The Cottonian Pilgrim
Humbled.. The Evening I was brought down to my knees ( The Camino Portuguese) May 14th 2022
…the day was excruciatingly hot ..40C
I had so far walked 375 km and was struggling to get into the next town Lourosa ( Portugal)
My camino gear was very unconventional; no rain gear, no dark dreary clothes… over the last years my trademark, my standard was slim red cotton jeans, a coloured check shirt with a bandana, long flowing cotton scarf and on top of this an army green jacket with a host of pockets that had my water bottle, almonds, an apple and an orange, two energy bars , a few boiled sweets, my passport, my pilgrims passport, my mobile phone and my stash of doe concealed in small numbers within the various hidden pockets. I always donned my camino hat, oversize to protect against the raging sun, in the evening my Old Cottonian Cap, my shoes too were oversize trail runners with gore tex, not hiking boots. And my shock absorber walking sticks with the faded line “These sticks have walked over mountains valleys rivers hard asphalt and more…”
..and the sweltering heat…terribly unbearable but I just kept on .. pressing on with my backpack pushing down. I was losing excessive salt, every drag of a step increased my tired quotient, every sluggish step added more weight on my back and soon it felt like a solid brick of iron weighing 10 kilos..yet i pressed on ..it was dead slow ahead or as a senior German asked me what KSO meant … Keep Straight On ..
.. But i needed to get from Oliveira de Azmeis to Lourosa a blistering 24 km walk to the local Fire Brigade station; the operator on duty that early morning assured me I would get a bed for the night ..she spoke in Portuguese and I Spanish and the connection was clear audible, well understood.. and I smiled proud I could comprende Portuguese …her name was Marian.
Now I was struggling with the sun in its zenith and layers and waves of dragon heat.. this section of the camino was pure asphalt and super highways with long trailers hurtling down towards me; it was safer for me to meet these beasts head on, eyeballing the driver to swerve away rather than a beast of metal come hurtling towards me from behind .. at least facing these gigantic roaring machines I had a chance of maintaining a somewhat safe distance but the incredible jet stream these metallic monsters churned up frighteningly driving past was so deadly, they either sucked you into the whirling tunnel of a swooshing air tunnel or flung you away on to the hard shoulder; I was lucky and got away walking firm with my head down, my eyes shut and my hat protecting me from shooting stones ricocheting from their ten axle howling tyres that could shatter windscreens and pulverise your face at 120 km an hour … Peligroso ! Cuidado Peregrino… Dangerous! Be Careful Pilgrim..
…and I kept at it..
….around 1700 hrs I touched the outskirts of Lourosa a nondescript town that had nothing to write home about .. a plaza, a Lidl supermarket, a farmacia and the local fire brigade station. And my head was hammering, I was nearing an ugly cough and had a deadly suspicion I may be approaching the “ C – factor “or was it heat stroke ..?
The Bombeiros Voluntarios, The Fire Brigade Volunteers in Portugal are both firefighting-cum-paramedic girls and boys who also work the ambulance service. Lourosa FF jurisdiction covered an area of over 100 square kilometres.
The last few metres the last few steps to the destination are the toughest.. tired exhausted and hungry I staggered in to the 24 hr control room of the Fire Station… it felt good as I threw down my backpack, my jacket, my sticks and slumped on a chair…
Marian was still on duty though soon end of her watch in the next fifteen minutes. She remembered my name, the interchange and then.. .. she again spoke in Portuguese and I in Spanish and the more I thought I understood her the more I had misunderstood her …I had not understood a word.. nada .. nada..
she kept shaking her head in the negative ..! She kept saying ..no no no and I kept questioning que que que ( what ?). Soy el Peregrino recuerdo ? I am that pilgrim remember? Si Si yes she said but again no no no ..
I mean like what’s happening here ??
It took coaxing pleading and more before the final truth dawned upon me… with final comprehension ..
