Gurudwara Shri Paththar Sahib Leh

 A Travel to a Sikh Historic Place:Gurudwara Shri Paththar Sahib Leh


If you go to Leh (a place in West Jammu and Kashmir) by air you would reach there in one hour from Delhi but if you go by road it would take 4 days as the route is treacherous and full of twists and turns. When the door of the aircraft opens after the aircraft comes to a halt and you step out of it you do not feel the warmth of atmosphere outside but a thorny chill. The cold wave crosses your bones through and through unlike any other cold place. You will find everyone covering themselves in jackets before they board the buses to take you to the airport terminal. Immediately on reaching there you cannot just go out for a stroll and start sightseeing but have to seriously acclimatise yourself for 6 days (when you plan a stay of more than a week) or else you will fall sick. The tourists adopt a minimum rest of 3 days to be on the safer side for short visits. If you come by road this problem does not occur as the time spent on the route takes care of it.

 Leh is a high altitude area having 11000 feet plus elevation  which is cold from Oct to April and excessively cold (below minus 15 degree Celsius) from Nov to Feb. Weather from May to Oct is excellent so it  is heaven then.
There are lot of hotels , army and civil guest rooms as dignitaries keep coming quiet often during the summer season to enjoy the paid holiday in the form of official duties. The most famous Hotel is the the ‘Yaktail’. They provide you everything but there is scarcity of water which has to be used judiciously. There is no problem of transportation as lot of Tata Sumos, Safari, Alto, Tavera and mostly Scorpio vehicles ply on the roads having package deals  to show you all important places in and around Leh.
The sikh Temple Gurudwara Shri Paththar Sahib is among the nearby places which just requires about half a day of visit . It would be better if you plan to spend Sunday afternoon here as you get a delicious Langar (Free Kitchen) on this day when  all the service category lot visit here being a holiday.
This Historic Temple falls on the way while going from Leh to Kargil at about 25 Kms from Leh which is manned by the units of Indian Army  and hence is nicely maintained both from caretaking and food point of view. In addition the transporters passing through that route halt here and donate rations contributing to the free kitchen(Langar).
It is said from the available records held at the place that the first Guru of Sikhs, ’Shri Guru Nanak Dev ji’ had visited this place in 16th century and the history goes on as follows :-
Guru Nanak Dev ji during his second journey (1515-1518 AD) in 1517 AD had reached here after  giving his preachings in ‘Sumer’ mountains while passing from Nepal, Sikkim and Tibet via the ‘Yarkand’ route. There lived an evil demon on the hill just opposite to the place where the Gurudwara is now located. The demon used to harass the locals a lot and would eat them away after killing them. Guru Nanak on hearing this from the people reached here and established himself near the river by taking an Asan (Sitting position with crossed legs while praying as followed in Indian culture) at the foothill. Seeing this  the locals took a sigh of relief but the demon did not like this and planned to kill the Guru. One day while the Guru was busy praying almighty while in meditation, the demon taking advantage of the situation pushed a heavy stone towards him from up the hill so that the Guru would be crushed to death but as it is said ‘One who is protected by the lord cannot be harmed by anyone’(Jaako rakhey saayiyaa maar sakey na koye) a miracle happened in which as the big stone touched the Guru it became like a wax in which the rear part of the Guru’s body got embedded into it and his meditation remained undisturbed. Assuming that the Guru died, the demon happily came down from the hill near the stone and was astonished to see the Guru hail hearty and live. Seeing this he got annoyed and kicked the stone with his right foot which also got embedded into the stone. Then did the demon realise that due to his stupidity he tried to kill a devotee of God and fell at the Guru’s feet to pardon him. The Guru opened his eyes and adviced him to devote his remaining life in service of mankind for only then he will be well wished. The demon took his advice and followed it after which he started living a happy life. After sometime the Guru went to Kashmir from this place via Kargil.
The history of the origin of this place in hindi script is also displayed for everyone to know the history of this place.


The area around the Gurudwara gives a feeling that we are standing in a desert  with  barren mountains in the background where the horizon meets the ground . One can feel gushes of strong winds if you stand in open. The chill is strong enough to pass through your bones making you feel that it is not Delhi ki sardi (Extreme cold of Delhi) but something much more than that. The area has enough place to park the vehicles and most of which is occupied by the military vehicles on Sundays as most of the army personnel come here from nearby units regularly which also serves a place for a good get together.
The demon hill is high enough to warm your knees (about 100 m high)since you have to climb  number of steps to reach there huffing and puffing . The oxygen content is low in the air making the breathing difficult but you finally feel great after reaching the top. It was from here that the demon pushed a large boulder towards the Guru meditating below.

 People come here and take some rest, snap some photos and then start back. It is extremely chilly cold here due to the strong winds blowing. You can have a look at the top view of the area down below.

 In one of the barrack the huge stone which melted like a wax with Guru’s body impression is still there exhibiting his natural stance of sitting.

 A small impression of the demon’s foot can also be seen in it. The other barrack is for the kitchen and a dining hall where hundreds can dine in at one time sitting on the coir mats during the special occasions or on Sundays. There is also a STD booth in the Gurudwara campus with a guest room to rest should you require to stay there for a night.
 The main entrance leads to the place where the Holy Granth is placed; the place where everyone kneels down and bows as followed in Sikh culture.

A small Gurudwara extension where one more Holy Granth has been kept is located on a small hillock about 20 m high adjacent to the main Gurudwara.
The landscape provides excellent vision of the mountains located far off all around as if some painting is hung in the sky. All along the road from Leh to this place, river Indus  runs parallel to the road. The greenery can be noticed only along the riverbanks in summers and the rest of the area  always remains barren where long stretches of the empty ground can be seen for stretches together. The inhabitation is also very less as hardly one odd hut can be noticed on the way. Small villages in the form of Hamlets are located at far off remote areas from the road into the valleys where water is available for survival. Every village has a Buddhist Temple called ‘Gompa’. There is no tea stall, motel or a Dhaba (roadside small hotels) on the way so administratively you have to be self sufficient. Since the distance from Leh is not much one can easily reach there in a TATA Sumo with in half an hour, spend sometime and easily come back by afternoon after having  Langar ( Free lunch) which is served daily.
There is another interesting place, ‘The Magnetic Hill’ quiet close by to the Gurudwara slightly ahead of it which is famous for the fact that the law of Gravitation fails here since your vehicle climbs up a particular stretch of uphill slope in neutral with the engines switched off as there is a magnetic hill which pulls up your vehicle.




