Before the big, bright, blue, yellow multi-storied buildings that identify my school today, Padma Ratna English School had humble structures spreading out the hillock and the green pastures. That is the school I remember. That is the school I studied at. Not the current edifices but the modest classes of the yesteryears are where my memories haunt. Like stumbling upon an unfamiliar, marvelous palace in a dream, the gates of memories enchantingly unveil themselves. Crossing the threshold of our old school gate, the drooping vines and the deep bowers of the thick grove on either side of the path gradually revealed our concealed classes. We would quickly drop our backpacks and join the long, neatly organized rows of morning assembly. The early mountain winds blushed our faces while the aromatic air sweetened by the fruit-laden trees around us enthralled us. The assembly commenced, and all of us, following Oja Randhoni, merrily sang our school song in unison “Bells, Bells, PR School Bells..”. Then emerged, like a mighty empress, our principal, Oja Sundari. Her speeches carried a profound impression. After all the activities were completed, we went to our classes, assisted by our classteachers. There was a triple-storied building, but it was cordoned off from the junior classes. The building was sacred. It was sacrilegious to step on its floor, so we felt, before we proved ourselves worthy by clearing our third grade. Having our classes there in the fourth grade did not automatically qualify us for all that our school had to offer. For instance, the stairs were shut from us, only accessible to the sixth grade and above. The fifth graders were conditionally allowed, to access the computer lab at the corner of the top floor. Grade promotions came with such upgrades. The poor buildings we had then were the most elusive and the most rewarding.
I can recall nothing more we craved than to reach the third grade. Class 3 brought life-altering changes. It was the year we could ride our cycles to school, start using pens, and enjoy the much-desired recreational period, which we endearingly called half, short for halftime. Our second grade, thus, was a precious year, for all of us were filled with a year-long longing to be in the next grade. Although it was also the year we were introduced to Meitei Mayek, our tiny minds were not bothered by the new script. We were all too busy, and occupied with what we would do in Class 3. Back then, the junior classes from KG-1 to Class 2 had their classes in a strip of blocks. There was the assembly ground in front and a cycle shed behind. Right beside the Class 2 section B block were the lone two red blocks of class 3. Every day, sitting inside our class, we would watch our seniors in the third grade park their cycles from our classroom windows. As we left the classes to board our bus, and vans, our yearning eyes followed them playing in the grounds. When they played catch with Vicks, we couldn’t help wanting to catch it ourselves. When we saw different teachers heading to their classrooms, oh, how we wished they would enter our classrooms instead! A small gap of some 5-10 meters separated our classrooms, but we had to earn it to cross the gap. The two isolated classrooms were an island of promises luring us pitiful, pining souls. A mirage in the desert. So near, yet so far. The rainy days tormented us. With our chins over the desks, we stared out of the door, looking at the unreachable, nearby classrooms. It was a most beautiful sight. The water from their verandas fell in our corridors. How we cherished the rain! Counting the raindrops, we talked amongst ourselves about the things our seniors must be doing and of course, the usual, how lucky they were. The rustling winds and the clamoring rain clouds could not contain our passions.
2006 went by, and in came 2007. The year we had been passionately waiting for. The year we would have the red-bricked classrooms to ourselves. The year we dipped our toes to the senior classes. The year we became third graders. Class 3, I can say now with retrospective lenses, lived up to its expectations. We were all too busy throughout the year, busy discovering ourselves. Up to our second grade, our teachers supervised our every step. We had no room to recognize our personalities. We, thus, hardly knew that we had differences, but in class 3, our friends who had been studying with us for years suddenly re-introduced themselves with all kinds of skills and talents. It was as if we were in a different class but with the same people.
We never fully realized the charm of our school upto our second grade. Inside the bus and vans, all we witnessed were a flash of images of trees, houses, bridges, and fields as the vehicles swiftly passed them. Class 3 students were allowed to ride to school. I remember many of my friends coming to school, with their small legs, pedaling their newly bought cycles with all the difficulty. The first days of every new session were always quite the sight. A parade of lovely, garish bicycles decorated the streets. Riding our way to school, the flash of images presented themselves as scenic beauties. The ride to the hillock, where our school is, was a majestic ride. One could never get tired of it. The crossing rivers, the raised Punjao Polum, and the expanding fields gilded it. As we passed Punjao Polum, we would see the morning sun rays fall upon our classes cloaked by the hypnotizingly thick, tall trees. It was as if we were on a quest to find a hidden chest of treasures. Embraced by the morning breeze, the place became ever more sublime. When we entered the gate, pushed our cycles to the cycle shed we once admired and dropped our backpacks inside the coveted red-bricked walls, we realized we had indeed gotten the treasures inside the chest. It was a quest we lived anew every single day.
