For many years I had a passion for orchids, loved them, nurtured them, spent endless hours tending to them, and watched them grow, with great pride . Each time a floral spike came up, I waited with much anticipation to see the splendid bloom. 

Then as time went by, my interest dwindled and the orchids were neglected. They wilted and waned, one by one, and over the years faded away . Sad, you may say, but I realised, things that demanded too much attention, is really not worth the time . 

One day when out on a stroll, I saw a plant on the wayside. It was no exotic orchid or any fancy flower, but just a simple, robust begonia, displaying its brilliant colours.  Fascinated, I requested a small cutting and carried it home . Planting it in a couple of small pots, I did not expect it to propagate. 

But today, I am amazed to see the abundance of this lovely, yet humble plant. With not much ministration , except daily watering, the plant had grown in spectacular profusion, its colours brilliant and riveting. There were no frequent supplements to support it, nor any special care, but that didn’t deter the plant from growing vibrantly .

Then came to mind the moral of the story ,an allegory. The orchids are like the treasures of this world that we chase in the pursuit of happiness , which is hard to attain, and we soon see the futility. With the passage of time, we realise ,that it is not the worldly, but the Spiritual blessings that are constant, and it comes to us easily, when we choose to lead a life in the presence of the Almighty. 

My memory of those train journeys, is the beautiful scenery. The rolling hills, the thick wooded sides, the verdant green paddy fields, the half naked children lining the tracks to wave goodbye, the colourful birds that flew by or swooped down for a drink of water as we passed rivers and streams . 

Vacations and train journeys, a memorable part of our childhood days . Come the summer holidays, and we looked forward with great excitement, to the overnight train journey, to visit grandparents. Preparations for the travel were many, from school concessional pass to packing the suitcases with clothes and other essentials. 

Not to mention the bedding that was rolled to a compact size, an elaborate hold all, filled with all that we needed, for a comfortable night on the train. Food and snacks a great part for the journey received much attention, a week long preparation, and the night meal a steamed banana leaf packaged delight, for each one of us . 

Living close to a railway station, the train whistles lent to our anticipation, as we counted down the days to our travel and when it finally dawned, there was no containing our excitement .Leaving home, ensuring everything is locked and secure during our absence, caused a brief moment of anxiety in the adults.  Transport to the station was always a cramped ride, which did not deter our eagerness. 

Closing my eyes, I can even now see the hustle and bustle of the station. People from all over, from the north, from the south, from the east,  and the midwest. The colourful clothes, and the different tongues they spoke, oh it was a melting pot of culture, with everyone rushing to get somewhere. Crowded stalls, selling hot and cold beverages, chocolates and biscuits, newspapers and books, vendors carrying baskets, calling out their wares and of course, the frequent announcements of the arrival and departure of trains, over the tannoy . 

We were soon surrounded by several red jacketed porters, offering to carry our luggage. Finally deciding on one, my father would relinquish the luggage and herd us along as he followed the trotting porter to the designated spot . My mother, bringing up the rear, seemed quite harried and warned us frequently, to stay close and clear off of the edge of the platform, and when a train thundered past or the crowd got too dense, I would grab my father’s hand, for fear of b being swept away.

On the train, after the initial scramble to find our berth and after a fight for the window seats, we settled down quickly, to enjoy the ride . The changing landscape was captivating, buildings giving way to shrubs and trees , the congestion of the city, giving way to open countryside, and the colours of a lovely sunset on the horizon, as it was evening . Not much later, the sky darkened, and night fell. Tearing ourselves away from the window, we then played board games . 

Dinner was an enjoyable meal, though it was the everyday fare, and yet,  maybe because it was packed in steamed banana leaves, or eaten on a moving train, it tasted like a gourmet meal . Sleeping to the sound of the clickity clack of the wheels, rocked by the gentle rhythm of the train, snug in our warm bedroll, is an unforgettable memory. Morning brought the usual rush of ablutions, before breakfast at the next long stop . 

