The good old days really were.

I just looked at a video a friend of mine had made a long time back. A six minute video capable of slipping the floor off my feet. It has random flashes of several photographs with a soulful melancholic music in the background that can churn one's stomach even when its full. Mostly a collection of memories of twelfth grade from the summer term to the winter term, through the days of play and study, till the farewell- both formal and informal.

Most of the faces are now distant remembrances. We've lost touch. Some are still important in life. Very important and have helped through times of darkness and despair, joy and celebration. A few are of those that aren't exactly called friends but joke buddies. You share nothing of your life with them but end in a laughter riot if met over a cup of coffee. What is shared is light naughty moments of school. Flashbacks that'll be cherished forever. That'll make me smile with a tear even decades from now. Blessed are those moments. And blessed am I to have shared them with such a wonderful bunch of people.

Pictures can make one feel the place it has been taken in. Activate the olfactory sense to send a warmth through the body. A soothing warmth of affection and belonging. Sometimes even enable recollection of conversations that happened before, during and after the photo shoot. It is a fascinating experience- the sudden sensory overload.

I could feel the cold water gushing from the taps of the water cooler. A favourite destination to escape from boring classes and meet friends for secret chit-chat. I could hear the gliding of feet over the marble flooring. We were banned from skating over it. But who cared! I could hear the the yelling of a certain teacher who has yelled at all of us without fail. Her stomping up and down the stairs chasing us back to class. Us- well running helter-skelter to end up at the play ground for a head count. All safe or some down? The neem tree was the permanent club meeting spot. I think every badge holder has announced a meeting under the neem tree. It would be nice to sit under it again and talk to her. She has listened to many like us over the past decades and will continue to do so. It has held us all though the branches. Never to let go.

The dance classes were historical. Where the pretty girls danced conscientiously, the boys shot imaginary pistols in the air while the harassed teacher attempted to correct the 'thun thun' position. Epic failure. The legalised bunking for club activities, house events, annual functions, well just about anything we could come up with, is sorely missed. The long conversations in the quadrangle. Some ending up in quarrels resolved, some well... unresolved.

We didn't have a canteen then. The joys of hot food lay beyond the walls of the institution. Just outside the side gate. In a corner. Were our samosas. And kachoris. We did buy them. Eat them. Relish them. Not only for the taste, but for the mere unlawfulness of it all. We were rebellious in our own meager ways. The embers are still within. I guess they provide the warmth I was talking about.

The last day of summer vacation in the final year meant signature campaign. Pocket tearing rape-like sequences. Inked cheeks. Inked any-exposed-part-of-body actually. It was our day of marking uniforms with permanent markers. My shirt and skirt still lie folded neatly at the bottom of a pile in my cupboard. The permanence of the pens lies proven. It shall, hopefully, forever.

The farewell is always a joyous occasion at first, which later turns into a red-nosed wet-eyed ceremony. Where boys make fun of girls only to realise that its one of the things they'll miss the most. Teachers reveal stories and anecdotes that suddenly strengthen the bond between us. They weren't that evil after-all. Its nice to go back once in a while. Smile at faces that show signs of aging. Receive affectionate hugs and naughty winks. They are kids like us. They reveal that side after we become alumni. Its one of the things I have cherished after passing out. A mature, yet juvenile relation with the gurus.

I miss sitting on the green grass, plucking it with boredom after a march past. The lifting of trophies won after several rounds of throat aching cheering and hooting. The backslapping, hi-fi-ing and fist punching. The torturous assemblies on cold shivering foggy mornings when most entertained themselves with smoke circles. Yes, we thought it was cool to smoke without a cigarette. Some of us still do. Standing outside the classroom as a form of punishment had its own advantages. One could get a peep into the classes around. Eavesdrop on gossip and generally socialise with passersby. I miss cribbing about the hideously red lipstick which was a permanent feature of all cast members- gender, age, role irrespective.

There are many things I wish to put down, but for now this is enough. Watching the video once has triggered all this. Watching it again will trigger more. Without doubt. Until then, miss you all and love you.