FRIENDS OF THE YORE

The phone rang as it does always. As always I picked up the mobile and mechanically accepted the call. As soon as I heard the name on the other side, everything changed. On the other side was my classmate from college telling me that they were planning a get together for the classmates. He wanted to know if I could make it convenient to attend. It took me no time to decide and I told him come what may, I shall attend the function dead or alive.

It was an occasion that I  looked forward to. I was eager to meet my old friends, catch up with lost times and re-experience those beautiful moments of my youth, I had spend at the college in Kollam.  I was eager to be back, where I actually belonged to. It was with a great sense of gratitude and happiness I confirmed my attendance at the function proposed to be organized by my classmates.

Glory to the Almighty, wherever He or She be, by whatever name He, She or It be called for any divine assistance rendered. My gratitude to those friends of mine here on earth, in flesh and blood who sweated and strived hard to make this occasion possible.

I was sure that they would be eager to listen to my exploits over the last thirty seven years as an Army Man. After all army stories are supposed to be full of action. I readied myself to share one or two real life instances. I am a logistics expert and have nothing spectacular to showcase. I haven't charged down with the light brigade, i haven't taken on any enemy single handedly and vanquished him. So, what I had in mind, was to narrate couple of near fatal incidents that I brought upon myself and how I was saved  through divine intervention. By the very nature of it, the narrative was not subliminal and would have stopped within a couple of minutes before the audience wriggled in their seats.

Stories of, grit and pain, of fear, anguish and anxiety, of success and victory, of the victor and vanquished, when narrated by the protagonist, suffer from emotional over indulgence. Such stories when told by a soldier often sound incredibly impossible. It's often dubbed as figments of imagination by those uninitiated into the Army way of life. Unfortunately both, the narrator and the audience, prisoners of individual perception, suffer from lack of understanding, one from indulgence and the other from ignorance or indifference.

This however does not prevent an army man from embarking on narrating few such stories which he is compelled to, much like the ancient mariner, at the first possible opportunity. The audience, small or big, driven by curiosity so integral to us humans, do prompt army men to start talking, which they often readily oblige. The problem, however, in most cases is how to stop him from the narration.

More than my personal stories, I wanted to use the opportunity to tell my classmates, how I felt about them. I wanted them to know how relevant they were to my very existence and of the role they played, unknown to them, individually and collectively in making me what I am. They would have known very little of it, for what I was to speak, was from deep within my heart, my emotions and my perspective of our interpersonal relationship. I had not shared it with anyone, ever before.

College was starkly different from my school. As I joined college, I was just about graduating from ignorance inherent to childhood to uncomfortable uncertainty of adolescence. That was also, I think, just about the time when society stopped attributing wind pollination as a cause of child birth. Boys and girls could talk to each other, maintaining respectable distances between them without the fear of pregnancy. Since the guardians of morality were not yet born we could speak without keeping a watch over our shoulders.

I was schooled in an all boys residential school. The, very few, girls, who studied in the school were daughters of our teachers. They, condemned with the company of such an overwhelming majority of boys and in the overbearing presence of their parents in campus, were out right unreachable.

The only colour I knew of, other than VIBGYOR, was khaki and white. Though the day started with "white on white" for the compulsory physical training and ended with "white on white" pajamas and kurta, Khaki was the primary dress code. Khakis took up most of the daylight hours with about an hour or little more in blue and white. Umbrellas were a rarity there and heads, even the few sane feminine ones, were sans flowers.

My seven year life at the school was governed by bells. The response to each bell depending on the time of the day was different. Much like Pavlov's dog, we knew the early morning bell was for bed tea. There was one for breakfast and like that, the whole day and activities within it, was controlled by the annoying sound of bells. The common smell at school was that of sweat with personal stamps written all over. The mess had another distinctive odour. Smell of unwashed socks drew immediate sneer and was suitably taken care of. Perfumes, despite few having access to it at home, had not made its presence felt in the campus. We were generally clean and were compelled to maintain high standards of personal and collective hygiene. The school campus had a large area to explore.  But over the seven years, each inch of it knew me and offered me no place to hide. My failures and success was always visible and I had no place to withdraw to other than myself. I could do nothing about it. I grew up lonely in a constant crowd and internalized the art of survival.

I had fared  pretty badly and my father's worst  nightmare had just come true. I had missed first division in my School final exams. He like many fathers, always wanted me to top. I "bottomed" always. He had beautiful dreams for me that I was incompetent to accomplish, however hard I tried.  I wanted to be a teacher, a priest, a poet, a writer, a pilot, a missionary and even a political administrator. But I didn't know, which, how and why. His dreams required sustained hard work but I spend my days day dreaming. I read everything else but my textbooks. That was not sufficient to get me an acceptable grade. Given my state of commitment and preparedness, even passing the exams was a miracle.


The quality of teaching and grooming was so good at school that even daydreamer like me ended up with a high second division. But, for my family, it was a first of sorts. My  cousins, whom my father was comparing me with, had all secured minimum first divisions. I, having been schooled in the best along with the best had let him down. The events that followed at home, after my results were declared, dictated my arrival amongst some of the most beautiful people that I have known.

