THEN AND NOW

8000 sq.ft Auditorium

Wi-fi enabled Campus

Multi-tier Security

AC buses with female attendants

Cafeteria offering nutritious meals

Media Centre and Preview Theatre

Apple Labs

Art, Dance and Music Studios

45,000/- sq.ft Indoor Sports Complex

That’s an advertisement for –guess what? Residential Complex, Commercial Centre, Centre for Arts, IT Complex----no, no, you have got it all wrong. That’s an ad for a school- International School. The very thought of entering such a school gives me the shivers. I am sure I will not be able to cross the multi-tier security barricade.

That’s what made me walk down the memory lane and take a look at my Alma Mater. Though I cannot say that I have studied from Kindergarten to Class X in one institute- my father’s transferable service never permitted that luxury- it is certainly where I did my high school. You have to go past Jessops Factory, go past the Dum Dum Central Jail and find this school in a narrow lane in North Kolkata. In its mundane, dull surroundings the well painted, grey building stands out with the bougainvilleas hanging from its walls, and the statue of Mother Mary as she graces it from the top. I think none of us have ever forgotten all the things that the Salesian Nuns taught us - whatever little world History, Geography or Mathematics I retain along with some very basic simple habits ingrained in me were all learnt inside those grey walls of the Convent.

Auditorium we had none, at least there wasn’t one in those days. All our Inter-house plays were performed in a large hall with a temporary stage. The Sisters never allowed us to have male characters in the plays except for fathers and brothers. I mean male characters could be there minus the big R- Romance. Imagine what effort went into finding short stories or even plays or even scenes from novels to enact which had no “hero”, no dialogues of love or passion, not even a whiff of romance- scenes from Shakespeare, Shaw, Dickens, Jane Austen could safely take the backseat. Even one from ‘Little Women’ would mean hiding poor Laurie behind the curtains. How we hated the Sisters then!

Once in a while, certainly very rarely, we would be taken to see some movie adaptation of Hardy’s ‘Far from the Madding Crowd’ or a British Council presentation of Shakespeare’s ‘The Merchant Of Venice’ (since these existed in the syllabus). How we girls revelled at their discomfiture seeing Sergeant Troy kissing Bathsheba or Bassanio declaring his love to Portia!!

One such excursion saw some of us being taken to the All India Radio for recording for an Inter-School Drama Competition. The elocution teacher would not suffice and a Sister made sure to accompany us so that we girls would not ‘stray’. We must have made quite a sight trooping in, with our knee length pleated skirts, starched white blouses, long socks, small buckled ties, hair done in tight plaits with those horrendous white ribbons accompanied by two chaperons at either end. How we envied the girls from Loretto and La Martiniere in their short A-line skirts, ankle length socks, hair tied in pony tails- we blushed in anger, seethed in rage and counted our days to get out of the nunnery. Our only interaction with our male counterparts from Don Bosco or St. Mary’s were at a few such events  or at the time of Board exams under strict surveillance of the nuns .Strangely, as we would observe, the Brothers from the Boys’ Schools seemed quite casual in these matters, and let their wards alone.

Wi-Fi obviously did not exist in those days. Apple was just the name of a detested fruit. Lab to us was the Physics, Chemistry and Biology labs where everything was spotlessly clean, where everything had to be taken out from and kept back inside glass cases or cupboards. Everything had to be spick-n span- strictly no hanky-panky business inside the labs. The corridors were so clean you could sit and eat there, unclean bathrooms we came across only after leaving school.

Our only Security was Mr. Chaudhury. Being the sole male member on the premises, except for the Fathers and Brothers who came, occasionally, from Don Bosco for some special Mass or inter-school events, the entire burden of protecting us fell on him. He took his job of opening and closing the gates a bit too seriously, almost like the old durwan played by Om Puri in Ketan Mehta’s ‘Mirch Masala’. We chanted “Good Morning, Mr. Chaudhury” everyday to him as we entered the gates. But that apparently insipid, rotund man, dull looking man knew everybody and everything and you could never ever get past him without a Sister’s permission. Once I had forgotten my tiffin box at home and my cousin came to give it. He had chosen to reach around lunch break expecting to see many girls in and around school. Imagine his disappointment when Mr Chaudhury asked him to write the name of the girl and her class on a piece of paper and hand over the box to him!!

