Denial, and Other Things.

This, is not a tribute. 

Because I don’t think she’s gone. 

I met her, like thousands of others, at the age of four. I don’t remember it. Maa tells me that she scolded them (my parents) when they tried to prompt me upon being asked what my name is. I don’t remember. She said, if she can’t tell us her name, or can’t understand the language, it's our job to teach her, that’s what schools are for. I think that’s when they knew they were in for a ride. And what a ride it was. 

I don’t know if it still works that way, but in my time (gosh I feel old) getting into Loreto Day School Sealdah (LDSS) was via a lottery. You had to be lucky to study in that school. The fated parents had to interview, not the child. One of the questions went like this - are you onboard with your daughter taking part in volunteering for the marginalised? If not, this is not your place. Like I said, you had to be lucky to be a student of LDSS, to be a student of her’s, and her community of teachers. They did not come with a price tag. Education, for her, and her LDSS did not come with a price tag. 

My sister was admitted into the same school on a day she came to pick me up with my father. Because, wouldn’t it be easier for you if both your daughters were in the same school? She asked my father, who ran into her by coincidence. And that was that. 

While I grew up, I noticed her being that large, authoritative woman who wore the same white dress, blue, flowy headgear, and army boots everyday like a uniform and rode a scooter, causing a traffic jam for five minutes every morning in the busiest intersection of Sealdah. I got caught in that traffic jam quite often, because either my carpool or my father were invariably running late. She commanded respect. So much so that the citing of her scooter made the traffic stop. I have never heard people raising a hue and cry over it, even though they did grumble. People always, always made way for her. Because they knew she would never stop. Her time was important. At that age, I did not know why. 

My first close encounter with her was when an older schoolmate bullied me to such an extent that I got a fever. I was six. I saw her explain how it felt to be bullied by someone bigger, larger, stronger to the other girl in a way that was very her. Quintessential. From then onwards I think, I started noticing her more. When she entered the school, the crowd would divide into two. One lot would run away from her, scampering in fear. One lot would run to her to wish her ‘good morning’. She would wish everyone back, a hand on each one’s head. The ones who got wished back had a smile on their faces that I cannot define. I was an observer. I never ran, neither to, nor away. 

The next encounter that I remember was when I was eight. We were participating in a huge event in the Salt Lake Stadium. We were to perform a drill and she was the drillmaster. Standing in the heat in the middle of the stadium every day till we got it perfected. She was strict. But she was there. Every single day. 

But when I was thirteen, was when I really started to realise what this woman was made of. My father used to joke that she was his friend. I used to think that either he was bluffing, or he was really brave. Because most people I spoke to were scared of her. Intimidated by her presence. And what a presence that was. People were scared of her confidence. Wary of her self-assuredness. Because a woman, though foreign, cannot be such. A woman like that, doesn’t follow the norms. 

Yes, age of thirteen. My father passed on. That event put a huge question mark on our education, both us sisters. I don’t know if that thought crossed my mother’s head while she bid goodbye to her partner that night, not knowing how life would be henceforth. With what my mother was earning at that point, affording an English Medium school for both of us would have been a distant dream. But like I said, she never put a price tag on education. It was she who asked to meet my mother (who thought this would be a conversation about fees, and it was, but at the same time, it wasn't!). It was she who proactively took over the conversation, beginning with, till your daughters graduate high school, they’re our responsibility. Books, fees, uniforms, food, anything you need, is on us. We will ensure that they complete their education here. And that was that. I never paid the full fees till I was in school. Not that we could afford it. Even through the massive fee hike that rocked the Kolkata education scene during the late nineties, my fees were what my mother could afford to pay, and when she could afford to pay them, in a lump sum, or six months late, that never mattered. 

At fourteen, I started to get to know her. Really know her. Up, close, and personal. If I say that she made me who I am, I would not be doing justice to who she is to me. From the unpopular decision she took to back me up when I had a handful of people in my corner, to continuing to build my confidence while I remained a self-doubting, self-hating creature, to pushing my boundaries with every single time she showed her faith in me, she raised me in a way that only she could. She was the one that pushed me in front when I thought I only deserved to hide in the back. She was my friend. I could talk to her without the baggage of her position colouring the conversation. When she’d dictate the routine of the day to me every morning, I was always amazed at her speed of calculation. When she would push me into public speaking with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes, knowing well that I HATED it and was scared to death (still am), I was not impressed (but immensely thankful much later in life). When she would ask me sometimes, why are the little ones so scared of me? What have I done to them? Am I really that scary? I was witness to a rare show of vulnerability. When she’d laugh at her own (un-funny) jokes, I would shake my head at them. And when I would act like a brat and get away with it because, yes I know she was partial to me, I loved it. She was the only place where I could do that, at that time. 

She gave me a vision. A real-time lesson in how to lead life. For someone who only had a single parent slogging away all through the day, just so we could survive, she was the parent that focused on the life lessons. Without invitation she assumed that role. Without pushing, she took up my responsibility. Without asking, she taught me to live. From her, I learnt to be humble - she scolded me once in front of about 50 children because I could not get them to keep quiet. Then came right back to apologise in front of all them to say that she should not have done that publicly, and that she expected them to give me the respect that they give her. She taught me to own up - she would never punish anyone who owned up to their mistakes, being ready to accept our faults and potential punishment meant that you were ready to change for the better, she said. She taught me to lead - be it a huge congregation of Loreto Sisters or an Iranian contingent eager to know about our school and the way it worked, she never hesitated to push the students forward to talk about our work. Same with the awards. She would always have us accept awards for all of her initiatives in the fields of peer to peer education, or inclusive education. They are the ones that do all the work, she would say. 

