Of Friends Forever Lost
How much of him can I really be expected to remember? It was more than thirty years ago and we were only toddlers. I can’t recall his voice or how tall he was or what his face looked like. The only thing I do remember is the gaping hole left in the pit of my stomach when I realised he wasn’t coming.
But let me back up a bit. It was the year 1987 when the five-year-old me first stepped through the arched corridors of St. Joseph’s College wearing my crisply ironed sky blue shirt, navy blue shorts and polished shoes. A tie hung around my neck off two elastic bands. It is a legacy of the British Raj that many towns in India still have their best schools run by Anglo-Indians. My class teacher in Prep B was Mrs. McDowells*.
She was a wiry old lady who I grew to be quite fond of as time went by but in that first year, she was the terror of the classroom. Her shrill voice would call my name in a proper posh London accent and only the Holy Father could be your saviour if you spoke out of turn. My Mom tells me that only once in my life — from creche to nursery to kindergarten to high school — did I whisper that I didn’t want to go to school and it was in the first few days of Mrs. McDowells’ class.
An overcrowded class of sixty toddlers would hardly be easy to manage, so I can’t really say I blame her for being overly strict. I sat on the second last row and…
