When i came home and ate dinner, i felt like going for a round of table tennis on my brother’s birthday present (a table tennis table). He obliged despite the fact that he would much rather be watching indian tv. He obliged and played for as long as i wanted.
When my parents came home from work, they asked me how my exam went. Begrudginly, but truthfully, i said it went badly. Despite its reprecussions my parents didn’t pursue the matter any further, and opted to delay their dissappointment until results. Unlike other times, they turned a blind eye to the apple i didn’t eat and the room i never got around the cleaning.
My room is illuminated more than it should be. Its colour comforts in my every season, light and cold and dark and warm. Its always the place which anchors a listless raft washed by the waves of uncertainty.
You may now commence writing.
I’d become a number, a six digit code and a part of a military exercise. Seat number 638. Paper as white as a ghost, and text which spoke boldy and crisply, but smugly as if to say, “I am better than you.”
Two hours passed as did a scrabble of words strung together for the sake of filling the haunting white of the answer booklet.
Pens down.
And so to my spirits. I think once you know you’ve done it, there is a point you reach where fretting and and being openly and angrily bitter about it subside, and a feeling of despondency flushes you with inexplicable force.
The amazing thing is, that no matter how badly it had been done, love had prevailed. Hours later in the awoken nightime, two brothers played pingpong. One had forgotten about what had happened earlier in the day, even if it was only for about half an hour. The other, with the iinnocence that comes with being 12 had worked his magic. Although he didn’t know it, and i’ll never let him know, sending the ball whistling down a table, end to end sung a lullaby to an overworked and underpaid mind.
And this room, as part of the home i live in, built by the people i know best, sparkles with light, and though it is not the sun, if it were, every ray, would be one of hope.
Friday, November 14, 2008
Trip down memory lane part 1
To kick things off, here is something I wrote earlier.
--
I haven’t written one of these in over half a year, but what better place to restart it than with the memory of my old school.
It had been an uneventful night as Amit bhaiya and I were returning from a night out in town celebrating Nihit bhaiya’s (my cousin’s) birthday. Amit or bunty bhaiya as he is affectionately called, who i’ve known for more than 12 years coincidentally went to the same school as me (albeit graduating 8 years after). Anyway, we were driving back, and I realised we were in South Yarra. Knowing that he would be married in 5 months and that the years that we spent together - reminiscing, watching footy, playing cricket may all be over very soon, I asked whether he wanted to drive past Melbourne High and see whether it had changed. It was 2:30 am.
To our surprise, the front gates were open, so we parked inside the school. There was still that scholarly architecture of the front building overlooking a cricket ground without a blade of grass out of place, shimmering green and unmarked by weeds. We walked up the hill a bit and to my surprise, the side of the castle where there used to be a patch of lawn in front of the portables was replaced by the steel framework of another building. I never knew about those plans and was surprised to have seen them there. Come to think of it though - I vaguely recall them developing the arts faculty. Maybe that was it. They seem to have refurbished the portables a bit as well. Bunty bhaiya videoed as we strolled across the front of the building and walked up the stairs towards the Principals office. There it was, the tallest part of the school, two pillars down either side, ornate patterns, a complement of royal red and bright white on the old unmoving and unsmiling building. Each labourer must have had the craftsmanship of a chess grand master - blending boldness with finesse. The middle pillar - like a rook on a chess board, having castled with the King, unified and impregnable. Each brick echoed a distant but familiar song which told us to honour the work and when you are down and almost out, “strong like its pillars,” the school will stand behind you. It was all so grandiose and uplifting that it may seem superficial and conceited to the observer, but only an Old boy can know how real it felt.
We went around a bit more and shared stories about our experiences, and our friends at Melbourne High. It was odd. He is 8 years older than me, but it seemed like the ethos and the culture and the people at Melbourne High which helped shape us both were the same regardless of the differing years we were there. That our school had not changed, and that our opinions had not changed was a testament to the camaraderie encouraged by its administrators and demanded by its history and every breath it took.
With a somewhat resigned look he said, “I wonder what my sister(a macrobian) would think of this, she would think we are sad cases."
Without much thought on the matter we gave a unified response which pointed out the unflattering toilet block they had to pass their school years in. We smugly pitied them. With a cheeky grin and a well acted out conversation caught on camera we knew that we would somehow get her to see it.
