We were in the 8thgrade. We sang this song sincerely and quite often. We were the group of teens who gleefully called ourselves SEVEN STARS. We were the seven of us who had been together from grade six through eight.
As I listen to the song again and again on ‘YouTube”, I go back to those days of my teens. We would sit on wooden benches and some atop the wooden desks in our sky blue uniforms. We sang with our eyes closed and swayed to the rhythm of the song “Somewhere my love…..”. The final bell had rung, and we wanted to hang on the thrilling times of joy and ecstasy with friends. I can smell the chalk and see the scribbles on the blackboard of some algebra equation.
I watch out of the window and see other girls in pigtails, carrying their over burdened school suitcases of leather fitted tightly with books. The year could be ‘ 68 or ‘69. It was the times when we were bursting with romanticism. K knew this guy who lived in Dhaka, had dedicated this song to his beloved because — he was dying. We swooned at the very thought.
By class six we had to abandon skirts and get into white Shalwar and blue Kamiz with a while Dupatta that went up like a V from the belt around our waist in the front, up the shoulders and down again behind fitted into the belt. We were sometimes reprimanded for folding the dupatta that looked nothing more than a white ribbon. So there we were ( some defying all restrictions of our ribbon Dupattas, singing away when the teacher who is on her way out, notices these “naughty” girls. “Girls ” she shouts ” goodness me what are doing here when the final bell has rung, and you should be out of school by now, come on get out get out,” and to S “look at your Dupatta, it’s supposed to cover your chest.” And I muttered inaudibly ” and not let the boobs burst out ……”.