Besides this a beautiful place ‘Nimu’ is visible from here which is lush green as  is situated on the river bank visible from between the two hills but about 20 kms ahead.  
If Guru Nanak Dev Ji visited it by foot you can definitely visit this  place using the modern transport system of today as is a place worth visiting which will imprint good lifetime memories in your mind.

The Original One

 The Search for the Original in a World of Imitations

The timeless tale of Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves from Arabian Nights continues to enchant readers across generations. Though it is a fairy tale, one episode from it feels strikingly familiar in real life. When the robber chief marked Ali Baba’s house so he could find it later, the quick-witted slave girl Marjina foiled him by marking every neighbouring house with the same sign, leaving the thieves bewildered and saving her master. Surprisingly, a similar confusion confronts unsuspecting travellers even today—not in a storybook, but in the marketplace.

A few years ago, while travelling from Mumbai to Pune, my family decided to stop at Lonavala to buy the famous Maganlal Chikki, a name long associated with the hill town. Having just visited Sunil's Wax Museum, we were eager to carry home the “original” chikki for friends and relatives.

The moment we entered Lonavala, a large shop with the bold signboard Maganlal Ki Chikki caught our eye. Without a second thought, we bought two large packs and continued our journey, satisfied with our purchase. But as we drove further into town, another equally prominent shop with the same name appeared. Before we could recover from our surprise, my wife pointed to yet another one on the opposite side of the road. Soon it seemed as though every second shop in Lonavala claimed to be Maganlal Ki Chikki.

Curiosity got the better of me. I stopped at one of the shops and asked, “Which one is the original?” The answer came without hesitation: “Sir, we are the original.” At another outlet, I received the very same reply. As I was leaving, a shopkeeper smiled and said, “Sahib, humse le lo, hamari chikki kaunsi buri hai?” (Sir, buy from us; what is wrong with our chikki?) By then, I was left wondering whether I had bought the genuine article or merely an imitation.

I experienced an even stronger sense of déjà vu at Ambala cantt while searching for the legendary 'Pooran Singh ka Dhaba' We parked under a dhaba bearing the famous name and ordered our food. Looking out of the window, I noticed another Pooran Singh ka Dhaba across the road. Stepping outside for clarification only deepened the mystery; there seemed to be several establishments claiming the same legacy. Finally, a local resident informed me that the original dhaba was tucked away in a nearby lane, modest and almost forgotten, while numerous others had borrowed variations of its celebrated name.

These incidents taught me an important lesson. In today’s world, originality is increasingly difficult to find. Names, brands and reputations are replicated so convincingly that an unsuspecting customer can easily be misled. Unless one researches thoroughly beforehand—often with the help of Google—falling prey to imitations becomes almost inevitable.

Like Marjina’s ingenious trick in Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves, the modern marketplace too is crowded with identical signs that make distinguishing the genuine from the fake an arduous task. In this age of imitation, finding the original has become a treasure hunt in itself.

 After all Ambala to Pune India is one

Upur 20

 

Chapter 20: Bye Bye Udhampur

The farewell party had ended, the laughter had faded, and summer vacations had quietly taken over our lives.

A few days later, I went to school to collect my mark sheet. I walked through the familiar gates with excitement, hoping to meet my friends one last time before leaving Udhampur. Deep inside, I still believed that our group would somehow gather again in the same classroom, sit on the same benches, and laugh as if nothing had changed.

But destiny had already begun scattering us.

I learnt that Sonia had left the station soon after the results because her father had been posted out. Nalini too had gone away. John had also left with his family. Vohra had departed for Delhi to stay with relatives. Raina met me once or twice at Chinar Restaurant, but after that he too disappeared into the vastness of life.

Only JP and Panda remained in Udhampur because their families were permanent residents of the town.

Our once inseparable group had dissolved without ceremony.

No grand farewell.

No final photograph.

No promises.

One day we were together; the next day we had simply vanished from one another's lives.

For the first time, I understood that childhood friendships do not always end with goodbyes. Sometimes they end silently.

I suddenly found myself alone.

Very alone.

The bustling corridors, the assembly ground, the football field, the water point, the cave, Chinar Restaurant—everything remained exactly as before, yet nothing felt the same.

I now spent most of my remaining days in Udhampur with Gajbir, the only close friend still around.

Soon, our family too received orders to move.

Our next destination was Halwara—an Air Force Station in Punjab.

For a child growing up in a defence environment, shifting stations every few years was considered normal. New schools, new houses, new friends and new beginnings were all part of life.

Yet this departure felt different.

Very different.

Because Udhampur was no longer merely a posting.

It had become home.

The day we finally left remains etched in my memory even today.

As our vehicle rolled out of Udhampur, I looked outside quietly. The same roads curved through the hills. The same streams sparkled in the morning sunlight. The same bridges stood proudly across the rivulets. The same deodar trees lined the roads, whispering in the cool breeze.

Everything looked exactly the same.

Only I was leaving.

I tried hard to remain composed.

After all, boys of my age were not supposed to cry.

But emotions seldom obey rules.

As we climbed down the winding mountain roads, the hills seemed alive. Every familiar turn appeared to recognise me.

The trees swayed gently as if waving goodbye.

The streams murmured softly.

The bridges stood silently like old sentinels.

It almost seemed as if the entire valley was saying,

"Come back someday. We shall still be waiting."

My eyes turned repeatedly towards the distant twin peaks of Vaishno Devi, which remained visible for a long distance on the road to Jammu. For years, those peaks had watched over our lives.

Slowly, mile after mile, they began receding.

Smaller.

Fainter.

More distant.

Until finally they disappeared altogether behind the mountains.

Something inside me disappeared with them.

