"Stuff and Nonsense"

I was, and still am, a world class procrastinator. Unlike many areas of India, the school year in Delhi does not begin after the summer holidays. The month and a half's absence from school is preceded by a month and a half's rigorous classes of the new session. When the teachers bid goodbye to the students for the summer break they weigh them down with a hill of holiday homework. Now, this work is quite manageable if one diligently tackles a little bit everyday. But who does? The major chunk of my work would be done on 29th and 30th of June, the two busiest days before school reopened. The rest would be battled out in the subsequent weekends, prioritizing on the basis of the urgency with which a teacher insisted on the completed submission. Similar was the case during my eighth standard summer holidays and the better part of July. Harry Potter used to be the most sought after book in our school library. Every week I would hear at least two of my classmates whining about t...

Who didn't love to be out on the grounds! But only if it wasn't for the tiring and often boring assemblies, in the morning and after recess, every single day. The break time was the precious 20 minutes we had to ourselves, to pour out from our classrooms, towards a spot near the concrete stage, to gobble up the tiffin box contents, and to employ the remaining minutes to whatever form of physical entertainment we found fit (depending on  the weather and moods.) The sweetest words during those days were 'long break'. This was the norm during tuck-shops. A tuck-shop at my school was a food event, organized by a particular class, each month. A Friday would be picked for the purpose. The students and class teachers of the appointed standard would arrange for a supply of items such as patties from the Supreme Bakery, and lic-lollies and chocobars from a Kwality Walls cart. These would then be sold to students at a price higher than MRP. The profits would be sent to Sneh...

Sanskrit was a new subject introduced in Senior School . Even before class 6 started Pappa had attempted, and succeeded to a large extent, in familiarizing me with the grammar rules of Sanskrit. Owing to this effort of his, and this alone, I could understand the functioning of the language, and was far from fearing it. My batchmates had just cause for hating this most scientific and masterful of languages: our language instructor. She was more of a discipline instructor. She had in the class, a Sanskrit monitor whose duty it was to maintain a notebook of daily record of defaulters in the class: those who hadn't brought the book or the copies (fair and practice) and those who hadn't done or completed the classwork or homework. At the occasion of any of these defaults, she would put a note in the diary, mentioning the nature of our default, which we were then expected to get signed by our parents. On the next day, she would check if the signature is there, and if not she would...

We had a very old PT sir in our junior school. He was thin, tall and bald with white tufts of hair around his ears. There wasn't much to do with him around during PT periods. He would make us, as a class, play tame games of 'I sent a letter to my father' and the like. He must have retired when our new PT teacher, a tall, thin young lady, with loads of enthusiasm, changed the physical activities of the school for good. Her name was Rajshree. She insisted that her name be pronounced correctly and not mistaken with the more common, Rajeshwari. This insistence was made on the microphone during the assembly at which she was introduced, and reiterated at the first few periods she had with each class. With her arrival, was introduced a yoga period in our weekly time table, when we would spread our yoga mats on the ground, in lines, and attempt amidst laughter, to twist our unwieldy bodies into postures that Ma'am demonstrated with utmost ease on the stage. She was also t...

One of my proudest memories from Junior school was when I presented a speech in the morning assembly. It was a story on 'consideration' from Shiv Khera's You Can Win. Mini Ma'am had called me out one day and handing me the book, pointed to the passage. She told me that I had to prepare to relate that story in the morning assembly a few days from then. I was allowed to take the book home and Pappa helped me prepare thoroughly for it, until I could recite it with ease. "Once upon a time, a little boy went to an ice cream parlour. He asked the waitress who approached to take his order, "How much does the chocolate ice cream cost?" "80 cents," she replied. The boy slowly counted out his coins - it was exactly 80 cents. He looked slightly disappointed. The boy again asked her "How much does the Vanilla ice cream cost?" "70 cents," answered the waitress, irritated by the boy's indecision. "I will have the Vanilla ice...

My school began with Nursery. I was put to Nursery A, in Ms Nalini's class. Though as a child I found it difficult to pronounce her name, and never quite got to doing it right, she supposedly made everything easy for me and my classmates. My parents still claim that she's the best I could've got, and brought out the best in me. They fondly remember all the action songs she taught me, that I used to perform at home. A line that has remained in my memory from my earliest years of school is 'Nursery babies go to class.' Owing to the said nursery babies leaving school earlier than the rest of the school, they also had their recess just before the rest of the school. They were let free to roam in the small section of the playground near the basketball court where there was a selection of swings installed into a sandy pit. Those colourful swing sets, which were never enough to satiate a class's appetite for swinging, were the point of attack as soon as the recess...

Though they lasted less than a year and a half, the most memorable rides to and from school were when we shifted to Dwarka. Most memorable probably because they were the last of my school life. But definitely because they were the longest. Though covering the distance between school and home would only take 20 minutes by road, my journey was an elaborate one hour in the morning and an hour and a quarter in the afternoon. And unlike my short shuttle between the Munirka house and school, I enjoyed every minute of it. After a daily morning battle of getting ourselves ready, my sister and I left home at 6.15 and walked to the main road crossing to reach our bus stop. During winters, it would still be pitch black when we left home. Pappa would accompany us and wait with us till the bus arrived. The arrival time of the bus was very erratic. Priyam, a friend and batch mate was the first one to board the bus. She was also the one, outside whose house the bus would be parked overnight. So ev...

When I graduated to senior school, class 6, I could no longer walk to school: the senior wing was in Vasant Vihar. The first arrangement for travelling to and from school was a car pool. The four of us, Anupa Didi, Ankita Didi, Anjali Didi and I would be taken to and brought back from school, by Mathew uncle, Gopal uncle or Pappa, on a weekly basis. When the fathers found this arrangement difficult to be carried forward with, I joined the Chunmun bus service. In the morning the pickup stop would be the footpath in sector 12, reached by crossing the main road. In the afternoon, I was dropped off at Shiv Corner, a small store at the back of sector 9. Sometimes, engrossed in conversation with my friends, I would realize too late about my stop. By the time I would dodge the uniformed girls and their bulging bags to reach the front of the bus, I would have just missed the stop. No amount of supplication to the driver would make him stop the bus. I would then get off at the 9/12 main road ...

I remember my first day to school. Not bawling and screaming, but probably with salty streaks down my cheeks, clutching Pappa's shirt as I rode pillion on the Bajaj Super FE. My school was only a five-minute walk from home. As soon as I was declared capable of  crossing the main road by myself, I began walking myself to school. Towards the end of the quarters' complex would be the Kendriya Bhandar, not open yet; then the market began, still sleeping in rags; at its end the dilapidated yellow van with bright red letters announcing China On Wheels. This was where the main road was. Crossing it brings you to sector 12. Walking along the footpath, one could see the DTC buses speeding on the nearly empty road, vans collecting children for school, and of course fellow schoolmates trudging up with colourful burdens on their backs, sometimes led by a parent. I would find myself being proud of walking to school by myself. In Junior school, I had a special arrangement for schoo...