The British School, New Delhi

"The finest British and International education, but with an Indian soul." 

Right opposite from us was the American International School (now the American Embassy School). The whole place was sealed off from the Indian environment. Inside the students lived in that artificial smug of Americana. Even the light was imported. It was nothing like the friendly International School in Dar-es Salaam. 

I imagine the architect of one of these enclosures coming to the buildings of the American International  School in New Delhi and sniffing at them like a chef:

"To much curry. Get rid of it. More mustard and ketchup aerosol spray, please. More basketball rubber. I want to hear the click of air hockey pucks, the squeak of sneakers on pine. More light-blue denim. Where are the jocks and the cheerleaders? Do we have enough of them. Yes? You, what are you doing here?  He looks a bit scrawny. A little too Indian. This ain't India, man. Kick the fucker out....now."

That was my impression of it, anyway, in 1975. The British School was not air-conditioned. In the heat everyone was constantly drinking water from the water fountain. We played basketball at mid day while the twins and their friends concentrated on football. I remember a little group of us screaming ourselves dizzy when the Twins' team played the American school and won. There was little or no discipline, though Mrs Bose, Mrs Simms and the rest did their best. That made it a pleasant place to study in. It was full of friendly berating aunts who we could easily ignore.

Like the students in the American School, we too were insulated from the poverty and suffering in India, the suffering our parents were witnessing, but we weren't living in a monoculture like the young Americans and their assimilated friends. There was nothing very British about the British school. It was full of the children of Asian, African, Latin American and East European diplomats; and the children of Anglo-Indians and Anglophiles: Sikh generals, businessmen and members of the intelligentsia. The children of journalists and NGO workers. We were a rich blend, indeed!

As dawn broke, the school bus collected us from our homes. It seated 40 or so. The bus drove past markets, monuments and hotels. It went past grey muddy fields and through slums on the outskirts, where families were living out in the open. After going down a broad avenue or two we would pull up at the single story complex of low, flat-roofed buildings. By the time we got there the sun would be bright and hot.

But it was only after Sheeshek's, Christopher Labis's, bravura greeting that I fully woke up. He would grin and give me a crushing hug, or smash my shoulder with his fist. It hurt, but that didn't matter. It was his way of saying:

"Wake up, let's make this a great day!" 

When he came home Sheeshek's large dog, muscled and slavering, ran towards Sheeshek. She leaped up at his chest with her claws out. Sheeshek then slammed her in the jaw and with the impact she spun round 360 degrees. She panted, and then came back for more.

"Stupid dog." Sheeshek shouted in happy greeting.

His father had just taken him out of the American School so Sunil still had an American accent. Perhaps that's why I thought he was full of shit at first. English Literature class with Mrs Mitra was usually a pain in the bum because he wouldn't shut up.

But sharing a scooter taxi home I found I could talk to him easily. He absorbed everything quickly and was attractively self-possessed. He discovered our record collection. We clicked for a while and so became close friends. He became a dear family friend. The twins got on well with him too.
 
Sunil took me down to meet his father in the basement of the Maharani Bagh house. The room was covered in white marble. In the middle was an small empty marble swimming pool which had never been filled. All around the room were shelves of books. Unfortunately the staircase didn't reach the floor.

"My father made a small miscalculation in the plans." said Sunil.

We hopped off the edge of the staircase onto the floor to where Mr Khilnani was hovering, organising his papers.

 His parents were much older than mine. His older sisters were all in their twenties. Sunil's father was such an energetic man. In contrast his mother was quiet. She doted on Sunil, worried about him a lot.

At lunch Sunil's father lectured me on vegetarianism.

"Don't make your body the graveyard of animals, he said. Eat lots of beetroot."

The twins had their own set of friends at school. Sometimes our friends overlapped. Anandi Sharon, Natasha Pejic and Habbie Shwarz started out as their friends and then gravitated towards us.

In many ways the twins were were more adventurous than I was. Fabian Msimang, the son of the ANC representative Aggie Msimang, showed them round. Fabian took the twins to street markets and on public transport while I just stayed at home or floated between freinds' houses. The twins had long hair burned straw blond by the sun and on buses Indian men would pinch them. Fabian was a guarantee that their virtue would stay intact. You wouldn't want to mess with Fabian, even at 14.

Other people I remember:

Chang Park was only 15, but his dad allowed him to drive the embassy car. It was big as a hearse. He drove a little too fast and to close to the traffic in front, skimming pedestrians, scooter taxis and cyclists. When Chang turned the wheel the blue bonnet seemed to slip sideways.

Nick Kimalel had beautiful manners. He was so civilised and refined. He longed to be able to express himself freely. He was an elegant cool thinker, but shy.

Stuart I already knew from St Mary's School in Kenya. Very competitive, tall with a big afro. He showed us how he ate raw onions which, he said, made him strong.

Then there was Etienne Lilly, who was French. He was into football and consequently loved Platini. There was Jayant Banarji, Nelly, Mondira, Ravindra,  and Etienne mentioned a few names recntly that ring bells: Pili Mendoza, Sarah Coles, Mahmud Ghazi, Samira, Natalie and others. All of these guys should look us up on Facebook.



In the afternoon, if we were lucky, Mom and Dad would pick us up. The rest of the students went off in Ambassador cars or chauffered limousines,but our parents pulled up in a bright blue open jeep. Not very swish, but very dashing.

I looked at the website of the British School. I quite like its slogan:


"The finest British and International Education, but with an Indian soul"

I don't quite understand the modern school motto. Who thought it up? "Let the panther roar" What does that really mean? Presumably the panther will roar if you let it, roar but it should also roar, according to the original school motto on the school shield: "with consideration for others" and while it's roaring it should be "flying with its own wings", "in the spirit of friendship" and "in the light of knowledge.".

Why not? "Anything's possible."

And perhaps the British School should adopt this motto. Going on what has happened to all of us since the mid seventies, I think it's probably the best one.