the smell of rain

Amongst the wilderness of Nandini Layout stands a funnily shaped building which, as of 2004 still awaited its first coat of white wash. I say wilderness because the acres of trees, weed and poisonous plant that cover most of the curvaceous landscape might be mistaken for grassland and the open sewer lines that snake along can be one of the brook’s that Wordsworth raves about. I say funnily shaped because of the absolute lack of architectural and aesthetic sense on the part of the guy who designed it. To the residents of Nandini and to the pupils who graced its suffocating corridors, the depilated structure is goes by the name of Presidency School. The place which shaped my mind , or whatever is left of it. The place where I learnt dirty jokes that transcend boundaries. The only place, other than a traffic constable’s convention, where you would find five hundred guys wearing khaki trousers and white shirts. Where sex education was left to capable hands of the internet. Where the school playground was a public park quarter of a kilometre away. The place where I had my first crush. Most importantly, the place which taught me a-b-c with which I can string together these sentences. I mean the a-b-c of the alphabet and of life.Ah, those memories.