Aitchison: Scenes From Within

It is not my intention in writing this piece to offend anyone from Aitchison College; the following is merely a critical look at life inside the big black wrought iron gates. It is written more for the information of parents aspiring to send their wards there to have a bright future, based solely

on the glossy school promotional brochure and word of mouth by people who have never been there, especially in the Hostel/Boarding house environment.

I would like to take the unsuspecting reader on a rare quiet tour inside the crumbling red-brick facade of my alma mater, Aitchison College, an icon of tradition, discipline, values, principles. Maybe some ex-Aitchisonians can actually relate to this trip down nostalgia-filled memory lane. Others will cry out "murder" and "blasphemy".
Aitchison College, known alternatively as the Chief College, by the mere mortal on the streets, is looked upon with awe and remorse by millions of Pakistani parents, as the ultimate schooling arena within Pakistan. I feel very solemnly that such a reputation is a trifle over-rated, much like BMW being extolled as the ultimate driving machine (due to the fact that the Germans are a highly overpaid workforce, and they need to sell cars at gargantuan prices to subsidise the high standard of living of the German Automakers). A higher price to pay automatically translates to a better car, a better service, a better system, a better education. Such is the logic applied to Aitchison too, and people believe that the higher costs of education involved at this institution automatically translates to a better education and an all-round grooming of their ward into a magical personality ready to take on the challenges of an unpredictable tomorrow with decorum, integrity, and confidence - the hype, one reads in its glossy brochure.

Retrospectively, I feel its not merely education one gets there, its more about learning to belong to an elite clique, to see how many contacts one can generate amongst ones colleagues. The sons of the influential, the industrialist, the doctor, the successful engineer, the entrepreneur, the politician, the architect, are all there. Indeed this particular segment of the community is going to be the architect for all of Pakistan's tomorrows. This "Old Boys" network is still very much prevalent in our society, whereby ex-Aitchisonians in position of authority will grant their support to other Aitchsonians in various facets of life, merely because of the apparent connection to the institution. Such friendships prosper throughout the life of most Aitchisonians, and is reprehensible to me because the clique mentality is sometimes considered as being above the law, in that often merit does not enter into the equation for economic situations like appointments, recommendations for interviews, recommendation for entrance exams to preferred Medical and Engineering Colleges, prestigious club memberships etc, hence reinforcing the divide:" "Hum Idhar, Tum Udhar".

My dad had always the utmost desire to see me go to Aitchison. He had enrolled me there on a shortlist, prior to my birth, as was the custom (and still is today). Unfortunately we did not have the huge contacts in high places one requires, to procure an interview let alone an admission into the junior classes. After my O-levels, from Sadiq Public School, Bahawalpur, my father insisted on my going to Aitchison for A-levels. Aitchison has a policy to accept candidates from other schools for its Higher School Certificate (A-levels) classes based on entrance exams and with no prerequisite safarish ("recommendations"). I was soon overjoyed to finally be accepted at this veritable institution. I was the second person in my family, (on both my parents sides) to have studied at Aitchison, and my parents used to tell everybody ever so proudly "My eldest is studying at Aitchison", like most Pakistani parents in their place would do.

I was excited and intrigued by the old architecture, the grand cricket pitch in the main grounds, the smell of the rose bushes, the whole battalion of gardeners tending the lawns, the higher than average usage (deliberate?) of English in normal conversations , the soggy bund-kebab (Aitchisonian version of burgers with lots of Mitchells ketchup) and fruit cups from the tuckshops, the smell of freshly fried purees/chollas(traditional breakfast on Friday mornings at 04:30, straight from the shops within Aitchison ), water heater radiators which never functioned well and made strange noises, the poor state of shoddy hostel accommodation, the broken floors on the Kelly House, where there was sandy ground exposed between the tiles, stiff starched pugharrs (turbans, blue in winter, and grey in summer which were to be worn on Saturdays and yes, on top of a western style Blazer/trouser complete with the school tie, all in the name of tradition), the hard and fast rules of being Seniors and Juniors, whereby the Juniors would act as the Seniors slaves, the amount of disgusting innuendo which was the decorum of the boarding houses, with rival groups of feudal landlords' wards trying to have frequent showdowns. A common joke about the paggarhs (turbans) was that they were introduced to create humility in us to feel what an attendant outside an upmarket Hotel in Lahore might look and feel like. Indeed Pagarrhs do not suit the facial construction of everybody, so some of us really did look like Chaprasis (Peons) or waiters. But that's the closest we ever came to be asked to think about such people.

