There’s a School in the Valley of Maithon

Valley School was where most of us studied. It was only till Class seven and you had to join some other school after that. It was the epitome of a small-town school. We called the teachers ‘Aunty’ because the Headmistress, Aunty Paul did not like the convent culture of calling all teachers, married or no, as Miss. The focus was equally on academics, sports and cultural activities. We were not allowed to converse in any language other than English, and if caught lapsing into the vernacular, got a stinging slap for our pains. The discipline would have put an Army boot camp to shame. Those who were not in full uniform, meaning if they had forgotten either the tie or the belt, got a couple of Aunty Paul’s best in full view of the school during the morning assembly. She used to observe which boys spent the entire lunch-break on the playground and would tell their teachers to ensure the boys ate their Tiffin before the classes re-assembled. 

The terror Aunty Paul inspired was legendary. Once she saw three boys, who had passed from Valley School and were now in St. Patrick’s, shouting on the road. She sternly told them to stop behaving like hooligans and called them home the next evening. Despite knowing that she no longer had any control over them, two of the boys turned up at her door-step the next day. She reprimanded them for forgetting all the manners and good behaviour that their parents and Valley School had tried so hard to inculcate. Both boys burst into tears. Clutching home- made biscuits, two remorseful teenagers left Aunty Paul’s home that evening, with a lesson they took to heart for life. 

Valley School was particular about celebrating important events. Sports’ Day had races and Drills for each class and though the programme became frightfully long, proud parents happily sat through the entire day. Mummy narrated with great amusement my performance in the Duck race as a four year old. The race started; gifted athletes competed at breakneck pace and prizewinners triumphantly took their places on the victory stand. Amidst all this, one lone duckling was found quacking on. When the older girls, tasked with the responsibility of clearing the field after every race gently tried to get yours truly to waddle off, I responded with an indignant squawk, that my objective was to reach the finishing line, and everyone could jolly well wait till I got there. 

For Republic Day and Independence Day, we used to have a March Past and though I was easily the shortest, I used to be in the last line. This was on account of God’s gift of a stentorian voice, which enabled me to loudly shout ‘Saamne Dekh’ after the last line of marchers had crossed the Chief Guest. I used to be awfully thrilled about that and any wisecracks about my height thus always fell flat. Each student got a packet containing biscuits and toffees after the March Past got over, which we eagerly awaited. But the attendant problem was how to survive the interminable monologue masked as the Chief Guest’s inspiring speech. The teachers watched us with an eagle eye lest we fidget and we were therefore model children, deeply concerned that the punishment may turn out to be deprival of the biscuit-toffee packet. The only Chief Guest I remember, and understandably with an emotion akin to affection, is the one who stood before an expectant congregation, took the mike in hand, and said ‘Dismiss’. We complied with alacrity. I wonder we didn’t all break out into enthusiastic applause as well; no doubt the aforementioned gimlet eyes put paid to any such ideas. 

I was always a sincere student and Manoj was a study in contrast. All his waking hours were spent in playing cricket or football or talking about the last/next big match. Invariably he got hauled up for not paying attention and would then cajole me into writing a hundred times ‘I will not talk in class’. I even recall writing an essay for him once when the teacher was too new to recognise his hand-writing. It must have been too girlish in style, because it didn’t fetch anything much by way of marks, so Manoj routinely scoffed at my command of English after that. English as a subject I thoroughly enjoyed, which is more than can be said for Mathematics. My nemesis were those trains which insisted on starting from two different stations and moving inexorably towards each other, while one hapless student tried her damnedest to figure out when they would cross one another and holler recognition in a burst of shrill noise. Why both the trains couldn’t play catch me if you can and run in the same direction was beyond me. Every time the question stared up from the examination paper, a cold sweat trickled down my spine. They never did manage to meet—not on my watch for sure. Probably believed staunchly in Kipling’s theory that ‘east is east and west is west and ne’er the twain shall meet.’