70-Year Young Boy From My School

As I walked through the valley of the shadow of death, but wait.

WTF am I talking?

This is the lyrics of Gangsta’s Paradise not what I wanted to say. This year ending madness is playing tricks on my mind.

Let’s start afresh.


As I walked through the premises of my school, many memories met me. Some have died, some are still young. And believe me, they would say the same for me.



I was scheduled to meet some friends for our 1995 reunion. After meeting, we wanted to visit the cemetery — the place where I smoked my first cigarette in school.

There we met Sunny Gomes who asked us about our visit. We told him that we are from the 1995 batch and meeting after 22 years.

Son, I passed out this school more than double of the number you said—55 years ago. Most of my teachers are buried here in the cemetery and I also know their tombs.

These words are still ringing in my head. It was a powerful dialog by Sunny; calling him this as he resisted calling him uncle.

All the people call him by his name. He feels young this way.


I guess, he was from 1962 batch but still young at heart. He takes care of the cemetery in the daytime. Although we didn’t talk much, the conversation covered a good era of madness; from 1952-1995 — his and our school timeline. The usual topic of changes and generation gap popped out for a while but it was a pleasant conversation with him.

I get charged up after meeting such senior children of heaven who provide joy and inspiration to people like me.


Hope to meet him again, next year at the time of our reunion. And this time I’m going to explore him inside-out.

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