Chapter 18: Memories in March

Sameer pulled back his chair and stretched his long legs as the Shatabadi express hurtled towards Amritsar. It felt good to be escaping Delhi. From the chaos his life had become.

There was another advertisement for Sagar Pharmacy on the crumbling parapet wall of a house facing the tracks. The answer to all your sexual problems. This must be the twentieth he had seen in an hour. Shahi dawakhana, Sachdeva pharmacy, Sablok clinic. You couldn't blame an outsider for thinking there was a sexual epidemic in the country and these few brave men were trying to save mankind. He was looking forward to the day. Reunion of Class VIII B of Kendriya Vidyalaya No. 1, Amritsar. Sandeep, the most boisterous student in the class then, was ironically a teacher in the same school now, paying for his past sins. He had taken a lead in organizing the get together.

They owed their getting together to Mr Zuckerberg. It started with Sandeep finding Sameer on Facebook. Then they connected with others. Ten of them three girls and seven boys. Girls and boys! They all had teenaged kids now. It was Rakesh who first proposed a get together. In the school. It had taken them weeks to finalize a weekend. Five confirmed in the end. Rakesh, Deepak, Arun, Sandeep and Sameer.

"Arrey, ho jaayega return. There is Paschim Express and Punjab Mail besides Shatabadi. Don't worry." A clean shaven guy, in his forties, his hair slickly combed over his head so that his forehead shone, sat across the aisle from him, and reassured his younger companion.

"Reservation?"

"No need. I've never made a reservation in the last fifteen years. Fifty rupees to TC and you get a sleeper."

Sameer smiled. A professional traveler who knows the Indian Railways. They passed by a row of houses that seem to be painted by crayons watermelon-red, mustard-yellow, pistachio-green, surf-blue. He had chosen to go by train for reasons of nostalgia. He missed his childhood journeys to his grandparents in Pune.

They used to travel in the three-tier coach. He loved the middle berth, buffeted between the lower and upper, so close together that sitting upright wasn't an option. People were glad when he accepted a middle berth in place of a lower one in exchange. Lying there, he imagined he was on a space odyssey, exploring the worlds never seen before. The dim blue of the night light in the compartment accentuating the feel.

Fun journeys, those. Buying a Phantom or Mandrake comic from the platform, eating the packed poori-sabzi in a mithai cardboard box, drinking the silver water out of a thermos and hot milky tea sold in earthen kullars.

A steward came with a trolley with the breakfast boxes. Sameer unfolded his tray and deposited his but didn't open it. He wasn't hungry.

In Amritsar, only two families had owned cars on their street, a beaten up Ambassador and a 1969 Fiat. Sameer's parents didn't have a phone in their house. If his naani wanted to talk to his mom, she had to call the neighbors. His mom went to the neighbors' house and waited for naani to call again. Inter-city calls were precious.

Evenings meant radio. Vividh Bharati ruled and Ameen Sayani's 'Binaca Geet Mala' was much awaited. They listened to 'Hawa Mahal' for radio plays. Jalandhar Doordarshan started when he was ten. After that it was the excitement of 'Chitrahaar' on Wednesdays and movies on Sundays. Along with it, the task of moving the direction of the TV antenna on the roof and shouting, "Ab theek hai?"

Then there were movies. The rarest of the rare treat. Watching mesmerized as Amitabh Bachan pounded twenty people at the same time. Buying an orange Fanta from the vendor who descended on the hall during the interval and played the tinkling music of the bottle-opener striking the cold drinks. When Citylight closed down and little fig trees spouted from its walls and ceiling, he looked longingly at the fading poster of Aakhri Raasta and wonder if the name of the movie had been a premonition. Personally, he had never had any issues with sharing space with furry creatures who rubbed against his legs sometimes.

When he saw the kids of the current generation take everything for granted smart phones, 24X7 TV, unlimited access to internet, multiple social networking sites, he felt privileged he had seen that era. He knew the difference between then and now.

When the train reached Amritsar, Sameer was surprised the station didn't look much different. The coolies still ran into the slowing trains, booking their clients. The anticipating welcomers, noisy paratha vendors, muffled unintelligible platform announcements were the same. The weighing machines with colorful blinking lights, which gave out your fortune as bonus, were still there. As he walked towards exit, he remembered the juice shop, where pineapple and orange juice sloshed and swirled continuously in two glass boxes. The shop was still there, though the glass boxes were gone, replaced by Tropicana tetra packs.

It was around two in the afternoon when Sameer reached Hotel Surya Residency, the hotel that Sandeep had booked for them. A garish painting of white horses with blue wings greeted him at the reception. The horses bore an expression of resignation, as if in acceptance of the artist's atrocity of adding unnecessary extensions to their bodies.The hotel looked old but clean. The marble floors didn't gleam any longer but were neatly swept. The chunky sofa chairs could do with a change of fabric but looked comfortable. The elevator door to his left opened with suspenseful slowness and a sound to match.

"Only for one night, sir?" The receptionist asked from behind the wood and granite counter.

