School Days

I was passing through St Patrick’s the other day when quite out of nowhere memories of my time spent in that gentle and noble place came flooding in. They were sporadic flashes of images, a cacophony of sounds, wafts of scent too intimate to name and a mélange of colours all mixed up to be recognizable; but they were strong, and I could no longer contain myself from walking inside and sitting on one of the benches in front of the Primary Section. And then, to ruminate.

Memory does not serve me well after so many years but I am told that upon entering the office of the Principal for the admissions interview, I looked very enthusiastically all around and especially at the chap himself who seemed as if he had just stepped out of a Nativity play. I had done well at the picture drawing we were required to do earlier and the only question asked of me was about the colour of my trousers. Now I had been coached to call those things that one wears on his legs as Knickers (inevitably calling them Naykar). It was only after a very pronounced look from my mother towards my brown boxers that I could get the meaning and instantly beamed out Chocolaty! This small display of cuteness (and perhaps my all A Montessori Grades) apparently had the Principal smiling his assent.

My first recollection of the school is not of the pint sized tables and chairs or the oversized Anglo Indian teachers assigned to teach us the dubious art of speaking in English. It was the Assembly. Day after day, in rain, sunshine, cold or sweltering heat, we would gather together to thump out the National Anthem first and then the School song. No one could get the words for a good number of years and we would just keep shouting with the older boys. The sight of two scouts wearing their enchanting uniform and hoisting up the flags was as thrilling as to march up to our classes in single file. I do not much remember the classes or the matter taught therein; but the corridors are vividly branded in memory. Lined up with pictures of Biblical figures and events and the ubiquitous hallowed Jesus and Mary, they depicted a calmness and serenity which was as new to us as it was fascinating. We of course never understood what they were or why they were there; but years later when in youthful zest, some of us started reciting our Zuhar prayers during recess breaks (I was in the afternoon section then) did we fully comprehend what a great dilemma it was to be thus in the shadow of these blasphemous pictures! It was the first and till date my only experience in simulating the more self satisfied reaches of the religious demagoguery and we played it to the tee: for instantly our group of about seven boys developed a subdued but very pronounced difference in choosing a prayer leader and thus I, along with three equally young muqtadees, for the first time was made to lead my own special brand of prayers! That mujaahidaana zeal to thus sacrifice our lunch break however wilted away after a very gentle nudge from the Principal himself and perhaps the more cogent argument of not being able to have anything to eat till a further two hours. But for some time to come, we would have the satisfaction of atleast winning on the moral ground and were looked upon admiringly by the other non-believers.

The music class I do not recall so fondly. And since I seem bestowed from quite early on with enough sense and individuality not to get myself mired in the physical and mental constrictions that go with uniformed existence, I would have nothing to do with scouting as well. But sporting I did. And with what exhilaration! The sprawling ground between the Primary Section and the E building was enough for at least three or four regulation size strolls in the recess; and for all time thus hooked me on the joys of walking. But the singular attraction was a little pile of sand placed quite strategically in between. It was no more than perhaps 5 by 8 feet and had sufficient enough cusp in the middle to make it both comfy and tempting. We had a run up of about 15 or 20 paces and would then charge upon that sand ferociously; someone would carve out of his shoe, a line two feet before the pile and we would all very professionally break and leap from that point. But it wasn’t so all the time. And so, debating an argument with one of my friends and having perhaps a burger in my hand, I would out on a whim suddenly come running upto the pile and throw myself as far as I could. We always seemed to have double file of idlers and loungers by that pile who, too finicky enough to themselves take active part, would nevertheless derive vicarious pleasure from standing close and cheering us up. Apart from the urge that boys have of doing all things physical, the cheers and jeers of that motley crowd was also an inspiration for many of us. And nothing, of course, would to a very good extent make us forget a recent caning from the Principal (or a hour an half kneel-down) than to romp around in that cheerful mud. Nor were the PT sessions that arduous. After a customary routine, I fondly remember many an hour spent in the basket ball court involved in the taxing exercise of listening to the latest breakdance songs on a tape recorder!

