“Are you a new student?” he asked.
“Yes,” I replied.
“Which section?”
“I don’t know.”
“What’s your name?”
“Yogesh. And what’s your name?”
“Vinci Raj. N.C. Vinci Raj.”
“Can you repeat the name once again?”
“Vinci Raj. N.C. Vinci Raj.”
I had a hard time getting the name. For a moment I thought it was Linci Raj. But one of the other boys called him as, “Vinci.” So, it’s Vinci Rraj. Very different name compared to the Raja, Ram, Ramesh, etc. that were very common in those days.
This was my interaction on the first day at my new school standing in the assembly area in June 1994. My family had recently relocated back to Chennai. And I had joined Boston Matriculation School in Nandanam, Chennai or Madras as it was called then.
The ground where we had assembled was rectangular in shape with two buildings on either side (I would get to know in a few minutes that the one on the left is primary block and the one on the right is secondary block). The ground was covered in sand, resembled a football field but neither had the length or breadth to be a proper football field.
One the far side, there was a room (P T Room) and there was a shed for school bus adjoining the room. Beyond them there was garden spanning the entire breadth covering the ground and both the buildings. The grass in the garden was patchy, almost like hair on a bald guy’s head. But there were a number of coconut trees and a few neem trees providing ample shade. On the far side of the garden, there was a huge compound wall protecting the ground and the school from the Adyar River.
Smack in the middle of the ground floor of the secondary block I was able to see a mike. A bunch of students with a Shruthi box and a couple of teachers had gathered around the mike. The entire school assembled in the ground standing as per classes facing the mike.
“Is he a new student?” one of the boys asked Vinci Raj pointing to me.
“Yes. His name is Yogesh,” He replied.
The voice of the PT master started the prayer session in earnest. In this school they didn’t call it prayer session, it was called Bhajan session. After a few announcements, the P T master handed over the mike to the principal. After a few instructions, the principal handed over the mike to students standing with the Shruthi box.
They started singing and everyone started singing along with them. Probably, I was the only one who was not singing. The Bhajans were sung in three languages – Tamil, Sanskrit and English. The English songs were sung by an Anglo-Indian teacher. I would take me a few weeks to learn those songs.
Post the assembly, the students had to go to their classes. It was the first day of school. But the students were walking towards their classes with the same enthusiasm of Goat that were being taken on a Bakrid procession. It took forever for the turn of 9th standard students to march towards our classrooms.
We marched or rather strolled to reach the 2nd floor. I was surprised when all of us were made to sit outside our classrooms. Mrs. Chithra, one of the senior-most teachers was in charge of allocating sections. When it was my turn, she asked for my admission card.
“What’s your second language?” she asked as she was looking at my admission card.
‘Tamil Miss,” I replied.
She turned to the teacher standing next to her and said, “Let’s put him in 9B. There are already too many students in 9A.” The teacher noted down my name on the students list that she was holding. Within a few minutes the students allocation process was over. There were a couple of others who joined the school that year like me.
Once the process was over, the teachers asked us to go to our respective classes. Without much commotion the students were entering the classrooms. I was the last to enter. I looked around as I entered the room.
In a room full of strangers, I could recognize one person. Vinci Raj, N.C. Vinci Raj.
Note: True to the name that he shares with Leonardo Da Vinci, Vinci Raj went on to embrace his artistic side. He is creative director, has made a number of short films and has even given a TEDx talk. He has won a number of awards for his creations. You can check his portfolio here.
This is the fourth post in the series, ‘From Chennai to Madras Down the Memory Lane’
1st post in the series: A Friend’s House
2nd post in the series: Sharing Slivers of Joy
3rd post in the series: The Audience Laughed when Jacked Died of Hypothermia
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