“ what I said to you” she said “was we have no beds.. you can take a shower wash your clothes and leave ..”☹️☹️Good Holy Grief bordering on 😖irritation bordering on near exploding anger😡…24 km I had trudged with an assurance of a bed and lo and behold i was totally wrong .. Portuguese Spanish audible, comprendo .. and all that crap .. I was one sour unhappy pilgrim and definitively not one happy Cottonian..
After ranting and pleading my sorry exhausted state Marian giving me a hard piercing look beckoned me to follow her to the first floor…I did like a timid tired lamb… climbing those painful steps we arrived at the upper landing and with a key unlocked a door opening on to a gym used by the team.. it was bare with a very hard wooden floor.. pointing to one corner and then she indicated if i was agreeable… “‘the floor is yours” and she left me as I stood in confused shock .. no sleeping bag, no underlay but only my backpack and the stuff I wore …
What a letdown….from flying business class with upgrades to first round the world, sleeping on hästen mattresses and Canada goose feather sumptuous pillows, pure white Egyptian cotton sheets I had arrived at the end of the line; a hard pit stop as I sank to my knees, a voice whispered “be thankful for small mercies”… I had no choice, no alternate plan no diversion.. there were no Albergues around; Porto was another 26km and in my pathetic state it would take me until midnight at the least to get there…
Just as I decided and knew I had no choice I saw the common room adjacent to the gym.. and smiled .. for there waiting for me, for this pathetic pilgrim was in one corner a really massive expansive super comfy looking three seater sofa ! I chuckled with delight.. dreaming with my eyes opened I could see me sprawled across on this bed of luxury dreaming of everything wonderful except that hard wood floor of the gym. I walked to the room, checked it had no lock and thrilled to bits planned to sneak in at lights out and crash out…. “ don’t even think of it “ a voice stung behind me..! Turning around I saw Marian and a dude who spoke English with a yank accent…. “We have hard rules in this place “ he continued … “ pilgrims can arrive to rest, shower and wash; sleeping on the sofa is strictly prohibited. We have a standby force 24/7; if anyone sees you flaking out on that sofa you will be kicked out of the premises immediately..”
That was it; ashamed of my scheming plan i fell on my knees..truly humbled..
Bonnie ( Vivek) Bhasin
The Cottonian Pilgrim
On the camino Portuguese to Santiago de Compostela..
I made it to Porto the following afternoon as I got out of the Fire Station with a hurting back, a stiff neck at 0400 “ truly humbled …”
05 July 2022.
My slept corner in the Gym
una experiencia humillante
KURUKSHETRA: Raghuvendra Tanwar, professor emeritus, Kurukshetra University (KU) has been appointed as Chairman of the Indian Council of Historical Research (ICHR), New Delhi, for a period of three years by the Government of India (GOI).
Prof Tanwar who joined KU as a lecturer in August 1977 has an outstanding academic record, with two gold medals in MA History. He was appointed an open selection professor in 1997 and has also worked as the KU’s dean of academic affairs and dean of social sciences. He superannuated in February 2015 and in July 2016 was appointed director of the Haryana Academy of History and Culture.
Prof Tanwar was awarded the prestigious UGC National Fellowship (Research Award) 2002-2005. He conducted a major research project on Jammu & Kashmir for the period 1947-53 in 2013-15.
Prof Tanwar is reputed for his study of India’s partition particularly Punjab. This work based on sources across India and the UK is a day-to-day reporting of what happened in 1947 and is widely acclaimed. His research and publication on Jammu & Kashmir while questioning major narratives particularly by western scholars has argued and established how the masses of Kashmir were clearly in support of the accession of the state with the Union of India in 1947.
Prof Tanwar’s most recent study is an illustrated Story of India’s Partition, published by the Publication Division of Ministry of Information and Broadcasting, GOI in English and Hindu. He has several other major publications including an illustrated biography of Bansi Lal and on Sir Chhotu Ram.
