It was the grand hall and poetry recitation competition was on. I was called upon when it was the Red House turn. Standing in front of the full school strength, I had to recite the fast-paced poem that I practiced for the past three days. I had never been good at learning by heart, but I did this time, for the sake of our Red house, we needed those points. I did all the warm-ups, I thought I couldn’t go wrong.

Kooti kosam, kooli kosam… pattanam lo… I started, and I stopped. I tried again. I stopped. The silence in between was scary! The tension was in the air, very much palpable, I could feel the heat through my ears, and my teachers could sense it. One of my teachers suggested if I wanted to face the wall and continue. I tried, and I gave up. It was a fast-paced poem, Baatasaari, by Mahakavi Sri Sri. It was a hit-or-a-miss; if it worked, it would get me the top prize, otherwise it would sink me. There was no middle-ground with this selection. This time though, it was a miss.

For those of us who lived in boarding schools, we looked for inspiration all around. And we gobbled it up when we saw it. Our Telugu master had great oratory skills. He would go on to the stage like a kid would jump onto a trampoline. We knew something special was coming as he approached the dais. The entire school listened to him in rapt attention. Sometimes he started his speeches with a song.

Oneday, when asked about how he would manage that, he revealed. He said something very simple and valuable. Oka rendu nimshalu, ikkada unnavaalla andarikanna neeku yekkuva telusu anuko. (For a couple of mins, fake your mind that you know more than everyone else around here). That was his mantra. So, he would fake his mind and then focus on the items that he should talk about, he could care less if there were 5 listeners or 500 in front of him. And once he got through the initial phase, there was no stopping him.

An year later, I was supposed to recite a Hindi poem in our daily assembly. I tried to adopt his mantra and it seemed to work like a charm. I took the entire assembly by surprise, with “Arey Kadam Mila ke Chal… “. Our Principal invited me for a repeat performance the same day in the evening.

Growing up in a boarding school is like growing up in a large family. One of my teachers asked me to stop by at her place on my birthday. Eeroju neeku drishti teeyali ra, chakkaga unnav! She would perform a small ritual to ward off evils. Who would do that in a boarding school, you might think! Well, its all in the family.

We had our pet inhibitions that we shared deeply with our fellow mates. In our sixth grade, we thought that our school barber could eat us alive if he wanted. We would clutch our hands with our mates as we headed to the barber room. He was a dangerous looking person with a short and a bulky stature, big red eyes, curly long hair that were never done, and carried a shrill voice. He would go out of the room momentarily, spit his gutka (chewable tobacco) and ask, book la peru rasinra? (Have you made your entry in the book?), and we all nodded like bobble-heads under an electric shock.

The students shared a special camaraderie with teachers and staff. Each one had their go-to people, whether it was a teacher, the school watchman, or someone else from the non-teaching staff. We would get updates from all over the world although it was a world without cell phones, or messaging apps. If you grew up in a boarding school, there is a good chance you are constantly looking for connections, inspiration and love all around. You know deep down, that you cannot take anything for granted. The best part, of course, is that it was always available for the taking, if you chose to! It was a large family as well as a miniature of the real world. As with everything else in life, you could make or break, what you want out of the experience.