By
Shevlin Sebastian
When
my former classmate Ranjan Kamath put up a photo on Facebook, of a
few of our teachers, at St. Xavier’s Collegiate School in Kolkata,
emotions welled up inside me like an ocean wave. It is a picture
taken of them as a group, in 1976, on an early morning, at Park
Street, outside the famed Mocambo restaurant.
The
angled sunlight lights up the wall behind them, but all of them are
in the shade. Among the women, who are in the majority, I can
recognise Mrs. Fernandes, Mrs. Mustafi, Mrs Sodhi, Miss Gonsalves and
Mrs Stephens. While one wears jeans, another is in black slacks,
three are in brightly-coloured bell-bottoms, one in a skirt, while
the rest are in sarees. But they are smiling and looking happy. And
they are exactly as I remembered them, in their thirties and forties,
radiating energy and confidence.
Right
in front of the group, sitting on his haunches is the handsome Ronald
Gass. His sunshades are resting on his wavy hair, and he wears a
brown T-shirt and slacks, with long sideburns, a style statement of
that time.
They
are about to go for the annual teachers’ picnic on a bus. So, this
is a pick-up point. They look ready to have fun in each other’s
company.
So
how did Ranjan get the photo? His mother Cecelia D’Souza was a
teacher and this was in her collection. But she died of cancer two
years ago. A heart-breaking blow for him. Others may have died, but I
don’t know. One teacher, Rama Singh, lives in New York with her son
Arvinder Pal.
They
must all be in their seventies and eighties. Their youthful looks
must have given way to wrinkles, creaking joints, and a slower pace
of life. Has life treated them well? Are they okay financially? Do
they have health problems? Are their children looking after them? Or
are they now living in an old age home? I had no answers. But the
photo confirmed what I knew subconsciously: their influence abides in
me, as strong as ever.
When
I look at the photo, I am also looking at my own passing years. The
student in me is long dead, along with a bit of the innocence of that
time. I could not help but think of time. How it never stops, but
just goes on and on...relentlessly. As I keep staring at the photo, I
have an unexpected reaction -- my throat tightens. It takes me a
while to understand why. Just as we students and teachers are moving
forward, from the opposite side, Lord Yama, the God of Death is
moving towards us, on a horse, his mace held high, waiting to pluck
us, one by one.
(Published
as a middle in The New Indian Express, South Indian editions)
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