When Letter for School Reunion Arrived

When the letter from his former school arrived asking him to attend its reunion, he jumped up in the air like his ten year old kid. His son would have laughed; Mariam could call him mad. She always did, even in normal times. 

Reunion meeting of his school? A letter after so many years? He passed his hands over the envelope to see, feel the texture; whether it was true or a figment of his imagination. Yes, there it was a white envelope with a stamp and his name typed in block letters. Respectable institutions, individuals, still didn’t believe in sending text messages. They considered messages things of bad taste.  

He ran his eyes scanning the words from top to bottom. There was nothing wrong about it. It was a real letter. After how many years? He tried to calculate in his head; twelve, fifteen, sixteen years…. What does it matter! ‘But why now?’  The old teachers must have been replaced by the new; it always happens. The new ones must have dug up the past and despatched letters to all ex- students.

He shuddered to think about the old ones being replaced. If that happened who would be there to recognize him, pull his hair… ‘Forget it,’ he told himself.  They have managed to remember and he must be thankful.

His hands trembled, the envelope within his grip made a whoosh, swishing sound. The blinking downed the water of his eyes, a joyous moan escaped from somewhere.

‘Ah!’ the sound dissolved into the air… How he loved school! How he remembered every moment; strolling behind the church, winking at girls who dared to smile, daydreaming over books about girls…

Mariam laughed whenever he talked about his school days. ‘That’s enough,’ she would turn and go away. ‘You will remain a school boy all your life…’

Suddenly something made him shudder. It was a secret he hid, a pearl inside the shell.

How will he face them? What will he say if questioned? Apart from his parents three others knew; his Uncle, the Principal, and the shrivelled up lady teacher, whose stomach caved to touch her vertebral column.

He looked up to the ceiling as if it had clue about his feelings; hazy like fogs on the hills, making people and things fade and disappear.

This was the third school but it had entered his soul; its surroundings, students, teachers, playground. There was no ground except a cemented stretch that served as basket ball court- cum assembly- cum annual prize distribution space. The ground and first floor contained library, office, Principal’s chamber and different classes. Now he wondered how the school managed to accommodate boys and girls from nursery to class ten. But miracles happen in ordinary life; not restricted to ancient times, Prophets or Messiahs!

Holidays on Saturdays and Sundays were like punishments heaped on him. He wished there were no holidays even during the summer and Christmas. Classes, library hours, games; never seem to come to an end. He would be the first to enter and play for quarter of an hour on the parallel bars near the boys’ toilet, then assembly, march up to respective classrooms, chattering like birds on trees, till the arrivals of teachers…

‘Oh God!’ he sighed. ‘When memories come, they come like a train with unaccountable compartments…’

But when he started loving school he was forced to drop out. ‘I wish it had not happened!’ he grimaced. Financial problems in the family had reached its peak. Father was the only earning member; he being the eldest had to bear the brunt. From class eight he was made to sit for the school leaving examination as a private candidate, before he entered the precincts of the college.

The lady Principal had warned his parents: ‘Not good for the boy,’ she roared, her spectacles sliding to the tip of her nose. Whenever she was angry it always happened; whether the spectacles knew it had to slide or the aquiline nose, nobody could guess. But it did. ‘He will grow old before time,’ the tall lady lowered her head to peep over the titled glasses. ‘His wife will grumble at him…’

How prophetic! How true her words! Today he would fall down on his knees and touch her feet.  

Once he left, he never went back to school. That secret kept him away. He had never dared to tell anyone, far less his wife. She would never leave any chance to laugh at him and his family. She came from a rich and resourceful family.

‘This day, I will go,’ he told himself. ‘It’ll be a pilgrimage …’

He looked out of the window of his fifth floor apartment that opened on to the wide Chowringhee road, open maidan and the Hooghly River murmuring a distant away. The last birds flapped wings to reach their nests.  

He wiped his eyes to stare at the room that looked like a mini lounge of a hotel. He was not used to such comforts. It was like asking someone politely to go away.

His ten year old son waddled inside.

‘What’s the matter Shono, my darling?’ he controlled his voice.

The boy thrust another letter into his hand. ‘My school programme… you have to come…’ the kid moved his body which refused to budge, dancing to a tune. ‘Mama told me …’

He shoved the first letter into the back pocket of his trousers. He stared into the other, muscles of his face becoming taut. He blinked like a man woken up from deep slumber.

‘What does this say?’

The boy didn’t reply, just went on swaying his body, left and then right.

He dropped on the thick sofa that hissed with a sagging sound. The boy climbed up and fiddled with his bush of cropped black hair.  

‘Papa, ‘the boy moaned, ‘a white hair…’

He took it out of the envelope to read its contents. It was asking parents to attend a musical programme. He deliberately avoided reading the date of the event. His body shook like the wires of musical instruments when used.

