I heard somewhere that the reason we love to meet our childhood friends is because they remind us of who we were when we were children. Kinnaird has the same effect on me. A trip to Lahore is incomplete without a slow and deliberate drive past that building, I hardly spent two years in. As I linger a little longer than needed at the traffic signal opposite the narnia from my past, I am reminded of a time, and a ‘me’ to re-align the axis and orbit of all my constellations.
How a light-hearted dalliance turned into a life-long love affair, I will never know. For some time, I thought it was the fact that coming from a co-education school, being one of the only three girls in my class, I was starved for female bonding. But I now know that is not the case. It was something far deeper…
Today, eighteen years later, my memories of Kinnaird are as vivid as they are fond. The dark brick buildings scattered behind the tall green gates, softened in character by the splash of carefree colours all over, sometimes autographed by the place’s more unhinged dwellers with tiny white signatures – referred to in good spirit as ‘Kinnaird’s souvenirs’. The endless corridors with countless notice-boards, making sure you really got to pick your poison…
An outsider would almost immediately place the population in three distinct categories: the temporary dwellers such as myself; the kachi kinnairdi’s, who didn’t have the benefit of the extended Kinnaird experience; and the pakki kinnairdi’s who had the previlege of living at the hostel in the college and would have fascinating stories of midnight pool parties and broken curfews to share…
That there was no ‘uniform’ was a concession constantly challenged by certain ‘others’, and apparently the district administration. To the temporary dwellers amongst us, absence of a uniform meant shorter bed-to-desk time, what with the tuitions and the academies and the science labs. But we were the odd lot. There would be visits by officials to make sure the girls were not going over-board. The college intelligence, as unclaimed as the modern day ISI, would almost always ring the proverbial bell, so the girls could unite in silent defense against an unsuspecting enemy with text book white crisp shalwars and duppattas and coloured shirts on the day of such inspection. And so, the tradition lived on …
There were two canteens: the traditional, bench-and-stone, and the ‘mobile’. The latter, true to its name, would often leave before you found it. The former was one of the busiest and loudest places on the campus, the girls and cats in equal proportions. There was a certain ‘Chaudhry Sahab” who acted true to his title for most part, and a certain canteen boy who we knew what you wanted before you knew it yourself. On rare occasions, I heard the girls would break into food-fights and water-fights, and the cats would have a field day. Such incidents would normally result in a mild slap on the wrist before the next ‘tutorial session’.
Tutorials were a class of their own. Distinguished speakers would be invited to speak on a variety of subjects, and the funniest of things would happen. I believe in hindsight, it was just as learning an experience for the speakers as for the audience…
Once, there was a speaker on HIV awareness. She delivered her lecture and opened the floor for questions. The silence was so complete you could hear your heart beat. Then she realized the error of her ways and distributed small white chits for the girls to write their questions on. If she was looking for response, she certainly got a tsunami.
She answered patiently, something to do with bucket loads of saliva that my memory is conveniently vague about, and referred back to that response some forty odd times.
At another time, there was a maulvi sahib at the altar. He delivered a lecture on Islam and on being a maulvi and was literally butchered for a comment he made about female stereotypes. He was tactful enough to pacify his sprightly audience with lighter humour, generously reciprocated, though I often wonder how the experience changed him as a person.
The college had its signature magazine, but it was the student newsletter titled “The Itch!” where the real stories made home. The library was rich, but it ‘itched’ that the cupboards would be locked.
Elections were serious business. A promise to hold mixed events was sure to win a vote. Girls would come up with pneumonics to help remember their name. “Remember PT, I like sports, my initials are TP”, and so forth. Short, straight, hard to miss. However, unlike the real world, here the contestants would be held to their word, the consequences of a broken promise being the loss of popularity, at that time, worse than death.
But perhaps the most revered event of the year would be the annual debate competition, housed in the campus, a mixed event, with debaters from other colleges including Aitchisons, Government College and Lahore College competing. You had to look your best that day. If you had been good to your elders, you could even be in the organizing committee and get to ‘escort’ the debaters around the campus. Small mercies.
The KC spirit was shy and reclusive, but it would make its appearance in the most touching of ways. My memory of the encounter is when after an event with guests speakers, the equipment playing the national anthem broke, and the girls took over with hardly a second’s adjustment. Very hollywood, I would agree, but being witness to a couple of such incidents, I would vouch for the KC spirit any way asked.
The fondest of memories would of course have names and become part of my life for the rest of my days. Whether it is a coffee-shop in London, an Afghani restaurant in Boston, or a chance encounter in the cyber-space, meeting a KC’ite from a lifetime ago is like an emotional botox. It purges and cleanses with a medicinal exactness.
Light, courage, love – and bucket-loads of memories! It is good to have a place you can never be too old for in life…