  

Sadly, I do not have a picture of the rickety old school bus that would come to pick me up from the gates of my house. The closest I could come to is what you see above. The school had hired many of these, each a vintage piece, which picked up the students from their doorsteps and dropped them back there. In case that was not possible, at least at a point close to where the child lived and the bus driver would keep on honking till someone from the house came to pick her up and the helper made sure that the child never had to cross the road alone. Actually, there was no need for the driver to honk, the bus created such a racket that you could hear it at least a mile and a half away. As expected, this rickety old thing would have a breakdown almost ten days a month and we would, invariably, be late for the assembly. Our driver, Gaur-da, would get off the vehicle gallantly, put on his shades to muster some semblance of confidence, accompany us to Sister Superior’s office, and offer his profuse apologies. We made sure we never stepped in without our Protector in tow!! It took up a lot of their time, but those drivers and helpers were dedicated people for whom our safety mattered more than anything. All this sounds like a fairy tale in the context of the horror stories we hear and read about these days.

Our cafeteria was the lunch we carried from home in our steel and plastic tiffin boxes. There were cemented seats under the shade of a few large trees and we had our lunch there. The nuns kept strict vigil so that we could never buy from any of the hawkers outside even if they dared to venture anywhere near the school gates. This was another time of the day when Mr.Chaudhury was extra vigilant. So our supply of churan , ber and ice lollies reached us only when we were ensconced safely in our rickety chariots on the way back. 

In those days Bollywood was a big no-no inside the school premises. Any music or dance programme meant hours of rehearsals but they had to be either folk or classical based, be it English or any of the regional languages. Students and teachers pitched in with their repertoire of talent. No dance or music studios for us! But we still managed to put up decent shows- way better than the ‘lungi’ dance and the ‘chaar bottle vodka’ charades that the kids in the neighbourhood have been putting up for the umpteenth time!!

Due to paucity of space our sports was restricted to basketball, throw ball and badminton but still we were given time to be out there in the courts playing whatever we could. Private tuition or coaching was unheard of in those days. Weak students were made to attend extra classes in the school itself. Teachers and the nuns took the trouble to see that they passed instead of shifting the burden on to the parents at home. The teachers took pains to teach us, they made efforts to learn, improve and to say the truth it was not easy since they had limited access to resources unlike today.

 We said our quota of ‘Hail Marys’, we prayed innumerable times at the school chapel, before exams we attended special prayer services, we sang Christmas carols, we put up tableaux at Easter, rejoiced when a new Pope made his way to the Vatican and even mourned when another died. Fortunately, neither our parents came running to school crying ‘no conversion’ when we learnt the hundred sayings of Jesus nor did the media or the intelligentsia break their heads over such matters. We got out of school with our religions intact, our names and traditions untouched and unscathed. In fact, at that time, studying in missionary schools was considered a matter of pride. Today, they are a thing of the past as we surge ahead chasing our American dreams.

By the time we reached our final year, like all teenagers, we were a restless lot longing to get out of school, waiting to spread out our wings and fly. We resented the restrictions, longed to get rid of the schoolgirl pigtails and ribbons, longed for freedom from the cloistered existence. At that point all that lay beyond those high, grey walls beckoned us. We passed out but the small lessons picked up in school have remained etched in our consciousness and beings and have held us in good stead time and again. Now after so many years, I still feel good saying my ‘Our Father’, I still feel good extending a helping hand, I still cannot throw a wrapper just anywhere, either I hold on to it or shove it in my bag till I find a bin, and a lie still pricks the conscience.

In those days the teachers knew every student by name and it still amazes me how Sister Superior remembered the name of each and every student. They discussed family problems with the girls and helped those who needed them. We did not need separate counsellors.

Many years later I had taken my three year old child to a branch of my Alma Mater in Delhi for her Nursery admission and the warm welcome I got from some of the same sisters, who had by then been transferred to that city, really touched me. It is a different matter that due to pure logistics we put her in another school but the idea of returning to the fold had genuinely appealed to me. The warmth with which they recalled each one of us speaks volumes about the sheer dedication of these nuns and also the love they showered on us. It pains me to read about how a handful of hooligans, protected by political stalwarts, are attacking the missionaries in various parts of the country – they forget that these men and women have left behind all that they had to raise, take care and educate other people’s children.

Yes, today’s kids are a lucky lot with their air-conditioned buses and classrooms, their gyms and pools; they go cycling looking like little Lance Armstrongs and make way to the football ground with kits which probably even Pele never had; they are getting the chance to play sports like skate hockey and ice skating in our tropical land but somewhere deep down I am sure the child in them longs for:

“Give me some sunshine

  Give me some rain

  Give me another chance

  I want to grow up once again”

DS