The Origin of the Dead Poets’ Society

I’d forgotten why I started it.

I forgot like you forget an old love staled by time and bitterness. Or like the old photograph of the white bearded Tagore in our old baari, black and white now yellowed and greyed. Like the thousands of “2”s I had scribbled across our old kelvinator fridge with ma’s lipstic when I was taught numbers for the first time.

The 1^st time I watched Dead Poets Society was the day before my class ten board exams. Maths paper. Yes. I had watched it, and I remembered having been awed. I didn’t cry, my nerves already stressed. But I remember thinking I will watch this again.

When I started this blog, I had thought it was a beginning of something. That these, rant... or musings, or whatever, will lead to something. I was regular, and I was enthusiastic. I communicated. I had blogger friends! I read, eagerly, commented, waited for feedback. And I couldn’t name it anything else. It had to be dead poets.

I still hadn’t watched the movie again.

That was 4 years ago.

Then suddenly yesterday I watched Dead Poets Society. For the 2^nd time, yes. And it all came rushing back. When Keating leaves, Todd Anderson (Ethane Hawk) is the first to stand up on the bench, followed by the rest. And I couldn’t help but wonder:

Where did that go? That little bit of Anderson, Neil Perry and Keating, and the dark caves that had seeped through to my head? A lot of water has passed since then. But I remember, now. And it makes me sad. We have shifted to a new home, and Tagore’s photograph has been retouched, termites removed, and hung at the dining hall. The kelvinator fridge repainted and sold off. And I don’t find myself in love that easily anymore.

4 years can be a long time.