It was a long walk from the staff office to our classroom. Up to the previous year, we were not brave enough to act out our mischievous selves. With a newfound composure, our classrooms without our teachers were funhouses. Both sections of class 3 were so loud that we could barely hear our own voices while we waited for our teachers. At times, some of us would stand in the corridor for all the envying gaze of our juniors to behold. When our teachers arrived and reprimanded us, dishing out remarks like “keithel ga manare sidi” (It’s like a market here), our little, budding pride was inflated. Our maddening excitement was a source of our collective Hindi deficiency. When the language was introduced to us , I remember many of us struggling with the script. Hindi was as foreign to us as Japanese or Arabic. Like all our teachers, our Hindi teacher, Oja Ranjana, juggled between teaching the language and controlling our chatter. ( I will not be elaborating on any Shakit , Shakti in this essay).
Using pens for the first time was chaotically tremendous on its own terms. Before anything else, it was a clear, conspicuous indicator that we were no longer part of the junior classes. The pen bestowed us bragging rights. However, it wasn’t a smooth transition from our pencil days. Just by looking at our fingers, we could tell who used what kind of pens. Every other day, some unfortunate souls would have ink smeared all over their white shirts. But came half-time, and pens afforded us the best game. We searched for the sturdiest ballpoint pens to knock out each other’s pens. The fountain pen users unluckily discovered how impractical it was to use them in pen fights and have the leaked ink flown everywhere.
Half was life-defining. When the clock hit 1230, we would pack our backpacks and board our commutes back home till the second grade. Half to a third grader unraveled a world of opportunities. We could play games inside our classrooms or out on the playground. We could go to the canteen. We could otherwise find an empty classroom and eat our home-brought tiffins. We could just sit back, bask in the afternoon sun, and chat with our friends. Half gave us new friends. The 30-minute duration was a time when our personalities were the most visible. Similar interests and dislikes meant new friendships. Before, our friend circle was confined to our bench mates and fellow commuters, but half exploded our circles. It was where we discovered the farthest Vicks thrower, the most skilled storyteller, the heavenly-voiced singer, the gifted painter, the fastest eater, and the quiet ones. All of our new discoveries prompted a rotation of interests. Life-long friends were made and unmade in half. Be it the fellow Vicks thrower, the canteen companion, or the tiffin pal, half stamped a mark of permanence on many of us. Half also generated its fair share of gossip. The boys had theirs, and so did the girls. Quite often, their collision created class myths and legends.
Beyond those changes in our routined daily activities, Class 3 opened doors to an overall exhilarating experience of our school. Junior classes were generally spectators in school events. During the Annual Sports, they were limited to tug of war and blindfold games. From Class 3 onwards, everyone was assigned to one of the four houses —Red, Blue, Green, and Yellow. Some of my friends deliberately did not attend school to get the house of their choice the following day. We eagerly joined the marching contingents of our houses to kick off the Annual Sports. Besides the march, a wide array of games was unlocked. We could play football, compete in the long jump, high jump, triple jump, take part in board games or join any game we wished to. I recall my friends Virjeet, Nelson, and Dickson making names for themselves in carrom, table tennis, and badminton. Our roles in the event clarified to us the essential structure of reward and punishment. Class 3 students were also permitted to participate in various Annual Literary Meet ("School Function") programs. We could sing songs, stage a drama, recite poems, or compete in any of the programs. I could never forget my friend Alkarani winning countless awards.
Class 3 was a thrilling year for our studies as well. Rajeshori scored 600 out of 600 and secured the first rank, frustrating many of us, but despite our chagrin, we undoubtedly revered her for her awe-inspiring feat. As the infamous “odd-even divisions” came to an end and classes stopped getting split into sections based on alternating ranks, each section fastened the academic rivalry. Class 2 was the last grade to receive “important” notes, prior to our exams. Deprived of our guiding accessories, we attempted to read the entirety of our textbooks to prepare for the inevitable “extra questions”.
With our much-anticipated class, we had accomplished our transition to maturity. The ignorance of our infancy was left behind. In its lack, an overwhelming impression of growth consumed us. But sometimes, standing in the corridors of our red-bricked walls and looking toward the junior classes, a poignant sensation of our lost innocence crept up. We were too young to comprehend that our innocence composed itself as vestiges of an irreversible past. When we looked at our former classes, our naive passions stirred up.
Today, half the blocks of our junior classes have been demolished. The red-bricked classrooms house old, defunct computers.
(The red-bricked classrooms of our third grade recreated by Edison Naorem in all its glory)
Fragments of memory
This is part of a series of personal essays Washington Naorem has been writing, beginning with “Sturm und Drang” —a poignant reflection on the failure to commemorate the 20th anniversary of his class — from his conversations of early school days with Edison Naorem. Edison is as much the writer as Washington is. Their intended objective is to retrieve and re-create the essence of the bygone happier days of their class and ultimately bring the class together.
