30th July 2026. It has rained all day. I am reminded of her again.
Much has been written about the Indian Monsoon. It is one of those handful of beautiful experiences that bind our diverse country together. The mind goes to the images evoked by Rabindranath Tagore in his stories: a distant Bengali hamlet, a dilapidated government office, the clattering of a typewriter…
I often say that I am an old soul. Something about the era when the Daak was the primary mode of communication is just so charming to me. Of course, even in the modern era, I am no stranger to dilapidated government buildings. I suppose no one in this country is. Another one of those binding factors, I suppose?
Every monsoon, I am taken back to that fateful day in Ambala. It was 15 years ago. Back then, a rainy day didn’t mean a hot cup of Chai; it was off limits. No. Those were simpler times. It meant one of two things: either staying back, watching our favourite cartoons till our eyes watered; or, when the gods of fortune weren’t so kind, putting on our oversized raincoats and hopping on the backseats of our father’s ancient scooters to go to school.
That day in August was of the second kind. There was an alert for heavy rains. But my diligent parents thought that was no excuse for me to miss an entire day of school, especially since I lived only a street away from it. Evidently, my education was taken very seriously.
So there I was at the entrance gate, in my raincoat. The usually bustling, large, rusted iron gate was desolate that morning against the dark grey sky. I looked back to wave goodbye to my father. As I entered my class, I noticed there were only a few students like me who held their education on a higher pedestal than their lives. How unfortunate for our nation.
I took my usual seat.
The Kendriya Vidyalaya in Ambala had a unique structure. Having limited confidence in my linguistic abilities to describe spatial arrangements, I shall rely on my marvelous artistic abilities to draw a map for you.
There. The thing to note is that the Primary School was entirely separated from the Secondary by the main road. And the Fifth class building was originally a cycle stand which was expanded to accommodate the growing needs of India’s post-Independence population boom. So it was separated from the main building by a large playground.
The rains picked up. It became difficult for the few teachers in attendance to cross the waterlogged playground to reach our class. There was no teaching that day. We sat idly with the book of choice open on the desk. The thunderous sound of rain hammering against the tin shed drowned out all other sounds. I was a shy kid, and this arrangement suited me rather well.
I was looking at a rather good-looking Pond Heron in our playground, rollicking in his newly expanded hunting grounds, when my eyes fell on her.
No silly. This is not a love story. I wish I knew her name. The entire school just called her Paagal – the crazy one. She was a couple of classes junior to me. I had seen her before, sometimes screaming in the corridors, other times fighting with a classmate. She was different, and back then at least, no one taught us how to talk with people who were different from us. Maybe because it was not in the syllabus. None of the important things were.
Anyways, there she was, in her thick round glasses, laughing and sliding in the large pool of water that was our playground. Her uniform had turned from white to an unvaried muddy brown colour. I could see the P.T. teacher in the distance. Blowing his whistle, shouting at her to come back inside. Stepping out, only to return to the safety of the school building.
She and I loved the rains just as much. Yet, here I was, a child prisoner of his own image. A topper. A class monitor. A good student. Obedient. Afraid to claim my happiness.
And there she was. Alone. While the whole school watched her in silence from the balconies and corridors. Doing what she wanted to do. Doing what I wanted to do. Who was the crazy one?
The pond Heron and I looked at her with awe and admiration as the P.T. teacher finally mustered the courage to run out towards her and wrestle her back in, not before she put up a valiant fight. The crowd returned to their classes.
Keeping public safety in mind, the school was dismissed at lunch that day.
30th July 2026. It has rained all day. I am reminded of her again.
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