The Milk Bar Haven
The Milk Bar Haven
In the drowsy heat of our boarding school days at St. Joseph’s Novitiate, where the air hung heavy with jasmine and the promise of monsoon rains, there was a little oasis we all cherished – the Milk Bar. It stood just beyond the school’s dusty gates, a ramshackle shed with a tin roof, its counter laden with frothy glasses of Milo, bottles of vanilla milk, and an odd assortment of pencils and notebooks for boys who’d forgotten their own. For us De La Salle lads, it was more than a shop; it was a refuge, a place where the weight of scripture lessons and the Brother-Superior’s stern gaze melted away in the clink of coins and the hum of laughter.
Neville was a regular there, a lanky boy with arms and legs that seemed to belong to someone taller. His parents had sent him to the Novitiate hoping he’d tread the path to priesthood, but Neville, with his twice-repeated year and a grin that danced with mischief, had other ideas. He was a quiet rebel, hovering at the edges of our world, his eyes bright with secrets he never quite shared.
In the classroom, where the drone of prayers filled the air, Neville was a master of small defiances. Under the desk, hidden by his worn half-pants, his leg would jiggle in a silent rhythm, his stifled laughter a secret only his classmates caught in stolen glances. The Brother-Superior, puffing about with his endless lists of rules, never noticed the spark in Neville’s eyes, but we did – those of us who saw the way he turned boredom into a private game.
I was Denzil then, just another boy in the study hall, my head bent over my notebook, my pen scratching out answers I hoped were right. I didn’t know Neville well, but I felt his gaze sometimes, like a breeze that stirs the leaves without being seen. He watched me, I later learned, with a quiet curiosity – perhaps it was the way I sat, or the way my unruly hair refused to lie flat, or the way my lips curved when I smiled. To Neville, I was a puzzle, a boy who seemed to belong yet stood apart.
Our worlds brushed closer one afternoon during games period. Neville, late as usual, knelt by the door as punishment, his knees pressed into the dusty floor. I stood nearby, waiting my turn for football, the sunlight catching the motes of dust between us. That’s when I caught his eye – a quick, knowing wink, as if he’d spotted something we both understood. I glanced down, suddenly aware of the new jockstrap beneath my half-pants, a clumsy badge of growing up. Neville’s grin said he saw it too, and in that moment, we were conspirators in the unspoken rites of boyhood.
That night, as I lay in the dormitory, the moonlight slipping through the grimy windows, I felt a fleeting touch on my leg. Half-asleep, I thought it was a dream, a trick of the shadows. But a faint unease lingered, like the hum of a storm gathering far off. The next morning, old Hector, the dormitory watchman with his grizzled beard and kind eyes, pulled me aside. “I saw Neville by your bed last night,” he said, his voice low, his brow creased with worry. “Mind yourself, lad.”
I nodded, my heart a little heavier, though I wasn’t sure why. The air felt different after that, as if the jasmine’s sweetness carried a hint of something unspoken. Neville and I never spoke of it, and soon the monsoon came, washing the dust from the lanes and the secrets from our thoughts. But I often think of those days at the Milk Bar, of Neville’s quiet laughter and the way he danced through our world, unseen yet unforgettable, a boy who taught me that youth is a mystery, full of shadows and whispers that linger long after the rains have passed.
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