The year was 1972, I was sitting diffidently outside the office of Mr. Deb, or was it Mr. Nair, the legendary Principal of Cambridge School, Srinwias Puri located in South Delhi. As a toddler of four years, I clung to my father’s bush shirt as a rat in distress, looking completely lost. The day was very important for me, as we were there to seek admission to the prestigious educational institution, and although the competition those days was not that cut throat as it is in these bizarre days, it was nonetheless quite nerve-racking for me. But we were on sure footing, as we entered the Principal’s cabin, I squeezed between my parents, who, over the years, had built quite a reputation for themselves, as being extremely conscientious citizens and fastidious for education. In no way less was my elder brother ‘s legacy, a meritorious student par excellence, who went on to emblazon his name with the brightest colors in the anals of Cambridge schools’s history, some of which still endures, even after 40 years of his having passed out of the exalted portals.
As expected, I was admitted without much ado. But for me, instead of celebration, the next step was heartrending. Being closely attached to my father, I went into a tizzy when it was time to drop me in the Prep class room. If memory serves me right, it was Mrs. Mathur, a genial, middle aged teacher, with a reputation for kindness who was to be our guiding 🌟.
But I would have none of it and my full throttled howlers echoed throughout the ground floor of the school where the junior section was located. To their credit, the teachers and management of the school were patient with my indiscretions . This went on for next few days, even when Daddy stood outside the classroom for most of the day to assure me of his presence and assuage my frayed nerves. Even my brother made quick sojourns at lunch break to check the status of his young brother.
Expectedly, sooner than later, things settled down into a rhythm and the foundation of lifelong friendships began to be laid-slowly, steadily, with pitfalls aplenty. While most of us who joined in 1972 stayed together till 1985, there were additions from other branches, which , needless to mention , could not fathom the bonds which were made in the spring of 1972.
Some of the friendships transcended into more than familiàl ties, as parents often interacted àt school events and thereafter. Most of us lived in close-knit neighborhoods and celebrated family events and festivals together. School management and parents worked together to ensure that all students looked, and acted as one unit within the premises…from a common, simple uniform to travelling by yellow and green ubiquitous DTC buses(rather than personal luxury cars). The level of ego was kept low and misunderstandings were not insurmountable.
So, it is in this scenario, that though I finished school more than three decades ago, have already crossed the fifty years mark- as most of my batch mate mates would have done- and have been incommunicado for most of this period, that I still remember the names of most of my batch mates of 1972. Sanjay, Anil. Archana. Sangeeta. Arun. Chandra Neil. Poonam. Arvind. Navdeep. Rajeev. And above all Aman Bhatia.
I have mentioned Aman in the end, as Aman was a gem. His brother, Raman was my brother’s classmate and our parent’s shared a cordial relationship. Several days,in the evening, after a hectic day at school, I used to visit his house in East of Kailash, and we used to play. He might not have been too good in studies-not the topper types, what in Indian parlance we call an average student- but he had a genteel smile, a simple hearted fellow. Extremely soft-spoken and affable, we got along pretty well, till 1983, when our eleven years of association ended. I joined a different group of friends, went to a different college and then took up a job which took me outside Delhi for several years. Finally, when, we contacted on social media, after more than four decades, my happiness knew no bounds. A shower of memories rained from the sky and I became teary eyed on how I would face him? What we would talk? and so on and so forth.
Finally the date was fixed. 23rd March, 2016. In in his office in Mahindra Towers at Bhikaji Cama Place in New Delhi, where I was scheduled to attend an interview for my fresh assignment. It was nothing as dramatic as I had conjectured. We met like lost long brothers, teary eyed and it took us time to gather our composure over a cup of hot coffee. First thing we observed without saying a word- we had both changed physically beyond recognition. Second-we had one daughter each. And though I had travelled throughout India as part of my job responsibilities, he lived in the same house where I used to play with him. Time flew and soon it was time for me to leave. He shared Raman’s number , who had by now retired as a Colonel from the Army.
It was agreed, that the first thing we would do when I moved from Jaipur to Delhi in the last week of April was to arrange a get together, with our families, and keep on meeting thereon. I received my transfer letter in the first week 2016 but almost on cue a devastating message appeared in the school friends WhatsAppgroup-my best friend from school, Aman, had passed away at 48 years of age, leaving behind his wife and a school going daughter. It appeared to be a massive cardiac arrest. The cremation was held the same day, and although the kirya was scheduled for the next few days, I could not garner courage to be there-it was a bolt from the blue for me. I wanted to keep our last meeting alive in my mind, forever.
RIP-AMAN
Musings of a Delhi Boy 