Flipping through album’s pages, I last night stumbled uopn a photo that smiled at me stuck in ornamental holders of an oldish page.
It was a photo of a school- going boy in white and red, the quintessential uniform of Burdwan Municipal School; the boy was looking back at camera (wo)man. He had a school bag strapped across his back. It completes the photo.
In the background is a single-story house with its gate open. The gate leads one to a garden that has flowers in bloom.
The boy in me is stirred of the moments of my first day at Municipal school. To capture the moments, mother clicked a photo of mine.
I played some cricket with boys at the school ground after the last period on the first day. I befriended them. They were my class- mates.
After a time the school celebrated hundred years of its journey. After a month-long rehearsal, the school took out a big procession on a scorching September morning.
Shatobarosher bonospoti shateko tahar shakha — we all sang out sitting in a cramped car before a microphone. After some initial hiccups, the microphone later settled down well.The car led the procession.
Years back, during a re- union procession on a December morning, we sang out the same, Shatobarosher bonospoti….
The chill in the air and the surroundig fog took its toll over the lustre of procession. The brilliance of centenary procession was replaced by smudgy boys and their laboured steps through fogs.
In between, I have lost some of my classmates who I played cricket with at school. They have left forever after not-so-long stay at earth. Some have strayed off.Some are busy in work; faces creased; bald patches widening; hair-line receding.
This morning as I happened to pass the grand school beside a traffic-busy G. T. Road, I instinctively looked at the school ground.
Some academy boys were playing cricket on dewy grass.
Out! Out! Some boys shouted as the umpire lifted his dreaded finger.
The dejected batsman stated walking back.
The other boys on the field fell to happy giggle as they went for a quick huddle in the middle of the ground.
‘Sutanu?!’ Someone from the gate called.
I looked at the bespectacled pock- marked man who had literally a protruding paunch that made his sweater bulge oddly in the middle.
‘My son has taken the wicket!’ The man said excitedly.
‘Oh! Nice!’ I exclaimed in tune with his oozing thrilled voice.
‘How are you?’ The man came to me hobblingly, offered tea from a tea- stall close to gate.
‘Do you remember we played on this ground?’ He asked taking a long sip off an earthen cup.
I nodded hesitantly not knowing still who I was talking with.
But I was damn sure he was one of my classmates.
‘Sisir,’ the man said, not wanting to prolong my guessing attempt anymore.
I smiled at him, warmly held his hands for a while.
Before leaving him, I smiled back at Sisir who sat next to me all through class five, my first year at school. He was singularly chirpy and had a nice athelatic figure.
He always got me clean- bowled whenever he got the chance to bowl at me. (I guess, so he still remembers me!)
His ecstatic ‘Out!’ cry still lingered in my ears as I accelerated my Honda.
A wistful smell of petrol hung over the place as my scooter groaned away.