The Stanes Cliff

The cliff that skirted the playing field at Stanes was alive. Towards its far corner, below what used to be Mrs. Rajan's house and later the residences of bachelor teachers, it was turgid with water that would burst forth in a clear spout when a hole was poked into its clayey bank. Club foot moss that grew no where else, grew on its moist banks. Pure white chunks of clay were dispersed in between yellow, brown and reddish clay. As you moved towards the drill shed, where we learned of the great sins, envy, jealousy, malice and pride, the cliff became dryer and the object of immense interest to boys who would mine its banks for the wondrous carving stone. Every break-time, its face would be swarming with industrious boys with pen knives and other portable digging implements, digging for the mother lode, that big curved carving stone that conferred great status on its possessor.

So much carving was done. Animals, geometric shapes, seals and hearts. Hearts that were polished and gifted to girlfriends, hearts that broke in pant pockets, hearts that were confiscated by teachers. Our pockets bulged with the stones. Did mothers of those days find life harder with all the mess they had to clean when we were finished with our exertions? Did girls really appreciate the efforts that were made on their behalf? The largest and most beautiful carving stones were however left uncarved, uncut, possibly waiting for some grand inspiration.

What is a carving stone? Did any explorer determine its composition? Are any left, anywhere in the world? The carving stone had the texture of soapstone, smooth but veined, colors ranging from tan to ruddy, could be easily carved with a shaving blade or a pen knife and took on a beautiful translucency when polished with coconut oil. The shavings were as smooth as talc and reminded me of the brown foundation powder the teachers used to put on our faces before plays. The younger boys mined the lower reaches of the cliff, while the more adventurous and senior boys mined near the very top of the cliff. It is a wonder that no one fell off their precarious perches. Turf was inviolate and occasionally battles were fought over conflicting claims.

Then the bulldozers came. The field hummed with the roar of the machines. They attacked the cliff, day in and day out, until the school became the proud possessor of a larger playing field. What a loss it was to cliff lovers. No carving stones, no white clays, no wondrous springs, no break-time climbs. No more hearts to gift.

Stanes had changed.