Beauty calls for admiration
Preserve it absent from desperation.
Before the big, bright, blue, yellow multi-storied buildings that identify my school today, Padma Ratna English School had humble structures spreading out the hillock and the green pastures. That is the school I remember. That is the school I studied at. Not the current edifices but the modest classes of the yesteryears are where my memories haunt. Like stumbling upon an unfamiliar, marvelous palace in a dream, the gates of memories enchantingly unveil themselves. Crossing the threshold of our old school gate, the drooping vines and the deep bowers of the thick grove on either side of the path gradually revealed our concealed classes. We would quickly drop our backpacks and join the long, neatly organized rows of morning assembly. The early mountain winds blushed our faces while the aromatic air sweetened by the fruit-laden trees around us enthralled us. The assembly commenced, and all of us, following Oja Randhoni, merrily sang our school song in unison “Bells, Bells, PR School Bells...
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