"Yes."

"Shall I make booking for your dinner at our rooftop restaurant?"

"No."

As she handed him the heaviest key ring he had ever held, there was a tap on his left shoulder. He turned left to find no one. Then turned right and grinned. "Some people never grow up."

"And some people are born old."

Arun and Sameer hugged.

Arun's picture on Facebook, it was obvious, was not recent. For one, the guy who stood before him had a lot less hair.

Arun said, "You haven't changed much. I would have recognized that chin and perennial serious face anywhere."

Sameer smiled, pointing to Arun's head. "But how would I have recognized this bald man?"

An hour later, they had all met at the reception amidst a series of back thumpings, hand shakings and hugs. Rakesh, the athlete of the class, was a giant, towering over them. Sandeep had expanded horizontally. In Deepak's face, they could all still see the twelve year old they knew. They packed into Sandeep's Zen for lunch at Bansal Sweet House. Chole-poori with Lassi, Amritsar style. Half a poori in his stomach, Sameer complained how entire Delhi didn't have a decent chole-poori place.

They piled into Sandeep's car again, finding it harder to fit in after lunch, and were off to school. It was located in the cantonment area of the city, a few minutes' drive from Lawrence Road.

"It must be the first time I am smiling on my way to the school," Rakesh said.

As the car made its way through the dense traffic, he marveled at how much the area had changed. Glitzy, glass fronted stores advertising big brands had replaced the smaller shops he remembered bicycle repair, kite seller, chappal maker, the tailoring shop where masterji with a limp measuring tape around his neck and a flat blue chalk in his hand, took his measurements for shirts and trousers. KFC and Dominoes competed with the old eateries Chawla's and Surjit Makhan fish. Lawrence Road seems more a Delhi Lajpat Nagar wannabe than the market with a distinctive Amritsar character he remembered.

The absence of the kite seller reminded him of kite flying around Basant Panchmi. Sameer and his father spent the entire day on the roof, braving the heat, amidst the carnival like atmosphere. The sky speckled with color, dhols playing, and shouts of bo kaata when you downed the opponents' kite in a pecha. The sport had its own etiquette. No forced pechas. You tried to enter a pecha always from the top it gave you a strategic advantage. You generously released the string while in a pecha till either you or your opponent lost the kite. Only the scum of the kiting world indulged in the practice of khicham-khichi, where instead of releasing string, you pulled it in to bring home the kite of your opponent.

As he caught sight of the familiar red brick fa?ade of the school building, it seemed to be exactly as he remembered it. Opposite the parking, there was the administrative block that included the Principal's office. An area they associated with being in trouble. There was a neat patch of lawn in front; a few dahlias were in bloom. It hadn't changed much except the parking space was bigger, the lawn smaller. Then he noticed that the building had grown horizontally, there was a complete new block added to the south that cut into the playground and the trees where, in the shade, they ate their lunches out of tiffin boxes.

It was Sunday and the school was closed, but Sandeep had arranged for an assistant to open the rooms he knew they would like to see their classroom, science labs, music room, the library.

They decided they would start with the music room. The music room he recalled was surrounded by trees and bushes, secluded, a dirt path leading up to the entrance. It had transformed. The bushes were gone, the trees trimmed, and the building was twice the size as before. It looked very well equipped violins, guitars, banjos, keyboards, saxophones. There was a baby grand piano set in the middle of the room. He remembered only a much-used harmonium, a set of tablas and two highly sought after guitars in his time.

Sameer had envied kids in his class who could play an instrument well. He was terrible at playing guitar. His music teacher had told his father with a soulful sigh, "I don't think there's a musician in him." That was the end to his rock star ambitions - live shows, wild hair, breaking guitars and having girls falling all over him.

Rakesh asked, "The music teacher, that busty woman Chammak Challo what was her name?"

"Sudha Majumdar. Khai Key used to be all over her. Tharki saala!" Sandeep responded. The principal was named Khai Key for chewing paan all the time. The hit song of the time 'Khai key paan Banaras waala', the inspiration.

They moved to the main building, towards their classroom. Even though the school was larger, the old wing of the school was the same as before. Cracked floors, ink stained walls, hallways that smelt of lab chemicals.

The class room obviously didn't have the walnut brown desks they had used with generations of students' names engraved on it (that was the best use they found of their geometry equipment), though Sameer had been half expecting to see them. They had been replaced by lighter, sleeker fiberboard desks. However, the layout of the room was the same. Blackboard at the front, four neat rows facing it. The quotes painted on the walls on truth, cleanliness and other virtues had given way to green bulletin boards which displayed class projects, pictures and school events.

They scrambled to their desks. They remembered their assigned places. The assistant obliged by taking a picture.

The class. The room was full of memories, sweet and sour. None bitter though. It was interesting how time sugarcoated the bitter memories of childhood. What was embarrassing then seemed funny now.

"Remember the time Khosla walked into the class with his fly open?" Sameer asked.