After breakfast, back we went to the windows to watch the changing scenery , the rolling hills and the changing foliage, tall palm trees, luscious green paddy fields with toiling women and children who stopped to wave as the train went by, children with whom we felt a momentary connection, as we waved back and smiled . The rivers that snaked along beside the train, the occasional cormorant, and kingfisher, swooping down to catch a fish. Looking down into the swirling waters of wide rivers, while crossing on long bridges, we felt a tremor of fear at its sinister depths.

As the day advanced, it got very hot but that didn’t bother us . The bogey was crowded, with a crush of humanity as people boarded at each station. The heat was stifling and the air was thick with the stale smell of sweat . To add to the discomfort, there were beggars and vendors, boarding at each station, begging for food or selling food, and jumping off just before the train moved . Not pleasant for the adults, but the children were unruffled. Going through pitch black tunnels, was a terrifying experience and I was quick to grab my father’s hand, when it was the blackest.

Finally arriving at our destination, we were met by our uncle , who quickly whisked us home. The  lunch that awaited us, was fit for a king, setting the trend for our vacation . The simple joy of plucking fruits and vegetables from the garden, boat rides, and rowing in the canoes, the long hours spent fishing in the backwaters, bathing in the shallow waters , running alongside the river or just playing on its sandy banks, brought us untold happiness. It was like slice of heaven, a piece of which we still carry in our hearts . 

Looking back I think, life is much like a train journey. Our childhood is the preparation, for the journey we are to undertake . When we embark on the ride, there are joys and sorrows, ups and downs, seasons of trouble and suffering. When we feel hope is nothing but a mirage, let us cling to our Heavenly Father, as we clung to our earthly fathers, as children . We can focus on the simple joys, to help alleviate pain, learn to live without attachments, knowing, the travel is not permanent but a short sojourn that passes quickly, before we reach our eternal destination. 

It is another anniversary, another day of mourning. Many long years since and still there are those special days that bring relentless memories of a tragedy, of one who passed, memories that can’t be erased by time. You would think the pain is forgotten, imagine it has faded with the passage of years , but it is just waiting beneath the surface , to rear its ugly head .  

Time the great healer is helpless, though it removes the edge , it is powerless to blot out the sting of sorrow. It can bury the past, but not the pain, which like a shadow follows our path. Sometimes at a distance, sometimes close, sometimes just one with us, a part of us to never let go, and there is no escaping the misery that follows .

Oh pain, from whence do you arise, to haunt us day and night ? Are you a punishment for our sins, for the carelessness of our youth ? Sometimes physical, caused by illness ravaging the body, destroying the very cells ,sometimes mental, the agony of the mind, from bereavement or loss, from disappointment or rejection, from a broken heart or loneliness. 

Is there no defence against your savage attack, is there no shield against your viscous assaults ? Is there no cover beneath which we can hide, or find sanctuary from your ruthless tentacles ? Is there no balm, no comfort, is there no healing, no end to the suffering, once we are trapped in your clutches? How then can we insulate ourselves from your pitiless perseverance ? 

Day and night you haunt us, with brief interludes of respite, when to us is shown what life could be, without your influence. Wallowing in self pity, blaming the stars and our fate, consumed by an intense sense of being enslaved, we live with no hope of release from your miserable prison ? Are we to suffer in silence, are we to befriend you, are we to walk with you, all the days of our life ? 

Oh, but not anymore, for I have found the Way ! I have learnt to rise above the pain, above time that is keeping me imprisoned. I have learnt to fix my eyes on the Most High, and my sorrow is halved, for He shares it with me . I strive to walk the path He has ordained, and know for sure, His Way does not include bondage, but freedom from all that condemns ! Now I can say with conviction, pain is losing its grip on me .

A Platinum jubilee, 75 years ! Wonder why they call the 75 th year a platinum jubilee ? As if you could measure the progress of any institution in blocks of 25 years, and equate their struggles and success to the value of a a metal. Sophias, maybe one of the youngest amongst the convent schools in Bangalore, and yet one of the educational institutions that has achieved the most. I am a product of this prestigious school and can say, its mark I bear with great pride .