Part of the Soul Train
One-Six-ZERO ( 1 6 0 )
…is no ordinary number
is no simple number
is not that a complicated number
is not a serious number
is not a humorous number.
… it is a number that signifies
something more special than ordinary simpleness complicatedness and seriousness. Possibly with some humour but something more.
The speciality of the number
may be linked to many things,
like an amazing book written by a world renowned story teller that climaxes on the 160th page, it could be a number of days starting the 1st of January until the 9th of June totalling 160
or perhaps the number of steps I once took at the age of 12 from the Lefroy House dorms to the Chapel door.
In the parlance of old english it is 8-score years is it not? I mean the number 160!
But for you and I, ONE SIX ZERO is a definitive milestone.
If I recollect the many milestones in my life I can state I was born 64 years ago, the first stone ! I started schooling at my Alma mater 59 years ago, I passed out from my Alma mater 49 years ago and I attained Command of my own vessel called the “ LONTUE” (named after a river in Chile) at the age of 29; this was 35 years ago and so on.
Ten years ago in October 2009 a very special congregation of souls took place up in the Himalayas … on a spur where stands a handsome set of buildings, a gorgeous Chapel, flats and woods. These souls arrived from every corner of the planet to reignite, remember, reconstruct and push back age boundaries. The souls returned to be young again, to feel young again and use slang and jargon which was part of the traditional way one spoke to each other; with nick names that actually should have been registered and stamped into their passports; these names stuck on like magic glue and for many are sacred. Even their wives and girl friends and mothers call them by these names. Yes those names make these souls unique under one breath under blue skies and the bright sun that drenches this Handsome Beautiful Space.
Yes Ma’am, Yes Sir!
This Handsome Beautiful Space belongs to us souls. It is where our stories started and it is where our stories will continue, never ending ….for there will be other souls who will arrive and understand the magic of our space as they write and weave the myriad patterns from the power of the buildings, The Chapel, the flats and the woods.
And a sense of brotherhood will emerge…
Ten Years later …
On July 28th 2019, our most sacred space would be 160 years since …
….and yet The Buildings, The Chapel , The Flats and The Woods will not burst into song or tremble with joy and shiver with excitement. No no… they will just be where they are looking at those who’ve gone before, to those who are there and those who’ve yet to come…
silently they will stay…perhaps a wind will rustle the leaves of the Grand Oak. the Weeping Willows, the Cedars , the Chestnuts and Pines , and on certain monsoon days the clouds will descend as you brush against them like huge balls of cotton until the rain comes down and cleanses away the pollen; the snow will hunker down over winter and melt away as “our” tears.
…but then Blue Skies and Glorious Sunshine again…
Perhaps this next Saturday 28th July 2019 I will get down on my knees in some quiet place and Thank You all,
Thank our Founder
Thank Head Master,
Thank my Teachers,
Thank the Bearers,
Thank my Seniors,
Thank My Class of 1970,
Thank My Brother,
Thank My Juniors,
Thank My Parents for sending me to my Alma mater,
and Thank the Handsome Buildings,
The Flats and
that give me that energy, hope and drive to continue my life..
Our Bishop Cotton School !!
Our Sacred Space.
We belong to you,
You belong to Us.
((Whenever I visit this sacred place I always make it point to walk the 160 steps to the Chapel ..
I do sometimes tremble and shiver…
But when I look at The Good Shepherd with his flock ..
I feel a calm descending within my soul, a sense of peace prevails..
until my next time ..))
