March, during schooldays, used to be a month of pleasant expectations. Expectations of two full months of blissful holidays, a break from the daily mechanics of books and the board and the pen and the chalk pieces and the bag and the homework and the tests and the assignments. More than that, the exquisite freedom to play, to roam, to travel without having that gnawing feeling of unfinished homework or an approaching exam or the thought of parental interference in the world of pranks which was exclusively mine. Above all, like a savoury incentive, the anticipation of spending the holidays in my native place, Kerala, with indulgent grandparents.

It was a charmed March morning in the year 1992. As I donned the colours of khakhi, white and green (as I had always done for the past 14 years) and cycled merrily to school, I suddenly had that gnawing feeling of having missed some detail. It came in a rush like a wayward fish washed ashore and disappeared with the receding tide. Then it came back again. Much as I tried to shrug it off, the feeling just clung. It wasn't anxiety over unfinished homework or an approaching exam, but an intense feeling of emptiness; fourteen years converged into one solemn moment; it told me that it would be my last day at a place called RSK School, a home away home. My mind flashed back, fondly, to a day 14 years ago but still fresh in my memory. Small and innocent with tears streaming down my cheeks, I pleaded with mother not to leave me alone in school. The feeling was of leaving a familiar home and standing on the threshold of a new life so unfamiliar. It again flashed past like a film of recent memories , memories of studies, of games, of the innumerable cricket matches under the hot sun, of prizes, of disappointments at losing, the simple boyish joys of winning, of pranks indulged in by boisterous classmates, of gentle and bashful girls. Memories that alternated between admiration and gratitude to those teachers, the jewels of RSK, who made my 'metamorphosis' happen. It finally dawned on me that this world would soon be snatched away from me by time, the unstoppable tyrant.

When I reached school, even routine and trivial actions seemed to remind me of the transitory nature of my life in RSK. With unfailing regularity, it kept haunting me when I entered school, when I sat at my desk, when I joined the choir to sing "...let's sing with joy together...our school to us so dear", when I wished Mr. Rex, our class teacher, good morning, when I drank water from the taps, even during my P.T. period. Five minutes to 4 p.m., Mr. Devaraj said a short prayer for our well-being. The prayer was punctuated with muffled sobs from the class. When the bell rang after the prayer, we hugged each other and wept. We all sat in our classes huddled together, having a feel of the school for the last time.

It was well past 6 p.m. when we left school. Once outside the gate, we all turned to have a last look at our beloved alma mater. It stood silent and empty. The sun was setting a crimson red on the horizon. The watchman was locking the gate. And outside, a different world waited.

Presently in a corporate life of cut-throat competition, pressure and stress, I sometimes unwind by allowing my mind to go back to those halcyon days, which, sadly, will never come back. I think of the life in school and the faces of the teachers. "When you go out to the world", they seem to tell me, "tell them of us, tell them that we shaped your tomorrow, that we taught you to walk tall, that if it were not for us you would not be what you are today". I do so with no second thoughts.

- Sudhir.G.V.