~ Vikram Jamalabad
Years and miles removed, memories of school sometimes flash through like faded Eastman color slides. Dear friends meet up, many from twelve formative years, and time melts away. It seems like yesterday that we were bunking classes, horsing around at break time, and sweating finals. The School forms a backdrop to all this, silent, but ever present.
Twenty five years later, and with much reminiscing to look forward to during the reunion, my thoughts turn to the school itself. A quarter of our lives were spent here and its influence is a constant un-acknowledged presence in our lives.
My earliest memories always seem cloudy and cool and of lasting friendships made on the very first day. Those constant companions of early ‘oonch-neech’ sessions in E1 slowly morphed into S7 scientists with endeavoring to evaluate the influence of two-stroke engines on sperm count. And the school was always there with just the gray Junior backdrop changing to a Senior red.
It is Thanksgiving here in the States, an ordained time in this structured society to dole out thanks to all comers. While I have studiously avoided celebrating this forced eruption of feeling, going back to this place in my mind after so long has prompted some interesting thoughts. Our School provided something to us that is tangible and fundamental and has formed a core in us that we may not always acknowledge.
It started the moment we got to School. Morning prayers, a ‘satsang’ to start the day, focused us on a collective calmness. It was not obvious then, but the value of this simple activity is profound. Even today, a short session of meditation unlocks the potential of the day to come. The beauty of the prayer session was its ability to set aside all that could potentially separate us and instead highlight of all that is common. What a master stroke by the Founders. Then there were those shoddy uniforms, at times craftily subverted by the stylish amongst us. Uncomfortable sack cloth they may have been, but they served a constant reminder that we are all fundamentally the same. None is better, none is worse. And no one will best by who they are, but by what they do. So, how does one get fitted for a jacket from Madras Tailors now? Or, at least a tie I can wear proudly to work?
Added on were those reluctant classes of music, art and sculpture, and even more reluctant attendance to the dance, drama and classical music performances. I laugh when I think of clamouring to exit the Shankar Lal Hall as Dagar-sahib sonorously droned on with his beloved Rudra Veena. A poster child for ‘bhains ke aagay been bajay, bhains khadi paguray”. I look back now and wonder at all the beauty we were exposed to, but some chose to ignore. Ironic that so much of what we ran from then forms such a large part of our lives now. And what I can say about the teachers? I apologize for my part in the ridicule and terror dished out, but let’s be honest, we did have a fair share of clowns!
For the most part, though, the patience and perseverance demonstrated by them I only came to respect when dealing with my own rambunctious crowd of undergraduates. Ms Nigam, Ms Sharma, Ms Talwar and Mr Binju – to name a few – wherever you are, thanks so much for all the work and all the effort and understanding.
So where am I going with this? Just that it is not about missing school, or missing the experience. It is about having something unique with me that only Modern could have provided. Something that is complete, balanced and enriching – quite unlike I have seen anywhere else. And that something has been an integral part of me wherever I have been – so I could not say that I miss the School. A unique School, and shared with so many, so not a unique experience. Thanks for that MHS. Truly, thanks!
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