Past tense....Jamia Middle School (Picnic)

There were days we dreaded going to school and then there were days we could not sleep because we were going to school. Picnic was that second kind of day. The announcement would come weeks in advance. A teacher would walk into the classroom, and before he could even finish the sentence, the room would erupt. Desks would bang. Hands would shoot up. Voices would overlap. Sir, I want to go!" "Sir, please include my name!" "Sir, my mother will pack samosas!" The teacher would try to restore order, but it was useless because once the word picnic entered the room, discipline walked out. That night, sleep became impossible. You would lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, going over the same thoughts again and again. Which tiffin will Ammi pack? Will she give me extra rupees? Who will I sit with in the lorry? What if Zaman Bhai leaves without me? What if I oversleep? The clock on the wall ticked slowly, cruelly, as if it was enjoying your restlessness. The whole night mind bubbles with Jamia ki lorry, different locations and a colorful day. Two days before the picnic, you were already useless. One day before, you were unbearable. On the morning itself, you were the first one awake, even before the azaan, even before the birds, even before the sun had decided to rise. Nice breakfast and Tiffin packed with something special by Ammi. The tiffin would be wrapped in a cloth, tied carefully, and handed over with instructions. "Don't lose it. Don't fight. Share with your friends." You would nod, not really listening, already halfway out the door. Few rupees to spend and a water bottle to carry was a sign that excitement has begun. It was mode of HURRY that attracts every single student to school on the day. Nobody walked. Everyone ran. The corridor/open space were full of boys and girls clutching tiffins and water bottles, comparing notes on what was packed inside. "What did you bring?" "Biryani. You?" "Parathas and omelette." "Can we share?" "Only if you give me your samosa." Deals were struck. Alliances were formed. And the classroom is full of chatting with smell of different food. The wait for the lorry was the longest wait of the year! We would rush to the windows, pressing our faces against the glass/grill, scanning the school road for the first glimpse. "Is it coming?" "No, that's a truck." "Wait... wait... yes! It's coming!" And there it was. Jamia ki lorry. The Chevrolet bus. Green and white. The inscription of Jamia Millia Islamia on the side and at the wheel, the man we all knew. Zaman Bhai. I remember, we used to wait and look outside from the window to see arrival of Jamia ki lorry, always driven by Zaman Bhai. That bus had carried generations of Jamia students before us. It had carried our seniors. It had carried our seniors' seniors and now it was carrying us. The paint was old. The seats were worn. The engine made noises that sounded like complaints. But none of that mattered. Because that bus was ours. Around 9-9.30 we used to get permission to board. The line would form, but it was not a line! It was a crowd! Everyone wanted to be first. Everyone wanted the back seat. Everyone wanted to sit next to their best friend. The teachers would try to bring order. "No pushing! No running! Everyone will get a seat!" But nobody listened. Because the back seat was the prize. The back seat was where the mischief happened. The back seat was where the laughter was loudest. Once seated in the bus with desired partner, we discuss about what food other has brought. The tiffin boxes would open even before the bus started moving. The smell of biryani, parathas, samosas, and sweets would fill the air. Hands would reach across seats. Fingers would grab. Mouths would chew and the sharing would begin. Lorry starts moving and big shouting by all. "Jamia ki lorry zindabad!" "Zaman Bhai zindabad!" The slogans were not planned. They were not rehearsed. They just happened. Because when you are young and happy and free, you shout. You shout because you can. You shout because it feels good. You shout because the day is yours. The first destination used to be Shankar's Doll Museum or Rail Museum, followed by Tughlaq Fort or Humayun Tomb. I personally like Rail Museum as I never had any interest for dolls. Dolls were for girls and few boys too Trains were for boys and the Rail Museum had trains. Big trains. Old trains. Trains that had carried people across the country before we were even born. We would walk through the museum in groups, our eyes wide, our necks craned. The steam locomotive that took tourists to Darjeeling was stationed there in our times. It was massive, black, and powerful, and we would stand before it, imagining what it must have been like to ride it through the mountains. There was also a locomotive with mono rail. I always wonder how it runs? How could a train balance on a single rail? We would ask the guide, but his answers never satisfied us. There were other displays too. Old signals. Old tickets. Old uniforms. But the toy train was the reward at the end. We would ride it around the museum grounds, laughing and shouting, and when it stopped, we knew the visit was over. After this, Lodhi Garden or Nehru Park was the next destination to