Homecoming

I was one of the naughtiest children in school.

A boarding school hidden in the mountains of Panchgani, where the weather is cool and the skies are blue. Our red stone buildings spread across acres and acres of greenery with a homely bakery and dorm names like Little House and Snuggery. A bit reminiscent of the British, who set up this establishment in 1898, as a haven for children away from the clamour of city life.

Our gang's creative ingenuity had made us notorious. The principal, Miss Augustine, often assured my parents, “She is my headache, don't worry.” And my parents, having given birth to me, had to oblige with a “No no, she is our headache!”

You might think it would make us a wee bit remorseful. But we were confident in our escapades. A bit fearless, if I may so say.

Like the time we smoked a cigarette in front of the principal, hoping to earn a suspension during Sports Day. Stealing a teacher's Cosmopolitan magazine. Writing mysterious, sexy love letters to our Principal from a 'Mr Junjunwala'. Wondering if she ever visited Parsi Point where he promised to wait with a rose.

Or the time we scared a kid silly by turning an afternoon siesta into a Catholic funeral. Little Teresa woke up with her hands tied to her bed, a cross made of leaves on her chest, as one by one we said our last goodbyes. I doubt she rested in peace for a long time after that.

In case you’re wondering, you-know-who always knew it was us.

I could continue this flashback. However, today, I'm here to tell you about my return to school.

Twenty years later.

Standing outside my principal's office with my husband. I was nervous and every bit the schoolgirl who stood there knowing a punishment was headed her way. All these years, and out of nowhere, I found myself being washed by a realisation. I don't really know Miss Augustine. Who is she, what food does she like, does she have siblings?

Isn’t it strange? All of them raised us. Our teachers, our matrons, all our staff. And Miss Augustine. They knew from our expressions what we were up to. They spent years tending to us. And yet, standing here, I wondered… Would this be like meeting a stranger?

As I set one foot in, she looked up. There was a familiar rum dum in my heart.

“Haven’t you had time to dry your hair?” was her ‘how have you been’. And in my eyes, she looked the same as she did all those years back. Tidy bun, perfectly pinned saree and knowing eyes. I knew I was home.

It was a moment in time as I realised what had been true all along. I could be as naughty as I wanted to be because I knew Miss Augustine would never give up on me.