A small group of nuns, of the Sacred Heart’s order, arrived from foreign lands, their hearts set on imparting valuable education to the children of the then, newly independent India and started a school in Bangalore. They were firm in their resolve and undeterred by the hardships, by the adversities, faced . Striving on, canvassing for students with neighbours and the then merchant families, they struggled . It was no easy task to convince parents to send their children to school, especially the girls, but determined they were, and managed to register a small number of students .

So it is this nascent school started in 1949, two years after our country’s independence, with just a handful of students, and grew in leaps and bounds to establish itself as one of the most sought after educational institution in the country. It was just a young twenty seven years when we graduated. Looking at the hordes of students, old and young, former and current, gathered on the evening of 3 rd August 2024, to celebrate the 75 th anniversary , you would never imagine its humble beginnings.

Arriving early , dressed in the assigned colours, as decided by our batch, I entered the hallowed gates and time rolled back. For a moment, I was that little girl on her first day at school, lost in the crowd, in a sea of unfamiliar faces. Walking up to the registration counter, greeted by warm friendly faces handing out identification badges and wrist bands,with beaming smiles, I felt welcome again. Walking towards the designated spot, where our class was to meet, I was greatly relieved to see my friends, and their familiar faces.

After the initial meet and greet, after the jokes and inane laughter, we chose to go to the auditorium. We pinned on our exclusive ‘76 batch badge developed by our classmate, above the school badge, and felt like prominent, decorated students. The building that once housed our classrooms had vivid, colourful murals of unrecognisable art , the backdrop of which was used for photographs. Dazzling lights lined the path, as we walked and noted the many changes, the additions, the deletions, the new buildings, the old, and one of us even commented that the lunch pavilion which was once so large, seemed to have shrunk in size .

It was on the way that we spotted the victory stand, a stand that was always elusive, out of my reach, during my entire school days. Not being athletic, I never participated in any sports and had no chance to climb the stand. It was beckoning, as if giving me a second chance and not wanting to miss the opportunity, I quickly got on in the second place, not to be overly ambitious, and my athletic friends took the first and third place. As might be expected there were many pictures taken, for the scrap book.

Further along the way , there was coffee and snacks available, for all those who cared, or needed refreshments. The auditorium was new and impressive, with tiered seating, that quickly filled to its full capacity of 1300. Some of our friends who had reached early, reserved space in front for the whole batch. Quite conspicuously placed, we featured in many photographs and were known as the ‘ showcase’ batch . The air was thick with excitement, the variety entertainment and singing, were second to none, but still there was a backdrop of incessant chatter, hooting and whistling in the crowded hall. Calls for pin drop silence elicited a momentary hush, that soon turned into a crescendo of lively chit chat again.

After the entertainment, we walked out into the open air, the game’s field, a place that brought memories flooding back . The times we spent, running and chasing one another, the times we spent crushing on someone or discussing our crushes, times we spent bullying the timid or lending a helping hand, the times we spent telling tales or just simply playing games, all with no care in the world, when time had no power over us. More photographs were taken, of old friends together, of mothers and daughters together, of fathers and sons, all under the umbrella of ‘ old students of Sophia’s’ .

Dinner was a short affair, under the star studded sky, with music from the 70’s to serenade us, much to our delight . After which we went around meeting girls from other batches, boys from our own batch, some teachers we remembered and even the oldest of the former students , who were all of 75 years, and there were more photographs. The climax was a moment with Sr. Anita, the nun who was everyone’s favourite, the nun who had touched the life of the oldest to the youngest student of Sophia’s . She sat there regally, as we each paid homage to her and needless to add, more photographs taken .

We then went off to put our thumbprint in our house colours, on the memory tree. Standing before the tree, we took a moment to remember the unfortunate ones, no longer in the land of the living . It was then time to leave, and in an orderly fashion we each found our ride home . We would carry with us the excitement of the Platinum Jubilee, to remember, to discuss, to share with our friends who could not attend, the details to regale, of every occurrence. Though it is almost a week the euphoria of the 75 th anniversary celebration has still not worn off and our WhatsApp chats are overflowing with pictures of the beautiful moments captured.

