St Francis College: My School Days in Lucknow

A video of St. Francis College, in Lucknow, where I studied for 10 years
Video copyright: St. Francis College

In an earlier post, I had shared some of my earliest memories of Lucknow, my hometown. In a follow-up to that, here are some memories of my school days - of the time I spent in Mount Carmel and then in St. Francis College.

When I was born, in 1973, my parents used to live with my grandfather in his very large, old house in the quiet residential locality of Mahanagar. There were no apartment complexes back then – Mahanagar was lined with stately old homes, most of them having been built in the early-1950s. My father’s younger brother also used to live in the same house. However, by the time my sister and I were born, each family had started feeling the need for more space, and my parents moved out. A Punjabi family, whose house was a 5-6 minute walk from my grandfather’s house, were looking to rent out their first floor, which comprised a living room, one bedroom, one bathroom, a balcony at the front, a large open courtyard and an open backyard. My father spoke to the owner – a kindly old gentleman, Mr Batra – who agreed to give the place to us at a monthly rent of Rs 350. This was towards the end of 1976. No rent agreement was signed, no police verification – just a verbal agreement between my father and Mr Batra, and we moved in. My father used to work with the ICI Group in those days, and his office was also just a 5-minute walk from Mr Batra’s house. I was around four years old when we moved to the new house and it was time for me to start going to school. The nearest good school was Mount Carmel, which was also quite close by. My parents secured an admission for me in Mount Carmel (which is still very much around, though it’s now an all-girls institution) and I did two years of kindergarten there. I don’t really remember much of those two years but I do remember that my mother used to walk me to school every day, in the morning, and was there at the school gates again in the afternoon, when she would walk me back to home. I remember waiting for my mother in eager anticipation in the afternoon, after the school bell had rung, indicating that all our classes were done and school was done for the day. On rainy days, my mother and I would walk together under one umbrella but it was never a problem since the distance from school to house was less than 1km. From what little I remember, most parents used to come to pick up their children either on foot, or on a rickshaw or perhaps on a scooter. The lines of cars one sees parked outside schools today were non-existent then.

After completing kindergarten from Mount Carmel, it was time for me to move to another school. For my father, education was extremely important and he wanted me to study in the best school – or at least one of the best schools – in Lucknow. St. Francis College, situated in Hazratganj, was widely considered to be one of the top two or three schools in the city and even back then, in the 1970s, getting an admission there was incredibly tough. One had to queue up from very early in the morning just to get an admission form. Once that was filled out and submitted, the school authorities called would-be students for a written test, after which both students and their parents were called for an interview. All this for getting admission in the 1^st standard. Thankfully, we cleared the admission process and I got into St. Francis College (SFC), starting there in 1978.

When I joined SFC, the venerable old institution had already completed around 90 years. The school, which was boys-only, was administered by The Catholic Diocese of Lucknow and was a strict, old-world Catholic institution with cane-wielding headmasters and a stern-looking Principal who always wore the Catholic priest’s white habit. As was the norm in those days, most teachers (though there were some notable exceptions) kept some distance between themselves and their students, and the latter weren’t encouraged to behave in an overly familiar manner with the teachers. Things have changed now – today, when I see my 16-year-old son interact with his teachers, things seem much more casual, more friendly, more informal. In SFC, back in the 1970s, there was a much more formal atmosphere. Students had to be in full school uniform always, black leather shoes buffed to a shine, properly knotted neckties, clean white shirts and hair always cut short. We were expected to only speak English in school at all times, except of course during Hindi class.

Today, when students don’t complete their homework or don’t pay attention in class, teachers write a note to their parents. In SFC, during my time, few bothered with such niceties. ‘Justice’ was served instantly – palms were whacked with wooden rulers, slaps to the face were sometimes administered and for more serious misdemeanours, some teachers used a cane to get their message across. I’m not advocating such punishment at all and truly believe that, in this regard at least, things have changed for the better. Teachers should not have the right to beat children up, but those were different times and that’s just how it was.

In the 1^st standard, my class teacher was a Ms Kurien, a dark, tiny lady who was quite resolute in her ways. I was a bit of a crybaby and would have tears streaming down my cheeks at the slightest admonishment. In those days, my father used to drop me to school on his scooter in the morning, and then again come to school in the afternoon to pick me up. Once in a rare while, he’d get a bit late when coming to pick me up and I’d stary bawling. Ms Kurien would then, very patiently, try to calm me down and reassure me that my father would be there soon. Another boy in my class, Abhijeet, was also a bit of a crybaby and Ms Kurien used to call the two of us ‘Booba’ and ‘Booby.’ Abhijeet and I became friends, and thankfully, our nicknames never caught on with the rest of the class. Also, after a year or two, my father stopped coming to school to drop me off, and I started going to school by rickshaw and then, after a few years, started riding my bicycle to school.