Questions flooded my mind.

Would I ever return?

Would John still be there?

Would I ever again sit with Raina, tease Mahesh, listen to JP's plans, or laugh at Panda's jokes?

Would I ever meet Sonia, Nalini, Vohra, Daddoo, Digvijay, Balli and the countless others who had unknowingly become an inseparable part of my everyday existence?

Would they even recognise me if we met years later?

Or would we merely walk past one another as strangers?

I sat quietly by the window, watching the hills race backwards.

The cool mountain breeze entered through the half-open window and dried the tears that had unknowingly escaped my eyes before they could even roll down my cheeks.

Nature itself seemed to console me.

Exhausted by emotions, I eventually rested my head against the glass pane and fell asleep.

When I woke up, Udhampur was gone.

Like a beautiful dream.

Only memories remained.

Life, however, does not pause for anyone.

After reaching Halwara, the cycle started all over again.

A new house.

A new Kendriya Vidyalaya.

New teachers.

New classmates.

New friends.

A new bicycle.

A new life.

But Halwara was very different from Udhampur.

There were no hills.

No valleys.

No cool mountain breeze.

Instead, there were endless plains, scorching summers and the deafening roar of fighter aircraft routinely breaking the sound barrier overhead. Initially, the thunderous sound startled me. Later, like everything else in military life, it became routine.

Gradually, Udhampur receded into the background of life.

But it never truly left me.

Whenever I sat in my new classroom, I would unconsciously imagine Sonia and Nalini sitting on my right, while John, Vohra and Raina occupied the benches to my left.

For a few fleeting moments, the old classroom would come alive again.

I often narrated stories of Udhampur to my new friends. Through those stories, my old friends continued to live within me.

Occasionally, sportsmen returning from inter-school competitions brought snippets of news about Raina and others. But information about the girls became almost impossible to obtain.

Still, their smiling faces remained fresh in my memory.

I possessed no photographs.

No letters.

No addresses.

Yet their memories never faded.

Years rolled on.

School ended.

College came and went.

I studied engineering while staying in a hostel in South India, where I encountered people from every corner of the country and learnt much about the world beyond cantonments.

Later, I joined the Army.

Fate, however, had its own plans.

As a young officer, my very first posting was near Jammu.

Coincidentally, my father too was posted once again to Udhampur.

The call of memory proved irresistible.

One day, riding my motorcycle, I set out for Udhampur.

As the familiar hills emerged before me, I felt an indescribable emotion.

The roads were the same.

The bridges were the same.

The streams were the same.

Even Chopra's shop still stood where it always had.

It felt as though time itself had stood still waiting for my return.

I went straight to my old school.

My classroom still existed.

A few new buildings had appeared, but otherwise everything looked remarkably familiar.

And yet something vital was missing.

My classmates.

Class X-B was now occupied by children who knew nothing about us.

The laughter had changed.

The faces had changed.

Only the walls remembered.

I entered the empty classroom after school hours and quietly sat on the same bench where I had once spent countless days with my friends.

Memories flooded back with such force that for a moment I could almost hear John's laughter, Raina's teasing remarks and Sonia's gentle voice.

The bell rang.

Children rushed out.

Silence returned.

I remained seated.

Alone.

After some time, I walked towards the old cave route, only to discover that it had been blocked.

I then proceeded to the Principal's office.

On the way, I instinctively cupped my hands and drank water from Water Point Number Two exactly as I had done years ago.

Some habits never die.

I located one of the old clerks who had been extremely active during our school days. Time had added grey hair and maturity to his face.

I asked hopefully,

"Is anyone from the 1980 batch still here?"

He looked at me for a moment and replied,

"Are you talking about the batch of Raina and Vohra?"

I almost jumped with joy.

For someone to remember those names after so many years seemed unbelievable.

He informed me that Divvya was now teaching in the same school and that our mathematics teacher, Mr Chopra, was still there.

As we were talking, I noticed a grey-haired gentleman approaching us with the same familiar smile.

"Aur Sardar Sahib, kisko dhoondh rahe ho?" he asked cheerfully.

For a moment I stared.

Then recognition dawned.

It was Mr Chopra.

My mathematics teacher.

The same teacher who had once drilled trigonometric identities into our heads.

I smiled.

"Sir, I am from Raina and Vohra's batch. Your student."

For a second he looked puzzled.

Then suddenly recognition flashed across his face.

I had been the only Sikh boy in the class.

He embraced me warmly.

His laughter remained unchanged.

Only his eyes had become moist.

Soon afterwards, I met Divvya.

She too recognised me instantly.

The years vanished.

We were children once again.

Later, I met Balli, JP, Panda, Pratap and even Raina, who happened to be on leave.

We spent hours reliving old memories.

Some had become successful professionals.

Some had achieved wealth.

Some had risen to positions of authority.

Others had remained ordinary.

But one thing had not changed.

The affection.

The warmth.

The bond.

Destiny continued weaving strange threads.

In 1997, I was posted to Udhampur itself and met even more classmates. During another posting at Hisar, I met Mr Chopra once again—this time as Principal of Kendriya Vidyalaya Hisar—along with our beloved Hindi teacher, Mr Ghanshyam.

The world, I realised, was indeed small.

I also met the old waiter at Chinar Restaurant.

When he learnt who I was, he simply refused to accept payment for samosas.

I had to insist repeatedly.

Years later, in Pune, I unexpectedly met John.

The reunion was joyous enough, but he had another surprise.

Taking me to a house nearby, he asked mischievously,

"Guess whose house this is."

I failed.

The door opened.

Standing before me was Reema.

The same Reema whose name had once featured in our endless teenage discussions.

She was now a mother of two, yet the warmth of her smile remained unchanged.

Time had moved on.

But memories had not.

In 2006, while posted in Leh, I happened to read a book written by someone whose name sounded familiar.

He turned out to be Nalini's father.

To my astonishment, Nalini herself was visiting her parents at Bangalore at that very time.

After decades, I finally spoke to her again.

Only Sonia remained untraceable.

For years I searched everywhere.

Army stations.

Old acquaintances.