To be carried in a Dholi, am told I need to wear a choli, a two piece ensemble with a lehengi.There was much discussion of the intended event, during a recent excursion. The night before I added a piece of clothing to carry, none other than a handy, versatile dhoti . So the dhoti came along, lest I rode the dholi, to be tied as a lungi and draped as a saree, to act as both, the choli and the lehengi . Dressed incongruously, I was sure I would feel displaced, when lifted up in the dholi , and would definitely be the butt of many jokes.

I imagined, teetering above the ground, viewing the scene around, being reminded of a popular song of the nineties, that was ringing in my head, and could soon be on the lips of many. A song of impropriety, that once took the world by storm and captured the hearts of every man, the song that catapulted an unknown star to notoriety and certain stardom. Oh but none of that for me, as I dreamed on, of being jostled in the dholi, waiting to alight from my unstable perch.

And I thought, not a bride, not a princess, but a woman so old, who had seen the best and the worst of life . Rocking in the Dholi, would I be filled with regret, for the times that were or could have been. None of my musings manifested in reality, fortunately the morrow brought not, a ride in the Dholi but the experience of an outing so beautiful, a walk into my childhood, .

It was after much discussion and digression, after nearly two years, that we arrived at a consensus, to take up on an invitation, to visit Omtara Kuteera. Expecting to have just fun, flippant to the very end, we arrived, driven in cars that picked us up from home , at timings which were planned with military precision.

On arriving, we found the greenery and fresh air, a welcome change .Walking past and naming each plant, it seemed like a botanical extravaganza. We were then greeted by our gracious hostess, along with her man Friday. Seated outside as we waited for our friends who were yet to arrive, we heard a loud cry from the peacocks that graced the grounds , a cry of alarm or welcome, of which we were not sure.

While we waited, our hostess mentioned that her father in law was the man behind the famous Amar Chitra Katha , the mythological stories we thrived on in our childhood, which was the theme of the resort . The Gopura in the centre, and the painted doors , were fascinating indicators of what lay within, but we had to rein in our curiosity as our hostess had meticulously organised the day for us .

When finally all had arrived we were ushered in with great pomp. There was a small contingent ,waiting with a lamp, for the ceremony of Aarti, the traditional ritual of honouring guests . Filled with excitement we entered, and not disappointed at all, as it was like stepping into wonderland. Glancing around we briefly saw, a treasure trove of heritage, before we were whisked away for a refreshing snack .

After a healthy nourishment, we were led to a grand hall, lined with impressive sculptures from the left to the right, of women so beautiful. Each with a tale, each a goddess, an incarnation, born to destroy evil, born to kill the monsters that plague mankind, and as goddess Tara was the favourite, the resort is named after her, Omtara. Our wonderful hostess and guide, kept an interesting narrative going, a narrative of each avatar, interspersed with anecdotes, that kept us raptly attentive, and we marvelled at her knowledge.

Each story brought to life the stone sculptures , the familiar Amar Chitra Katha of our childhood,. The tales from Ramayan and Mahabharata, of good over evil, it was as if we were stepping into another era, a time when gods walked the earth, a time when women ruled the world . The tour lasted a couple of hours, there were several levels of spectacular artefacts, Tanjore paintings, Mysore paintings, most of them originals, colourful murals and tapestries, the theme always being, the stories from yore .

We were fascinated, speechless even, by the splendour of the collection, of one man’s ambition that took wings, to leave behind a monument, enshrined with his dreams, made real by his progeny, especially by our dear hostess, for posterity . Having finished several levels of this amazing tour, there was an enlightening, light and sound show . The history and culture that we imbibed that day, was far more than we did in our entire life.

We then stopped for a wholesome lunch, prepared and served by an efficient kitchen staff, serving us seconds and thirds, to our heart’s desire. Needless to say that after lunch we rested awhile outside, under the dappled sunlight, on deckchairs placed conveniently. There was a quick tour thereafter, of two more levels, one of them housed games like hopscotch and others from our youth, which we briefly indulged in, much to the strain of our unused muscles.

The weather holding up, as if the rain god Indra wanted us to make the most of it, we were able to then stroll through the grounds, coming up close to a screamer, the dazzling peacock . His feathers ,brilliant in the sun, he stood tall, his head held high, a gorgeous creature, to match his surroundings. Walking back slowly to the main building, we took a chance glance at the sky, noticed the gathering, menacing clouds that soon turned into a downpour .