I loved riding bicycles and my father got me a shiny-new, bright blue ‘Buke’ (the brand seems to have disappeared now) bicycle when I was in class 8 or 9. It was a simple machine, unlike many modern bikes of today, which are equipped with gears, suspension and disc brakes etc. But I loved it all the same and took very good care of it. Even on days when it was raining hard, I simply used to wear my Duckback raincoat and still ride my bike to school. One a few, rare occasions, I used to hitch a ride with Major Kaul (Retd.), who used to drive his son to St Francis in his Ambassador car. At that time, we used to live in Usman Enclave, an army housing colony in Aliganj, where my father had taken up a house on rent. Major Kaul, whose house was a quick two-minute walk from ours, was a remarkable man. In the India-Pakistan war of 1965, he had lost one eye, half of his right arm and all the fingers on his left hand. And yet, he continued to drive his car – he drove his Ambassador all over the city and was a skilled, confident driver. On the road, anyone who got in the way of his car was subjected to a lusty ‘Aay bhootni ke…!’ shouted out of the car’s window. After that, people got out of his way pretty quickly.    

One of my most favourite teachers in SFC was Ms Crasto, my class teacher in the 2^nd standard. A tall, fair lady, Ms Crasto was very soft-spoken, kind and gracious. Her gentle manner made her quite popular among students. I don’t really remember too much from my first few years in SFC; I was a bit of a loner, had only a very few friends and mostly kept to myself. I guess I was a bit of a dreamer and remained lost in an imaginary world of my own making – a world that stemmed from the reading of hundreds of comics and children’s books. While I did not play a lot of sports, I loved to read and my parents encouraged the habit – they bought whatever books and comics I asked for, and I would often sit in my room for hours on end and just read, read and read. My parents always did try to make me go outside and play sports – cricket, football, badminton etc. – with the other kids, but all I wanted to do was read.

In school, too, the class I looked forward to most was library period; those 40-45 minutes spent amidst the school’s massive collection of books were, for me, pure bliss. Ms Bhardwaj, the head librarian at St. Francis, came to work on a tiny little Luna moped that was entirely incongruous with her persona. She was a large, formidable lady with a loud, booming voice, which she wasn’t afraid to use. Anyone found mishandling books was severely reprimanded, as were those who had the temerity to actually talk or laugh in the library (“SILENCE!”), failed to return books on time or returned books with pages torn or with ink spilled on the cover. The lady, I believe, was secretly peeved with the fact that most boys simply did not want to spend 40 minutes in the quiet, dark, cavernous library, which she ruled with an iron fist. Except for me and maybe for two or three others who really enjoyed reading books, library period was an utter waste of time for most boys, as they saw it. Most would have much rather spent that time out in the football field or the volleyball court or playing cricket.

For me, the school library was a magic portal to another world, one that was populated with elves and witches and magicians. Swashbuckling heroes who were fearless and whose lives were filled with amazing adventures. Tales of inveterate travellers who went across the world in ships, boats, airplanes and cars. I loved browsing our library’s endless shelves of books and just couldn’t get enough of being there. Each student was only allowed to get one book issued every week, and I used to get around that by getting one or two of my friends to have books issued on my behalf. For this favour, I’d sometimes buy for them a bun-samosa or a bun-kebab, which I think used to cost 50 paisa or Re 1 in those days. And with that, I’d get to read two or even three books every week, which for me was pure heaven. Time spent in that library, I’d like to believe, set the tone for a lifetime of books, reading and eventually a career in journalism, and I’m quite grateful for that.   

My other favourite, apart from library period, was English class. The English teacher was an old, Raj-era Englishman, Mr Robinson, who would have been in his late-20s or early-30s when India became independent in 1947 and the British finally left for good. For reasons unknown, Mr Robinson chose to stay on in hot, dusty India while most of his compatriots left for the cooler climes of England. He seemed to be quite happy with his lot in Lucknow, though he wasn’t too impressed with the English spoken/written by us natives, dismissively referring to it as ‘Babu English.’ ‘All rot!’ he used to bellow, upon seeing the dismal efforts of his pupils when asked to write an essay, a precis or some such. Sometimes, when I think of my school days, I can still see Mr Robinson scowling as he thunders ‘all rot! All rot!’ Sometimes, albeit not too often, this was also followed by a caning for pupils whose stars weren’t in perfect alignment on that particular day. I was, for the most part, spared his ire, since my efforts were perhaps marginally better than those of my classmates.