The initial years of a boy’s life are rather confusing and therefore growing up is an exercise best done collectively. All my landmark tidings of adolescence are rooted deeply within the school. As if we all blossomed together, the change came creeping and suddenly we found our hitherto free legs shackled first by the elastic ones, and later on with real pants. We were also made to wear ties; the knot of which was a special indication of ones stature; and God-like was he admired who could make a knot by his very hands! A sufficient enough indication of one’s manliness and worldly-wisdom! We were only very later to learn that this prowess could indicate the presence of a negligent mother as well; which is perhaps the reason that to this very day I still do not know how to tie a knot. The classrooms, it seemed, also became a very noisy place to be as we would practice our crackling manly voices and in tones not too hushed up, regale each other with a newly learned invective or a dirty joke. Often one of the boys would bring with him some crumpled sheaf of papers torn carefully from a porno magazine, and would for that day revel in the starry eyed reverence of us all! Not a minute would be wasted in circulating that paper and its odious contents among the nearest boy who, while seemingly concentrating on the stuff that was being written on the blackboard, would hold it between his knees and stare longingly only to be rudely hissed at by the fellow sitting besides; whereupon he would reluctantly pass it on to him. And so the round would be played every period for that day with some conscientious boys sparing the Islamiat period from this pleasurable indulgence! We also became argumentative and would start talking back to our teachers. The scuffles, on and off the class, turned into actual fist fights and no one would leave his stuff unattended: especially if it happened to be an expensive rubber or that precious ball pen with digital watch. We were organizing into small closely knit groups so that it was no longer possible to be friends with everyone in the class. Boys would play together with their friends and the loners were not entirely taken in to the brotherhood. Suddenly it seemed that every one had something to contribute and we would all increase each other’s knowledge in such matters as the parental idiosyncrasies, family values, sibling affairs, jobs, sports, girls, breakdance, marital requirements, politics, movies, religion and the latest cool look (which at that time I remember was to roll up one’s collar and sleeves, button down a notch or two, wear the sweater around the waist at recess and talk with a toothpick or lollypop in the mouth). We would collectively go to the neighbouring St Josephs, more to ogle at the pretty girls (somehow all girls seemed pretty at that time) with their dainty frocks and socked legs than to have that delicious soup with finger chips at the Brunch just outside. We defined various budding attributes of our growing up with reference to what we did in those days: confidence, when we left the School bus and first boarded an ordinary one from Saddar; moral dilemma, when we would have arguments ad infinitum on whether or not to cheat in the Board exams; sadness, when one of our class fellows died leaving us absolutely blank; independence, when our group first tasted the forbidden fruits of smoking cigarettes in the bathrooms; fraternity, when we helped each other off during lab practicals; pride, when we would shout out and make fun of lesser mortals studying in a 2000 square yard bungalow school; desperation, when nothing we said could pursue the teacher to increase the once allotted marks; and fun, when we threw paint and drowned each other in spray at the farewell. We were about to enter the dark and mysterious world of adults and couldn’t wait to do so!

I suppose I should say something about books as well, for here is the aspect in which I am most indebted to my school. From quite early on, a charming lady would come to our class with a stack of books and would randomly distribute them and make us stick to them for the length of the period. And although I had been quite into books at my home, what with the Naunehaals and Jassosi novels, this was perhaps my first brush with English fiction other than what we had to read in our Adventures in Readings and Radiant Ways. I found the idea of reading English without being tested on it very fascinating. And thus it was that from such humble beginnings in fiction as Enyd Blyton, Secret Seven, Famous Five and Hardy Boys, a whole new vista of neatly bound books stacked atop each other opened itself to me. I would wait impatiently for the library hour and at times display the courage of selecting the book myself as well. And while other boys would either talk or simply down their heads for a wink, I would ply my diligent nose in that book. The smell of the printers ink, the neatly arranged blocks of words, the finely chiseled edges, the glued leaves and simply the feel of that book was enough to last me for the day! And when we finally were allowed to independently go to the library and fetch books for ourselves, I could at my own pace and leisure introduce myself to Shakespeare’s original words, as opposed to the abridged versions of his plays we were taught; and could also manage to recite a dozen or so rather difficult Urdu couplets in the class, thus pleasantly shocking our Urdu teacher. And thus it was that a love affair with books –any book—started which has shown no signs of diminishing to this very day.

St Pats has been instrumental in cultivating another of the passions in my life. Being a somewhat carefully brought up kid, I started quite late into rebelling from the home made lunch packets. Earlier on I would scoff at the unhygienic stuff being sold outside the gates: the drains were open in those times, the horse carts were very near and the stench was enough to put out of your mouth whatever had just gone in! But it was fate; and I got hooked on to it. First it was the salty smell of spiced though stale potatoes; then the saccharine filled sherbet; then the cold assortments collectively peddled to us as patties; then a suspicious looking condiment of some yellowish rice, a dash of salan and a bit of onion peels. And finally that strange concoction of stale bread (and God knows what) rolled up in a patty which for want of a better name was called a burger. But the thing that really got me was the milk toffees; something peculiar to St Pats only, I believe. Sold inside in the canteen (Michael’s, wasn’t it?), they were considered hygienic enough for consumption and so I had handfuls of it, almost every day for those ten delightful years!

