From the gleam of the Principal’s white Fiat to the taste of a two-rupee samosa: A personal journey back to Greenland High School and the gentle, unhurried rhythm of 1980s Srinagar
By Syed Majid Gilani
To understand what we have lost, we must sometimes travel back. Not just across the years, but into a different world entirely—a world where life was unhurried, hearts were permeable, and schools did more than just teach; they shaped the very architecture of our souls. My own journey into this vanished world began at the Caset Experimental School in Rainawari, an institution founded by the respected C. L. Vishen Sahib. But it was a few years later, upon moving to Greenland High School in Hawal, that the true texture of my childhood was formed. From Class 1 to Class 10, that building was far more than a structure of brick and mortar. It was a second home, a sanctuary of curiosity and care where friendships were forged in the crucible of innocence—friendships that refuse to fade from memory, even as the city around us has changed beyond recognition.
Those were the gentler days of the eighties and early nineties. The Srinagar of that era moved at a pace that seems almost foreign now. It was a time when the clock did not dictate life; life flowed around the clock. People had time—for work, yes, but also for the intricate tapestry of relationships, hobbies, and family. Evenings were not lost to screens but were reclaimed by the sounds of laughter, the murmur of parents talking over salt tea, and the scratching of pencils as children finished homework on the floor nearby.
The infrastructure of our education was humble. We had no smartboards, no mobile apps, and certainly no air-conditioned classrooms. We sat on plain wooden planks. When we were thirsty, water came straight from the tap, cool and unfiltered. Our school bags were light, unburdened by the heavy, glossy textbooks of today. Yet, in that simplicity, we possessed something far greater: discipline, respect, humility, and truthfulness. School was not a factory for marks or a coliseum for competition; it was a garden where we learned to live with honesty and grace. We carried no hand sanitizers or designer lunch boxes. A handkerchief, a battered pencil box, and a heart full of excitement were all the inventory we needed to stay healthy, happy, and content.
The soul of Greenland High lay in its teachers, and I remember them with a gratitude that has only deepened with age. Siraj Sir, Farooq Sir, and Mukhtar Sir transformed the rigid logic of mathematics into something accessible and interesting. Narinder Sir greeted our mornings with an infectious energy that woke us up better than any bell. In the sciences and languages, Rita Bakaya Ma’am and Rita Chakoo Ma’am taught with a warmth that made difficult concepts feel like stories. Looking back, what stands out most is the seamless unity of that staff room. Our teachers came from all communities—Muslims, Kashmiri Pandits, and Sikhs. We celebrated Eid, Milad, Nauroz, Shivratri, and Baisakhi not as separate events for separate people, but as a collective joy. There were no walls between us, only shared smiles and prayers. It wasn’t religion that united us; it was our culture, our language, and a shared humanity. That was the true spirit of Srinagar—a city that embraced every heart.
Discipline in those days flowed from a reservoir of love, not fear. A light scolding or a gentle tap on the knuckles was never an act of humiliation; it was a correction, accepted with grace. Parents trusted teachers implicitly, creating a triangular bond of respect that made every child feel safe. Presiding over this ecosystem was our principal, the late Mohammad Ashraf Jan Sahib. The founder and guiding force of the school, he would arrive every morning in a gleaming white Fiat. He was a figure of calm wisdom and dignity. His very presence commanded a quiet respect; even the most raucous, mischievous students would fall into a reverent silence the moment that white car pulled up.
But a school is also built by those who work in the background. We cherished our non-teaching staff—Maqbool Seab Jr., Halima Ji, Kanta Ji, and Kiran Ji. They were the school’s soul, always ready with a smile. I vividly recall the 52-seater school bus that picked us up from Botshah Colony under the shade of a wide Chinar tree. The driver, Maqbool Seab Sr., a kind, chubby man, kept us disciplined with gentle humour. In those days, few children took the bus, and I remember feeling a quiet sense of gratitude that my late father had enrolled me for it. Later, the school opened a small canteen run by Maqbool Seab Jr., and it was there that I learned the economics of pure joy. A cup of tea and a crispy samosa cost just two rupees.
Every morning, my father would hand me a crisp two-rupee note. That was my allowance. It was enough for a tea and samosa, or perhaps an ice cream or a spicy masala roti from the vendors outside the gate. Outside, orange ice creams sold for fifty paisa, khoya bars for one rupee, and the coveted big Pista bar—our rare, luxury treat—for two rupees. The warm masala roti, fragrant and stinging with spice, was the collective favourite on cold winter afternoons. That single two-rupee note carried a weight far beyond its monetary value. It represented my father’s trust and his way of teaching me contentment. It was enough. We didn’t ask for more.
Then came the difficult days. I was in Class 7 when the unrest began to grip the valley. The rhythm of our lives fractured. The school bus stopped running. We began walking long distances or squeezing into overcrowded TATA buses, waiting endlessly at stops. Strikes and curfews became part of the routine. Yet, miraculously, our school never stopped. Our dreams were not permitted to pause. Even in those uncertain times, the evenings in Srinagar retained a stubborn beauty—the aroma of fresh tchuchwer and kulchas, children playing cricket in narrow lanes, and radios playing soft melodies through open windows.
I no longer wear that uniform—grey pants, crisp white shirt, green sweater, white socks, and polished black shoes. I no longer carry a tiffin box. But deep inside, I am still that boy with the two-rupee note in his pocket and a heart overflowing with gratitude. Today, when I see students arguing with teachers or parents interfering aggressively in classrooms, I feel a soft ache. Something tender has faded from our society—the humility and patience that once defined us. But it is not gone forever. We can bring it back by remembering. In our race to move ahead, we must not leave behind the quiet values that guided us. Whenever I close my eyes and return to those days—to the white Fiat, the Chinar tree, and the shared festivals—I find the peace that the modern world seems to have misplaced.
The views expressed in this article are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the opinions or views of this newspaper. The author can be reached at [email protected].
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