Class of 1970
Writings 14 April 2019
When friends become FAMILY
(by a certain Lefroyian from the Class of 1970)
It’s the 14th of April 2019 0945hrs Swedish summer time up in the cloudless blue as I fly between Stockholm and Helsinki on a Finnair Flight…
I suddenly have this explosive surge to write a few lines that have formed after a rapid juxtaposition of words… I try to find a Doric pen, a Bic biro or even a blunt 2B pencil (that I can gnaw off the end with my jagged teeth to find the lead within) ..desperation is the key here as I fumble through my bag but no .. there ain’t no ‘Ship Ahoy’ no ‘Eureka’ moment as a fresh flow is melting.. finally from my frozen brain now thawing with a warm breeze, just as pure coconut oil turns dusky and then transparent from its white snow.. when the heat descends from above.
.. and talking about white, I need parchment to ink my flow of words. My brain is unable to keep those thoughts secure as it’s losing the blotting paper, it’s sponge in my memory bank. Be it a fistful of dollars or the code to my account, the need to ink it all; then if possible memorise, then if possible enact them with highs and lows, speaking loud with conviction, with the right emphasis on punctuation, exclamations and emotions.. like an actor who comes under the spot light, plays his part and soon fades in to oblivion of sunsets; the lights fade, the curtain falls ( sing Greta van Fleet) and he is back in that smoke filled cafe in the third arrondissement where strugglers still burn Gauloises hoping to crack the stage of perfection.
I don’t trust iCloud, never really did…just as the plane encounters turbulence hitting a powerful jet stream and every one is rattled sick ..
… but soon smooth air sailing ..
..too soon as a calm prevails and then tinkering of glasses. Of course this Japanese Samurai sitting in front has bagzed two seats;massive he is yet nimble on his toes he does a pirouette taking a video of the entire length of passengers with his iPad bowing and smiling through his Oriental eyes..
Yet I stay desperado-hungry searching with arms flaying ..my words, my words …
The young blue eye’d blonde air hostess questions my worried look as I whisper “ I need ink.. please I need ink..” Smiling she retrieves a Finnair Biro and handing it to me, words spilling out of my ears, I thank her “Tack så mycket” in Swedish and try to stay focused.
I look around for a blank page but all I find are white spaces above and below today’s “i-paper” from London; a day old sheaf crumbled in the chair pocket .. that’s enough I sing to myself and pour it all out..
When the coffee is hot, even a few empty spaces are enough to spill my writer’s beans. But the cup will soon turn cold and the light brown froth will freeze on to the sides leaving little holes like a fading wave on a beach, the waters gone and little crabs appear ..my words will get lost… until the next high tide…
at our age folks ..the next high may be a long time coming ..
Yet now I write..
Having entered the Linlithgow dorms as a 3 foot 6 inch and a fag paper tall shy shivering little boy of five with ears sticking out like a baby elephant… I was taught the Lord’s prayer, brushed my teeth as the dorm bearer Kanhaiya Lal splattered my cheeks with a blob of Vaseline sold in the Hutties below; rumour had it the local Pandit in residence at White Temple beyond Buffalo pond used to collect slime snails which he made into an awful grimy paste, throwing in some black pepper, basil and putrid water of that from that stagnation ..
Indeed ! This concoction was trumpeted as a sure cure for dried cheeks and lips. KL as I shorten the bearer’s name was the middle man who brokered the deal to get fresh turnips in exchange for a sale to the Hutti wullah who purchased this from Panditji in huge cardboard boxes passing the absolutely disgusting no-brand over to my matron Mrs Goss (anyone could throw the wool over her pretty eyes). The grime stuck in my hair too and stained my pillow with rotten smells; awful is a soft word.
Oh yes, there was Red Lifebuoy soap too that Mum sent along with my tuck so I could wash my hands after taking a crap (you mean you never have soap over the sink Baba? Little did I tell her there was no water too… and sometimes the shit really hit the fan..).
They say family is forever, friends are chums, chums later are mates and then when realisation dawns and one gets taller most of those “partners in crime” drift away across time zones, across waters and beyond the peaks and valleys of the great Himalaya..until the final roll call.
