My favourite place in the world is undoubtedly the little hamlet called Ammasandra. This is the spot on earth where, I grew up thinking fairies walked in the clouds and chocolates grew on trees! This is also the place which hosts a school — the school that opened up my world.

My school recently celebrated fifty years of existence. Hundreds of people from all over the world, thronged to this little hamlet to celebrate its birthday. Songs were sung, awards were handed, speeches were made and most importantly — like in order these days, pictures were posted on Facebook and WhatsApp.

I saw many moments of careless banter and joyous hugs captured and frozen in time. I whisked through these pictures many times — not just to see those faces but also to know where they were taken. The backdrops transported me to a space in time, when I wandered around these very spots running and dreaming without a care. I was again, that little girl with huge pigtails!

Back then, life was simple and unhurried. My day started with the drawing of a huge Rangoli — a colourful motif in front of the house. Loud music in the local language of Kannada played in the radios in the entire neighbourhood. We all hummed as we went about our routine. School was a hop, skip and jump away and we all did just that — hopped, skipped and jumped to get to the place.

Once at school, we all invariably looked out for the one man we loved — the bell man, Nanjappa. Nanjappa was this short guy who would walk diagonally to the other end of the building crossing the playground to go about his ritualistic chore — to ring the bell! The bell itself was a huge iron bar, which dangled along another thin iron rod over a hook. On this hook was the precious little thing that was used to hit the iron block which made the hourly announcement.

End of the day

Nanjappa worked like a precision clock. He went about his duties — a long rhythmic chime at the beginning of the day, an hourly chime to punctuate our sessions of learning and another long ringing of the bell marked the end of the day. This gave Nanjappa, the unique status of our Time-Keeper because, back then, nobody wore a watch to school. All we had was Nanjappa and we relied on him to know — what time of the day it was! If ever we spotted Nanjappa walking across the playground, through the windows of our classrooms, we waited in bated breath — to hear the loud — DING. Sometimes Nanjappa walked for reasons other than what we thought he did and those times, we were clearly disappointed. But at the end of the day, when we heard the long clinking of the bell, we were thrilled.

With no sense of time, our days were unhurried and quiet. With our time in the hands of a scrawny young man, we lived in bliss.

When I turned 14, I got my first wrist watch. It was my prized possession. I wore it with care and my dependence on the clock began to grow. Very soon, I could tell if there were 15 minutes for the rhythmic bell to ring or not. Nanjappa slowly disappeared in the crowd. He was just one of the many guys who walked across the playground and we hardly ever looked towards him in anticipation.

The last I remember seeing this scrawny young man was when I was 15.

Today, 30 years later, in the cozy confines of my living room, I whisk through the many pictures on Facebook. A small corner of one particular picture reminds me of a life when I knew nothing but a ring of a bell to tell me the time. It was quiet, lazy and relaxed. Today, I wake up to an alarm clock and I begin my jog with time. I have multiple alarms set for various things. My phone buzzes, rings and makes varied announcements. We rely on a talking clock to help us through the frenzied mornings and I wear a watch as a fashion accessory. And, in all this madness, a slight glimpse of my school bell intact in its place overwhelms me. I may have outgrown the bell, but the iron rod hangs in there spreading cheer to the children in the little hamlet and I hope Nanjappa lives on to tell a tale to his grandchildren about the man he used to be — the keeper of our time.

Sudha Subramanian is an author and freelance writer based in Dubai.