We went around the courtyards and showed each other where we used to hang out most of the time. We went back around the construction building. There were noises. It sounded like two men. Construction work at 3 am? The hair on the back of our necks stood up, and not just because it was cold. It was the first time we thought we might be breaking the law by trespassing. But we were Old Boys right? And we weren’t doing anything except reminiscing. It was also the first time we thought of zombies may enter the gates and we would have no one who could hear us while ravaging beasts devoured us.
We managed to laugh it off. Oddly enough, there were two hobos “unloading” on the construction area. We asked them whether they were Old Boys, but being slightly intoxicated they randomly revealed that they were living in some hotel. Surely, there were toilets there?
Not questioning how differently people behave from the norm (after all, who goes to their old school at 3 am when they could be watching the IPL, right?), we continued our visit. We peered in to the nurse’s office and I remembered how blood noses saved me from tests I was unprepared for. We followed the covered carpark where I used to occasionally play down ball, past the gym and the Ninety’s building and the Round Building. There wasn’t the same grandeur in these buildings as the castle, but in every step counted by Bunty Bhaiya’s pedometer which he had buckled on to him for charity, there were moments of sweat dripping down our backs as we came back from the cricket and hockey pitch, moments of anxiety as we would walk in to exams and tests, moments of relief and thanking God that it was over, times of joy that a school day had started and that it had ended, times of confession and of emotional offloading and venting, music epiphanies and reflection, times where we would be unfairly berated by teachers, and equally times when they would enchant us with their brilliance and insight and forgiveness, moments of disappointment, smiles, quirkiness and ingenuity, but most importantly, moments spent with friends. Those who are distant, and those who we have lost, those who we high fived without following it with conversation and those who are still close. At every minute during the walk, I felt my eyes welling up, and a tear teetering on the edge of eyelashes. If anything stopped them from falling on the wrong side, it was a memory of a cheerful moment, inducing a smile which pushed the tear back in. They stayed inside me washed me in happiness.
We went up outside the memorial hall where Bunty bhaiya almost pulled off a “muck up day” master plan where he and his friends would flood memorial hall while students and teachers were all inside with a hose sticking out through a window. It never happened because they were caught just in time. We went up to the top floor outside the N rooms, a place where I spent most of my time last year. We had traversed far and wide, and as much as we could given that the buildings were locked. It was 3:10 now and we were nearing the end.
Bunty Bhaiya said to take a “trip down memory lane.” I thought it was an intelligent comment as all we had to do was walk through a straight path while remembering, both of which, came naturally. I wonder what his wife would think if he took her in his elderly years to visit. He said she would probably “bash [him].” And I wouldn’t blame her.
I think I’ve changed a lot through high school. We all change in the course of four years, but whether the dramatic transformation was because of what Melbourne High and our peers provided for us or whether it was time that brought us to an inevitable change, we will never know. All I know is that it was a bitter cold night yesterday, for most of the night. The Nylex clock over the oval said it was a breezy 6 degrees. On a normal night I would be rugged up, perhaps watching the IPL in the comfort of home. But in a way we were doing the same yesterday. It didn’t matter. Not yesterday. We were warm with memories.P.S.
If you’ve had the patience to read through this, thank you
--
I haven’t written one of these in over half a year, but what better place to restart it than with the memory of my old school.
It had been an uneventful night as Amit bhaiya and I were returning from a night out in town celebrating Nihit bhaiya’s (my cousin’s) birthday. Amit or bunty bhaiya as he is affectionately called, who i’ve known for more than 12 years coincidentally went to the same school as me (albeit graduating 8 years after). Anyway, we were driving back, and I realised we were in South Yarra. Knowing that he would be married in 5 months and that the years that we spent together - reminiscing, watching footy, playing cricket may all be over very soon, I asked whether he wanted to drive past Melbourne High and see whether it had changed. It was 2:30 am.
To our surprise, the front gates were open, so we parked inside the school. There was still that scholarly architecture of the front building overlooking a cricket ground without a blade of grass out of place, shimmering green and unmarked by weeds. We walked up the hill a bit and to my surprise, the side of the castle where there used to be a patch of lawn in front of the portables was replaced by the steel framework of another building. I never knew about those plans and was surprised to have seen them there. Come to think of it though - I vaguely recall them developing the arts faculty. Maybe that was it. They seem to have refurbished the portables a bit as well. Bunty bhaiya videoed as we strolled across the front of the building and walked up the stairs towards the Principals office. There it was, the tallest part of the school, two pillars down either side, ornate patterns, a complement of royal red and bright white on the old unmoving and unsmiling building. Each labourer must have had the craftsmanship of a chess grand master - blending boldness with finesse. The middle pillar - like a rook on a chess board, having castled with the King, unified and impregnable. Each brick echoed a distant but familiar song which told us to honour the work and when you are down and almost out, “strong like its pillars,” the school will stand behind you. It was all so grandiose and uplifting that it may seem superficial and conceited to the observer, but only an Old boy can know how real it felt.
