The window in his room was small, a humble 2 feet by 2 feet, with a wooden frame. His aunt would everyday replace the flowers on his window sill. Today it was a grand burst of Rhododendrons, sitting pretty in a bright blue vase. As if a tiny red riot had broken out on the little ledge, rising in rebellion against the faraway Kanchenjunga. A canvass of white with a sure spot of red.
Taran lived here in the small village of Lamahata, with his aunt and sister. He looked at the little yellow clock on his table. Almost 7am! Taran got up with a jump. No way would he be late for school today. He absolutely loved Monday assemblies! The prayers, songs, a dance or two were the highlights. And his favourite was the ‘Hero of the Week’ which happened right at the end of assembly. One day…some day…it would be he, Taran, walking up the aisle to the stage in the courtyard, to receive the prize from Father Albert.
St. Mary’s was a 1km walk from home. Around turns of the road, passing Dajju’s Momo shop, across the small bridge over Rangit river, Taran skipped across, Ed Sheeren’s latest on his lips. This one’s a favourite in the hills these days; seems like every child is swaying to ‘Shape of You’.
A well-timed 12 min walk and Taran was at the gates of St. Mary’s. An imposing 18th century white gothic structure, every inch speaking of a 200 year rich history and a legacy of Kings and Queens, monarchs and the common man rubbing shoulders in these corridors of learning. Each day, the building seemed to tell Taran a story so rich in knowledge and steadfast memories of times bygone, they would give him goosebumps.
The children were all scattered around the courtyard, taking their time to settle down on the wooden benches. When the final bell rang at sharp 7.55am, you could see a quiet descend over the hills, the blue sky and the distant Kanchenjunga. Even the burst of rebellious Rhododendrons seemed to calm down and hold still. Row upon row of the smart navy blue trousers, white shirt, blue striped tie and blazers were the smartest attire Taran could ever fathom. They reeked of attention, of a promise which tomorrow would surely bring.
After the initial address by Father Albert, the 30min short cultural soiree of Monday morning began. Today, there were two Nepalese songs performed by children from Prep School, a classical dance performed by a girl of his age, revering Goddess Saraswati, a poetry recited by the school prefect and finally the much awaited ‘Hero of the Week’ being awarded to a boy from Class6, who had been teaching a group of orphan children for a year now, after school. Taran’s chest swelled in pride. One day, it would be he, humbled in his noble act, walking up the stage to accept the acknowledgment. His reverie was broken by the national anthem. Taran’s eyes swelled up in pride and emotions as the last verse was sung. He saluted the school, his village and his God, Kanchenjunga. This anthem was for them all.
Nothing could be as crazy as lunch break at St. Mary’s. Taran’s favourite time of the day, naturally. If you had never played football outside of the grand football field of the school, where you had to negotiate the ups and downs, you would never get the fun!! You would have to roll the ball up a slope and then down again, while being chased by a bunch of children! Oh, they had even made a makeshift goalpost in this undulating part of the field. St. Mary’s boasted of its basketball team. Lunchtime would always be a fight for a place in the team. It was a pleasure just watching them play. There was a set of four swings at the end of the playground of the Prep School. These swings went high high high into the clouds. Such a view of their pretty village from up in the air!
Ahh, as all good things must come to an end, the ringing of the last school bell at 3pm was such for Taran. The bell resonated across the length and breadth of the school corridors, ushering in a flurry of activities. Sound of books finding their way back into the familiar confines of bags, rustling feet eager for that last moment rush to another room, the slow breaking of disciplined quiet into a cacophony of chatter and laughter. To little Taran, this was like the last scene of a favourite movie, watched for the millionth time. The stillness of the end was known to him, as was the magnificent start. The deathly quiet of the movie theatre was no stranger to him after the last of the sounds of children heading home had died down.
Taran looked, his eyes still transfixed on the grandiose building which was St. Mary’s. When the last car had driven away and the last bright yellow school bus had left the gates, when the watchmen had shut all doors inside and outside the school, securing its sanctity from the world and the sun had slowly showed signs of exhaustion, spreading the first of her golden glow over Taran’s Kanchenjunga, he forced himself to turn.
Taran turned from the gate of St. Mary’s. One last look at the school that could never be his. By now, silence from the school near him had merged with silence of Kanchenjunga far far away, creating a fantastic golden whole, a universe where his favourite mountain, his favourite school and he…they all belonged. A sense of belonging, which no money, nor power could ever take away from Taran.
A small sigh left the lips of an eight-year-old boy. Taran symbolises a boat, a means to cross boundaries and obstacles. As resilient as the hills, as demure as the soft golden rays of the retiring sun, Taran began his way back home. An orphan boy to Dajju’s shop, to spend the evening washing dishes and keeping the shop sparkling clean for next morning. And finally at night, to his aunt’s and to his very own window sill, where the Rhododendrons would greet him with a cheery smile.