play and have lunch. The gardens were our playgrounds. The lawns were our dining halls. The trees were our shade and by the time we arrived, we were hungry. Not just for food. Hungry for the grass under our feet. Hungry for the open sky above our heads. Hungry for the freedom that only a garden can give to a child. All the teachers and students sit together and open their Tiffin boxes to share among them. There were separate arrangements for hostlers from MATBAKH (Dining hall kitchen). The hostlers were the ones who lived in the hostel. They did not have Ammi packing their tiffin. They did not have home food. But they had the matbakh. And somehow, their food was always the most sought after. Maybe because it was different. Maybe because it was shared more freely. Maybe because they knew what it meant to miss home. Once properly seated, food distributed among all and enjoyed. The parathas were passed around. The samosas were traded. The sweets were saved for last. The teachers would sit with the students, not as authority figures, but as companions. They would eat from the same tiffins. They would laugh at the same jokes. They would become children again, just for a day. The trouble always started the same way. A girl would open her tiffin, ready to eat, and find nothing inside. Just an empty box. Just crumbs. She would look at it, confused at first, then shocked, and then the tears would come. "Someone stole my food!" The cry would go up. The teachers would rush. The boys would look innocent. Too innocent. Because we knew. We always knew. The theft had happened long before lunchtime. During the walk from the bus to the garden. During the settling down on the grass. During the moment when everyone was busy finding their spot and nobody was watching their tiffin. That was the moment we struck. Quick hands. Quiet movements and the food was gone before the owner even knew it was missing. The girls were the easiest targets. Not because they were careless. Because they trusted. They trusted that nobody would steal from them. They trusted that everyone would wait for lunch. They trusted that boys would behave. They were wrong and when the tears came, the teachers would intervene. Questions would be asked, denials were common and then, slowly, the sharing would begin. The crying girl would wipe her tears and accept. Not because she had forgiven us. Because she was hungry. Because that was the only way. The best part was that food always remained surplus and everybody got a chance to enjoy the variety because sharing was not just encouraged. It was expected and It was the Jamia way, a concept deep rooted within "Jamia Biradari". After food and Zuhr prayers, starts the field activities like tug-o-war, ping pong etc where staff and students took part and enjoy every bit of it. Few elder (adult) students used to walk through the park to see other attraction at those times. The teachers became players and the students became competitors. For a few hours, the line between them disappeared! Afterwards lorry heads for Tin Murti, Nehru Planetarium, BAL Bhawan etc. Visiting Planetarium and Bal Bhawan was always informative and attractive. The planetarium was a journey into the stars. We would sit in the dark, our heads tilted back, watching the dome above us fill with constellations and planets and galaxies. The voice of the narrator would guide us through the universe, and for those few minutes, we forgot where we were. We were not in Delhi anymore. We were somewhere far away. Somewhere infinite. Somewhere magical. By the time clock hits 5 or 6, every one of us looks extremely tired. The tiredness was not just physical. It was the tiredness of happiness. The tiredness that comes from excessive laughing, running and eating. That was the time when Zaman Bhai put Jamia ki lorry on the way back to school. Very few students chatting, looking at each other fully satisfied. Few students sitting at back, calculating their mischief. The back seats were always reserved for the mischief makers! The ones who had stolen food. The ones who had played pranks. The ones who had done something they would laugh about tomorrow and deny forever. The moment Lorry enters on Mohammed Ali Johar Marg and after Holy Family Hospital, students recollect their energy and starts again with "Jamia Ki Lorry Zindabad" and Zaman Bhai zindabad till we reach the "D" of Jamia Middle School. The slogans and energy returned because the journey is just over for a while. Many parents were waiting there for their wards. Ammi and abba and the moment one stepped out of the lorry, the questions would begin. "Did you eat?" "Did you share?" "Did you behave?" You would nod, too tired to speak, too happy to explain and then students like me used to walk home from there to conclude one of the best days in school but out, on a picnic. Walking home, you would replay the day in your mind because you knew. You knew that this was not just a picnic. This was a memory being made. In higher classes picnic remains but way of enjoyment transformed from one form to another with a difference. We grew older. The destinations changed. The games changed. But the feeling remained the same. The feeling of being free. The feeling of being young. The feeling of being part of Jamia.