When Our World Was Just a Classroom
Of favourite teachers, roses, shared tiffins and the children we used to be.
If you could meet your childhood self today, would you want to become that child again, or would you choose the person you are now?
I think I would sit beside her for a while. Listen to everything she had to say. Find out how she looked at the world back then, who had annoyed her in class, and whether she had finished her homework.
How small our world was. And how much happened inside it.
Back then, becoming your teacher’s favourite felt like a proper ambition. You wanted her to notice your handwriting, choose you to read aloud, or say, “Very good,” in front of the class. That little appreciation could keep you happy for the rest of the day.
And those innocent crushes we had on our teachers. We admired everything about them. Their clothes, their voice, the way they wrote on the blackboard or carried themselves through the corridors.
We brought roses for them. And if your favorite teacher wore your rose in her hair, you would keep looking at it throughout the day. She had chosen yours. That was enough to make it the best day.
Of course, there was jealousy too. If another student became a little too close to your favourite teacher, you noticed immediately. Why was she being called so often? Why had she been asked to carry the notebooks ?Even affection had its little competitions.
I remember wondering why the Sisters wore those white dresses with head coverings and clothes so different from everyone else. As a child, I had not seen anyone dressed quite like them. There was something about their presence that made me imagine they knew so much more than the rest of us. I did not understand their way of life then. I was simply curious. Back then, parents would proudly say, “Our children study in a convent school.” In the world I grew up in, that meant more than studies. It meant learning to speak fluent English, having good manners and being well groomed.
Being a North Indian child, I was fascinated by our teachers from South India. Their long black hair, sometimes neatly plaited with flowers pinned into it, sometimes tied loosely. The beautiful cotton sarees with golden borders that many of them wore, and the way they spoke Hindi in an accent different from ours. I noticed all these little things. I could hardly imagine them outside school, doing everyday things like the rest of us. In our minds, they belonged to that classroom, standing beside the blackboard, knowing all the answers.
The respect we had for our teachers also came from how we were brought up. Elders were to be listened to, and teachers even more so. I am reminded of Kabir’s doha:
Guru Govind dou khade, kaake laagoon paay,
Balihari Guru aapne, Govind diyo bataay.
The teacher was held in such high regard for showing us the way to God. Saying no to a teacher hardly entered our minds. Their disappointment could make us lower our eyes before they had finished speaking.
Our own worries were mostly about homework, a friend not talking, unfinished notebooks and being able to answer a question in class.
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When you knew an answer, how eagerly that hand went up. Sometimes you stretched your arm a little higher, hoping the teacher would notice you before anyone else. And when she called your name and you got it right, you sat down feeling you had won a battle.
Then came the unit tests, preparing us for the final examinations. We counted marks, compared answers and worried about the questions we had left out. But nothing disturbed a perfectly ordinary school day quite like those words:
“Take out a sheet of paper. We are having a surprise test.”
Suddenly, everyone looked at everyone else. Someone tried to bargain. Someone asked whether it would count towards the final marks. And you desperately tried to remember what had been taught the previous day.
There were other days when school felt like the most exciting place in the world. Sports Day, for instance. Red, green, blue and yellow. Four colours that could divide an entire school into fiercely loyal groups. I was in Blue House for a long time, and whenever someone from our house ran, we shouted as though our voices could help them reach the finishing line.Winning mattered so much. Even when you had not participated, your house winning felt like your own achievement.
And how can I forget the Annual Day celebrations? Almost everyone had to participate in something — a play, a group dance or another performance. Dressed as Marjina, draped in a saree or wearing a Haryanvi costume, with our hair and makeup done, we almost became different people. Yet there was that strange shyness about being seen all dressed up. Going on stage with the group was fine. Having someone look closely at you before the performance somehow felt more embarrassing.
Then there were the girls-versus-boys arguments, the teasing, and the senior didis and bhaiyas we watched with admiration. Some of them seemed so grown-up and confident. The way they spoke, walked or stood on stage could leave us completely impressed. One day, we thought, we would be like them. And then came their farewell parties. It was difficult to imagine that they would leave school and stop being part of our everyday world. Our own turn still seemed so far away.
Somewhere in between all this, we began stepping into our teens. A boy looking in your direction suddenly became something to discuss. A smile could keep a group of friends busy for an entire lunch break. “He was looking at you.” “No, he wasn’t.” And then everyone would laugh.
We were beginning to notice each other differently while still trying to understand ourselves. Our bodies were changing, and we did not always have the words, or the confidence, to ask questions. Then came biology class. Ma’am would explain the human body with complete seriousness while we quietly tapped our friends, exchanged looks and tried to control those naughty smiles. We understood some things, misunderstood others, and pretended to know a little more than we actually did.
But lunch break brought us back to familiar comforts. Tiffin boxes opened, and everyone reached into everyone else’s food. A friend’s achar-paratha somehow tasted better than the food in your own box. You remembered who brought what, whose mother made the best pickle, and who would finish your favourite thing before you got a second bite.
And those craft classes. How carefully we made things with coloured paper, glue, thread and whatever else the teacher had asked us to bring. We took them home like masterpieces, and nobody was allowed to touch them. A slightly uneven flower, a wall hanging, a lampshade or a handmade card. Sometimes something that refused to stand straight. We found a place for it in the house and waited for someone to appreciate it. We had made it ourselves. That was a big thing.
I would not say childhood was free of worry. At the time, a scolding, a friendship quarrel or a poor test result could upset us deeply. We did not know how small those troubles might look years later.
We were also in such a hurry to grow up. To become the seniors, finish school and enter the world beyond the gate. Now I think of an ordinary school morning and wonder how much I failed to notice because I assumed it would always be there.
The sound of attendance being called. A friend asking for a pencil. The teacher turning towards the blackboard, with a rose tucked into her hair.
And a little girl sitting at her desk, quietly pleased that it was hers. Did any of this remind you of your own school days? I would love to hear the little things you still remember.