I solemnly believe friends become family and as fifty years go by the friend – family connection is a bond beyond blood .. it’s a bond that suddenly strengthens and reunites as if yesterday never happened… the moment of 30 November 1970 has looped around and comes swooshing in for a soft landing …at the School Gates. We have waited long enough. It’s time to stop the world rushing by and return.. return to our ABC and 123…and BCS.
Sukhdev Rai was fascinated about my Pa being a Hooghly River Pilot, the guy built the first high rise on Lal Dora land … eventually, pushing his young Cottonian protege to hit the decks ..
Jeet was an expert at making traps.. of all frikin sorts. He had a fertile mind; reports state he was a wild child and now a slightly more stable dude thanks to his Missus.
Anil Chops always screwed his face in defiant agony and walked the Lefroy Dorms “el nonchalante”.. he smashed his Dad’s Embassy Transistor Radio factory into history ..thanks to Embassy one could see the Black Brothers with their Boom-Boom Boxes moonwalking at Times Square. The fad started by Indian “ locals” carrying the Embassy on their shoulders and twisting like Shammi the Kapoor.
Homer always called me “ a Mamma’s boy” his clothes from England formed a new word in my vocab :
S A R T O R I A L
He managed to come across for my 50th and now his accent is stooped with Punjabiness..
Aku played a cool mouth organ, a versatile tenor he lead the school choir and could sing anything from the Beatles to Cliff Richard.. “A” once told me I could pull a mega liner across the water with a shoe string …easy-peazy..
Anil Adu was a stubborn dude and gave a rat’s ass to Goldie’s orders .. .. the bugger maintained shoulder length hair ..the Rock of BCS.. diehard Soldier, Lenswizard and Master-Crafter-Baker… Jamie Oliver and Gordon Ramsey hate his guts.. so do many others (tough luck as he just doesn’t G.A.F !) …his sister was maha cute! And Salutations to Mum “ Ma’am” my Nature Study teacher .. that’s why I still look for Ferns in Mashobra and Sweden..🙏
PK Singh.. this guy wanted to read my hand and jammed it down .. hard on the desk where a broken point of a divider has scarred my middle finger of my left paw ..the man has now sobered and took an early retirement from the jungle .. settling down in UK.. I mean Uttrakhand. His sister was slim trim and a proper Chelsea lass..Hugs PK! The Bond grows…
Krit loved his gymnastics, was a lithe boxer who met his match from Shiv Kapoor. I first got the taste of Jintan from K..and yes that monk from Tibet.. K was a philanthropist and I remember the good times in Las Vegas .. R.I.P🙏
Father was born six feet tall the day he was born.. he was focused on researching the female atomic body and was seen (and heard) walking around Scandal Point after lights out..after placing a dummy in his bed … Bakku never cuffed on ..
JSB’s sister looked a doll!
Joel was the only God fearing chap who went to Sunday School praying for all our sins ..Bless You Dr. JAM!
Himesh and Mastu were up to “ purple passages “ and whilst Led Zeppelin hit the charts with Ramble on .. M opened the first drive in at CP aptly naming it Rambles. His Brother was Mr India and came to visit School now and then lifting the end of the Amby (no Jack) so the Driver could change the flat ..!phew…!Himesh became a Travel Agent and ensured Shanker Basu missed his flight and hence was deep soul angry having had to renegade the Deutsche Bank conference in Colombo too!
Raghu was a straight faced devil of a great guy who was working on nominating the Commerce prize..he also knew the dates of the three battles of Panipat by heart ..
Anil M came from an exotic place known for the largest species of butterflies.. Tittlagarh. Another Shakespeare in the making..
Avnesh was a cool hand dude .. he had a game plan.. Rivaz cool hand dude now Luke, “Thighs and Thailand” were his destined destination ..
