I always thought my old convent school was a sadistic institution devoted to the art of killing all possible fun for people under 15. But now that I have had a couple of decades to think about it, it was probably the inspiration for some of the greatest books ever written, the muse for generations of authors.
The school, which has been standing for what seems like centuries, is a forbidding Dickensioan place with dark niches and gloomy passages. The walls were a dull whitish grey and your footsteps echoed mysteriously when you walked through the corridor. On the walls were mournful paintings of miserable and waif-like children, a few of them with tears rolling down their cheeks. Maybe because they couldn't stand the sight of our drab and ugly blue uniforms with our oiled and tightly braided hair topped off with blue ribbons. Every once in a while we would see a ragtag group of children march through the grounds, with dreadful haircuts, skinny frames and huge hungry eyes and too-long patched hand-me-down uniforms, orphans whom the convent 'sponsored' in their infinite magnanimity.
The Dickensian ambience of the school was further enhanced by the Fagin-like characters that populated it. Once a fellow student had a fainting fit after she was made to stand out in the heat due to heaven recalls what minor transgression. The teachers splattered a few measured drops of water on her face and watched her until her eyelids finally fluttered open. She was just blinking as various wimples and canes and rulers swam blurrily into focus when the principal admonished her severely, "We spent 10 paise on a call to your parents to come and get you. Please ask your parents to refund that money tomorrow." The poor sick child sank bank onto the cold floor in a coma.
There was also something distinctly Hogwartsish about the school. Nuns in white habits floated by and legends abounded about the wiccan activities that took place in the convent in the dead of night. Stories were told of potions being brewed and cackles heard long after lights out by the resident boarders, those doomed souls left by their parents to survive in the dubious environs of the convent. The sisters held rulers aloft like wands that cracked down on unfortunate palms at regular intervals. They also apparated at the most inopportune moments, especially when school fees were due and disapparated the moment you needed a little extra help.
The bathroom was a separate building altogether, to get to which you had to cross compounds and climb down long flights of stairs. It was a veritable Chamber of Secrets in which all manner of creatures were reported to have been seen, from snakes to rats to a ghost that was believed to float around and moan when too many people visited. We had our own resident basilisks and Moaning Myrtles and never knew it!
The there was a select group of children who went for the same competitive exams, performed the same dances in the same contests and won the same prizes year after year. Any newcomer, however talented, was looked upon in a distinctively Matilda-like fashion. The principal, the one who asked for the ten paise back -come to think of it - bore a striking resemblance to Miss Trunchbull.
My all-abounding nostalgia for the school has never taken me back even once since I left it more than twenty years ago, but I have heard that it is still an institution which one presumes will continue to inspire children's authors to write more grim tales of school for years and years to come.
The school, which has been standing for what seems like centuries, is a forbidding Dickensioan place with dark niches and gloomy passages. The walls were a dull whitish grey and your footsteps echoed mysteriously when you walked through the corridor. On the walls were mournful paintings of miserable and waif-like children, a few of them with tears rolling down their cheeks. Maybe because they couldn't stand the sight of our drab and ugly blue uniforms with our oiled and tightly braided hair topped off with blue ribbons. Every once in a while we would see a ragtag group of children march through the grounds, with dreadful haircuts, skinny frames and huge hungry eyes and too-long patched hand-me-down uniforms, orphans whom the convent 'sponsored' in their infinite magnanimity.
The Dickensian ambience of the school was further enhanced by the Fagin-like characters that populated it. Once a fellow student had a fainting fit after she was made to stand out in the heat due to heaven recalls what minor transgression. The teachers splattered a few measured drops of water on her face and watched her until her eyelids finally fluttered open. She was just blinking as various wimples and canes and rulers swam blurrily into focus when the principal admonished her severely, "We spent 10 paise on a call to your parents to come and get you. Please ask your parents to refund that money tomorrow." The poor sick child sank bank onto the cold floor in a coma.
There was also something distinctly Hogwartsish about the school. Nuns in white habits floated by and legends abounded about the wiccan activities that took place in the convent in the dead of night. Stories were told of potions being brewed and cackles heard long after lights out by the resident boarders, those doomed souls left by their parents to survive in the dubious environs of the convent. The sisters held rulers aloft like wands that cracked down on unfortunate palms at regular intervals. They also apparated at the most inopportune moments, especially when school fees were due and disapparated the moment you needed a little extra help.
The bathroom was a separate building altogether, to get to which you had to cross compounds and climb down long flights of stairs. It was a veritable Chamber of Secrets in which all manner of creatures were reported to have been seen, from snakes to rats to a ghost that was believed to float around and moan when too many people visited. We had our own resident basilisks and Moaning Myrtles and never knew it!
The there was a select group of children who went for the same competitive exams, performed the same dances in the same contests and won the same prizes year after year. Any newcomer, however talented, was looked upon in a distinctively Matilda-like fashion. The principal, the one who asked for the ten paise back -come to think of it - bore a striking resemblance to Miss Trunchbull.
My all-abounding nostalgia for the school has never taken me back even once since I left it more than twenty years ago, but I have heard that it is still an institution which one presumes will continue to inspire children's authors to write more grim tales of school for years and years to come.
wonderful...though I dont know Miss Trunchbull :)
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