By Sujatha Balasubramanian, The Deccan Herald Weekly Magazine, Jan 10 1960

One invariably fails when trying to reconcile the past with the present. What one is and what one was are two separate entities bound by this thing called the self. But no human being can resist the temptation to turn back the pages, to gloat over past glories, to muse about tender memories, to consider forgotten calamities. Perspective changes and actions and thoughts are judged sometimes by a dimmer one. All the same, it is an invigorating experience.

Qualms

I turned the card over and over again in my hand. “Should I or should I not go,” that was the question. The prospect of revisiting the alma mater was exciting but the changes which were bound to be there frightened me considerably. Would I get lost in a sea of new faces? What if no one recognized me? They say that even the buildings have changed their facades. How strange it would be to walk into an old classroom and find it converted into a library or a washroom! I chided myself for being silly. Of course there were bound to be at least half a dozen of the old staff whom I knew well. And perhaps many of the girls of my year would also turn up. Anyway there was no harm in going there for a few minutes. It had been ages, nearly seven years, since I left college and town once for all at once. So I went to the Reunion.

They were all there – at least most of them. Mrs. Rao, the Maths lecturer who used to play good tennis; Mrs Iyengar the Physics teacher who always blushed when we asked her any questions; good old “Mrs Muffet” who spouted Eliiot and Masefield and was so nick-named because she evinced a great liking for curds at some picnic or other; fat and jolly faced Ratha Bai of the Chemistry Lab; the ever energetic Miss Fernandes of the P.T. As I looked at their faces, I could not help being surprised to see them all look so much older. Perhaps, unconsciously I had thought of them as being forever unchangeable, like my memories of them.

In the midst of the crowd, I spied someone waving to me. It was Meena, one of my group girls. “Hello, there” she said “Fancy seeing you here after all these years! Where have you been and what have you been doing?” she asked in one breath. “Come along, let us meet our gang and then talk it all over.” She dragged me to a corner where I found the fifties huddled together and talking over the tea-table. “It is Sujatha, you girls” she beamed at them proudly. “I found her scratching the dirt as usual, in front of our dreaded principal” Meena’s sense of humour had never been well developed, I thought, as I squirmed under the girls’ amused glances. They took one look at my lipstickless, rougeless face, my uncut hair, my simple old-fashioned saree and seemed rather taken aback. “What, no nylon saree, no high-heels?” their blank faces queried, “no Ajanta hairdo, no blood-red nails?” Self-consciously I dropped into a chair among those modern belles. I found myself next to Rita. “I have a most interesting job” she said enthusiastically, “meeting lots of foreigners every day. One has to have a thorough knowledge of Indian culture and traditions in the course of my work.” she went on importantly. I murmured something soothing in reply and turned to my other neighbour. It was Nalini, one of the brightest of the fifties. She met my glance and held out her hand. “Meet Dr. Nalini, Assistant Medical Officer of the Ladies’ Hospital, always at your service” she said with an impish look. “That is excellent, Nalini, so you did get what you wanted.” I replied warmly. Nalini had been one of my best friends. “Honestly, I tell you there is no more rewarding work than being a doctor. I have always been proud of my calling. One can work for the betterment of humanity so easily this way.” There was a light in her eyes as she spoke to me softly.

“Hi, folks,” drawled a nasal voice as Sudha approached. Her face was heavily made up. The shoulder-length bob and backless choli shrieked pseudo-Indian to me. Was this what America did to Indian girls? “This is just like one of our sorority meetings when I was a sophomore at Vassar” she beamed. Two years in the States had given Sudha an air of condescension that was slightly annoying. Just then Mrs. Rao passed by and waved a cheery hand at our group. Noticing me, she enquired, “Have you been out of town all these years? What are you doing?” As I heard the dreaded question, a tiny upsurge of revolt flared in me. “Oh, I keep myself busy with my family. You see I am married and have two children.” “Married?” asked Mrs Rao in a surprised voice… “Quite a brilliant student too. Such a waste of talent” she murmured and went away shaking her head. “Tell me” said Rita, “Don’t you find it terribly boring?” “Boring?” I mused. “Naturally it can’t be very thrilling or rewarding?” said Nalini with a hint of regret in her words.

My Privilege

Shall I tell them of the thrill I felt when my baby walked its first few steps alone? Or the pride with which I led my child to school for annual prize-giving and watched her recite her carefully studied piece? Or the warm glow of satisfaction that filled me when my husband praised a special dinner I had prepared for him? Or the touch of happiness which brought tears to my eyes as I watched the children’s eager faces lit up by fireworks they were watching so intently? Or the contentment that fills me when I wake up in the night and find my dear ones sleeping peacefully around me? I said nothing.