I remember watching the heavily censored English movies on the big makeshift screen Thursday nights at the old Accounts Building. That was one time when we were on our best behaviour because some young Misses (female teachers from the Junior School) used to grace us with their presence too. Of course we were about as subtle in our sexual connotations in trying to get attention from these ladies, as a brick wall in the middle of the Auto Bahn (motorway). And of course it was a very vocal time, with lots of cat calls, and requests for the projectionist to be gentle on whatever remnant romantic/love scenes were left, to go easy on them for once, and gain our prayers for his early marriage and subsequent birth of many sons. But he was resolutely determined to remain celibate.

I was particularly disturbed by the frequent request from the school for massive regular donations starting at about Rs 10,000-30,000 for the refurbishment of the institution. To my great consternation, the donations never actually made a visible difference on the crumbling red walls. Or the state of the furniture in the boarding houses, which included sagging charpayees and old ridiculous tables, bent with years of misuse. The squash court walls were still crumbling and paint had fallen off to such an extent that the cement and the sandy crevices were showing. There were rumours of widespread fraud but were quelled down by the Head Master being a veritable paragon of virtue, integrity, tradition.

Speeches were the order of the day. I remember a memorable one which our learned principal gave us about hygiene and health...." Cleanliness is half-religion. Always have your arm-pits clean and the same applies to your cock-pits". I still don't know if I heard him correctly, but given the fact that the rest of the crowd just burst up laughing leads me to believe that I did hear the correct word. I believe the respectable gentleman was an ex airforce retired man, and hence the allusion to cockpits. Speeches were given at any and every time about dignity of an Aitchisonian, carrying on the tradition (the turban bit, I suppose), and making ones country proud.

Boarding houses were a paragon of waywardness and weirdness. It was considered fun to pour an entire bucket of freezing cold water on winter nights on a poor soul sleeping ever so snugly in his leehaf (we did not have blankets then, I used to have a "purple" velvet coloured leehaf (not my choicest colours...I might add), which my Nani Amman, may Allah bless her soul, had stitched for me, her dearest first grandson, in spite of her poor health and eyesight, when I was embarking on the lonesome journey to the boarding house). Pranks were alright, we were told by the housemaster, as long as they were within limits. But there were no limits! Often people would be beaten up in the name of some jest. And yes, I was weak, and infirm to not have had stood up for these victims, to not have had the courage to intervene, lest I be the center of "their" attention and abuse. One could not complain either to the authorities, as then that person was called Mama's boy, and ostracised.

There is a saying "Cruel is not the one who beats.... but the one who beats and does not even let the beaten one scream out in pain". By that very token there were lot of cruel men there. I use the word men, and not boys, for in those hours they looked like men, the same men who commit rape, human rights violation, ridicule the minorities, usurp the rights of women, treat animals and oppressed people alike. They were getting groomed for just such a future. I personally was not hurt or wounded - except my pride - but a dear and precious friend was subjected to an incredible ordeal once, and I was too afraid to engage those bullies in a real fight.

As to why i did not stand up for him, i still cannot comprehend. I had fought meagre fights before, but somehow, those four bullies looked bigger and more menacing than celluloid villains did, full of the mockery which comes from absolute power over the powerless. The altercation started on my friend's request to them to not make a racket outside his window - he was preparing for Mr Bhatti's Math exam. But it seemed those four degenerates were looking for an excuse to start a brawl. They started verbally abusing my friend. They knew of my close ties with my friend, and wanted to test the bond. And then the verbal abuse changed to threats of disfigurement to my friend and myself if we dare raise our voice. My friend, more headstrong than myself tried to give them some verbal abuse back, whereupon the four of them descended like vultures on him, and I tried to mediate, when I should have been trying to kick and punch them off his frail body. I could not muster enough courage to yell "Foul-play". Then it was over, as soon as footsteps were heard approaching. I remember ever so vividly the hate in the eyes of their leader, a rotund man wearing round glasses (who incidentally used to think of himself as Babai Ungrezi - quoting Thomas Hardy), who left us with the final admonition "Dont try to mess with the [snip his family name], as we shall wipe out your entire family". I recall he was very proud of his heritage, and had apprised us casually earlier, about his father who had been in the U.N as a peacekeeper.

