My annual Yatra

What is it with people, dear Readers? Myself included. Some of us visit religious sites, sometimes on a regular basis, while some others prefer to go on exotic holidays, sometimes to historical locations, sometimes to the pristine beaches of the world. Tourism is big business today, and more and more people spend lavishly to take in the sights and sounds that the very wide world has to offer. Most of us have to eke out a living, however, and holidays are often taken in front of the TV, a real blessing, because if all the people in the world trooped off, at some time in their lives, to explore some remote but beckoning land, the end result will be catastrophic. Remember colonialism started as an economic and civilizing enterprise, but ended up subjugating umpteen indigenous peoples everywhere. The latest adventure to attract world-wide attention is the plunder of the Andaman Islands, home to some of the earliest homo sapiens that have walked the face of the earth (or their limited territory—at least, that’s what they thought).

There is something in all of us that wants to up, up and away. I, too, am guilty of the same, for I have been going on my annual yatra for many years now. I leave home and family to return to my roots—my school in Trichy. I spent the first 23 years of my life on campus, thought of myself as royalty—especially during the holidays when I owned every inch of the property—and even buried myself in the earth there [during the Indo-Chinese war of 1962, the personnel of the neighbouring army barracks dug a number of fox-holes in an around their territory], only to resurrect myself after I got tired of looking out of, and at, my own rectangular box of sky. My school, VESTRY, one of the oldest schools offering an education in English in India, draws me to her every year in September. I go to pay homage, to pay my respects to the very few teachers of my time who are still living and active, to reminisce about the others who have gone on their next journey, and to soak in the ever-living and everlasting grace of that sanctum.

Only last week I was back again in my beloved “Vestry”. I was pleasantly surprised to find the expansive playgrounds not encroached upon. I was even happier to enter the precincts of the famous “Penny Hall”—the very heart of the school, as I knew it way back then. The whole semi-circular structure was built in 1932, and shows its age. But to be in there was sufficient. The batch of 1975 came in great numbers to celebrate their leaving 50 years ago, and the nostalgia was palpable. I had my classmate with me, Abdul Mohammed; when we look at each other, we know how ancient we have become, but the memories keep flooding back, even if they evoke choked emotions. Abdul and I are the only two from the batch of 1968 who make the yearly pilgrimage, and we are very close to being the senior-most veterans of the year.

One thing struck me at the Reunion this year: there were few youngsters in the assembled group. Of course, young people have their own agendas and remembering the past is not something they care about too much. Perhaps the ethos of the school has changed, for the old one has been cleaved in two, to make way for a separate CBSE school. Perhaps the sense of pride, the feeling of belonging, has vanished forever. But for those of us, old-timers, middle-aged individuals, and those approaching that period, it is still a celebration, a coming together of people who found that school life was when you enjoyed the maximum freedom.

And, believe you me, dear “Vestry” did that to most of us.

And still does.