I went to a school with one of my friends a few days back. Her child was to participate in a concert. The weather was beautiful and little patches of dark clouds forewarned of a wet afternoon. Entering the school gates, I just went back in time.

Finger paintings thumb tagged in multi-colours, cotton wool stuck with glue and glitter in animal shapes, small coloured furniture, notice boards etc. I was almost jittery at the sight of these. Even though it was just a primary school, I could see my own school. Austere, red brick building standing on a cobblestone drive way that arched through lush gardens with fountains and statues of baby Jesus and the Holy Virgin. Yup, I was schooled in a Convent.

Although my pre-school days were spent in a colourful but cosy little Montessori, that still exists in my hometown as one of the best, and the subsequent four in a hard core British school, nothing could prepare me for the Convent years.

I first became aware of religion when I switched to the Convent. I still remember it was quite an accident, my admission. My mother got to know about the test through a relative and I just had to give it a shot. There was no lobbying, no office to office shuttling and no time for preparation. On the ‘D’ day, I was the first one to come out of the examination hall and my mother knowing what a careless freak I was had little hope of my passing the test.

There was a tremor in my little world, I had spent some solid years in my school and could not understand what the fuss was about this Convent thing. ‘But, I don’t want to change schools’, is what I remember telling my mother when I got the ‘good news’. My mother was more than happy; her awkward little daughter would be part of one of the oldest and prestigious institutions in the country. One entry meant generations entering those gates.


Praying in the assembly hall with our hands clasped together, passing through doors with crucifixes over them and putting money in a poor box were new things for me. During Catechism and Religious Studies half of our class filed out whilst we had to dig deep in our red bags for our scarves for the Islamiat class. Singing became part of our education and was put to use during Milads or Christmas plays.

My nine year old brain was wrought with curiosity, as the hymns floated out of the chapel housed in the very heart of the Kindergarten section of the school. Even though I was part of the Junior Section of the school, during the lunch breaks I would walk up to the side of the chapel that jutted in the open field at the rear of the school building. The nunnery was a no-entry zone next to the chapel.

A unique custom about our school was letting the birthday girl wear her choice of clothes instead of the uniform and to go around distributing sweets to class teachers in short literally being allowed to ‘bunk’ her classes. She could take one of her friends along this delightful spree, walking through the corridors laughing or perched on the one of the counters in the canteen slurping ice lollies. This was quite a thing. Nuns roamed the stone corridors like ghosts and if any student got caught they were punished with a pink card. Three pinks ones meant a yellow card and three of those meant leaving the school. Quite a tiresome string of cards one would think but in reality during my school years I hardly ever came across anyone getting more than two pink cards. It was a not the card but the whispers behind the back, the shunning and the shame that was associated with the words: ‘Pink Card’ that made this punishment so notorious. It was the fear of being singled out. The nuns ruled with an iron hand. You just could not trespass the rules of shame. Although I was told that in the past students were punished by crackling slaps, I know of only one such incident.

So, when my first birthday came, I excitedly skipped from class to class and spent the whole day eating sweets, chocolates and sitting at the canteen. It was curiosity that propelled me through the corridors of the Kindergarten towards the chapel that day. The entrance with its beautiful arched wooden doors and gleaming golden door knobs beckoned me. I was overwhelmed by the silence, the clinical cleanliness and the mystery around it. There was very small passage that branched out of the main corridor and led to the doors of the chapel. This had pillars on either sides and on the very last pillar was a glass notice box.

I remember my eyes turning to the glass box. It was a mere instant. My heart sank. There before me were some pictures of the crucifixion like I had never seen before. There was blood and nails. The next thing I remember is running. It was May, but the corridors were dark and cold that day. Sadness, fear, confusion, shock; there was a tumult of emotions.

Life passed on. Now when I look back, I feel amazed how a child could react like that to some pictures. Was it the graphic element of torture in those pictures or simply that I was shocked to know that my Hazrat Isa, (Jesus as we know in Islam, peace be upon him) could have a different story with a different ending in another way of thought?

I did normalise. Studied, bunked classes, gave exams and made lots of friends. I look back and do have a love-hate relationship with my school; hated studying, loved doing everything else. It was tough taming down. Although I never became a promising one, when I finished school, I did realize one thing that my education gave me the gift of tolerance of other faiths and also reverence for my own faith.