Friends of friends.

Nothing.

Then, after more than three decades, destiny intervened once again.

Through Facebook, I located Sonia's sister and eventually managed to establish contact with Sonia herself.

My search of thirty-two long years had finally ended.

Life had come full circle.

Today, more than a generation has passed.

Our children are older than we were when we studied together.

Everyone is busy.

Everyone is occupied.

Life has scattered us across the globe.

Yet not a single day passes when I do not remember Udhampur.

Many important events occurred later in my life.

Nothing, however, could erase those memories.

Perhaps that is why I wrote this book.

Not merely to narrate stories.

But to gather my friends once again.

If not physically, then at least through memories.

Because friendships forged during childhood are unlike any others.

They cannot be recreated.

They can only be cherished.

After decades, I finally obtained our old group photograph through social media.

It remains one of my most treasured possessions.

People say time heals everything.

I disagree.

Time merely teaches us how to live with memories.

For me, it was "Bye Bye" to Udhampur only in the physical sense.

In my heart, I never left.

And perhaps, I never will.

Upur 19

 Chapter 19: The High School Examination

The cloudburst incident had changed something within us.

After escaping death so narrowly near the stream, many of us had begun looking at life differently. The carefree recklessness that had once defined our days slowly gave way to a sense of maturity. We still laughed, played pranks, and argued over trivial matters, but somewhere deep inside, we had realised how fragile life could be.

And now another challenge stood before us—the Class X Board Examination.

For the first time in our lives, we were going to appear in a public examination.

The very words Board Exams carried an aura of fear.

Until then, examinations had always been conducted within the comforting confines of our school. We knew the teachers, understood their temperaments, and had grown accustomed to the familiar atmosphere of our classrooms. But this was different. We had heard countless stories about stern external invigilators, strict checking, and students being booked for even the slightest violation. The prospect of unknown examiners watching every movement filled even the brightest among us with anxiety.

The fear was visible on every face.

Would we be able to complete the paper on time? Would the questions be difficult? What if we forgot everything after entering the examination hall?

No one seemed to have answers.

Long before the examinations actually began, discussions about seating arrangements had become the favourite topic during recess. Since roll numbers were allotted alphabetically, students had already started calculating who was likely to sit beside whom.

Strangely, friendships too began following alphabetical order.

Those whose names started with the same letter suddenly became unusually friendly. They sat together, exchanged notes, clarified doubts, and behaved as though destiny itself had assigned them to a common cause.

JP, for instance, had become especially close to John because both their names began with the letter 'J'. They were convinced that their roll numbers would be consecutive and they would sit together during the examinations.

Fate, however, had other plans.

When the seating charts were finally displayed, JP found himself occupying the last seat of the first row while John was allotted the very first seat of the second row.

"So much for alphabetical friendship," John remarked philosophically, making us burst into laughter.

As the examinations drew closer, an unusual transformation swept through the class.

Students who had spent most of the year perfecting the art of idleness suddenly discovered the virtues of hard work. The backbenchers became regular visitors to the library. Free periods ceased to be free. Everywhere—inside classrooms, under trees, near the laboratory, even beside the football field—students could be seen with books in their hands.

The atmosphere had changed completely.

The incomplete syllabus worried everyone, forcing teachers to organise extra classes. Although these additional periods ate into our leisure time, nobody complained. The stakes were simply too high.

Our teachers, sensing our nervousness, devoted considerable time to explaining examination techniques.

Important questions were identified. Previous years' papers were collected and solved repeatedly. Teachers prepared guess papers, and soon the guess papers themselves became so voluminous that the brighter students prepared "guess papers from the guess papers."

Formula sheets for trigonometry were circulated. Physics equations were carefully listed. Chemical reactions were summarised in neat notebooks.

One topic, however, enjoyed legendary status.

The fractional distillation of crude petroleum.

Everyone was convinced that it would certainly appear in the examination. Consequently, detailed labelled diagrams of the towering distillation column were prepared and memorised with almost religious devotion. We quizzed one another endlessly.

"What comes after kerosene?"

"Diesel."

"And above petrol?"

"Petroleum gas!"

These impromptu quizzes continued wherever we met.

Despite the tension, there were moments of humour too.

One afternoon, while discussing strategies, JP once again assumed command.

"Listen carefully," he announced in a tone befitting a military commander. "During the first hour everyone will solve whatever they know independently. In the second phase we will quietly exchange information if required. During the last half-hour, we shall help one another fully. And in the final ten minutes, everyone must ensure that answer sheets are properly tagged."

The plan sounded remarkably professional.

Everyone nodded solemnly.

The objective-type questions demanded special preparation.

Codes were devised.

A sneeze meant option 'A'.

Clearing the throat signified 'B'.

Rubbing one's eyes indicated 'C'.

A cough represented 'D'.

The elaborate system amused us immensely, although whether it would actually work remained doubtful.

As regular teaching gradually decreased, many students stopped attending school altogether and preferred studying at home. Consequently, the classrooms looked unusually empty.

I found these days strangely emotional.

Our stay at Udhampur was nearing its end.

Army postings were due, and many families, including ours, had already received transfer orders. My father had been posted to Halwara. Similar news had begun arriving in other homes as well.

For children of military families, farewells were an unavoidable reality.

Still, knowing that did not make parting easier.

I often found myself looking around the classroom, wondering how many of these faces I would ever see again. The laughter, friendships, quarrels, and adventures of the past two years had become an inseparable part of my life.

Soon, all this would become memory.

The thought saddened me.

But there was little time for sentimentality. The examinations demanded complete attention.

At home, my playtime reduced drastically. Surprisingly, I did not miss it much. Anxiety had replaced recreation.

My greatest enemy was not the syllabus.

It was self-doubt.

I was confident in English, Hindi, History, Geography, and Civics. However, Commercial Mathematics, certain portions of Physics, and balancing chemical equations in Chemistry continued to trouble me.

Gradually, after completing my first revision, confidence began returning.

I also started helping friends with difficult concepts. Explaining chemical reactions and mathematical problems to others clarified my own understanding further.

That was when I discovered an important truth.

