School

I always wonder why my parents decided I should go to a boarding school when I was just in the fourth grade.

It was a brave decision; and to say that I also wanted to desperately go to a boarding school was another thing. I had always been in awe of my sisters who were in Mussoorie International School. My sis never failed to tell me how much fun they had in school, besides the independence they got.

So I, who had torn an acceptance from Welham Boys in the second standard, suddenly wanted to join a boarding. And then, I was at Scindia School, Gwalior.

I did not know then, that I would have to bathe in ice cold water in the even colder winter, or that I would have to eat tasteless food for three years.

What I did know was that I was to live on my own for those years. I would be introduced to so many people from so many parts of the country, that I would later be able to distinguish a Bihari from a Bhaiya. (Most people in Bombay confuse between the two.)

There was this fascinating person I met. He was a German guy, of German parents, not an NRI. And surprise, surprise, he was a Hindi teacher.

I went to so many places. Went to Bangladesh, went to Ajmer.

Good my parents thought I should go to a boarding school. Everyone should.