When I had enough independence to stroll outside after the school, I would brave the rush hour traffic to cross the street and play the video game or just loaf around the thaila-lined bazaars of Saddar. There are no words with which I can describe how exciting it was for a young boy to venture out into the brave new world all by himself. I would mingle with the men crowding around a seedy looking chap selling his equally seedy stuff and promising such carnal delights as his gullible customers were willing to buy. I would stand in front of the auctioneers starting off the bid of a Tape recorder with 10 Rupees and forcing the worthless junk upon a sucker for 300. I would roam continuously around a book stall, apparently reading the headlines of the latest sensationalist eveninger but really eyeing those garishly-pictured novels all neatly wrapped up in plastic. I would patronize every sherbat waala in those hot summer days. I would walk for 20 minutes and cross 10 jam-packed streets just to look at that new dinky car or the Parker pen displayed in the shop window. In general, I would just walkabout, taking in the scene, looking at men and their distinct lives and discovering every which way of the bustling downtown. Which would have been all nice and proper if it wasn’t for some jarring incidents that would, from time to time, bring me out of my reverie. I do remember sometimes that young lad, running wildly away from two ferocious looking men who had earlier on surrounded him, chatted him up, taken him to a corner restaurant and were forcing him to have some tea. It was only through his presence of mind and a quite dislike of tea that the boy could thus free his arm and run away, dunking in from the small entrance behind the basket ball court and into the safety of his school. A day or two later things cooled down through therapy sessions/discussions with eminent psychologists such as his other 13 year old class fellows who narrated their own experiences in the matter and thus he could walk again into the world outside. And now in an age when I could (on an extremely bad hair day) be mistaken for a burda-faraosh myself, I realize that perhaps the only good thing to have come out of the whole sordid event was to have a life long distaste of tea! I have since then been a coffee person.


I have always marveled at those nostalgic melo-dramatists who would not cease from recalling (very imaginatively, to be sure) every worth while trait in their teachers; and how their very lives were changed by that one look, that one word of encouragement and that one peculiarity. I should be excused on that account in being too busy growing up and not noticing! I had, and still to this day have, a very prosaic and realistic view of my teachers complete with all their traits, physical or otherwise, which we used to hate, admire, make fun of, revere, leer at, emulate, get frustrated with or simply ignore. We had our crushes on the charming ladies, competent no doubt but otherwise relegated to a life of being whistled and lasciviously gawked at by testosterone charged 13 year olds! We would go all the way to his home to inquire why our favourite teacher isn’t coming for the last two days. We would hate the guts of perpetually pissed off teachers, too incompetent to have us grudgingly tolerate them or too dull to win us over. We would pray to have in our free class, a particular teacher with whom it was such fun to be with. We had our fairs, our declamation contests, our film shows and one or two odd picnics as well. We had our novice teachers coming in, all jittery and sweating, and it was such fun to confuse them with all the awkward questions; and when they would finally manage to come up with an answer, ask permission to go to the bathroom! We had our pranks and our little games; and our kneel-downs and our stand-ups. We occasionally had a very angry teacher as well. But these were far and few between: and most of our teachers stayed quite close to the beaten path of dutifully discharging whatever they were being paid for. But that is not to say that a young and impressionable mind could not indulge in the exciting luxury of idolizing an imposing personality: and St Patrick’s in those days seemed to be full of such giants.


All said and gone through, it was a time well spent. Outside of my life at home, I owe perhaps everything to St Patricks. There are schools both good and grand; but for that little boy, spending ten of the most formative years of his life, there was no school like his very own. Much more than those solid bricks and majesty of the building itself, the atmosphere reeked of a world gone by (though still reminiscent in the foundation stone laid by a Lt Governor of “Scinde� quite sometime back); of a tradition of scholarship not still sullied by the business it has now turned into; of mannerisms and ideals redolent of a quintessentially English public school; of hallowed halls and rooms once frequented by proud scholars; and above all by that noble raison d’etre of St Patrick’s which, all things considered, is essentially to make honourable, bright and striving fellows out of young lads and “with hope’s pure light, disperse the night and guide their separate ways�!