Life is like a long, seemingly infinite corridor, engineered by a decided destiny and to be journeyed through by you. Along its crazy course, it opens into many, many doors, each a definite choice, leading you into a story of its own. But whichever door you enter, whichever story you read, you always find your way back into that corridor of Reality – the corridor of Life.
Coursing through the galactic corridor of Life are thousands of smaller, more menial corridors – corridors of the days in our lives. Some silent, some in chaos, some with a light at the end, some with a dead end. But each of these corridors die away with the night and we enter a new one the next dawn.
Branching further out, straying a step away from philosophy, are ‘real’, more materialistic corridors – the ones of mortar and brick, which we actually walk upon.
My school, whose first stone had been laid way back in 1872, resembled a typical old English building with high ceilings and arched entrances. A tenth of our lives having been spent there, the second deepest memory after the classroom, were the corridors.
The corridors were an escape from the monotony of the classroom, and right from Class I to my last year, I always hopped at the first chance to be out on the corridors. What happened on one of the many corridors on one single day was event enough to last a year, but something happened on the corridors everyday…and thus, it will stay for a life-time. As we walked up to our classrooms through the corridors, the walls and windows heard hundreds of stories shared – live-streamed, hundreds of dreams dreamt; manic laughter and shrieks that penetrated into the very corners. The sound of a teacher coming down the corridor could be received by radio sensors implanted in our ears, unless we had something really important to scream about, in which case it required Chandrika Miss’ anklets to quieten us down. Recess was chaos – unfiltered madness and nothing else. From running wildly to banging, bumping, dropping our lunches – the corridors have seen the hard life. Little pieces of gossip, teary-eyed conversations, filth-mouthed cursing and plain bitching around, a large piece of school life was lived in the corridors itself.
The bell rings. And Hell breaks loose on the corridors. People run – from whom, to where, and WHY: no one knows. But we run. And moments later, harmony is restored in the world.
Being out on the corridors during class time is a sinful privilege – sometime granted to us, some taken for granted. As the years rolled by, more time was spent roaming on the corridor than in the class, inside which our minds roamed anyway.
Below is one such corridor of my school – the widest one, opening into the science laboratories and the big old school Hall on one side, into a still more beautiful, sun-lit world on the other side. From being dressed up as fairies to sheep, in rigid uniforms and in flowing costumes, everyone has fancy-walked down this corridor at least once in their lives.
I, personally, have breathed in the presence of this corridor before the strongest winning moments of my school-life on the stage of the Hall inside. But it is over now. From walking into this magnificent building a silver decade ago to walking away from it on the last day of school, this corridor has been a welcome light and also, a friend bidding farewell.
None of these corridors are permanent. Our journey through them is but only a moment-long in the infinity of Life. When time’s up, we are pulled out of it and placed in a new corridor. But walking down the corridor of Life, we pick little bits from the smaller fragments of our lives spent on these corridors and put them away as good memories, to be cherished when we aren’t on the same corridor anymore. To be lived in a few more times till The End.