An Evening at tunbridge
(This has been in the drafts for quite sometime now. Finally finding light).
The clock on the skies always strike 7:20 when I open the doors of Tunbridge high school and run to the end of play ground in the back to join my acting group. It's amazing how one can miss every little detail about a place, though one's been going there for months or even years. Only on saturday last week, when I was there for the first time during daylight, did I notice how it actually was a lovely setting for a school. There's a huge (definitely old) tree in the middle of the ground; a concrete , circular bench surrounds the tree and on any given day, forms a platform for a platoon of ants to march their way across. Old 60 watt bulbs hang from the branches and form puddles of light in the night. On the farther end of the playground are toilets that are definitely a century old. The walls that surround the classrooms are free of graffiti but full of cracks - the one I sit in everyday is std. II A. It is filled with benches that are not even knee high and a lifetime of memories. It has a time table on the wall with P.T and G.K periods listed. There's a overused black board that in the top-right corner has the "Number on roll" and the "Number present". Someone forgot his notebook - wrapped in a shade I can't name but is so familiar, and a spiderman sticker on the top right. Right next to the door - is a crayon sketch of sunrise by a little girl; Sunrise - the eternal debut sketch for every budding artist.
These details are behind a pall of darkness this very moment as I rush to find my place in the circle that's formed next to the tree. Everyone's already there - One or two might trickle in later - Fellow compatriots in corporate drudgery. Just as I do everyday, I scan every face and read those lines that appear or I otherwise imagine.
The clock on the skies always strike 7:20 when I open the doors of Tunbridge high school and run to the end of play ground in the back to join my acting group. It's amazing how one can miss every little detail about a place, though one's been going there for months or even years. Only on saturday last week, when I was there for the first time during daylight, did I notice how it actually was a lovely setting for a school. There's a huge (definitely old) tree in the middle of the ground; a concrete , circular bench surrounds the tree and on any given day, forms a platform for a platoon of ants to march their way across. Old 60 watt bulbs hang from the branches and form puddles of light in the night. On the farther end of the playground are toilets that are definitely a century old. The walls that surround the classrooms are free of graffiti but full of cracks - the one I sit in everyday is std. II A. It is filled with benches that are not even knee high and a lifetime of memories. It has a time table on the wall with P.T and G.K periods listed. There's a overused black board that in the top-right corner has the "Number on roll" and the "Number present". Someone forgot his notebook - wrapped in a shade I can't name but is so familiar, and a spiderman sticker on the top right. Right next to the door - is a crayon sketch of sunrise by a little girl; Sunrise - the eternal debut sketch for every budding artist.
These details are behind a pall of darkness this very moment as I rush to find my place in the circle that's formed next to the tree. Everyone's already there - One or two might trickle in later - Fellow compatriots in corporate drudgery. Just as I do everyday, I scan every face and read those lines that appear or I otherwise imagine.
- A high flying official, with a car and a chauffeur and a life most of us dream of, standing in a t-shirt and playing a juvenile adoloscent asking us for tips for making it realistic.
- An immensely talented photographer, writer and owner of advertising agency makes a fool of himself as a "revolving door retailer".
- We share a cigarette (that's how she likes to call a secret) that no one would know - A cigarette that's just a tip of a whole long story, a series of questions that I am apprehensive to ask. Sometimes, the responsibility that comes with the knowledge of someone's life requires a lot of poise and maturity.
- She stares at eternity with a look of disdain - an undying pessimism about a farce called mankind. A disappointment multiplied by everyone around. She lights up at a look of sincerity, and a voice of reason.
- She stands there with a grace befitting an angel, smiles and transforms into a little girl. But even in the dark, her eyes are but empty sockets, and the soul is out on a painful ride. In that instant when the smile disappears, a tinge of sorrow paints itself on her face for a split second that you would miss if you aren't watching.
- And there are so many spread in a continuum of age, background, upbringing and energy levels.
posted by Rathish at 6:13 PM
2 Comments:
Fool rush in , where Angels fear to tread.
You know what, it's not so bad after all :)
And I assume, you are talking about -
"the responsibility that comes with the knowledge of someone's life requires a lot of poise and maturity."
or no?
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