Lessons from childhood

No man is rich enough to buy back his past. Admittedly, and also as fortunate, I would add to Irish writer, Oscar Wilde’s observation.

There come but a few moments in life when we hark back to the past, when memories of those yesterdays have great humbling effect.

As I bent over to touch the feet of teachers long forgotten and hug friends long fogged in the skyline of memory, I had such a moment to cherish.

When I entered a wedding reception at Mulund last Sunday, a sweet-looking woman walked up and asked, “Aren’t you Raghu?”

Though unable to place her, the voice rang a bell, as if from afar. “I am Brinda,” she said.  My mind reeled back 35 years. Standing in front of me was the girl who bought me a science book from all the way from Bombay which none of the book stores in Nagpur had in store.

“More of your pals are here,” Brinda said. Piercing through the cobwebs of memory came KL Narayan, with whom I often quarrelled over marbles in school. Here was the impish filcher who still owed me a dozen marbles.

I was beginning to relish the moments of yore where a gentle tap on my shoulder made my head turn. Standing there was a pale, drooping figure of Mrs Mahalakshmi, our science teacher, whom we gave the sobriquet of “Lady Terror” and whom we abhorred for her strictness, but adored for her lectures. “I can still tweak your ears, eh?”, she whispered affectionately. My vision blurred, which I later realised was due to tears welled up in my eyes.

In childhood, we press our nose to the pane to look out.  In memories of childhood, we press our nose to the pane to look in. It is in that inward journey we realise that in the sublime vigour of professional priorities, we forget our past, our childhood. Chance encounters such as the one I had makes you aware of who you really were and therefore, are. It’s in following the imprints of such memories that we are accosted by a trait in character we have almost forgotten — humility.