The rediscovery of purpose

 The rediscovery of purpose

A petite stone gargoyle stared right at me, as I walked out of chemistry class. In my zeal to mix solutions in beakers together, I had forgotten that I was studying in an institution with Gothic-style architecture. Kirkdale High was a boarding school in England’s scenic lake district. And although we were of Indian origin, my parents had no idea of returning to India. Investing their hopes in the country’s best high school, they sent me here. In an England where books were unanimously banned due to reasons of political nature and all preexisting prints were either shred or locked beyond reach, high schools and universities are the last bastion of academics. 

But daily life at Kirkale was far from such intellectual pursuit - it was all about maximizing one’s candidature for the country’s best universities. From polo and hockey to Latin courses and drama club - everything that meant something in high society was on offer. In addition to contending this challenging itinerary, students also had to navigate through complex interpersonal relationships and the rather gloomy weather - a suitable accompaniment to the architecture. Although I had spent only a week at Kirkdale, I was already full of the place. The walls of the stone, although massive were lacking in depth – a poetic depth. The loss of a higher purpose – one of divinity, was very much felt further I had not made any friends. 

Musing along these lines, I walked back from the school to the dormitory, where I stumbled upon a bearded man dressed in plaintive black. Strangely, our eyes met each other almost in brotherhood - a brotherhood of search for purpose – as we greeted each other. Slowly did he speak, using rather cryptic language, to me and as he did, he mused about a time when students at Kirkadale were apprentice scholars of the highest order. A time when no tome was beyond the reach of examination. A time when there was a huge library behind the garden. Consoling him from my heart’s deepest corners, I enquired about the library of yore. No trace is to be found he cried, but the solemn staircase leading to a stone door.

At that moment, my mind wandered to the mystic door and what secrets it held. Where would such a door lead? And what did it hold betwixt stone, from the world? And while the old man ruminated about the past, my mind led only to the future. The man noticing the wanderings of my mind, took leave of conversation signing off with a characteristic laugh. Reciprocating his gesture, I trailed along the edges of the garden for a staircase. Touched by the odour of fresh Earth and graced by the squirrels and butterflies, the garden was a sight of a true beauty, one that resonated deep within. Indeed, one realizes why the Greek poets sang about the visceral nature of the forest. Yet in that Sylvan paradise, my eyes would not cease, till it found an engraved stone staircase in the corner. Brushing aside overgrown vegetation with my foot, I beheld the door. Evidently, no one comes here. My heart skipped a beat when it encountered a Latin engraving reading – ‘Oh Lord of Hearts! It was for you that you made us, and it is hence natural that we are restless till we seek refuge in you’. I was quite amused at the irony that these profound words were addressed to the one who rules our hearts, in the context of a library. Evidently, the Lord rules both our minds and our hearts without discrimination. 

In this reverie, I pushed open the door, to sight a long corridor. Lighting a scone with my pocket lighter, I beheld a sight of the rarest caliber. Books of all shapes and sizes, neatly stacked in cupboards of brown mahogany. For someone who has only seen books through screens, this was an incredible fine – an untouched repository of books. Flipping through the first book I could find, I noticed it was written by one, ‘Julius Caesar’, detailing his experiences in the Gallic Wars. Passage after passage, Caesar, poured out his emotions with the aid of complex grammatical devices. Though the complexity of his work was overwhelming, I still felt a spark, an outburst of satisfaction. The call of time awakening me, I returned to my dormitory in muffled footsteps, taking care to leave everything as it was – an almost religious undertaking.

The following day, we had a discussion on Roman History and I realized Caesar was a Mighty General of the Roman Armies. However, my prior reading of his works gave me a special touch – it was almost as if I was learning about an old friend. It was then that I wondered, why politics must interfere with the life of students and ban all that is cherishable. The same evening, I walked towards the library - this time with more conviction. There was no sight of the man, I had seen the previous day, but the staircase was as I left it. This time I chose to read about the animals of Britain. Birds and Animals are certainly more awe-inspiring when understood in proper context. And so, over the next few months, the library became my close companion. At times, I would find myself in class wanting to go to the library in search of material. And on other instances, I would feel the need to take a course based on what I have read. Even the dreaded polo sessions became interesting after my tryst with the history of sport. 

Over time, I learned that the founders of my institution were free-spirited, ambitious men and women, who wanted to create a unique space for academic discussion. Over time, the place had reoriented itself to become a college feeder school - for all things decay. The ban on books accelerated this decay. At any rate, I was happy to be the realization of the founder’s principles. Years later, when I graduated from university, books were back in print; seemingly, the effect of politics is temporal. I went on to become one of England’s first batch of philologists, after a many decade-long hiatus. And at moments, the question that had followed me throughout my life burns ever strong – who was that man who had led me to the library? Perhaps, he was a figment of my imagination or perhaps he was Lady Athena herself, the spirit truest, calling out against the breath of oppression – the rebirth of knowledge.