Two months before that I had gone through a rigorous series of written tests and interviews. I did not know much about this school then except that my Papa wanted me to crack it. The thing about Papa was that he never told you to do something but expected a lot from inside. This time also, even though he had not told me specifically to do well in this exam, his eyes were chock-a-block with anxiety and anticipation. There were over 3500 applicants for just 30 odd seats and it was probably my first brush with competition. All the guys there seemed more primed and gifted than me but somehow I kept on pushing myself. It feels as if it was yesterday. Papa was waiting outside the examination hall with fruits and cup-cakes and despite all his attempts to hide his impatience, he asked me, “Do you think you will able to get through?” I thought for a while and I nodded, “Yes, I will.”
So, I actually did get through and what a party did we have. All my friends had come and Ma had prepared chaat for all of them. Gifts were exchanged, a puja was done and photographs were taken. It was only 5-6 years later that I noticed that Ashu was not present in any of the photographs taken that evening. He later told me that he had been crying in the balcony all the time. While I was happy to embark for a new tryst with my providence, my wooden horse knew that it was his turn to be alone now.
Ramakrishna Mission, or RKM as we called it, is one of the best boarding schools in Eastern India. Situated in the holy city of Deoghar and run by monks, it is more of an ashram than a school. The place is still run in the ancient Gurukul tradition; morning and evening prayers, meditation sessions, drills, community service and doing all the daily chores like sweeping, gardening etc. The place is a prison in itself with complete social seclusion. Even the parents are not allowed to meet their children for more than just a few hours in an entire term. The good thing is that the place is self sufficient in its lush green 60 acre land with its own dairy, gymnasium, mango groves, departmental store etc. The life there is bound by numerous rules; punctuality, discipline, cleanliness. Most of the monks are very similar in their demeanor; harsh from outside and squashy from inside. Same could be said about life there; harsh from outside and squashy from inside. (All this in present tense because nothing has changed since it was founded in 1922)
The first few days were exciting. Everything seemed fresh and liberating from my life back home. New friends, soccer sessions, Swami Vivekanand, music classes, Bhagvad Geeta chanting, Crichton’s and Rushdie’s, Alu Poshto – everything seemed fascinating and otherworldly. While many of my friends were being home sick, I was completely immersed in my new life. I never shed a single tear, thinking about anyone back home. All of this was going quite well until I received my first postcard from home, after a fortnight or so. As soon as I read it, all the dams cracked apart and I locked myself in the toilet and kept on crying for an entire hour. When Papa came for his first visit, I hugged him tightly and asked him to take me home. He took me on a walk, gave me a sweet chikki and told in an even sweeter voice, “You have always seen me as a successful doctor. But I was not like this always. It has taken me a lot of nerve, faith, endurance and a dogged determination to surmount all obstacles. There is a reason why you are here. A diamond is just a chunk of coal that has withstood extreme pressure. Always remember my words and never ever give up, my diamond.” As you can see, I still remember those words. Life took on a new meaning there onwards. It was not that I stopped feeling home sick. It was just the feeling that something great awaits at the end of this odyssey.
As is typical to boarding schools, RKM also was divided into two well defined, broad categories – Bullies (with a Big B) and sissies (with a small s). Since I have decided to be as true as possible, I must admit that back then I was a sissy. The Bullies ensured that a major share of their sweeping, mopping and gardening was outsourced to us. Also, they used to snatch all the eatables which the sissies brought from home. They scared us with their larger bodies and closeness to monks. The sissies had an underground society as well which constantly made plans to overpower the rule of the bullies. A spontaneous upheaval was required to break this bipolar dystopia and finally, it was ‘The Great mango Revolts of 1995’ that ended the tyrannical rule of the Bullies and restored Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité to the Republic of RKM.
As mentioned before, there were many mango trees inside the campus. Though forbidden by the monks, one of our favourite activities was to ‘steal’ green unripe mangoes. Their citric taste was divine to say the say the least. We often got caught, punished and beaten for this but the magic of mangoes always pulled us back to the groves. With the mango melting in our mouths, we felt free. These mangoes were something we were not ready to share with anyone, even the Bullies. One fine day, we were informed that the Bullies had declared to levy Mango Tax – a tax of one mango per day per sissy for the Bullies else they will complain about us. Already the Bullies had exclusive rights over the bigger mango trees and such a tax seemed completely unfair. In one of our secret society meetings, we decided to end this rule once and forever. It took the tang of the green mangoes to arouse the rebel in us. We had just read about Gandhi and we started our own Non-Cooperation Movement. We were ready for punishments but won’t work anything beyond our fair share. Within days, the boundary between the bullies and Sissies fell apart. I had learned yet another important lesson of life; I had learned to say NO.
The next few years were really thrilling. We didn’t just grow up, we grew up TOGETHER. From locking a monk inside his room to crossing over the campus walls to watch movies, we did it all. We did all kinds of mischief but as the punishments became harsher, they also turned more and more meaningless. Inside its barb-wired walls, RKM offered us a completely new world to explore. The once innocent kids experienced their first twinges of love, hatred, friendship, ego, philosophy, compassion and well, lust within those walls. We had no idea of the world outside except from what we saw during the daily news, the only thing we were shown on TV except monthly movies and Sunday cartoons. When we had come, we were all so different but as we grew up, all of us thought, acted and dreamed exactly alike. As is obvious from this paragraph, RKM turned ‘Me’ into ‘Us’.
I don’t know when it happened; whether it was because of my addiction to Swami Vivekananda’s words or because of the confident persona of Bishwaroop Maharaj (one of the brightest monks I have ever known). Whatever must have been the reason, one fine morning, I woke up with a smirk on my face. I had finally decided what I wanted to become. I wanted to become a MONK, to roam around the length and breadth of the country in an orange robe, to help people, to perform miracles, to explain the virtues of scriptures, to change lives. That day itself, I rushed to Bishwaroop Maharaj and told him that I wanted to join the order and become his monastic disciple. He was shocked, but somewhat happy, to listen of such a thing from a thirteen year old. He added a word of caution though, “Just stay away from girls. Their mirage will never let you see the Truth.” “Girls...huh... who cares”, it was an obvious thought back then. I had no time or intention to complicate my life as everything seemed beautiful and effortless. My life had a purpose now.
Life was still pretty simple but then, I didn’t know that it was just the lull before the storm.
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