While walking this morning enjoying the quiet rustle of breeze through the leaves, quite suddenly I was reminded of my school days.

I was a student at Mount Carmel Convent in the town of Hazaribagh in Bihar. A lot has changed since I left India in the ‘70s. Our school is now called Carmel school. My feelings are ambivalent towards this change for the name itself comes from the actual Mount Carmel that sits on the coast amidst a cluster of mountains in Northern Israel. I have never seen it up close but the pictures that I have studied with great interest attest to its wild beauty giving credence to stories of great happenings in ancient times. To me my alma mater will always be Mount Carmel, the institution that had such an influence on me in my formative years.

Quite early in life I found absorbing knowledge came easily to me and with it excitement to discover new worlds of awesome depth, of untold mysteries, beauty and culture, self-awareness and community development, sharing, loving, experiencing…I could go on. Learning is all this and more. Having said this I now make a confession. I was a bit of a rebel growing up. I don’t mean the mouthy kind but I was rebellious in thought that sometimes manifested in deed. Case in point. I refused to be tutored flouting a tradition my siblings had followed. When it was my turn to sit with our tutor in the afternoon I was absolutely determined not to let it go on. So, I walked up to our father and reasoned why I did not need extra tutoring and if I needed help after school there were my parents and siblings. Guess this was a challenge I placed before my parents. All I knew was I disliked any kind of system that chained me to a set of rules. That was the rebel in me. My father listened. I did not have to sit with the tutor anymore.

Our school had very strict rules, even to the length of our skirt, and these rules had to be obeyed or we would be in deep trouble. When I was a student at that time we were not allowed to wear jewellery. Makes sense – jewellery does not go with a uniform and there is always the danger of losing them. All this was good but how I chafed against them. Why did we have to wait for the bell to announce the beginning or ending of a class? Why couldn’t we just walk from one classroom to another and choose our favourite subjects, sit down and listen to that teacher? This would have been unheard of in my time and is probably still too radical to think of.

And then, when I was in class nine came a teacher I will never forget.  Sister Francis Theresé.  One day I was sitting at my desk in the corridor our classroom not large enough to accommodate us all, since we had suddenly increased in numbers having had to absorb students from class eight.  Sister Francis approached me and wanted to know my name. She was new herself. I felt the stirrings of a faint unease. Our first term exams were over, soon the results would be out. Was I in trouble? But the next words from my teacher’s mouth dispelled all misgivings. I was told that I had received top marks in Physiology. I was incredulous. Out of all the subjects we had to study that particular one was at the bottom of the pile in my student world, along with Math and Sanskrit. However, the complex internal systems that make up the human body had always interested me and I enjoyed drawing, which I found had earned me extra marks. My drawing of the complete digestive and blood circulation system in addition to answering the questions had intrigued my teacher. I had scored higher marks for this effort. Drawing has always been a passion with me, next to reading and writing. Sister Francis recognized and respected these qualities. She encouraged me in my writing endeavours telling me the written word did wonders to the human mind. I should never stop writing. Another time after correcting our English term paper Sister Francis commented she was at her wits end how to mark my paper – there was nothing to correct. But a perfect 100 percent in language is unheard of – poor Sister Francis was really torn!

Sometimes during cool December days one of our teachers would conduct the class outdoors. We would fight to carry our teacher’s chair quickly, in case she changed her mind, then arrange ourselves on the grass around her chair. I loved this time. How amazingly free I felt as I gazed at the clear blue sky watching the flight path of a lone bird. I believe this was a better way to study and I absorbed more.

To this day, I am more productive when left alone. The freedom loving soul of a young girl stamped with the strictures of a convent upbringing has left its mark on me, however, so that in my mature years I have been able to bring a sense of balance between the two opposite sides of my nature.

I will always be a student, unchained to any one school of thought, still fighting tradition, the ones that seem counter-productive; letting my mind grow as taught by my teacher and mentor in class nine.

Keep Well…..Keep Smiling

Purabi Das

 

Purabi Das is an emerging writer and poet living in Pickering who finds inspiration for her stories and poems from life in general. To find out more visit Purabi on www.facebook.com/purabisinhadas