I have often wondered if she was a superhero with supernatural powers, staying in school till way past midnight, and coming back again around 7.50 am the next day. She was never on holiday. Even when she went for her breaks, she would know exactly how her school was running. I have watched a vehicle run over her foot, breaking a toe, with her going, it's nothing. Just pains a little. It will get better soon, with a shrug of her shoulders. I have seen her faint from exhaustion and indigestion, only to recover and say, carry on, and stop staring, it’s not like I am dead! I have seen her start to forget things here and there, but never about her students. She knew each one’s story. She knew each face. She knew who we were. 

I met her last in 2014, a day before my birthday. I haven’t met her since. But not a day goes by without her featuring in it. Be it a decision I need to make, a mistake I’m wondering I should own up to, or anything good I do. Even today, a big reason why I continue to write is because she believed I was good. I have never told her how important she is to me, always wanting to prove it with how I live my life. I don’t know if she knows. It never occurred to me that I should tell her, because I always have believed that by her superpowers, she can see everything anyway. I haven’t seen her since that day. So many times I have planned it, and backed out of it. Selfishly. Her white habit (yes, now I know its called that), her navy blue veil, her army boots, her whistle (that always got lost in her huge pockets), her scooter, her straight back, her absolute abhorrence of showing any vulnerability (not really a good thing to do)... made her, her. I, (not a good thing to do either) did not want it to change. 

“Sister is no more”

Read the text on my phone on Saturday.

I think it took me quite a while after that to realise that huh, Sister Cyril was human after all. Not a superhero with supernatural powers, just another human being. I… did not want to write. But the words kept piling up to the point where it became difficult not to put this down. As an adult, I have looked back to school life with wonder and awe. To everything Sister taught us everyday. There are thousands of memories. Some that I share with all my schoolmates. Some, only mine, that I selfishly hold on to. But each one equally special. 

For every single initiative that she undertook for the marginalised, and made us a part of it, I am thankful. For every single time she put us on centrestage to gather accolades for her brainchildren, I am proud I was there. For every single lesson she taught us about inclusivity, justice, sharing, generosity, and the power of love, I have been enriched. For all the blessings she kept showering, I am lucky. For all the times later in life, I went to wish her good morning, realising why people smiled that way when she put her hand on their head, I can still feel that vibration. 

But I am also special, because she made me feel so. Out of the thousands of students who were under her tutelage, out of the thousands of girls like me who wouldn’t be where they are in life if it weren’t for her, out of the thousands of children that were lucky to breathe the same air as her, I am special. I will always carry that belief with me. 

She has left me a legacy that I carry with myself ever since the day I walked out of LDSS as a student at 17. A legacy that is quintessentially, Sister Cyril. She did that through the myriad interactions we had over the years… especially the last four of my school life… 

When I held back some students for not wearing the right uniform or the right coloured sweater and she asked me, frustrated, what is more important, that they’re covered, or that they’re covered in the right colour?

When she took away all our badges not because we cheated, but because we did not stop others from cheating.

When my Higher Secondary result was held back because I had not paid the full fees, and she countered the person responsible, did I instruct you to hold her result back? Give her what’s hers. 

When I had the courage to bullshit my way through quite a few situations, and she looked at me with the same mischievous twinkle in her eyes, playing along with my drama, but making it well known that she was, in fact, just playing along. 

When she and I had these silent conversations, where I was never confident of myself, and she always believed in me.

When the two of us spoke with Dr. Kalam together, each forgetting to take his autograph, or capture this memory in some way, and later laughed at each other for being so stupidly oblivious.

When she cried as she handed over the Loreto Medal to me, as though there weren’t so many Loreto Girls before me, she made me feel that I am worth it. She always made me feel that I am worth it. 

For me, who constantly struggles with self image, self destructive, self loathing issues, she focused on my healing long before I even realised that I have a problem. 

While the world bids her farewell, I, obstinately, refuse to do so. Those who love us, never really leave us. When I read that text, I did not want to write. I did not want to find a picture of hers and post it. I did not feel like believing it. So I didn’t. My reaction was no. Because how can Sister Cyril be no more? It's a myth right? I went to look up at the sky, because you lose a parent, you gain a star, or that’s what they say. It was cloudy. And then it rained all night to clear up the sky and show me a single twinkling star the next night. 

And it took me about that long to come to terms with the fact that, yes, Sister Cyril, at the end of the day, was only human. A human though, who did extraordinary things, creating miracles out of the mundane, touching millions of lives, just because she wanted to create a better world. Just because she felt it was right. Just because she believed that she could bring change. And that makes all the difference. It gives me hope that being human is not a bad thing, if only you are as powered by love, kindness, and a sense of justice, as she was, as she is. 

Sister Cyril can never be past tense. Just like she can be second to none. She is one of a kind. A once-in-a-lifetime. But Sister Cyril is also so many. Because, now, she really lives through us… me. Every lucky person that was fortunate to be associated with LDSS during her time. And every single person who believes they have what it takes to love her.

So this, is not a goodbye. 

It's the random rambling of a mind that is overworked, overwhelmed, and overanxious trying to imagine a world without her. So I won’t even try.