Teaching is the best form of learning.

No wonder teachers know their subjects so thoroughly.

The final week before the examinations arrived.

Six-digit roll numbers were distributed.

Hall tickets bearing our photographs suddenly made the whole affair seem real.

Some students carefully noted their roll numbers in diaries. Others wrote them on books, pencil boxes, or even their palms.

Those with consecutive roll numbers congratulated one another enthusiastically.

The first examination was scheduled for Monday.

English.

The much-awaited—and feared—day had arrived.

The school looked transformed.

Outside every examination hall stood easels displaying seating plans. Water containers had been strategically placed. Large charts proclaiming "Silence" and "Examination in Progress" hung prominently everywhere.

Most intimidating of all were the unfamiliar faces.

The external examiners.

The legendary figures we had discussed for months.

I located my seat and sat down quietly. Around me, students frantically revised notes until a sharp whistle ordered everyone to put away all books.

Instructions were read out.

Answer sheets were distributed.

An uneasy silence descended.

Soon the question papers arrived.

As I scanned the English paper, an immense sense of relief washed over me.

It was manageable.

The nightmare had not materialised.

I immersed myself in writing.

About half an hour later, I noticed something interesting.

The school coordinator arrived carrying an impressive assortment of refreshments—samosas, pastries, biscuits, and tea—for the external invigilator.

The examiner, initially stern and distant, gradually softened.

Animated conversation followed.

Plates were replenished repeatedly.

JP leaned towards Mahesh and whispered softly,

"Pataa liya isko."

("He's been won over.")

I struggled to suppress a smile and continued writing.

Soon afterwards, both the coordinator and the external examiner disappeared together.

The moment they vanished, our English teacher emerged from behind a wall like a covert operative.

Climbing onto the platform, he spoke in a low but authoritative voice.

"Everyone listen carefully and write down the answers for the objective questions."

He immediately started dictating.

"Question thirteen—option A. Fourteen—C. Fifteen—D..."

Pens raced across answer sheets.

A few confused students requested him to repeat.

The teacher exploded instantly.

"Yeh tumhare baap ka ghar nahin hai..." he snapped angrily. "I have very little time to help weak students pass. So keep quiet and write."

Nobody dared ask again.

After completing the objective answers, he even offered brief hints regarding essays and comprehension passages before disappearing as mysteriously as he had appeared.

A little later, the external invigilator returned, looking considerably more cheerful—and noticeably fuller.

The operation had succeeded.

It was a remarkably coordinated exercise.

Like students, like teachers, I thought.

Perhaps they too had once sat anxiously in examination halls.

We were strictly instructed not to discuss these happenings with anyone until all examinations concluded.

The Mathematics paper, however, unfolded differently.

Security was tighter, and very little assistance was possible.

Still, isolated incidents occurred.

I noticed one anxious father discreetly sending a chit to his daughter through students seated nearby. One teacher conveniently looked elsewhere.

Not everyone approved.

Nalini, among others, openly disliked such unfair practices.

Apparently, complaints reached higher authorities.

The very next day, while arriving for the History examination, we were astonished to find Military Policemen stationed around the examination halls.

Nobody except students and authorised staff was permitted near the premises.

The atmosphere changed instantly.

From that day onward, the examinations proceeded under strict supervision.

By then, however, we had become accustomed to the system.

One paper followed another.

History.

Science.

Mathematics.

Hindi.

Geography.

Finally, one glorious morning, it was over.

The examinations had ended.

An enormous burden seemed to lift from our shoulders.

Ironically, the sudden freedom felt strange.

For months our minds had remained constantly occupied. Now, with nothing left to study, an unexpected emptiness emerged.

Even sleep refused to come easily.

The next few days were spent watching films, meeting friends, and relaxing. Yet I found myself missing school.

I missed my classmates.

I missed the routine.

I missed Udhampur.

After the practical examinations, we assembled once again in school. Discussions revolved around future plans—Science, Commerce, Arts, Medicine, Engineering.

Everyone dreamed aloud.

Then came the holidays.

I travelled to Allahabad to spend time with my grandmother. Though I enjoyed myself thoroughly, memories of Udhampur returned every night before sleep.

Would I score well?

Where would everyone go?

Would we ever meet again?

The questions lingered endlessly.

One day, a letter arrived from Udhampur.

I had passed with good marks.

My joy knew no bounds.

When we eventually returned to Udhampur, I eagerly awaited the final gathering with my classmates.

The farewell ceremony was announced.

We were instructed to come in civilian clothes.

The next day the school campus looked dazzling.

Gone were the uniforms.

Bright colours, fashionable dresses, and cheerful laughter filled the assembly ground.

Awards were announced.

Then came the most anticipated moment.

Mr Tenth and Miss Tenth.

A boy from Section X-A won the title of Mr Tenth.

And Miss Tenth?

There was hardly any suspense.

It was Sonia.

As beautiful as she was intelligent, she had always been the obvious choice. She accepted the honour amidst thunderous applause while our entire section cheered enthusiastically.

A tea party followed.

Photographs were taken.

Promises were exchanged.

Addresses were written.

And then, slowly, inevitably, we began dispersing.

As I walked home that afternoon, I turned back once to look at the school building.

I did not know then that it would be the last time I would see many of my classmates together.

Childhood, I realised, rarely announces its departure.

It simply slips away quietly, leaving behind memories that remain alive forever.

Upur 18

 Chapter 18: The Furious Stream 

Late summer had arrived in Udhampur, but the heat showed no signs of relenting. The afternoon sun beat mercilessly upon the school grounds, making the classrooms unbearably warm and leaving everyone listless. The day had already acquired a lazy rhythm when our Civics period ended.

Luck seemed to be on our side. The teacher scheduled for the next period was absent, and it was followed by two Games periods. In senior classes, Games periods often meant freedom. Once you reported to the PT teacher and marked your presence, no one bothered much about where you disappeared thereafter.

A football was issued, and a few enthusiastic boys headed towards the playground. The girls gathered under the huge banyan tree near the field and soon became engrossed in hopscotch. Some boys wandered towards the football ground, while others searched for shady corners to escape the oppressive heat.

