In the late-80s to mid-90s, we would proceed on a 4-week summer vacations. I am not sure why! Most people would run to the hills during summers. We were supposed to go down to the plains and bear the heat! We didn’t realize this scam till we had become dark walnuts from the summer fry. Most of us wanted May to go on forever. Founders’ Day preps in full swing, most days were spent moving around the campus showing off that we were participating at something. Basically, we were just loitering around. Suddenly, on 2nd June we were pushed down the slope to go and loiter in the by-lanes of our native places, aimlessly, which we were doing in much better weather conditions all of May anyway! And for 4 whole weeks! So, am still not sure why was the summer break necessary? We came back quickly in July to the shouts and screams of kids in the hospital OPD, courtesy Mr. Usmani’s hammers, who, the rumor is, applied for a Carpenter’s job but became a Compounder due to small spelling mistake in his Application Form! He continued to repair. Albeit, patients, in the way he knew best. Hammers and nails. Of course, am kidding. The hospital staff were sweethearts. They took care of kids, like fresh cherries in sour cream. The clouds of Mussoorie though were never happy! They would behave like permanent citizens and balk at us at our return. They came every morning without uniforms, without a prep bell, and without bothering to ask permission from anyone. They sat low over the oak trees; wandered right through our windows into dormitories, classes and dining halls. On especially foggy mornings, one could wake up, look at window and briefly wonder if it was early morning, late evening or just that we had been transferred to another planet.
Some boarding school memories grow old with us. Some remain stubbornly the same: the smell of wet August moss, moist clothes, smell of Brahmi Amla Kesh Oil, the ring of the golden bell and the deep belief that a special lunch is worth any amount of patriotic suffering. August 15 was one such day. It was not merely a holiday. For some, it meant sleeping late. Basically, the seniors. Juniors had their job cut out. Sleeping late after the usual washing, waking up earlier than usual to get hot water ready for The Senior, freshening up themselves, getting ready on time, being inspected, and queuing up on time to walk up to the Junior School playgrounds and wait forever for the same Chief Guest, year on year; sometimes waiting in the rains and yet proudly. After all it was for Bharat! Funnily, every alternate year saw some child fainting, mostly from the NCC, Scouts or Guides gang. The gang who are supposed to be tougher than the general public!
Preparations
for Independence Day parade began hurriedly, a few days before the D-Day. The
NCC cadets marched around the front pitch with much seriousness only for the
grub that would be served on Thursdays. The taste of fresh cupcakes and cream
rolls still come back and linger on taste buds many a day, even today. The khaki
uniforms were well maintained, the belts shone and the boots were polished well
by juniors to reflect the shining belts. Scout, were not quite cadets yet. That
did not stop us from behaving as if national security depended upon us! We would
march in threes, swing our arms at the correct angle, and not sideways towards
the Instructor in a saree as if she was Major General. It was lovely. Across
the valley, the girls’ school prepared as Guides. Since, we were so used to
watching them in the white & navy blue, that the Guides uniform made them
even more desirable! On top of it, the scarves and purposeful footsteps, just
made it much sensual. They were considerably more organized than boys. It was
irritating and yet unsurprising. Girls always seemed to know where their blazers
or overcoats are. Even their raincoats and gumboots were kept as if on a tray.
Boys would discover their own belongings! During parade practice, a senior’s
greatest pleasure was correcting a junior’s marching.
“Left
means your other left,” one would say.
“But
this is my left,” the junior would protest.
“Not in
this school,” the senior would reply.
And so we marched, left-right-left, through damp grass and cloud, while the mountains watched us with the calm indifference of mountains. The teachers were different too. At least, that was what we believed. Teachers seemed to exist, everywhere. They taught history in class, caught us whispering during prep time, supervised our games even though they may not have picked a racquet themselves ever but over a period of 5 batches, turned into lovely players. A boarding-school teacher could recognize your handwriting, your excuses, your appetite, and who are you by your shadow in the dark dormitory. They could tell which boy had fever, which one was homesick and which one had hidden a ‘biological novel’ inside a social science book. Far from home, they were our Sergeant, Referee, Doctor, temporary parent and permanent guardians.
Back to Independence Day. In the morning the weather could be brilliant at breakfast. A clean blue patch of sky, a hopeful sun, clouds sitting politely beyond the hills. By the time we would walk to JS, for parade, clouds would suddenly remember its Jharipani! Fog would roll in, the wind would sharpen, and the rain would introduce herself with one innocent drop on the shining metal badge on the uniform—followed immediately by a quick downpour to test our patriotism. We stood in formation, rain drops slowly sliding down our collars, trying not to move. The band played bravely. The flag rose, the anthem began, and everyone looked upward—partly with pride and partly to judge whether the next cloud was about to burst. Inevitably, came the command that everyone was waiting for – “Run to the covered shed!” Military discipline disappeared. NCC cadets, Scouts, Guides, teachers, prefects, tiny juniors, and boys who had been marching perfectly for forty-five minutes all rushed toward the JS covered shed. Shoes splash. Caps fly. Someone always fell in the stamping. Someone else laughed at exactly the wrong moment. The shed filled with wet uniforms, steaming breath, and the smell of damp wool.
The most dangerous part of the day: waiting for the chief guest. Every year, as reliable as rain, the chief guest was Dr. Saini, the dentist. Dr. Saini was probably a very good dentist. He had kind eyes, a respectable manner, and a speech that appeared to have been written during the same decade as the Constitution. He spoke about freedom, duty, discipline, dental hygiene, and the bright future of India. We clapped at the appropriate places, while secretly wondering whether he had noticed the school’s extraordinary yawns and droops. The waiting felt murderous. We were wet, hungry, and convinced that lunch was being held hostage by a speech. The teachers-maintained faces of solemn national feeling. Somewhere, a boy whispered, “Will there be paneer?” That, more than any slogan, united the school. And there was paneer. The special lunch was always the same: puri, chole, fried rice, curd, salad, paneer, and sweets. The menu appeared on every important day—2 October, 15 August, Janmashtami, Diwali—like a dependable old friend who had never learned a new recipe and did not need to. Same menu. Same taste. Same glorious awesomeness. The puris were warm and slightly oily; the chole were rich enough to make us forget the rain; the paneer was guarded by kitchen staff as if it were national treasure; the salad gave the meal an official appearance of health; and the sweets disappeared with the speed and mystery of a magic trick.
More
than three decades later, even today, memories stay drenched of our caged
independence - the fog, the wet parade bajree grounds, the Sergeant’s shouted
instructions, Dr. Saini’s annual speech, and that mad dash to the Junior School
covered shed. And one of the strongest of these memories is the taste of that special
lunch— puri, chole, fried rice, curd, salad, paneer, and sweets after a pretty morning,
marching afternoon and waiting for Dr. Saini to finish his speech. We keep wishing
for that special lunch again: the same menu, the same taste, the same
hunger—and perhaps, just for old times’ sake, Dr. Saini arriving a little late.
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