Things come back from where they begin, they say. So do we, I guess.

Last week, I had more than a few moments of nostalgia when I went back to the school from where I did my initial years of schooling. It's in Hyderabad. Having gone there for office work, I scampered to take out time and find the building that, once upon a time, seemed so massive when I looked at it from a height of three feet something. Having not returned to Hyderabad since 1985 - that's 24 years, such a long, long time – I was childishly enthusiastic about meeting people, reliving memories of those early childhood years when things were in many ways simpler and also in some ways very complex. Of course we find newer and newer ways to make things complex as we go along, but that's for another day...

When the cab driver finally found his way to the lane that led to the school gates, I asked him to stop as soon as he turned into the lane. "Lekin abhi aage hai, saab," he informed in a half-exasperated tone. But I got down there nevertheless. You never know how many things you get to relive in a lifetime. I wanted to walk down the distance I used to from the school bus, to relive that small trek that was part of my life for some six-odd years, at that stage of life when one isn't 'smart' yet – or at least I wasn't. I often get the feeling that I still am not. Today, kids in primary school are on the whole far, far smarter than I was in high school. What the heck, most people around me are about five times smarter than I am. So be it.

Anyway, to come back to the original story. I walked in, gingerly introduced myself at the reception office, explained that I wanted to find out if the teachers I remembered were still there, and if possible, to meet them. I then paced around for half an hour while the peon lazily contemplated whether or not letting me in while classes were on would invite the Rector's wrath. Finally, after I told him I'd come all the way from Delhi and had a flight to catch which I would miss if he took another half hour to make up his mind, he relented.

I shot past the gate and scurried to the library, the staff rooms, the playground, generally made a nuisance of myself, attracting disapproving glances from school staff who clearly didn't seem to appreciate my meanderings in school hours. Having soaked in the feel, having stared long and hard at the classrooms (this was Class II A, yeah, and wasn't this my section in class III, where's the class VI classroom gone, it used to be here?! etc etc), I was suddenly struck with an overpowering sense of the passage of time. It seemed like yesterday. And it was almost TWENTY FIVE years ago. That's a lot of time. That's a lot of my total probable lifespan. One didn't notice childhood disappear. When you look back at it, how critical those marksheets were then, how important those appreciative remarks from teachers were. Maybe they weren't life changing moments, but one trusted them more easily. You never look for a motive behind praise at that stage of life, do you, you're just happy to hear it. That changes. A lot changes.

Having made my contact with the rooms and the corridors, I now looked for people.
Where's Elfrida ma'm? She's settled abroad. Where's Rani ma'm? She's also settled abroad. Where's Mrs Collins? Retired, settled outside. Where's Choubey sir? He was killed in a road accident last year. Oh. Sorry. Genuinely sorry. I really wanted to meet him… Where's Brother Dominic? He passed away. Oh… Oh. Isn't there anyone who taught me, who would recognise the name – one small name from among the thousands who passed out in all these years? Isn't there anyone who is there from that time? Is Dhruvkumar sir around? But no, why am I asking, he must have retired now, of course? No? He's reemployed after retirement? Is he around? He's there? In the staff room?

And so I finally met a face I recognised, a face that could put a school kid's face to my name, who remembered a letter I had written to my teacher long, long back, after going off to J&K from Hyderabad. I chatted with him for half an hour. It brought some sense of reassurance. The fact that he was the only person in that large complex to identify me as someone who belonged there in some way also brought a sense of one's complete dispensability. Things that seem so big for us move on and we are not even fleeting memories there, save a flicker of recognition. People who may seem big for us sometimes do the same. Move on, sans any recognition. Such is life. There is no point fighting with the places or the things or the people. The world goes on without us, just as well, maybe better.
But the experience brought back the intensity and the directness of all of childhood's emotions. Over a year back, when I was conducting an interview of Aamir Khan after TZP, he made the point that as grown ups, we tend to all the time see children in a 'soft focus', a slightly fuzzy picture. We never treat the sentiments of kids as that of real people. I think I make that mistake as well, most grown ups do - assuming that we take our chronology as proof of our being 'grown up'.

But the sentiments of childhood are very real. They are among the few things that stay on, that do not fade with cynicism. We need to take a little time to connect to those feelings, those uncomplicated basics, the sense of trust, the joy and the heartbreak. For me, all of it was genuine.

Even if nobody recognises me, I will go there to relive it again.