“ Men may come, and men may go,
But I go on forever.”
Dear all, that was not from my range of literary creativity, but from one of Lord Tennyson’s magnum opuses. Though I lack the literary flair to match his unparalleled ability at penning down far-fetched (but, somehow related) philosophies, my heartfelt emotions that adhere me to my school and the grounds will suffice in expressing the state of my feelings at this juncture. Yes, you have guessed it right, it is the same old crucially poised juncture, that many students of my age anticipate; a juncture – before which is a lush world of joy and after which is a deep chasm of uncertainty.
Now, many of you might be splitting hairs about what exactly this obscure piece of literature has got to do with school life. Still, the esoteric meaning of this ‘insignificant’ excerpt might have already claimed realization in the minds of the few Einsteins reading this. Nevertheless, I owe you all an explanation.
Rewind back to those blissfully happy childhood days – those carefree, high-spirited days of revelry, which are now no more than just irretrievable memories. The were days when we had no alternative but to part with the reassuring touch of warmth of our parents and to venture into the classroom, which inevitably beckoned us.
Fast forward to where we are now…in a school destined to become our alma mater in a few months or so…in a classroom where we shall spend the remnants of our last-minute nostalgia trying to recover memories of the past and musing on nothing but wispy outlines of bygones. Being at my wit’s end now, I am unable to gauge the seemingly unfathomable depth of my insuppressible emotions.
Probably a year ago, it might have been a big deal taking back home unused answer sheets and twines from the room of anticipation (the Exam Hall) as memoirs, ‘opting’ out of infinitely extensible periods just to help ourselves to some ‘school activity’! Now, these are not really so telltale-ish to be told to admirers in hushed undertones. Well, you get used to such stuff gradually.
And then, time seems to flit past my eyes, as if in a surreal world, memories passing in a whirling blur of colour. Everything seems familiar, but something not quite. The summer breeze swaying the tops of leafy intertwined canopies of nearby trees, our wooden benches and desks having undecipherable codes etched into them, our school tomes with pages full of notes, scribbled in every possible space, the soft-boards in our classroom that remained bare till we were urged to fill them up…they all speak now…and at this juncture, they speak in unison…they wish we were around for some more time.
But alas! Shakespeare had said, “Sometimes man is the master of his own fate” and Longfellow had said, “Art is long, Time is fleeting”. Though I feel at this precise moment that you must pass on, to excel; in whatever you are good at, and freshers must come and replace you, it is essential that the educational system, unruffled and undeterred, must go on and on…
