In the last few days I’ve had quite a few conversations about school with my ex-classmate-turned-friend Al.
While I thought school was all about carebears and My First Pony, my friend seems to have experienced a taste of gangsterland (Al-speak for disapproving of something with a vengeance). As we exchange stories, now, I wonder if we did indeed attend the same school.
It’s not that I loved school. It’s just that my expectations were fairly low.
And coincidently, we both happened to think the other was a ditz! I never knew he had an opinion on politics, listened to jazz, knew where Timbuktu was located and was so bright. He never quite got to know the real me because apparently I was an aspiring most-popular-girl’s minion. This perception startled me for about 30 seconds. But yes, I supposed I did play the role of the best friend rather than the main lead in my own life.
Over the years I am so glad we kept in touch. By a cat’s whisker, we may never have. Just the other day, he pulled out an old letter penned by me to him way back in 1996. I was in Goa and hating it; I was rather vocal about these sentiments. It got me all nostalgic.
Somehow those school days now seem like a bit of a blur, and he seems to remember with great clarity all the subtle nuances I missed. Who was mean. Who was depraved. Who was stupid. Who was fake. Who was genuine. Who was a real friend. Now, that I think about it carefully, most people at school seemed like clones of each other. Sigh. But from that experience I came away with one or two friends for life. A genuine friend is worth 10 years of blur. And carebears.
