Revisiting My School: A Journey Through Time

“Pinki, time’s up. Hand over the paper,” my class teacher, Miss Sulagna’s voice filled the classroom as the bell echoed in the background.

I looked at my answer sheet, and the numbers seemed to vanish, leaving it completely blank in a blink.

“Miss, please, just five more minutes. I’ll fail!” I pleaded, my voice choked with sobs. The paper slipped from my hands, floating away as if caught in an invisible gust.

I desperately tried to grab my paper but suddenly found myself falling down what seemed like a bottomless pit.

I woke up startled, sweating profusely. I looked around, no classroom, no exam paper, just the reassuring walls of my bedroom. I was safe and was sleeping in my bedroom. A wave of relief washed over me. “Thank God,” I thought. “At least I don’t have to face math anymore.” Comforted by the thought, I grabbed the water bottle on my nightstand and gulped it down in one go.

The next morning, my phone kept buzzing with notifications. I was too busy with my daily chores to check. Hours later, when I finally opened it, I was startled to find over 100 unread messages in my school WhatsApp group.

“Guys, have you heard? Our school is going to be demolished,” Vivek had announced early in the morning.

“What?” “Is this true?” “No way!” The group was flooded with shocked and emotional responses.

First, the nightmare, and now this. Could the day get any stranger? Despite my disdain for math, I loved my school. Within an hour, those of us still living near Dhanbad had planned to meet the next day for one last walk through the corridors before they turned into rubble.

The following morning, my husband and I double-checked our bags and ensured the car was fueled. Although it was only a four-hour drive, I wanted it to feel like a proper road trip. Snacks? Check. Road trip playlist? Check. Overenthusiasm? Double-check.

De Nobili School, Sijua in Dhanbad (Jharkhamd). The place where my childhood unfolded like pages from an old, slightly worn dusty book. Incidentally, my husband went to the same school, same class even, though a different section. Funny thing? We never met during those years and only fell in love in college—a tale for another day. Today’s story is about our school trip.

Six of us arrived one by one, parking our cars and walking toward the familiar gates. There was an instant spark of camaraderie as if time hasn’t passed a bit. Old jokes resurfaced, laughter erupted, and before long, we were reminiscing as though we were still those carefree kids in uniforms.

As we approached the gates, the premises where we once assembled every morning looked eerily quiet. I could almost hear the familiar echoes of our school prayer in my mind, “All Indians are my brothers and sisters,”. But in reality, there was only silence, a stark, unsettling silence.

The corridors where we once ran wild and played pranks now look abandoned. Walking through them, I couldn’t help but feel sentimental, as if every corner whispered stories of the past.

Right at the entrance was the school bookstore, and as I stood at its window, memories rushed in. I could vividly picture students lining up to purchase stationery. Back in the day, the seller knew my brother well, and he’d always clear my purchases quickly, spotting me through the crowd. That small privilege felt so special back then!

Then unanimously we decided to visit the most bustling hub of that time- the canteen. I could almost smell the aroma of garma garam samose made by the cook, Thakur. Those samosas were legendary! And then there were the pastries—soft, sweet, and utterly delicious. Once while eating the pastry I almost ended up licking the newspaper it was served on and stopped only when my brother would give me strange looks.

Near the canteen was the ice cream parlour. I remember the excitement when it first opened. We’d count our pocket money, sometimes pooling together just to afford cones once a week. It felt like such a luxury, a simple treat that brought us immense joy.

The mango tree near the canteen stood tall, its branches sprawling wide. It had been our unofficial hangout spot. Under its shade, we’d sit, share tiffins, and talk about everything under the sun. Today seeing the tree standing here felt like it was a silent witness to all our memories.

The canteen was located in the junior wing so from the canteen, I started walking through the corridor passing our nursery classrooms, the tiny desks, chairs, and the colourful walls. Standing there, it was impossible not to feel sentimental. This was where we took our first steps into learning, and now, here we were, decades later, coming full circle.

I paused outside my old Class 1 classroom, recalling Miss Haq, the teacher who rekindled my interest in studies. Her unique teaching methods, especially the role plays for stories, had transformed me from a struggling student into one who scored first division.

In Class 7, it was Sir Narayan’s English literature lessons that planted the seeds of my love for creative writing. He would divide us into groups, asking us to craft answers to chapter questions. The most innovative ones were read aloud in class, sparking a thrill I didn’t fully understand back then.

Lost in these memories, I was jolted back to the present by Vivek’s voice.

Our group finally reached our old classrooms. Without hesitation, we claimed our old spots, laughing as we argued about who sat where.

“No way! I sat by the window. You were in the corner because the teacher couldn’t handle your constant chatter!” someone quipped, igniting another round of laughter. For a moment, it felt like we had stepped back in time.

Meeting old friends warmed my heart, but the sight of the school building left it heavy. Once a bustling place, it now stood abandoned like a hollow shell. The school had shifted to a new location, leaving this campus deserted.

The thought of demolition felt like a punch to the gut. For a fleeting second, I imagined hugging the walls, pleading for them to stay, like a modern-day Chipko movement. But reality is unyielding, the decision was made.

Still, I walked away feeling grateful. Grateful for the memories, the lessons, and the friendships that had stood the test of time. Though the building may soon vanish, the stories it holds will live on in our hearts forever.

Driving back home, I couldn’t help but marvel at the irony. The place where we once dreaded exams and assemblies had become the very place we yearned to return to. Life has a funny way of coming full circle, doesn’t it?

PS: This post is part of Blogchatter Blog Hop.