That old house...

Yesterday, I was searching online for some pictures of my favourite place in the whole wide world, my hometown Kochi, when I came across a traveller's blog which had this picture below with the caption: "An old house in Fort Kochi which badly needs renovation."

Well, my memories raced back to the good days of playing football wearing a tie and uniform, yes, my school days. And now I just have to tell the Mr Traveller and his partner that this is not just an old house but this is where my dreams took shape, a place where boys tried their hand at becoming men.

The poem is my attempt to walk back to those days when playing football and running behind "virgins" from the nearby girls' school were our biggest priorities...

That old house...

Yeah it's old, haunted I bet;
but it ain't a fossil, not yet.
It brimmed life once, full of zeal;
young, naughty teenaged brats.
Then the only world I knew or cared,
pals, soccer and the hidden books.

Ninth grade - year of virgin love,
when Slash ruled with strings n Rose.
Here I took my baby steps,
naughty smiles and breaking hearts;
hidden treasures, the thirsty kid;
yeah it's old, but it's my school.

Creaking wood, creepy rooms;
dust storms, that British fan.
Bunked hours, the beach boys;
the stolen rides to Princess Street.
Casanovas - primed hearts, the iron bikes;
and cane candy from Henry dear.

Those windows, well, they lit my life;
yeah it's old, but it's my school.

(On my school, St John de Britto Anglo Indian Boys', and the most charming of its classrooms - the ninth 'C' division, with direct access to the beach, life and more...)