays stream through making the dust busy in their Brownian motion visible to the naked eyes. So when it rained, we would see water pouring through those holes and to exponentiate it, we would run on the floor with muddy feet making sure it looks convincingly unsuitable. The open field was our toilet, as well the playground. The uniform comprised of a crimson half pant and a white half shirt. The shirts were rarely white. Often carrying marks of your games from yesterday and ink from you pen, letting everyone know what ink the friend behind you uses. Each class was a torture for the most part. We would be asked to keep quite and teachers would assemble to gossip. Some female teaches would use the time to sew sweaters for their kids. And us? We are left to either boredom of silence or the joy of playing funny games among us. A day would pass as the clock rushes past 4PM. The long bell would be sounded and we leap throw the doors racing, like water from a dam. Happy, unassuming, innocent. Clinging to the dangling piece of hand sewed cloth, we called bag, we ran, barefoot brimming with energy, teeming with joy. Towards our home, restless for the evening games of cricket on the streets.
The school was a unifier. A leveler of sort for the society. Kids from all classes of economy were there. Well almost all classes. I had friends who would help their fathers sell Idlys on the thela outside our school. One who helped her father in the butcher shop. And many who came from a family of daily wage laborers. Many from lower middle classes. All castes, every religion. And we would eat, play, read together. It was a great occasion where you learn to love, everyone. Eventually all of us made it. Few followed the suit of their fathers, few became migrants, like me. Few managed to get a promotion over what their father did. For many of them their kids are having a better childhood and education than what they had. We all have come a long way. The school has come a long way, the red clay roof has since then been replaced with concrete. It has got fence and electricity in the classes. For the standard of education, is the only thing that's stuck in the past. Couldn't get anywhere. Someday, may be someday!
Truly
Abinash
