It was around 25 years ago. I was in Class I. And I know of no other way to start than this.
I was kind of a loner in school. More or less outside it as well.
And I never really took to the idea of school. I was happier to let learning seep through in other ways.
The alphabets looked better on the pages of old newspapers, when my father pointed them out to me than on glossy books with pictures of cows and apples on them.
Bulky encyclopaedias and old books, their musty smell, fascinated me.
Conversations between elders, distant quarrels in the basti near which we lived. The smell of my grandfather's hair oil. The depth in my grandmother's voice. The cigarette smoke-filled earnest conversation of my uncles on classic Hindi films and music. And cricket.
The radio playing ankhiyon ko rehne de ankhiyon ke aas paas on cold winter nights. The lyrics never remembered but the strangeness that the song evoked haunts till date.
I loved human voices in their distant murmurs and the absent minded hums of my mother when she cooked...
But school, and uniforms, made me feel my mind was not quite part of my being. Not that imposing building with the blue banisters.
I hated being shouted at. I think I still do.
Loud people made me fidgety, brought unpleasant things to mind.
Made me immediately wish I was somewhere else. Made my head ache.
The teacher's persistent drone about growing up to be a doctor made no sense to me.
And one cloudy day, my mother left me at school.
It was Netaji's birthday.
As i joined the the other children, busy comparing the contents of their tiffin boxes, my feet seemed to drag more then usual.
I think someone shouted at me. It felt unpleasant and I did not like the aftertaste.
And I wanted to be anywhere but there.
Some time in the middle of morning prayer, my body took on a will of its own. I walked back into the classroom, picked up my school bag, and walked out of the gate before anybody could react. They were busy chanting.
For quite come time, which then seemed hours, I wandered aimlessly in the streets. I think it made me feel very light. The streets were at once a haze and full of colour.
I realised I could not go home for I did not know the way back then. The route was a blur.
But my aunt's house was nearby and I went and sat on the pavement outside her home till someone saw me and my errant wandering was reported back home.
For some strange reason, I dont think I got too much punishment. Or maybe I cant remember that part or choose not to.
Maybe my parents instinctively understood. They always do.
I remember looking up silently whenever anyone asked me why I walked out. and presently, the questions died away.
I continued in that school for some more months, before moving to another school, where, maybe, I was given more space to be with myself.
Yes, January 23 recalls to my mind much more than Netaji's birthday.
I might flatter myself and say that it was the day that I found the rebel in me and so the day I stood up against authority,and etc, but I spare myself the melodrama.
It was a simple act. Of not being where i did not like to be. and how incredibly light it felt to do so.
In the midst of all the tales of scraped knees and muddied uniforms, that day always stands out.
And i never look back with regret.
Bewildered, lonely and confused as I was back then, my heart still reaches out to the five-year-old me at that point of time, with love and respect.
Years later, as a grown up, (well more or less) there is a queer feeling of envy. About being able to walkout on something that felt fundamentally wrong. It seemed so much simpler back then.
Yet this one incident kind of reminds me that I still can. Every year.
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