John, Poondri, Panda, Karan and I quietly drifted back towards our classroom, giving everyone the impression that we intended spending the free periods indoors.

The moment we entered the empty classroom, an idea struck me.

"Why don't we go down to the stream?" I suggested. "We can carry our tiffins, have a picnic and perhaps even go for a swim. We have enough time."

The proposal was accepted unanimously.

Within minutes, we were making our way down the narrow footpath that descended from the school towards the stream flowing below our classroom. The path wound past the old cave and through a patch of shrubs before finally opening onto the rivulet.

The sight instantly refreshed us.

Crystal-clear water flowed gently over smooth sandstone rocks, producing a soothing murmur. The stream was nearly fifteen metres wide, shallow at certain places and surprisingly deep at others. Along the home bank stood a huge overhanging rock beneath which the flowing water had carved out a cave-like pool. The water there was deep, still and ideal for swimming. On the opposite side rose a steep hill cut, whose shadow covered almost the entire width of the stream during late afternoons, making the place pleasantly cool.

Tiny fish darted beneath the transparent water.

"This is perfect," Panda declared.

We placed our tiffins and belongings atop a broad, flat rock near the bank and sat there for some time gossiping and discussing where we should swim. Everyone washed his face in the icy water.

Poondri, the tallest among us, rolled up his trousers and ventured into the stream.

"Hey, the water is freezing!" he shouted excitedly.

That was enough encouragement.

Panda immediately stripped down to his underpants and plunged into the deeper pool beneath the overhanging rock.

"Oh, this is heavenly!" he cried.

John soon joined him.

Karan, who was the least inhibited among us, removed all his clothes and jumped in stark naked, carefully spreading his clothes over the sunlit rock.

I too joined them, retaining only my undergarments.

For nearly an hour, we enjoyed ourselves thoroughly.

We splashed water at one another, raced against the current, dived repeatedly and explored every corner of the stream. Swimming in flowing water was completely different from swimming in a pool. The current constantly challenged us, demanding effort and skill.

Curious about the fish sheltering beneath the giant rock, Panda and I dived underwater to observe them more closely.

Suddenly I felt a sharp tingling sensation.

"Ouch!"

The tiny fish were nibbling at our skin.

Their bites felt exactly like ant stings.

Poondri immediately shouted towards Karan.

"Be careful! Those fish prefer soft flesh, and you aren't wearing anything!"

Even before he finished speaking, Karan let out an ear-splitting shriek.

"Oooooooooooiiiiiiiii!"

Clutching himself protectively, he emerged from the water at remarkable speed.

The rest of us burst into laughter.

Thoroughly alarmed by the fish, Karan abandoned the pool altogether and took refuge on the far bank.

We continued enjoying ourselves.

After some time, while floating quietly near the overhanging rock, I heard a distant rumbling sound.

At first, I dismissed it as thunder.

Far away on the horizon, dark clouds had gathered over the hills.

Meanwhile, Karan had discovered a new pastime.

Standing safely on the far bank, he began throwing stones at the clothes drying on the rock.

"Stop it!" John shouted. "You'll tear them!"

Karan ignored him and continued.

Soon a few undergarments developed small holes.

John scrambled out of the water to rescue the clothes, but Karan continued his bombardment, laughing uncontrollably.

Neither Panda nor I found this amusing and repeatedly asked him to stop.

Suddenly John, who was standing atop the rock collecting his clothes, froze.

"Hey!" he shouted. "Look upstream! What is that?"

Every head turned.

Nearly two hundred metres away, an enormous wall of muddy water was racing towards us.

It was accompanied by a terrifying roar.

The sound resembled thunder mixed with the grinding of giant boulders.

For a few seconds, none of us understood what we were witnessing.

Panda did.

Having visited the stream many times before, he instantly recognised the danger.

His face turned pale.

"Everybody out!" he screamed. "Run! It's a flash flood! Climb to higher ground immediately!"

Panic erupted.

We swam desperately towards the home bank.

John, already standing on the large rock, gathered everyone's clothes and sprinted towards the footpath leading back to school.

Karan faced a greater problem.

He was stranded naked on the opposite bank.

Realising that he would never reach our side in time, he scrambled up a tree whose branches projected over the stream.

I had barely reached the bank when I realised there was insufficient time to climb back to the rock. Without thinking, I clawed my way up the muddy embankment. The soil was slippery and soft. Digging my fingers into the wet earth, I hauled myself upwards like a desperate mountaineer until I finally reached the grassy ground near the school fence.

Panda ran towards the cave and climbed to safety.

Seconds later, the flood arrived.

The gentle stream transformed into a raging monster.

Within less than half a minute, the water level rose by nearly two metres—enough to drown even a tall man.

The roar became deafening.

Huge boulders tumbled violently beneath the muddy water, striking one another with tremendous force. The entire ground beneath us vibrated.

Sitting helplessly on higher ground in little more than our undergarments, we watched death pass below us.

Then Panda suddenly shouted,

"Look there!"

About ten metres upstream, several village boys who had been swimming earlier were now struggling desperately against the furious current.

Three managed to reach safety.

Two remained trapped.

The boys on the bank stretched branches and twigs towards them.

Just as one of the struggling boys seemed about to reach safety, a large stone carried by the torrent struck him on the head. He lost his grip and was swept away into the main current.

Moments later, the second boy too disappeared.

Their friends ran frantically along the bank shouting and searching for them.

We sat frozen with horror.

None of us spoke.

We were equally worried about Karan.

Still perched naked on the tree branch, he clung desperately while muddy water surged barely a foot beneath him.

We repeatedly shouted, urging him to move towards safer ground, but shock, fear and embarrassment held him motionless.

Fortunately, after nearly half an hour, the water level stopped rising.

Gathering courage, Karan cautiously climbed down and hid behind a large boulder.

Then came a request that, under ordinary circumstances, would have made us laugh uncontrollably.

"Panda!" he shouted. "Throw my trousers across!"

"How can I? The distance is too great!" Panda replied.