Abhai was the sharpest back flipper in the world and blasted my ass catching me sliding down the out-of-bounds Anderson staircase. His hockey skills even had Gyan Chand in awe… Abhai converted his dreams and became a mountaineer. Udechee huts with Swarnima up in pure pristine Dharamsala… he knows Richard Gere intimately…Hail School Capitano🙏
Dilip had the Italian connect and hence the Milano name “ Tinani”.. a pizza is named after him and sold off Fontana de Trevi..
Harry was special … asleep awake or walking sleeping he thought of sex every 9.5 secs …that’s the reason his pug was so perfect …he has written his desertion on the subject
“How to spank the old Monkey” to raving reviews in the NY Times..
Mohinderjit was the special one .. this Ibbetson dude was an all rounder in mischief and inspite of his name on no boards ( for which the heat is on) the writer has nominated MJ’s name for an Oscar for the lead act in the “Academy of Rascals”..MJ (aka Billa) could see in the dark and that’s why Bats zing and ping in dark places …his fiery temper has since subsided thanks to heavy snow falls in Minneapolis.. his Limousine service was linked to Rock Star Prince. Often seen on tip toe looking at OzzzeeTuli’s house ( all cloak and dagger tucked below..!)
Karan was the Ghost Whisperer… Goldie once called him to the lodge to connect with the departed soul of his beloved departed cocker spaniel … it is established that JK Rawling snatched away the book of ghosting logarithms from Karan, and Shakespeare still rolls laughingly in his grave ..
Shanker was a Hongkong Bong wise and wide chested with a mischievous smile that could charm and melt one and all .. the dude was a great gymnast..a hockey player and knew where he was headed after Calcutta, Bombay and Delhi..getting a first div was not the problem .. getting five points was..
Smuggler Bill was charting another course of history … the guy knew which window was open; he had that great ability to sniff out the History paper and later made grand plans to derail trams plying in Calcutta … he vanished as an Arab and was last seen riding a camel sitting backwards on the sand dunes of Dubai…
Anil P worked his unique story .. the dude once found a rusty nail in his chicken curry and some jelly like blob in his ice cream .. he vowed to go up to the Artic circle .. another Lothario no one knows how many kids follow him like a Pied Piper .. …with a memory of an Indian Haathi he has Ganesha statues placed in every room and loves Penny Loafers .. (I like Dexter’s) .. innocent? My sorry ass…😁
Rajiv P Shams …likes biology as this was the only way to enter Mrs Kumar’s mind body and soul tactfully, sinfully and with great sensual reality …he flew in from Accra Ghana and after concluding the plot with Mrs VK invented unisex boxer shorts that can dry in two minutes flat, Rolex vouch for that; later NASA took over his patent.. all US Astronauts wear the RPS brand , Donald T is also interested .. The White House want to see the snug fit and if the tights really protect the family’s jewels ..
Amar Rana was another blighter whose family hailed from Nepal but with great foresight acquired entire Mashobra Hills. .. he was often seen on a moped careening past Park Street and driving the two-wheeler in frenzied laughter into the gates of St. Xavier’s Calcutta…He had a fabulous sister Durgi who my cousin Mountain (R.I.P) was totally madly and crazily in love with… Amar ..remains A M A R🙏
Bhupi Singh another Curzon stalwart was seen running down the steps with his turban half -tied.. and tucking in his shirt with laces ablaze .. in time for the Breakfast line.. what a good hearted soul was he… R.I.P🙏
Pradeep Pando.. RPS’s giant brother had massive hands and stacking six quarter plates could pick them up with one hand fingers only ..his laughter was louder than the howler monkey and he loved to throw in pearls of wisdom at inter-school debates “ it’s a jargon , where revisionism is a betrayal to the ideas of revolution, where dogmatism is criminal obscurantism and where fractionalism is a mortal sin”…Let uncut diamonds stay safe as they peer across the Bay of Bengala..