"Everyone was snickering. And there was Khosla going on without a care in the world, both hands in trouser pockets. Kinetic energy is the energy a thing possesses due to its motion. Finally, it was Murali who got up and went to him and said, 'Sir aapka post office'"

They laughed.

"And Karan Singh, the geography teacher. He spoke in such a monotone. I always fell asleep in his class."

"And Kanwal madam?"

"The great yawner!"

"Ravi counted every day. The record was twenty-seven."

"All of us ended up yawning too."

It ceased to matter who spoke. Those were their shared memories. They savored them together.

"The time Virmani got mad at Rakesh for copying Murali's essay 'My best friend'." Arun said.

"Rakesh didn't change a word, not even the name. It started with 'My best friend's name is Rakesh!'"

"And then he had a hard time explaining to Virmani how he really had a friend whose name was also Rakesh and who was also the captain of his school's cricket team."

Rakesh laughed out the loudest.

"Not very smart."

"On the other hand, our friend here, Sameer, was one of the smarter ones," Deepak said.

"And one of the most boring," Arun said.

"Though he had a major crush on Sujata." Deepak grinned.

Sameer smiled at the memory. Sujata. Mesmerizing eyes, luscious lips and a mole right in the middle of her nose. A voice like wind chimes playing to the persuasions of a soft breeze.

"Too bad we couldn't find her on Facebook," Sameer responded.

They were in the playground. With the additional construction the playgrounds had shrunk a bit. Though the cricket pitch was still where it used to be.

"Killing fields," said Arun, the pace bowler of thirty years ago.

"Many a sporting career got killed here," Rakesh said.

"Like our Sameer here. Scared of the cork ball," Arun said, his hand on Sameer's shoulder.

"But he used to teachers' favorite. K. L. Sharma even invited him home," Rakesh said.

"Oye, what did you do at his home?" Sandeep asked, thumping his back. K.L. Sharma was single and lived alone.

"Saale, kuch kiya toh nahin usne tere saath?" Arun asked.

"Shut up," Sameer laughed.

"Deepak, why are you so quiet, man?" Sandeep asked.

"Characteristically quiet," said Arun. Deepak really hadn't changed much.

"Bol, koi kavita shavita bana raha hai kya?" Rakesh asked. Deepak was the class poet.

"Actually, I've written a poem on those days."

"Let's hear it."

"Irshad," Sameer joined in.

"Nahin, yaar. Tumhari samajh ke bahar hai."

"Acha! You think we're that dumb?" Rakesh asked.

"Come on, ab to sunaani padegi. Hamari izzat ka maamla hai," Sandeep insisted.

"Later."

"Chalo, till then, listen to my sher," Arun said.

"You and poetry? Yeh haadsa kab hua?" Sandeep asked.

"Irshad."

"Usko barson baad khush dekha to khayal aaya

Usko barson baad khush dekha to khayal aaya

Ke kaash maine usey pehle chor diya hota."

"Wah, wah, kya twist hai," Rakesh said.

The conversation flowed seamlessly. Sameer hadn't laughed as much in a long time. They carried on with the tour, the labs, teacher's lounge, the Principal's office, reliving memories, till it was dusk and Mahesh, the school attendant was fidgety. They were lost in time, the time lost on them.

In the evening, they got together for drinks and dinner at Crystal Restaurant and recounted their present. Five middle aged men, graying, balding, and expanding in the middle. Sandeep and Deepak taught in different schools of Kendriya Vidyalaya Sangathan. Rakesh worked for the Health department of Government of Haryana, a little evasive about his work. Arun worked for Citibank in Chandigarh.

Sameer noticed the mood shift when they talked of their present. They were aware of having taken different roads, of having reached different destinations. The conversation became constricted, self-conscious, the camaraderie of the morning slipping away.

"Deepak, ab toh suna de yaar," Rakesh said, shifting the conversation back to the past.

"Theek hai but listen seriously. No jokes."

"Okay."

"Hindi mein hai."

"Pata hai saale, tere se angrezi ki asha thode hi hai."

Deepak began, "The title is 'Yeh Baat Un Dinon ki hai.'

"Wah, wah!"

"Chup, chup. Naraaz ho jaayega," Rakesh said, a finger on his lips.

Deepak began reciting the poem.

"Yeh baat un dinon ki hai

Jab ghaas ka rang kuch zyada gehra tha,

aasmaan thoda zyada neela

aur hawa mein ek khushboo si raha karti thi.

Jab thoda hi bahut tha

Tumhein dekhna aur tumhara dekhna

Tumhari ek muskurahat

Tumse milne ka khayal

Bus inhi se mun behal jaata tha

Ab jab haqiqat ki zindagi basar kar raha hoon

To lagta hi nahin ke who main tha

aur woh tum.

Khwabon se ab dil nahin bharta

Bahut kuch, bahut kuch ki talash rehti hai hamesha

Ek bhatakna hamesha ka

Magar phir bhi yaad bahut aatein hai woh din

Woh khawabon ki din

Woh khwab se din."