We went around a bit more and shared stories about our experiences, and our friends at Melbourne High. It was odd. He is 8 years older than me, but it seemed like the ethos and the culture and the people at Melbourne High which helped shape us both were the same regardless of the differing years we were there. That our school had not changed, and that our opinions had not changed was a testament to the camaraderie encouraged by its administrators and demanded by its history and every breath it took.
With a somewhat resigned look he said, “I wonder what my sister(a macrobian) would think of this, she would think we are sad cases."
Without much thought on the matter we gave a unified response which pointed out the unflattering toilet block they had to pass their school years in. We smugly pitied them. With a cheeky grin and a well acted out conversation caught on camera we knew that we would somehow get her to see it.
We went around the courtyards and showed each other where we used to hang out most of the time. We went back around the construction building. There were noises. It sounded like two men. Construction work at 3 am? The hair on the back of our necks stood up, and not just because it was cold. It was the first time we thought we might be breaking the law by trespassing. But we were Old Boys right? And we weren’t doing anything except reminiscing. It was also the first time we thought of zombies may enter the gates and we would have no one who could hear us while ravaging beasts devoured us.
We managed to laugh it off. Oddly enough, there were two hobos “unloading” on the construction area. We asked them whether they were Old Boys, but being slightly intoxicated they randomly revealed that they were living in some hotel. Surely, there were toilets there?
Not questioning how differently people behave from the norm (after all, who goes to their old school at 3 am when they could be watching the IPL, right?), we continued our visit. We peered in to the nurse’s office and I remembered how blood noses saved me from tests I was unprepared for. We followed the covered carpark where I used to occasionally play down ball, past the gym and the Ninety’s building and the Round Building. There wasn’t the same grandeur in these buildings as the castle, but in every step counted by Bunty Bhaiya’s pedometer which he had buckled on to him for charity, there were moments of sweat dripping down our backs as we came back from the cricket and hockey pitch, moments of anxiety as we would walk in to exams and tests, moments of relief and thanking God that it was over, times of joy that a school day had started and that it had ended, times of confession and of emotional offloading and venting, music epiphanies and reflection, times where we would be unfairly berated by teachers, and equally times when they would enchant us with their brilliance and insight and forgiveness, moments of disappointment, smiles, quirkiness and ingenuity, but most importantly, moments spent with friends. Those who are distant, and those who we have lost, those who we high fived without following it with conversation and those who are still close. At every minute during the walk, I felt my eyes welling up, and a tear teetering on the edge of eyelashes. If anything stopped them from falling on the wrong side, it was a memory of a cheerful moment, inducing a smile which pushed the tear back in. They stayed inside me washed me in happiness.
We went up outside the memorial hall where Bunty bhaiya almost pulled off a “muck up day” master plan where he and his friends would flood memorial hall while students and teachers were all inside with a hose sticking out through a window. It never happened because they were caught just in time. We went up to the top floor outside the N rooms, a place where I spent most of my time last year. We had traversed far and wide, and as much as we could given that the buildings were locked. It was 3:10 now and we were nearing the end.
Bunty Bhaiya said to take a “trip down memory lane.” I thought it was an intelligent comment as all we had to do was walk through a straight path while remembering, both of which, came naturally. I wonder what his wife would think if he took her in his elderly years to visit. He said she would probably “bash [him].” And I wouldn’t blame her.
I think I’ve changed a lot through high school. We all change in the course of four years, but whether the dramatic transformation was because of what Melbourne High and our peers provided for us or whether it was time that brought us to an inevitable change, we will never know. All I know is that it was a bitter cold night yesterday, for most of the night. The Nylex clock over the oval said it was a breezy 6 degrees. On a normal night I would be rugged up, perhaps watching the IPL in the comfort of home. But in a way we were doing the same yesterday. It didn’t matter. Not yesterday. We were warm with memories.P.S.
If you’ve had the patience to read through this, thank you
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