Running in quickly, we sat down for a hot cup of tea, before taking our leave . There was a parting gift for each of us, the traditional coconut and beetle leaf, brought in ceremoniously . ‘Twas not easy to bid farewell, to the place where for one day we forgot our woes and troubles, where for one day we walked where angels trod, one day when we were transported to the land of a golden age where goodness and grace prevailed. Etched in our mind were sculptures and art, the stories of mythology, that left an indelible mark, and we left making plans to visit again.

Looking back I realise, good and evil are just two sides of the same coin. the conquering of one by the other, is a daily battle we fight, Straddling, we stand with one leg on either side, trying to overcome our base nature but very often losing the battle as we give in to temptations. And with age, with wisdom comes the knowledge, that we are no closer to overpowering evil , but the answer is to stand firm, rooted in our faith, in times of our travails.

What do you say, to a daughter who lost her mother ? What do you say, when each time she searches for that beloved face, what do you say, when each time she reaches out to touch that loving being, who had been her constant support ? What do you say, when she longs for that clasp of comfort one more time , what do you say, when she turns her tear filled, woebegone eyes, asking why she feels, this heart wrenching sorrow?

What can you say, to mitigate this terrible pain, the loss of a mother who gave life, her dearest friend, who taught her right from wrong, who showed her, the strength in forgiveness. The one who taught her never to hold a grudge, to stand for justice in all circumstances, to encourage the weak, to console the suffering, and to be generous at all times? How do you comfort her for the loss of the one who doubled her joys and halved her sorrows, held her close in her troubles, and rejoiced at her every success ?

What can you tell her, when she grieves alone and silently, when she covers her pain, beneath her ever present smile , when she goes about her work, taking care of her family and others , though her heart is breaking into a million pieces ? What do you tell her when at the end of the day, she retreats, on her own to mourn, to nurse her aching soul ? Seeing her inconsolable agony, feeling her pain, all I want to say is, rest dear daughter,while I mourn and weep for your loss, just awhile.

An unforgettable afternoon full of fun and verve , as we gathered at Trippy Goat, for lunch with our schoolgirl friends. Some arriving on time, others held up in traffic jams, straggling in disheveled and late. But soon it was transformed into, an afternoon filled with unceasing chatter and tinkling laughter, as always when old friends gather .

The faces around the table, were glowing with good cheer . The food, though, was barely of much interest and briefly consumed, as each tried to be heard, above the din and clamour. Often slipping in and out of different conversations, we lost words and none made much sense . And the laughter flowed, as we sipped the sangria and wine, and tripped on the cannabis of life .

Stories of the romantic interests in school, crushes we had on handsome cricket coaches, the length of our skirts and braids in the past, to hair care and the adversity of using a comb on scanty hair in the present, from shapely legs, to the present day fat thighs and limbs that didn’t quite fit under the table . Why we even discussed, how to recognise a fellow school mate, by the way they lifted a chair . Some of us had not much to contribute, but were happy to listen and imbibe the gaiety.

There was no connection between the topics of discussion , there was no serious content, just inane conversations, except for a plan in place, for the planning of a Greek cruise, in 2025, that seemed to have everyone excited . As the afternoon wore on, our laughter continued , until the heavens above heard and smiled graciously, and witnessing the unbridled happiness, poured down to join our fun.

Some of us barely knew each other, when in school, and yet we now seem so close. Even though we only meet, maybe once a year, the joy we experience when we are together, is hard to describe, and harder to conceive. After these gatherings, we each travel back to our homes to our lives and may never cross paths with the ones we shared a meal for another year, and yet we feel a thread that binds us together.

Life has its quirks, its tricks . Those we once held close become strangers, and those we never knew, become our best friends . For each season we have a friend , for God intended us to go through life, two by two . But God made school friends, for all seasons .