"Put stones inside them and throw them," Karan suggested anxiously.

Though shaken by everything we had witnessed, we quickly wrapped stones inside Karan's clothes, tied them securely with his belt and prepared an improvised projectile.

Poondri, being the strongest among us, was entrusted with the task.

"One... two... three!"

The bundle sailed gracefully through the air and landed safely on the opposite bank.

Karan rushed to retrieve it, undoubtedly thanking his stars that it had not fallen into the raging stream.

While all this was going on, we saw the carcass of a buffalo being tossed helplessly downstream. The animal bore fresh wounds and bruises inflicted by the boulders rolling beneath the muddy water.

The sight shook us profoundly.

If such a huge animal could be treated like a toy by the flood, what chance would any human being have stood?

Without exchanging another word, we decided to leave immediately.

Karan was instructed to return through the distant bridge after John successfully hurled his shoes across to him.

When we reached school, classes were still in progress.

Nobody knew where we had been.

Panda immediately ordered us to keep our mouths shut.

"If the Principal finds out that we skipped Games period and nearly got ourselves killed, we'll be finished," he warned.

Everyone agreed.

However, such incidents never remain secret for long.

Soon villagers gathered along both banks of the stream. Their shouts and cries could be heard clearly from our classrooms. Before long, students and teachers also assembled near the football field overlooking the stream.

Men carrying ropes, long bamboo poles and other improvised rescue equipment lined the banks. As the waters gradually receded, villagers managed to rescue several stranded animals and retrieve others that had been swept away.

The entire school remained abuzz with rumours.

That evening, after returning home, I found it impossible to sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I could still hear the terrifying roar of the flood and see the muddy wall of water racing towards us. It had been the closest encounter with death any of us had ever experienced.

The following morning, the newspapers carried the explanation.

A cloudburst had occurred in the outer regions of Udhampur, triggering a sudden flash flood in the stream. Eight people had been injured and several animals swept away in the disaster. The two village boys whom we had seen being carried away had fortunately been rescued downstream with serious injuries and admitted to hospital.

Only then did we truly understand what a cloudburst was.

None of us ever ventured into that stream again.

We had escaped death by mere seconds.

Of all of us, Karan had perhaps endured the greatest ordeal. Alone on that tree branch, naked and terrified, he had looked death directly in the eye.

Yet, as always happens among schoolboys, fear eventually gave way to humour.

Nearly ten days later, Poondri casually remarked to Karan during class,

"You looked exactly like a monkey sitting on that tree."

Only four of us burst into laughter.

The rest of the class looked puzzled.

Karan merely blushed—something entirely out of character for him.

Some memories, however terrifying, eventually become stories.

But none of us ever forgot the day when an innocent picnic nearly turned into a tragedy.

Upur 17

 

Chapter 17: The Second Fight

Growing up in a co-educational day school was an education in itself. Every morning, we arrived carrying not only our school bags but also our dreams, insecurities, friendships and occasional rivalries. The classrooms, playgrounds, corridors, library and bus stands together formed a miniature world of their own—a world where we learnt many lessons that no textbook could ever teach.

As we advanced through adolescence, most of us were slowly becoming mature and learning to understand one another better. Yet there were some boys who believed that rough behaviour was a sign of strength. Teasing, pushing and intimidating others enhanced their standing in the eyes of their friends. Unfortunately, because of my quiet and non-confrontational nature, I often found myself at the receiving end of such behaviour.

One such classmate was Mahesh Chander.

Mahesh was not really a bully at heart. In fact, beneath his rough exterior, he was a simple and straightforward boy. Tall, fair and sturdily built, he always carried a somewhat untidy and shabby appearance, which made him look older than the rest of us. He had a peculiar habit of swallowing half his words while speaking, making his speech unclear and difficult to understand. Consequently, many students maintained a distance from him, often unfairly judging him before even getting to know him.

JP was one of his few close friends, and the two were almost inseparable. Mahesh was also a good sportsman and an excellent runner, although he never managed to break into the school's top ranks.

Raina, however, considered Mahesh an ideal target for his endless mischief.

One afternoon, Raina played one of his most memorable pranks. During recess, he quietly slipped a live frog into Mahesh's geometry box and waited for the drama to unfold.

A little later, Mahesh returned to his seat, dropped heavily into his chair and casually opened the box.

The next instant, a blood-curdling scream echoed through the classroom.

Startled by the sudden movement of the frog, Mahesh reflexively flung the geometry box high into the air. Compasses, pencils and scales scattered in all directions before the box landed with a loud clang on the floor.

For a moment, there was stunned silence.

Then the entire class burst into laughter.

I too could not control myself.

Red-faced and thoroughly embarrassed, Mahesh looked around furiously. His eyes finally settled on me.

Marching straight towards me, he demanded angrily, "Why are you laughing?"

"Because everyone else is laughing," I replied casually. "The whole thing was funny."

He immediately pushed my shoulder in irritation.

"What do you think of yourself? Too smart, aren't you?"

Realising that he was genuinely upset, I stopped smiling at once.

"I had nothing to do with the prank," I said calmly. "Please don't misunderstand me."

He glared at me for a few seconds before returning to his seat.

No sooner had he sat down than Raina announced loudly,

"Why did you go to him? I was the one who put the frog there!"

Mahesh muttered something under his breath, undoubtedly an abuse directed at Raina, but he wisely chose not to confront him physically. He knew very well that he could not overpower Raina in a fight.

Raina responded with his trademark laughter.

"He he he he he!"

Mahesh looked away and pretended not to hear him.

Mahesh had an elder brother, Vikrant, who studied in another section. Vikrant was a much sharper boy, an accomplished sportsman and, incidentally, a close friend of Raina. Whenever Mahesh found himself cornered during arguments, he invariably invoked his brother's name. The mere mention of Vikrant was often enough to discourage any potential opponent.

Unfortunately, Mahesh had developed another habit that affected me directly.

At that stage of my life, I had not yet started wearing a turban and usually covered my head with a scarf. For reasons best known to him, Mahesh seemed to derive immense amusement from tugging at it, touching it or deliberately disturbing it whenever he passed by.