I often wonder if it was the most cowardly thing I ever did, to see a wrong being done, and turn the other way. For not all of us can be fighters, and aggressors: it is not built into my genes to provoke and abuse a fellow human being. That is the excuse I have used to live with myself, for the thirteen years that have elapsed since. Looking back that perhaps is the biggest regret of my life. But at that time I had made a vow to myself, that I shall speak out one day, and get it out of my system and at least vocally condemn this and other such acts of violence and injustices against the weak.

Threats and provocation were commonplace in the boarding house, one often hearing words like "I am going to get the whole family tree of yours wiped out, my father is that big a feudal landlord... your race shall never survive if you mess with me again." Empty promises or serious stuff? I would go for the latter as I have seen them carrying real pistols and guns for their protection (from what, I can simply not fathom).

Claiming to be gay or a homosexual was considered a big thing. And of course it was mostly only a joke. However it still made me nervous: a fear of running into supposedly the gay community of the students in lavatories. I could never tell if those guys were really what they said they were or were they just pulling my leg to freak me out with their horrors. I suspect a bit of both.

Such talk is an inherent part of the Aitchison Boarding House arena. Once we heard that there was a break-in at the Stables late at night, and somebody had tried to do something "unnatural" with one of the mares.... but I dont know that for a fact, as these rumours had a way of getting quelled down as soon as they started.

Of course, the third dressing room at the back of each room used to be a vice den after lights out. Drugs, smoking, drinking and what not used to prevail into the early hours of the morning. Often tell-tale signs of what transpired would remain on the old cupboards.

Lascivating on porno video films that often made it to the boarding houses late at night after parties for the private viewing pleasure of the seniors, was another big thing, and the authorities often turned their back on this "good clean fun". These videos were normally watched in the company of the 9th graders barely 14, with a view to making men out of the innocent boys, coming from prep school. Seniors considered it their privilege to give a well-rounded personal grooming to these youngsters.

The concept of Seniors and Juniors was a puzzling one for me. I was admitted in Grade 12, which would automatically confer me the privileges of being a Senior, but I was told openly by the other Seniors (the ones trudging on from Grade 1) that I cannot expect to ever be considered a Senior as I was an outsider. I told them "Dear chap, dont you worry about that, I dont give a flying toss about it. I am here to study and then hopefully forget about this place". But forgotten I have not....even after 13 years of having left Aitchison. The "Senior" business just did not stop there. In order to show me my status in life they used to get the Juniors to try to take liberties with me: At night time, the students queue outside the mess-hall for the dinner bell. Upon hearing the dinner gong, the students proceed in straight line fashion inside for their meal, Seniors first followed by Juniors. Of course what would happen was that as soon as the 10 or 12 "Real" Seniors had gone in, and I was next to go in, the head troublemaker Junior, on prior instructions, would actually cut my path and try to go ahead of me. Power struggles - immature, banal, base. The juniors would iron the shirts for the Seniors, polish their shoes, carry their books for them, praise them, pamper them, flatter the seniors, and of course then each of the senior would pick a favourite boy, and give him unwritten powers to wreak havoc on the other simple junior boys by ordering them around, creating the concept of ruler and the ruled nice and early.

People staying in the hostels invariably had immense psychological problems, problems of self esteem, complexes of various sorts; a few of them used to often just burst out in despair, believing their parents did not give a hoot about their welfare as they are too busy making money or having a good time.

One night I woke to a commotion in my room. As I rubbed my eyes to see better, I saw my roommate, another son of a feudal landlord, walking around naked in my room, shouting obscenities at the desk, the beds, the silent lamp. That sort of thing was common. I was fortunate enough not have been affected adversely by such going-ons (I think), but I can remember many who were.