A Class Photograph

After the hectic wishes for the annual harvest festival, it was quiet on the school group, until the appearance of a class photograph. A photograph with children so little, dressed in the school uniform, brown checkered blouse and a beige pinafore, their faces shining, most of them smiling in anticipation, some scowling in rebellion, all sitting with the teachers, who moulded our lives .

We were instantly transported, from our sixties to being six again, oh what memories crowded our minds. The most illustrious of our batch was the one who shared the picture and some of us took pride to claim the honour of being seated next to her . There were a few we didn’t recognise, there were others who brought up moments that we did not recollect.

But with each contribution of a small incident to jog our memory, we wove the broken strands , to build, to recreate the tapestry, of our school days . Though our stations are different now, the accomplished ones from the front row, the skilled ones from the back row and the ones from the middle, steeped in mediocrity, yet we were all able to offer a part, to contribute a shred, to mend that fragile canvas of a life, so long in the past .

What is this bond that none can break, a bond that is forged in school, the cradle of knowledge, and carried for a lifetime? Ten to twelve years we spent together, sometimes barely knowing one another, and yet when we meet, whenever or wherever it may be, we feel a bond so strong, a love so warm and wonder from whence it rises? What is this magic of belonging to an alumni ?

Was it the connection of those formative years, was it the shared sorrow of our first separation from parents , was it our desire to find in school, our home away from home ? Was it the many hours we spent in each other’s company , as we learnt our ABCs, as we found our feet ? So what is it that binds us together even if we meet not frequently, why do we in our sixties feel, we have known each other all our lives ?

At all the reunions, we meet and greet with no reticence, and quickly tread the path of our school girl days . Regaling one another, with tales of old , the forgotten jokes, the mislaid mischief, the terrible tricks played, and we feel just for a moment the years shedding, peeling away, to reveal once again, that which we left behind, that which we are always searching for – A bygone age of innocence, a life with no care or inhibitions, where the pain we suffered was only physical, from the scraping of our hands & knees.