Now, after half a century, of course, in pensive mood, I am trying to recollect the moments which seem to be ideological and quite remote from daily life. I can’t resist the temptation of going back to that class room in my village school where I spent fifteen years of my childhood. I miss the aura, the fragrance, and the silence that prevailed in the village in the days when economic boom had not even passed by those villages which could boast of pure rustic life surrounded by greenery and jovial and innocently ignorant faces.

I had heard that our old government school has not changed over the years and everything is as it is as I had left about fifty years ago. My grandchildren, born and brought up in a metropolitan city, will never know that how much that village belonged to us in those days when population was not a burden and almost everyone knew everyone in the village. Today, even the neighbours in these big cities don’t know about their next door neighbours.

I quickly pack my bag and, without informing either my sons or daughters-in-law, three of them, take the very first bus to my village. It is not necessary to describe the journey because there is nothing romantic to be described, for the romance has been killed by the pace of the modern world which runs over everything that is soothing and comforting to the eyes. I try to recognize the landmarks but I fail, because big buildings on the way present the façade and, perhaps, my places of delight of my childhood have their graves somewhere under or behind those buildings.

After about six hours I reach the village. This is not my village, this can’t be my village, and this must be a mistake. I look around and try to find a clue, a hint, a nudge, a shout, a call, at least one face that could provide me some sort of consolation. It means what I had heard about the village was not right, for the evidences before my eyes refuted all that they had told me about my village. I was in a dilemma whether to look for my old school or go back to the city.

Finally, I decided to ask someone about the old village temple. I was informed that I had to take a bus or an auto-rickshaw to go there. It meant the bus station where I was standing was not in the village. Had my village grown in area? Of course, it had, for I did not see any huts and fields, only shops, roads, and modern buildings. The name was the same ‘Rampur Gaon-village’ but I was unable to find my village there. My village had been engulfed by the modernity and construction boom. I hired a rickshaw and ordered him to take me to the Shiva temple. After about twenty minutes, I was standing outside a huge temple, where queues of the devotees were waiting for their turns to seek the audience of the Lord.

Where was my old temple? Where was the old well near the temple? Where was the big mango tree? Where was that tea shop? What had happened to the only flower seller? Instead, I found multitude of shops stocked with modern fashionable items, shops of florists and garland sellers. On either side of the road, leading to the modern temple, there were many modern restaurants and a few hotels. The road was crowded with cars, motorcycles, and taxis.

I was a stranger in my own village. When I was fifteen, my father had sold our old house in the village and decided to settle down in a city. We had no ancestral land. I left the idea of entering the temple and decided to look for my old house. To my dismay, I did not find even a trace of my old house because a residential colony had been established. I went from house to house for hours, trying to find some clue to the house where I had spent fifteen years of my childhood but I failed.

Finally, I began to ask the way to the government school. On the way, I saw many public schools and Educational Institution, and Computer Training Centers but I did not find the only small book shop which used to cater to the demands of the village students about fifty years ago. I was feeling uncomfortable because I did not fit anywhere in that plan. That village which was so much my own, which I could lay my claim on, which gave completeness to my childhood, which lured me from all directions with old beautiful landmarks, was missing. I was a complete stranger.

When I reached in front of the school, I found that the building had been renovated but the school had not changed much. Poor children still studied there and, perhaps, that was the only reason they had not thought of spending much on that old school, after all it was a government school, no different from any other government school in any of the Asian countries where administrators do help themselves with the fat grants they receive in the name of educating underprivileged children, forgetting that they are swallowing the future of thousands of poor talented boys and girls.

I enter the main gate and begin to walk towards the office of the principal. I introduce myself and inform him that I was a student there about fifty years ago. He begins to show much enthusiasm and orders a cup of tea for me. I am glad that there is at least one person who understands the feelings of others. He takes me on a tour of the school, going from class to class. The children leave their seats in my honour and greet me.

The principal asks about my profession and he shows more vigour when I inform him that I have a business of cosmetics and garments in the city. He begins to use respectful salutations and asks whether I would like to have lunch with him.

I am satisfied, to some extent, but my joy turns into disappointment when, at the time of my departure, he mutters, “Sir, if you could extend some financial help to the school, it would be a really kind gesture?”

I know that my help is never going to reach the children because the principal has already spent some money on tea and lunch. I pull my wallet out and leave one thousand rupees on the table of the principal.

“Thank you, Sir, thank you very much…”

I don’t look back and begin to walk, very well realizing that the modern principals have also learnt the art of recognizing the power of money.

I am unwanted there, my village is lost, and with heavy feet I begin to walk in the direction of the bus station.