Sullen Sunday Sunsets

July/August, the months defined the place. A steady deluge of rains, day and night. And even if it stops for a while, the surroundings continue to send rain drops down our paths, walls, shoes and socks. The soaked olive-green oak leaves would carry droplets, the moss laden tree branches would catch and throw water, the sloping metal roofs ending in small triangled-wooden frames would decorate running wet beads of water all across the building stretch. Jharipani would be wrapped in a soft, drenched shawl made with the threads of fog, mist and clouds, winding together and hiding the sun from us for days. If we were lucky, there would be enough sun rays to make an ant laugh! We loved it there. At least I did. The moss on low stone walls, the slope to the covered shed, the north side of the principal’s residence nobody goes anymore. A kind of green that looks soft even though it isn't. And the leaves this time of year go silver on one side and olive on the other, so when the wind moves through the Oak the whole hillside seems to be winking at you. The Tuckman has been coming on Saturdays even before my father was teaching here. The Tuckman remembered that my father liked the cookie with the extra jam. So, he would slyly give me the same. Aayajis in JS Dorm had tucked in generations of homesick boys. The bearers had served us, played alongside and saved us from every possible worry – teachers, seniors, strangers and known devils. The mountains don't change. Neither do these people of Jharipani. It is unexplainable to people who didn't grow up in such villages — it just feels like being held, forever.

Sunday evenings were a different animal though. Through the year, not just around this time. You felt a slight nudge in the under-belly. The first time at around 530 PM. Just when you know the bell will ring in a bit. When sunlight is going from gold to orange to purple and pink. At the fag-end of the front pitch. Just above the IOW Workshop. Suddenly, it has gone. The bell rings. Everyone queues up for the roll-call. We walk up to the dorm to freshen up. Sweat still clutches the vest. And the nervousness makes it even more cold and tight. Once down, back to the classroom for the prep before supper, there is continuous nervous murmuring. Monday is out there waiting, and Monday belongs to everyone but us.

Every batch gets it. Every batch gives it. It’s called “tradition." It goes on. Sometimes it was silly — press-ups, standing on beds reciting the school song, or shouting the name of popular dame while enacting to jack off. Sometimes, it would go further than anyone would ever admit to. You learn fast never to share it with anyone. Because, if you do, you get more of it! With time, you know which seniors to avoid always, which one is having a tough time this week and hence not to venture in his territory, which one is likeable and actually ends up saving some juniors from the fury of the jury! The worst part isn't your own mistakes. It's knowing that if Ramesh forgets his blazer button, or if Prashant gets caught passing a whisper during prep, it isn't just them —the batch hears a “move in” after lunch or dinner and non-stop reminders are showered like the rain of Jharipani. Hence, Sunday evenings were slow and dark. Nights were spent lying in bed, listening to the oak branches hitting the glass panes or wind chiming with the cricket calls. Some boys would actually do the Math on who in the class is most likely to mess up tomorrow. You pray it isn't you. You didn’t want to be ‘dhunned’ by seniors and batchmates in quick succession!

Sunday night the dorm goes quiet in the typical boarding-school way — not silent, just careful. A junior is sulking two beds down and pretending he is not. A boy is staring at the ceiling doing the Math. The dark mountains outside are beautiful as they always are, but now they're not holding you anymore. They are mere witness to what shall unfold tomorrow. And then Monday arrives. Somehow, it's always survivable. There is a hangover on Tuesday. By Wednesday its routine – the brotherhood held together by shared fear and hope, it is not me!

Teachers know everything and do nothing. That’s part of the tradition. They will do just enough so that things stay unnoticed. Some new teachers who come as ad-hoc, may try to act funny. Within a year they are straightened by seniors in calmer and cunning ways. However, they can't protect you from Monday because they don't understand or feel, our Monday.

I still dream about Jharipani. Not just the happy parts. Even the hard ones. Because they made the golden parts even more shiny. Today, as life gets flat and morose, on such Sunday evenings, I feel the pull to go back. Back to my version of – chilly drenched evenings, moss-green windows, silver oak leaves, boys banter and a tiny frightening Sunday evening shiver.

-Q