Initially, I ignored these acts.

I was younger than most boys in the class—smaller in build and nearly a year or two junior to many of them. By temperament, I was peaceful and preferred avoiding unnecessary confrontations. I believed that friendships were more important than arguments and that patience could resolve most misunderstandings.

Repeatedly, I requested Mahesh to stop.

Repeatedly, he ignored me.

Gradually, the teasing escalated into pushing.

Whenever Raina ridiculed or embarrassed him, Mahesh appeared to vent his frustration on me, perhaps because he considered me an easy target who would never retaliate.

One day, while leaving the classroom, he deliberately shoved me hard.

I turned around.

"Enough," I said firmly. "Please behave yourself."

Instead of stopping, he pushed me once again.

Unwilling to create a scene, I quietly moved to another vacant chair.

To my annoyance, he followed me there and continued provoking me.

By now, I had lost my patience.

"Leave me alone!" I shouted.

The sudden outburst surprised everyone. A few girls sitting nearby looked in our direction.

Embarrassed, Mahesh walked away. But the expression on his face made it clear that the matter was far from over.

A little later, I stepped outside to drink water.

As I returned, Mahesh called out to me.

I ignored him.

The next thing I knew, he had grabbed my shirt.

Before I could react, he dragged me away from the classroom towards the lonely pathway leading to the cave behind the academic block. I resisted, but he was physically much stronger.

"What is the matter?" I asked.

I had barely completed the sentence when he pushed me violently.

I lost my balance and fell flat on my back.

Within seconds, he was on top of me.

Straddling my abdomen, he pinned me firmly to the ground and gripped my neck.

"What do you think of yourself?" he shouted angrily.

I tried desperately to free myself.

I pushed.

Kicked.

Twisted.

Rolled.

Nothing worked.

Every time I almost escaped, he overpowered me again.

Soon, a crowd gathered around us. Some boys cheered. Others laughed. A few merely watched with curiosity.

To them, it was entertainment.

To me, it was humiliation.

As I lay pinned helplessly beneath him, gasping for breath, panic slowly gave way to desperation. For the first time, I realised that patience and submission had brought me to this situation.

I had only two choices—either continue suffering humiliation or defend myself.

Instinct took over.

Summoning all the strength I could muster, I raised my head and bit him hard on the cheek.

Mahesh screamed.

Startled by the sudden pain, he loosened his grip instantly.

By now, I was so angry and humiliated that I continued holding on. In my desperation to free myself, I shook my head instinctively, much like I had once seen our pet dog do during a fight.

The crowd, which had until then been enjoying the spectacle, suddenly realised that matters had become serious.

Several boys rushed forward.

After considerable effort, they finally managed to separate us by pressing my cheeks apart.

Blood immediately began trickling down Mahesh's face.

Four deep teeth marks were clearly visible.

His friends quickly escorted him to the hospital without informing any teacher or the Principal, largely because they knew that he had initiated the confrontation and wished to avoid further complications.

As for me, I returned to class shaken but strangely relieved.

For the first time, I had stood up to a bully.

Raina looked at me mischievously and asked, "So, how deep was the kiss?"

"What else could I do?" I replied. "I couldn't even breathe."

"Good," he said approvingly. "Now he won't trouble you again."

Although I appeared calm outwardly, anxiety gradually replaced my relief.

The next day, Mahesh did not come to school.

Nor did he come the day after.

By the third day, I had begun imagining the worst.

What if his parents complained?

What if the Principal summoned me?

What if my parents were called to school?

The uncertainty became unbearable.

Unable to carry the burden any longer, I decided to tell my mother.

That evening, after returning home, I cautiously began narrating the background of the incident.

"There is one boy in class who keeps troubling me," I explained. "I warned him many times, but he wouldn't stop."

"You must also have done something to provoke him," my mother said.

"No," I replied honestly. "He pushed me down and held me so tightly that I couldn't even breathe. I had no other option."

"Why didn't you complain to a teacher?" she asked.

"I thought I would handle it myself," I replied. "And now the matter is over."

Fortunately, she did not pursue the subject further.

On the fourth day, Mahesh finally returned.

His face was swollen and a white cross-shaped plaster covered his cheek.

Walking up to me, he said quietly, "I have already taken three injections. You really bit hard."

"You left me with no choice," I replied honestly. "I was completely overpowered."

To my immense relief, he revealed that he had told his parents that an insect had bitten him. Since they had seen only the dressing and not the wound itself, they had accepted his explanation.

"What did the doctor say?" I asked curiously.

Mahesh smiled painfully.

"He said it looked more like the aftermath of a bloody dogfight."

For the first time since the incident, both of us laughed.

Over the next few days, I saw him enduring considerable discomfort. Gradually, my anger disappeared and was replaced by guilt. Whenever I saw him wincing in pain, I felt genuinely sorry.

One afternoon, I advised him to apply warmth to the injured cheek to reduce the pain.

He looked at me with friendly eyes.

There was no trace of revenge in them.

When the teacher later enquired about his injury, Mahesh calmly repeated that it was an insect bite.

The entire class lowered their heads to hide their laughter.

A few days later, the plaster was removed.

Four faint scars remained permanently etched on his cheek.

Initially, Mahesh tried to hide them with his hand, but eventually he stopped bothering.

Those scars had become my unintended signature.

Even today, whenever I remember them, I feel uncomfortable and somewhat ashamed. Yet I also know that whatever I did, I did purely in self-defence.

Strangely enough, the fight that could have turned us into lifelong enemies became the foundation of an enduring friendship.

Mahesh never troubled me again.

Instead, we gradually became good friends.

Looking back today, I realise that the incident taught both of us an important lesson. Mahesh learnt that even the quietest person has a breaking point, while I learnt that courage sometimes emerges only when one is pushed into a corner.

Even today, whenever we meet, Mahesh proudly points towards the faint scars on his cheek and reminds everyone of our famous fight. And Raina, true to his nature, never misses the opportunity to tease us—me for "kissing" Mahesh and Mahesh for being "kissed".

Some memories, it seems, are destined to remain evergreen.