.. and there is Kirit Shah… who flies in to London in his private Lear Jet calling me from the skies above BCS… inviting me to Lunch … “ just bringing my wife across to Harrods for Shopping”.. shipping magnate, rice mills, hotels and a host of others …. he was the quiet one with a naughty interior… loved the Khuds as he saw Khadu belles cutting grass… and ??!!!.. Matka was another favourite pastime and Rivaz was his haven …
Deepu was another serious hard working rascal who always played fair in tug-o-war. The man was a determined anchor who joked when it was time to get serious. Guts, Glory and Sports the man had an insane stamina and could stand sleeping with his eyes wide open.. his opinion of the world then and now was never questioned … dare not.
Gaddi the cool handsome Surd from Curzon.. and another super asset to our Class of 1970.. he was polished and sparkled the virtues of a true Cottonian…was it Jasbir and later Vikram pray may I ask…you have been a noble gentleman, a shining example as you left trails of perfection..
Chachi always won the prize of a plate of hot samosas and a occasional basin ladoo from Farhat “fat” Paul.The more horse manure Paula churned having nailed a crocodile in Jagadri, the more Chachi improved his calligraphy.. perfect flair of the nob.. thanks to Doric and Paula (who had the hots for Missus Shah..she probably rode his “white pony”)
Chachi was that smiley dude and I remember he sold Saddam Hussain his first platinum plated Audemars Piaget from Nath Watch Magazine in Basra. As a young kid Chachi did resemble the Thief of Baghdad.. no?
Arthur was what Red Royal apples are all about .. what great looks, cunning charmer, snake charmer and ladies charmer.. the Banon boy was fabulous. Rivaz’s precious son who hiked trekked fished and enjoyed the wild outdoors… soul stirring dude whose elders came across from Ireland and the US…. “ only the good die young …” R. I. P🙏
Chun-Chun was that quiet melancholic soul who has left the Ibbetson dorms whispering between cubicles of this gentleman and a scholar … Washington DC beckoned … always , unfailingly coming out on top of our unruly pile Goldie often wished to get in to ChunChun’s brain (like Einstein, Mozart, Beethoven and Brahms).. to see what brilliance he had… he and the Itaian “tinani”were thick ..like minds think alike …
The Chief was another firebrand of the Clan. Nagu is part of tribes Cherokee and Mohican.. and rumour goes a major share holder of Hard Rock cafe..his fork tailed tongue can spit a Cobra dead and he takes no prisoners.. either it’s my way or the highway dude… either you have a straight neck or I will wring your neck … don’t try to schmooze your way to a free frikin aloo tak at Chipu’s you piece of wretchedness..
Behave Okay …?!
…. it doesn’t matter…
I have arrived at the Gates now ..walking at a slow pace past boundary stone … will we all emerge from different compass points,some clambering up the hill, some descending from Council Rock, some landing at Simla’s airport …some sliding down trees and others on horse back ..? We must arrive… We NEED to arrive…
Do we take roll call and walk in silently past the tennis courts … shedding Rivers of Babylon, hearts beating as we look at each other and step on the sacred grounds… will they be an eerie of quietness as we stand around the fountain and look at the porch as the dining hall doors open… will the Bugler sound the bell as we stand side by side in our house lines …will we hear the echoes of Bharpur Singh’s punishment squad struggling as he shouts “ last three had it .!” As the clock strikes over the war memorial the whirlpool of memories spins like a tornado coming back to life; will we look at the turf on the second flat and shout “ Light Blue Dark Blue Colours of ours, c’mon Cottonians, show them stars”?
Or will we just look at each other as we shrink in size into that time machine that will bring us back to November 1970?
Friends to Family to Friends .. now Family again…
Dedicated to The Class of 1970
Bishop Cotton School
(the only friends i made were in BCS … a few later were Cottonians too… My Young Bro a Lefroyan and one Chilean Bro… and a handful on my path to Santiago de Campostela…loads of others I did befriend but converted them into mere acquaintances…).. for me that is life .. even as I walk in the eternal city … heading towards the Vatican …
15th April 2019