After Mr Robinson passed away, may God bless his soul, we got a new English teach, a Ms Sen, whom I found very attractive. I don’t know what was it about her – maybe it was the way she spoke, or perhaps the way she looked at us after reading out a paragraph from one of Shakespeare’s plays, or the way she used to dress in one of her impeccable sarees. Whatever it was, I quite liked being in her class and always did my best to impress her with my work. Our English assignments were the only thing I worked really hard at, partly because I enjoyed studying English and partly because I wanted Ms Sen to like my work. And indeed, she did like my work and sometimes praised me in her soft, gentle manner, which used to make me very happy. Sometimes, she even had me read out my essays in class, asking the other students to pay attention and learn from the way I used to write. Of course, this was quite embarrassing and after she left class, my classmates used to tease me and indulge in a bit of good-natured leg pulling. Ms Sen also used to encourage me to participate in the debates that the school sometimes organized, but the very thought of speaking in public – addressing an audience – scared me witless, and I always refused – something that she was quite disappointed with. Eventually, Ms Sen got married and left SFC, and I was quite heartbroken. Before leaving, she did personally introduce me to her successor, Ms Nishi, put in a good word for me and asked the new English teacher to look out for me. However, from what little I remember of her, Ms Nishi was loud, aggressive and a bit mean. I didn’t like her one bit and I’m sure she did not think much of me either. English class was never the same again. Which was unfortunate for me, because apart from English and the library period, I did not find anything particularly interesting in school. I liked studying history to some extent and read extensively about the Mughal period and the Nawabs of Lucknow, but wasn’t much good at anything else. Math, physics, chemistry, biology, geography? No, no and… no.

Ms Khan, the chemistry teacher, had a particularly low opinion of me. Mr Bhargava, who taught physics, understood I simply wasn’t interested and gave up on me. The math teacher must have thought I was a complete moron. And if that weren’t enough already, I was also equally useless at sports. Our two PT instructors had, at the very outset, understood that sports and physical activities weren’t really my thing. Given that I was mildly overweight and wore thick spectacles, coming to that conclusion couldn’t have been too hard, so when I performed poorly, they kept quiet and never really said much. I often sat on the sidelines and watched when most of my classmates were out on the field, playing whatever it was they were playing. Sometimes, I felt bad and wished I could have been better at sports. But then I picked up another book and was transported into a different world, where everything was magical and everything was alright with me.

The years went by quickly and soon, I had finished my ICSE, 10^th standard. My marks in class 10 were quite poor even by the standards of the 1980s. These days, every other student seems to be getting above 95%. That definitely was not the case back then, but one was expected to score at least 80% or above for the marks to be considered respectable. My score was, let’s just say, terrible. Very poor. The question now was, what should I do next – what subjects should I choose for classes 11 and 12? Science was definitely out of the question – I was a dud at physics, chemistry, biology and math. I liked English and history, and might have enjoyed studying psychology, but the widely-held belief in those days was that ‘boys don’t study arts.’ Choosing arts was only for girls, everybody said and instead of thinking for myself, I just went along with what some of my friends had chosen – commerce. This was a relatively new and uncommon field of study (at least in Lucknow, in the 1980s) and would, I was told, open great avenues for me in banking and insurance and other finance-related careers. If I had stopped to think for a minute – if I had sat back, taken stock of things and thought about what I really wanted to do with my life – I would have chosen to study arts. But I did none of that and decided to study commerce instead, because some friends had decided to do that and because everybody said I should.

St. Francis, in those days (I cleared my class 10 exams in 1988), only offered science and arts; the school did not have commerce as an option. And hence I decided to move on from SFC and go to Lucknow Christian Inter College, where my father had also studied for two years in the early-1960s. If you look up the two places on a map, SFC and Christian College are only 3km away from each other. In the real world, in how the two institutions work, in the culture and in the general atmosphere, the two may as well be in different countries. In Christian College, I would discover a new life, one that SFC had shielded me from in the ten years I’d spent there.

The story continues here