‘Oh God!’ he told himself. ‘Don’t let it be the same date…’

He closed his eyes. The boy tugged hard, he painfully opened his eyes, shook himself free and stared at the letter again. His eyes fell on the date. He could not avoid it this time. It was written in letters that glowed like the fluorescent lamp: ‘18 September’. Nothing could be more disastrous…

‘How can both schools opt for the same date,’ he shouted in disbelief.

‘What! The boy said. ‘It pained you… okay.’

The fat boy jumped with a thud and scampered down to enter one of the rooms. ‘Mama!’ the voice of the boy sailed down weakly. ‘Papa is reading…’

A sudden thought upset his upbeat mood. Will his teachers recognize him? He has grown tall and strong; maybe even older than he thought he was… They may laugh at his unkempt beard, ruffled hair but branded clothes. Even his driver looked better dressed. Mariam said he had no sense of dress, which was true. But he was always like that. Even at college when she fell in love with him; his tramp like figure caught her eye.

Mariam walked in unannounced; his eyes popped out as if he saw a spirit.

‘What happened Karim ?’ she said, ‘what makes you look pale?’

‘I thought of you, and …,’ he stammered, ‘so…’

‘What are you doing alone?’

He stood up and caught her hands. Some extra weight seemed to have added to her charm. Her face had not changed since he saw her at the college. His friends said she looked like a boy: broad forehead, high cheek bones and thick lips.

She removed her hands; the jingling sound of the glass bangles rose and died.

‘Seen the letter? Be free on the 18^th. I have spoken to some mothers… From there we will go for lunch at Peter Cat…’

‘I am not going,’ he said. He did not want to waste time.

‘Why?’ Blood ran up her fair face. She looked like the heroine of James Bond movie, ready to whisk up a weapon.

‘I have to go to a reunion…’

‘Office?’

‘School…’

 ‘Are you mad or that school gone crazy,’ she screamed. ‘Which school?’ she asked as an afterthought.

‘Mine ,’ he slowly added. ‘The school in the midst of the church and fire brigade ’

‘That tumbled down school… it might have broken down now. Those wretched people might be in need of donations. They know you are a big shot…’

‘Please, let us not use such words… I am not going with you.  That’s final.’

‘Do whatever,’ she spoke through her teeth. ‘Come for dinner. The girl has to leave…’

She walked out of the room, the kid jumping along.

‘I am not hungry,’ he lifted his voice and sank on the sofa.

'How stupid of me,’ he roared into laughter, ‘to argue with one who has no sense of things. The teachers must have grown old,’ he muttered to himself. ‘To talk like that… who may not even be …’

He stopped in the midst of his thoughts. Even to use the word was sacrilege. They were the best of teachers, the cream of humanity…

 Some of them came dancing to the beck and call of his thoughts…

Miss Brown, a teacher of all subjects; history was her favourite. She looked like a withered tree on which a faded frock came down, exposing the shrivelled legs. What made her angry no one knew but she had forgotten how to smile; the school forgotten to retire her.

‘Silence please,’ she would say entering the class even when the room was quiet like the burial ground. ‘You are monkeys sitting on hot bricks,’ was her favourite maxim. Whatever she meant, the girls would gather skirts closer, and the boys sit up straight. She would open the book and read, smile at passages as if that was meant for her. But when she lifted her head the whole class must resonate with her feelings or left to be damned forever. Yet they loved her like one loved his own self. Miss Brown and the school had become synonymous; you cannot think of one without the other.

Miss Patrick taught English made him get interested in English literature. In the first library class she distributed books, in the next asked each one whether he/ she had read. She caught him when he told her a lie. It was after that he started reading books and finished most of the English classics at school. Even in his capacity as the CEO his understanding of literature came in handy. She was an Anglo – Indian but looked like an English lady. She fell in love and left for England with students broken hearted.  

Mr Gomes replaced her. He was well read in the English classics, had poor opinion about American literature. ’You don’t find classics in this nation…’ Yet he wondered what made the dark squat teacher love his English compositions which were verbose and artificial.

There was also Mr.Ludwig, the boys said he came from Germany. He was a teacher of Mathematics, chain smoker who threw chalks and dusters at inattentive boys but remained friendly in the playground. Mrs. Biswas, a sweet, tiny lady dressed in colourful sari, taught General Knowledge and was a physical instructor. Mrs.Sen, the Bengali teacher was obsessed with her beauty and admired herself during class when children were busy in their tasks…

He shook his head dazed with the over doze of his imagination.

He took out the reunion letter from his pocket and tore it to pieces. He had made up his mind. It was not only the secret that was keeping him away from his Alma Mater. Something far deeper held him back. If some of teachers were not present, he would feel their absence. If they were there and walked on crutches!

‘I don’t want my teachers to look old. Teachers should never grow old…’ he smiled to himself.

But more than that was his worry. ‘Will the present come up to the level of the past? He mused. Those days were gone but he did not want to lose the image of school his imagination had brought back.

‘Let it remain so for ever and ever… ’

He stood up and walked towards the dining table.

‘Mariam darling!’ he shouted. ‘I am feeling hungry…