A schoolboy in Bombay...
The Don Bosco school, Matunga was over the hills and far away, from a 7 yr old's perspective. Two Bombay municipal buses took me there, kindly conductors assuring my servant maid that i would be fine on the way.
Changing buses at the kurla depot was an adventure. Standing patiently in line, people-watching. What sights i got to see! Colorful markets selling plastics, cutlery, books, footwear, jewelry. Old women in worn saris clutching their handbags, businessmen off to meetings, young men eyeing the nubile ones.
And when I finally got to the stop across from the school, I was always elated. I loved my school, the grand mahogany staircase leading up to my classroom 5B, past the vice-principal's office. The smell of fresh rain on the dirt of the playground in the monsoon season.
The wonderful, large playground, where hundreds of boys exulted in their prodigious energies as they competed in games of cricket, soccer, catch-me-if-you-can. A glass of Aarey milk (with delish cream on top) at short-break, the dreaded Marathi teacher out of the way (it was rumored she hated all boys after being left at the altar).
Cricket at lunch, the whoosh of leather balls met with solid thwacks from wood. Biren Khanderia, the run machine, kept us all busy. But Deepak Punjabi's spin befuddled his batting expertise from time to time...
Telling a story about tarzan and how he defeated batman in the race to the himalayan gold (they let me entertain the class in free periods). Maths was awesome (my friend sandeep was the best ; he had a head for math) and it was time to hop on BSC again...
Changing buses at the kurla depot was an adventure. Standing patiently in line, people-watching. What sights i got to see! Colorful markets selling plastics, cutlery, books, footwear, jewelry. Old women in worn saris clutching their handbags, businessmen off to meetings, young men eyeing the nubile ones.
And when I finally got to the stop across from the school, I was always elated. I loved my school, the grand mahogany staircase leading up to my classroom 5B, past the vice-principal's office. The smell of fresh rain on the dirt of the playground in the monsoon season.
The wonderful, large playground, where hundreds of boys exulted in their prodigious energies as they competed in games of cricket, soccer, catch-me-if-you-can. A glass of Aarey milk (with delish cream on top) at short-break, the dreaded Marathi teacher out of the way (it was rumored she hated all boys after being left at the altar).
Cricket at lunch, the whoosh of leather balls met with solid thwacks from wood. Biren Khanderia, the run machine, kept us all busy. But Deepak Punjabi's spin befuddled his batting expertise from time to time...
Telling a story about tarzan and how he defeated batman in the race to the himalayan gold (they let me entertain the class in free periods). Maths was awesome (my friend sandeep was the best ; he had a head for math) and it was time to hop on BSC again...
1 comment:
What wonderful nostalgic memories & expression! You made me travel along with you ! Good writing . keep it up.
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