Much against my desire to pursue a Bachelors Degree in English literature, I was forced to take admission for a Degree in chemistry in the local college. Thus, in the summer of 1976, I found myself in Fatima Mata National College. The college was a sea of umbrellas and flowery hairs tied up in ways that I had never seen before. The place smelled differently. It smelled of flowers and perfumes. Though unfamiliar, it offered me a sense of security, inherent to anonymity. It was a world that offered me a beautiful space where I could be on my own. The best thing about the place was that no one was in control of anyone. There were bells, but it was not compelling. There was a sense of freedom that everyone enjoyed, as a matter of right.

The beauty of our class was that it was surprisingly full of good people, studious yet fun loving, naughty yet serious when it came to affairs of studies, helpful yet disengaged, individualistic yet grouped. It was a class of boys and girls that could have been brought together only by divine intent. Whether everyone was sure of their future or least bothered about it, I can't say, there was a confident calm that everyone exuded. Though I put on a facade of confidence, I was  consistently consumed by the fear of failure that lurked within.

My life in the college was different from others. I  found work and  operated a mill in the evenings and was financially independent. I earned and paid my own fees. I had savings of my own. It made me feel worthy of existence, though there were times I questioned it with utmost sincerity. There was also a time when I seriously thought of calling it quits. But quitters never won and I persisted. Before I fathomed what I gained, my three year life in the college was over. I was selected to join the Indian Military Academy at Dehradun for training and on completing it, was commissioned into the logistics stream as per my choice. Life ever since has been interestingly challenging and rewarding. As I travelled along, I picked up some tremendous friends both male and female young and old. But my friends from college remain special.

It is not often, that I recall my college days , but when I do, so many things flood my thoughts.

I had essayed the role of a semi nude madman in a drama, where I spoke nothing but kept rolling a rock because the director felt rolling the stone spoke more than words. I didn't understand much then but i rolled it anyway. Now I know that in real life, actions speak louder than words. I had to shave off my mustache, the only time I ever did that in my life, for the dance sequence we were presenting. It was fun then. Now i know, that it can be fun dancing on somebody's tune if you love that person. I recall that beautiful soft stylish kaftan a beautiful classmate gave me for the occasion. I didn't want to return it but did it anyway. I still can recall her radiant mischievous looks. Then there was this doe eyed one who walked sideward when she entered the class. In her queer yet vain attempt to hide her assets, she actually ensured that everyone looked at her.

I recall the well dressed, matinee idol like, chemistry teacher who impressed us with his teaching skills and managed to win the heart of the most beautiful girl in our college, our classmate. I also vividly remember my English teacher who taught us all about romanticism with a beautiful description of Cleopatra sailing up the Nile to receive Mark Antony. I learned from her the way, words can be used to convey emotions. The sight of my beautiful and kind physics teacher, with deep dimples that accompanied her smiles, has not faded yet.

The size and shapes of packed lunch,  ranging from the miniature tiffin that belonged to prettiest of all, to the huge ones that few of us laboured on. I can still recall the smell of coconut chutney and omelettes that we shared. I also can recall the readiness with which the angel shared her lunch of "one tomato and a bite more" packed in her miniature container with me. I think, I might have been the only one who had the privilege. She was undoubtedly the most beautiful girl I had met till then but was already in love with our teacher. The fun of those cigarettes, that few of us, smokers, shared sitting on the the terrace balcony of our class still remain unmatched. The mindless foolishness of throwing stones at each other, the two neighbouring colleges indulged in, for some silly reason or the other have never been matched ever after. The election that I fought and managed to secure just two votes, one certainly mine and another likely to have been cast by my friend, has not left any bad taste whatsoever. The satisfaction of winning the departmental teaching competition has not been matched by any other success. The solace, I got when I saw my friend coming with her friend, both pursuing medicine, to spend time with my mother is nothing short of divine.

My daughters once asked me whether I had an affair in the college. I told them that college life is incomplete without one's own share of love story,  even if it is one sided! I too had one. Those sparkling eyes, cute dimples, the disarming smiles and above all, something about her,  I still can't fathom what it was,  felled me. I liked her. It must have been only an infatuation, because knowing me had I been in love, I would have gone to the end of the world dead or alive to make it happen. But stuck in the quicksands of my own making, I never mustered the courage to make that all important first move. So what could have been the love story of our times, remained hidden in my heart, one sided, unsaid and unwritten.

Destiny definitely had something different and better. The never say die, romantic in me found one woman to love for life.  The best girl in the world became mine, first as my wife, then as mother of my two children, then as the only one who shared all my burdens,  transformed into being my friend, then my best friend, a friend for all seasons, my lover and my soulmate. She then became my soul without whom I am hopelessly incomplete. If i have to thank anyone other than God, my dad and mom, it is only she. She is the cornerstone of my life.

Looking back, I realise I have received more than I have given. I have been blessed abundantly, much more than I desired or dreamt of. I have received unconditional love and affection from my friends.

Those old times just came in gushing like a torrent as soon as I kept the phone down. I made the necessary bookings and flew in to Kerala. Since that day each moment I spend with them, I have experienced bliss that I have never ever before. The unbridled outpouring of affection I received from my classmates, their spouses and children make me feel special and blessed. I wonder if I deserve this special care and adulation.

I have spoken in public many times. Some of them were very well received. But the way you treated me to the stage my friends, you left me speechless. I was shaking all over and had to literally hold myself from crying. The words from my teacher, the hugs from my friends, the readiness with which you embraced me, my dear friends makes me feel I have been touched by the divine.

My dear friends of the yore, you truly  fill my life ..
Thank you.
God bless you.