It is the grand fiftieth reunion of the class of ‘74 .Fifty long years and the school still holds fond memories, after these many years, for its past students. Every brick and stone, every table and chair, every nook and cranny, had a tale to tell, a tale of a boarding school, of a bond made for life. It was many moons ago, these little girls and boys first arrived, some at a the tender age of 5 and 6 , to be tutored and fashioned in the traditions of the prestigious Lawrence Lovedale School.

For the reunion they came in twos and threes, most with their spouse, some alone . They came from far and wide, undeterred by deterrents or the vagaries of weather, to revisit the school they held close to their hearts, viewed with much pride. To revisit their childhood home , their childhood friends, some forgotten, some grown distant, and yet they come together, to where it all started, to celebrate what once was, and can never be again. A much awaited reunion like none other, a reunion planned with military precision, for nearly a year.

As the spouse of a batch member, I was included in this celebration. Starting early on a Wednesday morning, we went from Bangalore by car , a much looked forward to road trip . The journey was mostly uneventful, made easy with the new Bangalore – Mysore Expressway , and with scenic sights to feast on. The tree covered forests, the flora and the fauna, the occasional herd of deer, a peacock, and a stray elephant, to our delight, took away the tedium of the long ride.

As we approached the point, just before the climb , it was afternoon. The sky hung low, and there was a chill in the air. In the distance, stood the blue mountains, tall and indomitable, their brow darkened by clouds. They looked formidable, their stance unyielding, their demeanour unwelcoming, covered by a blue mist so thick, that seemed to corroborate its name, The Blue Mountains. There among the hills lay Ooty and Lovedale, with the many secrets left behind by those who once walked their wooded streets .

Trundling up in cars, the expensive and the not so, some self driven others with drivers, and I wondered if any gave a fleeting thought to the traumatic memory of their first arrival, these who were once little. Clinging tight to their parent’s hand, never wanting to let go, prised away from their mother’s arms, left to fend for themselves. For the first time, alone in their tiny beds surrounded by darkness and unfamiliarity, these little children wept in despair, and turned to each other for comfort, laying the foundation of a friendship for life .

Entering the city of Ooty , through a shower of wet rain, expecting a spoilt vacation, we were pleasantly surprised, to be greeted by sunshine on the other side, as if we had emerged through a curtain , into the land of Oz. The quaint streets , the old buildings, some still the same, others abandoned and in disrepair. The bustle, and the hustle of the crowded streets, so foreign to some, yet so dear and familiar, to those visiting their childhood.

After a three day revelry and various trips to the school, transported back in time, through Plays, Entertainment and PT displays, it was time to leave. The parade on the last day, with a March past by the old and the young, the past and the present, seemed to be a culmination of all that was hoped for . The ‘74 batch marched, enthusiastically, smartly dressed in the colours of their uniform. Yet the world saw, only grey haired men and women, shuffling along .

But watching them I knew, they were sixteen again, marching to the beat in their hearts, the beat that was once theirs, in a field where they belonged, in a parade where they were the star . And then I realised, a visit to our Alma Mater is like drinking from the Fountain of youth, to renew our broken spirit, to renew our weary self, to sip from the Elixir of life, to reignite our passions, to rekindle our dreams . We may all walk different paths, but when we gather at school, we are stripped off of our differences, our titles, to be children once again.

I got some fish for lunch, today . After many rinses, when convinced it was clean, it went into a dish to be marinated. Setting it aside off I went to scrub the smell off me . Using soaps and oils I washed myself, but alas, as usual the stench clung to my hands . Scrubbing repeatedly, I tried to get rid of it totally but traces of it still remained.

The fish had arrived from the butcher dressed and cleaned , yet it was not devoid of the smell, which was now on my skin . Though I tried hard to clean it off, the stench was stubborn and there remained a strong remanent of it . I was then reminded, is it not like our sins ? We are tainted by sin when we are born in this world. Some we commit, some only by association, but there is no escaping it .

Our efforts to rid ourselves of the sin that has permeated our very being, our attempts to purify ourselves by good deeds, are all in vain. Nothing can succeed, except the cleansing by the Divine , by the blood of our Lord Jesus, which was spilt for us . We have to acknowledge and know that our Salvation comes only from the Holy One, a free gift , which we can either accept or reject, the choice belongs to us.