A Swan Tale

 There are moments when the past is mirrored by the present. And this just had to go into the record for posterity.

Well heeled men, women and nuns milled around the ball room in a testimonial dinner for an alumnus of an old Dominican school. It was even more remarkable as there were blown up pictures in sephia of children in the registration area where most of the attendees gathered around. Pictures of a carefree age, when everyone became young again. It was a reunion of sorts for a grade school class from long ago.

Pleasantries and business cards were exchanged by virtual strangers who were once associated at one moment in time. We had no idea how those class pictures were resurrected from the archives, but there they were. Toothy grins with gaps, naughty smiles, collars awry from the horseplay, stern looking nuns and teachers. Some of them were present, albeit old and grey. Two of them came in wheel chairs, and sadly, some had already passed away.

There was a power point presentation of the old school activities, speeches from the organizers, and a lot of moist eyes as the past came alive in testimonials and well composed presentations. There was a lot of ohhs and ahs from the audience as they looked around for the owner of the picture as their mischievous smiles and candid poses flashed on the screen. An elegant looking lady, seated with the old nun caught my attention. She was crying and laughing throughout the presentation.

She was the alumnus for whom the testimonial dinner was tendered. She was introduced as the true daughter of our alma mater. Now wealthy and successful in her own right as a professional, she was cited as the school’s symbol of achievement. She came home from the US for this event. Into the stage swept a strikingly attractive woman. She looked vaguely familiar, but few remembered. But she certainly had the undivided attention of the men who were curious about what she had to say.

She said she was the daughter of that crazy beggar in our little town who lived under the bridge. When her mother died of illness, she was taken in by the nuns in an act of mercy and made to attend our classes. Her picture as a kid in our school flashed steadily on the screen while she was talking. A dark complexioned child with rumpled hair in a shabby, hand me down uniform and over sized shoes.

In a clipped and twangy tone, she expressed her gratitude to her benefactors, to whom she attributed her life and success. She recounted her hardships as she slaved for her education. How she thrived on donations and hand me downs for her books and clothing. And how she managed through sheer will and determination to finish a degree in engineering.

She recounted that point in time when the picture was taken. She was an orphan, brought to a Catholic school to attend classes with the children of  families that were considered relatively better off than the general population. She was relentlessly teased to the point of tears, ridiculed because of her lowly station, pushed on the stairs during recess, punched just for the heck of it, and a hairy caterpillar dropped inside her blouse as a prank. The men squirmed in their seats. We were the villains of that era.

She made sure to mention that those were just fond memories of a time in her life which she treasured. Then it struck us, that this was the same teary eyed woman who openly wept when our pictures were shown on the screen. It was a great speech, well received, and applauded specially for the inspirational and emotional content.

We made our way to the stage after her speech to shake her hands. Dang! She was beautiful. A fellow alumnus quipped that had he known she would turn out to be that way, he would have nagged his mom day and night to adopt her. But there we were, shaking her hands, ruing our reprehensible childhood behavior. But it was specially touching when the boys who were alluded to as the villains of her life came up to apologize. I told her I was the kid who dropped that hairy caterpillar in her blouse. The rest admitted to their respective underhanded tricks and asked for her forgiveness. She simply said, “I know. It was a beautiful memory.” And she called us by name, one by one, and hugged us. That was a teary moment when grown men cried. We all looked like we were blinded by the sun with hang dog expressions of shame and remorse. We were children then, and for a fleeting moment, were so once more.