From the memoir: Bookseller Ajay Jain writes about his childhood in Delhi’s St Columba’s School

I enter St Columba’s School

January 6, 1975

I did kindergarten twice. Not because I was dim but because my mother was bright.

My father grew up in rural Punjab and Haryana in northern India. My grandfather was a schoolteacher, and most conversations with the men at home were about grades in school. My father made it to the big city and secured a respectable government job only because he scored well in the classroom. For him, pursuing quality education was nonnegotiable.

He had clarity about the “what” and my mother about the “where.” It would be St Columba’s for her son and the adjoining Convent of Jesus and Mary School for her daughter. Only because her elder sister’s children had studied in these schools too.

There was a hitch, though: Columba’s only admitted those over five, while most others took in a year younger. My mother saw it as only a matter of adjusting the clock by a year; I was sent to Air Force Bal Bharti School at four, and then to Columba’s when I turned five. To repeat the grade.

And thus, thirty-four years after the first set of students entered St Columba’s in 1941, I did too. And found me a chair and table in KG-D.

Brothers waited to receive you at the school gates

Where our parents left off, Brothers took over seamlessly continuing their love and care.

Every day – without fail – the principal and two headmasters would be standing at the three gates of the school, welcoming students with a smile. Each of us wishing them a “Good morning, Brother”, some touching their hand, continuing without breaking stride. So as not be late for assembly or the classroom. And using any spare minutes to go to the bathroom, make small talk or finish any pending homework.

Also greeting the students were the guards, the maintenance staff, the gardeners in their khakis. Smiling, grinning, effortlessly – proof of their fondness for everyone and everything Columba’s. They looked at you as if they knew you by name, but how could they? Or maybe they did – it would be no surprise if they had developed superpowers in this school.

Incidentally, if you reached the gates and did not find a Brother waiting, you knew you were in trouble. Because you were late!

A security guard from an agency checks you in at the gate now. She is ever smiling, no less warm than her khaki-clad predecessors. And yet, you get a sense of her presence being temporary; the agency could send a replacement anytime. But the earlier staff seemed as permanent as pillars holding the buildings up; for students would come and go, but they would always be standing and waiting, to greet you with a smile and a grin.

Anish walks to KG-D

January 6, 1975

Anish Tawakley was admitted to section A, but he just picked up his bag and walked to section D instead. His name would be added to section D’s attendance register. Just like that. He would stay in section D till the tenth grade.

Why did he move? He had spotted Mrs Ruby Aimond, the class teacher of section D, whom he recognised as a friend of his aunt. Drawn to the familiarity of her presence in a strange place, he sought refuge – as only a five-year-old would.

If he had not moved that day, he and I might not have gone on to become best friends.

The trauma of forgetting my handkerchief

February 19, 1975

“I forgot my hanky.”

These were probably the earliest collection of words I remember uttering together when in kindergarten. We lived walking distance from the school and my father would drop me every morning. On that particular day, when we reached the gates of the school, I realised I had forgotten my handkerchief. My father, his frame towering over me, promised to drop it on his way to work. He had a benign look, but his mind must have been saying, “Seriously, is that the only fuss left in this world?”

A few hours passed, and there was no papa with the hanky. I finally went up to Mrs Aimond, our class teacher, to tell her my father had not yet come with my hanky. Was I the first – and perhaps only – child ever to share such a problem with her? She assured me he would come; I just needed to wait patiently. I trusted her words.

I could barely take my eyes off the door, but my father never showed up. It was the most distressing day of my five years of existence. Only I know how I fought my tears back then. I threw a tantrum with my mother at home in the afternoon and whined when my father came back from work in the evening. He felt so sorry; he took out my handkerchief from his pocket. He had taken it but forgot to stop by the school. I wonder if my mother planted it on him, whispering my distressed state in his ear at the door before I met him.

The handkerchief was important to me. Then. And now. I still do not leave home without a clean, ironed one in my pocket. It has been my security blanket all my life, more so because of my OCD about personal hygiene. On occasions – very, very rare indeed – when I do leave home without one, my day feels as disturbed as it did when I forgot to carry my hanky to class KG-D of St Columba’s School.

Touched paper with your foot? Go to hell!

April 17, 1975

“If you touch paper with your foot accidentally, you can ask for forgiveness, and you will be okay. If you do so deliberately, which you did, you will definitely go to hell!”

Prashant Jain and Varun Pawha had me nearly crying with their scaremongering. All because I had pushed a piece of paper on the ground with my shoe. They went on psyching me for the sin I had committed, painting gory scenarios and I believed them. It would take me days to get out of the trauma.

In India, it is considered inauspicious by many to touch any objects of learning and writing by foot. To this day, if I “sin” like this – always inadvertently, never deliberately – I whisper a silent prayer to say sorry. With Prashant and Varun on my mind.

Excerpted with permission from Charlie’s Boys, Ajay Jain, HarperCollins India.