I have been encountering memories in dreams. Memories that are old, frayed at the edges, with brittle and rusty corners getting powdered into dust upon overuse. They were long wedged between the corners of my subconscious, waiting to relive the freshness with which they were first stored.
Flakes of blue paint are chipped off of desk surfaces. Messages, superhero names, stick drawings and proposals are scrawled on them. An invisible current of tension flows through multiple sweaty faces as a teacher enters the classroom after recess. I am intrigued by a bright green scribble on the white wall as the teacher begins mumbling words that swoop over my head.
The direct glare of sunlight makes me squint my eyes as I run across the field, kicking up dust on the ground. Then my toe collides and trips over an unsuspecting stone or chunk of granite, and a sharp pain sears through a bloodied knee. Hands lift me up and guide me to the medical room, and the thick, pungent smell of disinfectant liquid reeks from me for the rest of the day.
Drops of sweat trickle down my neck as I stand outside my classroom, in punishment for talking too loudly. But in an instant my upset mood melts away as that good-looking boy passes the corridor. I can hear my heart pounding against my chest, as I try to smooth my wavy hair locks and bite my lips into a deep red. My mood sinks again as I could not elicit any glance from the boy.
The sound of cackling, giggling and chattering children down a long corridor is heard as the bell explodes into a loud, screeching sound of freedom. Stairways, playgrounds, and rooftops get crowded with vibrant heads and hungry hearts. Tiffin lids clatter on desks as sweaty hands jostle to grab a sugary bite or two. Each bite is sweet and flavourful, especially if it’s from someone else’s tiffin.
These little, colourful memories are not testimony to nostalgia about school life. It’s just that those small, meaningful things offer a satisfactory thrill and a gladness that joy has existed in my life, albeit in fleeting instances.
Somewhere between the machinery of the outer world and the routine life of school, low-volume whispers and giggles are being exchanged at the prayer assembly, and the grey-haired pot-bellied P.T. teacher is ignoring the sounds with a smile.
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the high altitude wallflower 
Awwwww💖💖💖 just warmed my heart 😭
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