Day 70 When you meet a teacher after 25 years and one of the first things she tells you is that she has been following your sari posts, all you can do is fight back tears. Her warm hug and welled-up eyes only make that struggle tougher. But there’s a fight you are ready to lose.
The past two days were spent in a kind of time warp. Time dissolved as friends who had last seen each other in frocks and skirts (barring a fleeting meeting, that too about 15 yeas ago) met and chatted as if it was just yesterday that they had been together.
As we walked in through the school gates, a flood of memories carried me away. The grey pinafore had been replaced by an yellow and magenta Phulia sari from Byloom, a gift from someone who had not been a part of my life in those pinafore days. There was a lump in my throat even as we giggled like schoolgirls and the students looked at us in wonder. The ground where we had our assembly, the steps that took us up to a room where we had our annual day rehearsals one year, the stages that had seemed so huge then, the portico where all our class photographs were taken, the corridors, the corners…every inch of space had a memory that took us in back in time. New buildings, a lift, a volleyball court, a canteen, smart boards…the school has changed and many of the teachers who taught us have left. And yet just being there made us happy, turned us into little girls once again. The school has grown, and so have we but the school will never grow out of our hearts. The people may be gone, but their memories remain.
Farewells are never easy, but this one was long overdue. I had left the school without having a chance to say goodbye, without that one final hug, that one smile to take back with me forever. They could have forgotten me, but they didn’t. I stayed in their hearts and they in mine. And as I walked out of those gates, I turned back to look at the school one final time and say my goodbye. The goodbye that had been left unsaid 25 years ago.
Just then, my phone pinged and there it was – a note from a teacher I had been hoping to meet. And a few hours later, we were on our way to meet her. As our car approached the house following the directions she had given over phone, we spotted her standing on the road in front of her house, waiting for us. We stepped out to be wrapped up in a warmth that had nothing to do with the weather. One look at that smiling face and those teary eyes made my journey worthwhile. She had taught me 30 years ago, but I could still remember her voice in the classroom. The next hour was spent in a daze, I half-listened to the conversations, to the laughter as I went back to the school, to the classroom, to another life.
Walking and driving around the city, I would suddenly recognise a spot or a lane or a shop that remained amid all the change. The pearl shop where I went umpteen times with my mother, the road that took me to my dance classes, the spot where we waited for a bus after school…
Times they have changed, the city it has changed, but we have remained the same. Well, maybe not entirely but what has remained unchanged is our friendship. Our hearts still beat together and for each other. We have stood the test of time. Why else would five girls from separate corners of the country and beyond leave everything and rush to be together, to reconnect. As we spoke, time dissolved. Sharing tiffin to squabbling, report cards to rehearsals… the conversation kept going back to school, the school that brought us together, and to so many others we spent those times with. Some of those other faces have blurred, some names have become unsure, but they remain buried in the recesses of the heart and the mind. They are within me. The school, the friends. They are me.
While packing for the trip, I had put into my suitcase hopes, memories, excitement and for the first time a sari. When I return, the box will be full with more memories, some old, some new. The suitcase will be heavier, and so is my heart as I leave them.