_{Campion School is quite close to where I now live; sometimes, as I pass by that square white structure opposite the Cooperage, vague memories stir in my mind. When I went to the school it was something like 45 years ago and it can only be expected that these memories should e vague. Nevertheless, that I should remember anything at all about the institution seems to me remarkable: I do not know whether I should attribute this to the quality of my memory or the quality of the school. I do not recollect the names of any of my teachers except a Miss Dulcie Mchugh and this is only because she had red hair and was very pretty. Even at the age of seven I appreciated pretty women. By today’s standard the teaching methods were slightly primitive. A wayward child was made to kneel in the corner for an hour or rapped over the knuckles with a ruler. This never happened to me I am ashamed to say: I was an appallingly virtuous child though this later changed.}

_{I forget the name of the headmaster then a Spanish priest in a white cassock. At one point however one of my classmates and I developed a mild enmity. It was nothing serious: these brief hostilities are something which happen to all small boys like measles. However I wrote a kind of lampoon on him to the measure of the Scots ballad “Young Lochinvar”. I distributed this around the class who snickered over it in corners. Miss Mchugh observing this confiscated a copy and took it and me to the headmaster who read it. He looked at me thoughtfully. I felt very apprehensive. “You know my child” he presently said “You ought not to malign your classmates like this” He read it once more and showed it to Miss Mchugh. She perused it and giggled. To my amazement the headmaster then told me. “It is very good Do you not think so Miss Mchugh? We should encourage this boy’s literary talent” I suppose one could say that was where my career began.}

_{For shortly after this either Miss Mchugh or the headmaster or both suggested to me that the school should produce a very small magazine written by the students and that I should edit it. My father was at this period a senior editor in “The Times of India” and I knew his procedures fairly well. I had sometimes watched him at work in his office; I had often watched him groan over his labours at home. I knew that I must have an editorial staff and a secretary. There were several other small boys who had an interest in literature; they became my staff, though nobody was anxious to be my secretary. I knew from watching my father what I must now do: I must collect material. My editorial staff scoured the school for this without great immediate success. I thought up another idea and consulted the teachers. At that time I think each class was run by a single teacher who imparted or attempted to impart some degree of knowledge on everything.}

_{So in due course I had a fair selection of essays or even poems which I went through and from which I selected what I thought would fit into the “magazine.” I handed at all over to the headmaster to be printed and asked if I might correct the proofs since it would do my reputation some harm if it appeared full of mistakes. He must have had a sense of humor: he seemed, if I remember correctly both surprised and amused, and agreed. I found that I myself had written about half the contents. Also looking through it before it went to press, I realized that there was very little in it about cricket, the main interest of most of my peers. I also reflected on the fact that the publication might be improved if we had one adult contributor. So I approached the famous sportswriter and commentator AFS Talyarkhan. He agreed; I wrote some paragraphs about cricket in the school. One day the headmaster said the proofs were due to arrive in 12 hours.}

_{So the next day I borrowed a blue pencil from my father (he always wrote in blue or red pencil) and corrected the proofs. Soon after a bundle of copies arrived. My editorial staff and I scrutinized them with pride. I cannot remember what the magazine was called but some hazy recollection of what it looked liked comes back to me over the years. It could hardly have been called a substantial publication and for obvious reasons it carried no advertisements. The cover was pale blue. Inside on the left hand front was Bobby Talyarkhan’s brief introduction. There was no illustration and the typeface didn’t vary in the least from page to page. Nevertheless we were all very proud of it. I think the headmaster showed a considerable amount of imagination in letting us do it. It was a sort of extra curricular activity which was creative and which kept many boys occupied}

_{This is one episode I remember from my days at the school. But I remember another which was by no means as pleasurable. I seem to recollect that opposite the school next to the Cooperage there was a sort of field grassless but with a banyan tree in the middle. At lunchtime servants arrived from houses of various boys with packets of sandwiches and thermoses or with tiffin carriers. The boys would sit among the roots of this banyan tree eating their lunches; an ice-cream seller with a tin box waited patiently for the time when his wares would be required. As soon as we had finished our lunches (and our ice-creams) we would start to play cricket the pitch area being a short distance from the tree. The stumps would be brought by one boy; another would provide a bat and a third would bring the ball. The equipment we played with was reasonable adult. The techniques we employed weren’t on the whole; we weren’t cricket prodigies.}

_{In any event I went in to bat one afternoon a hot sun overhead and dust puffed into my face. The bowler ran up and I swung at the ball with all my strength. What I hadn’t noticed that there was a boy near by his back turned to me. He hadn’t noticed that the action had started. The bat crashed into the back of his head and he dropped like a felled tree. It was fortunate that I have never been muscular or I would probably have killed him. As it was I shall never forget the horrible noise the bat made when it hit his skull. Nor shall I forget how my victim was pulled to his feet; blood trickled from his nostrils. Teachers came rushing out from the school and an ambulance was called. Fortunately he was all right; but as I recollect we were then not allowed to play on the field unless a teacher was with us. The incident filled me with guilt and I still remember that hot day and have not left my guilt behind.}

_{Though Mrs. Dias thinks I was in Campion from 1945 to 1947 I think this incident took place later. In 1945 I think I entered the school; in 1946 my father was posted to Ceylon. When we returned from Colombo in 1948 it was my impression that I went back to Campion for about two years. So this would have taken place around 1949 or 1950 at which time I went off to St. Mary’s. I no longer remember anyone who was with me in Campion, but when I pass that square impressive façade and hear the voices of children in the air I am reminded of my time there. It was then only for small boys; now I understand it goes all the way up the ladder. In that way the school is unfamiliar and 45 years of countries traveled and experiences undergone must clearly erode the memory still further. However there is the building; there is the sun or as it may happen the rain; and there are the boys in their white clothes their blue ties blown in the breeze.}

_{♦   Written by Dom Moraes on the occasion of the Golden Jubilee Of Campion School in 1993. Dom Moraes passed away in June 2004. He was a noted writer columnist and poet. He penned his first poem at the age of 12 and at 19 published his first book of poems A beginning which won the Hawthornden Prize for the best work of the imagination in 1958. He remains the first non English and also the youngest person to win the prize. One of his many books is Mrs. Gandhi a biography of former Prime Minister Indira Gandhi.}