Upur 11

 Chapter 11: The IX Grade Finals

The play season was drawing to a close as the examinations approached, and everyone's attention gradually shifted towards studies, particularly those who had spent most of the year taking academics lightly. At this stage, notes suddenly became precious commodities, and their exchange was already in full swing.

I had cultivated the habit of making detailed notes from the very beginning of the session, so I became one of the students most frequently approached by my classmates. Others in demand were Rajhans, Umesh and Kaushal, whose neat handwriting made their notebooks exceptionally attractive. They never missed a single class, so their notes were always complete. During free periods, one could often see the less studious boys sitting quietly in corners, hurriedly updating their notebooks in preparation for the examinations.

The girls, too, were sought after for their meticulous notes and for discussions on important questions. Many of my friends approached me for Mathematics because my father's persistent coaching had made me reasonably good at the subject. Some also borrowed my History notebook, which was filled with 'Good' and 'Very Good' remarks from DV Sir. However, this demand was limited to those who had opted for Social Studies in English, mainly the back-bencher girls, John and Vohra.

Ironically, while others sought my help in some subjects, I found myself trailing behind them in Sanskrit. I had taken the subject lightly in the beginning, assuming that it was unimportant. Later, however, it turned into a major obstacle. Passing Sanskrit became an uphill task, and I had to move heaven and earth merely to clear the examination.

I had never studied Sanskrit before and was completely clueless about it. While the rest of the class had already spent three years learning the language and were fairly proficient, I had to start from scratch, beginning with the very basics.

Frequent transfers over the previous seven years had forced me to change schools repeatedly, which meant adapting to new syllabi, uniforms, academic sessions and several other adjustments. Fortunately, I had educated parents who ensured that my studies did not suffer. My mother, in particular, played a crucial role. After our move, my father took responsibility for teaching me Physics, Chemistry and Mathematics, while my mother continued to guide me in the remaining subjects. Sanskrit, however, remained a problem because no one in our family knew even a single word of the language.

I would sit in class and watch my classmates confidently answer the teacher's questions. Whenever my turn came, I would look around helplessly because even the questions were beyond my comprehension. Gradually, I began understanding a few words, but it was merely a drop in the ocean and made little difference.

Initially, I believed that failing in Sanskrit would only affect my overall position in class and not my promotion to the next grade. I assumed that the subject would merely be marked in red on my report card and that the problem would disappear in Class X, where Sanskrit was no longer compulsory.

One day, however, I learnt from a teacher that failing even a single subject would mean detention and the loss of an entire academic year. The news devastated me. I immediately confirmed it with the school clerical staff before gathering the courage to inform my father. The revelation created tension at home because the syllabus was extensive and I was a complete beginner.

After several unsuccessful attempts to master the language on our own, it was decided that I should take private tuition. The search for a tutor began immediately. Since a teacher from the school would be familiar with the syllabus and examination pattern, preference was given to one of them.

Our first choice was our own Sanskrit teacher, but he declined because he was due for transfer. We then approached Mr Hareshyam, a teacher from the junior section. He agreed to teach me, but on the condition that I travelled to his house in Udhampur city, nearly ten kilometres from the school and in the opposite direction from my home. This meant that after school I would have to travel another fourteen kilometres back home. In addition, he charged substantial fees. With no other alternative, it was decided that I would attend tuition classes every evening.

Thus began my daily journey to Udhampur city in overcrowded buses packed with students and teachers. The bus ride itself took nearly forty-five minutes, followed by a walk of about a kilometre through the narrow streets before I finally reached the tutor's house.

I would often wait outside until he arrived, unlocked the house and went upstairs. He usually spent half an hour freshening up before beginning my lesson. Since my classmates already had a three-year head start, I had to progress rapidly despite beginning with the alphabet.

Although Sanskrit was considered a high-scoring subject, it demanded extensive memorisation. Given the shortage of time, I resorted to rote learning without bothering much about meanings. The tutor would dictate two lines and then ask me to copy them repeatedly, which consumed considerable time. Nevertheless, I had no option but to comply. This routine consumed almost three hours every day and significantly reduced the time available for other subjects. Fatigue became a constant companion, particularly after the exhausting bus journeys.

Gradually, I improved, but my confidence remained dangerously low.

During one of the unit tests, uncertain of passing, I deliberately sat next to my friend Balli, who knew a little more Sanskrit than I did. Although he was only an average student, he was always willing to help. Once the test began, the paper still appeared completely alien to me.

The Sanskrit teacher was strict and notorious for catching even the slightest movement. Having never felt the need to cheat before, I was inexperienced. Yet necessity, as they say, is the mother of invention. Observing how some seasoned experts managed to copy, I adopted a similar technique. Resting my forehead on my left hand, with my elbow on the desk, I turned only my eyeballs towards Balli's answer sheet, which he thoughtfully aligned for my convenience. I quickly copied the answers, changing their sequence slightly to avoid suspicion.

Ironically, Balli himself was copying from the boy seated in front of him, who in turn had concealed the textbook beneath his desk. Thus, knowledge travelled through an entire chain before finally reaching me.

The next day, when the answer sheets were returned, I was astonished to discover that I had scored seven out of ten, while Balli had scored only six. Perhaps my handwriting had impressed the teacher.

The days passed in this manner. Soon another unit test was announced, but I could not appear for it because I had fallen ill. When I returned to school, the teacher informed me that a re-test would be conducted the following day for those who had missed the original examination.

The news increased my anxiety because this time I would be on my own. I enquired who else would be taking the test and learnt that two other students, Sonia and Rajhans, would also be appearing. Both were among the brightest students in the class and regularly figured among the top five.

Rajhans was a quiet and introverted boy who usually sat in the front row and rarely interacted with us backbenchers. Approaching him for help was out of the question. The thought of seeking assistance from Sonia was even more daunting. I was extremely shy around girls and worried about the impression she might form of me. Asking for help during an examination seemed far too embarrassing. Although Balli encouraged me, saying that there was no harm in asking, I simply could not gather the courage.

Determined to manage on my own, I memorised as much as I could, especially the shlokas and antonyms, which carried substantial marks. Some classmates, experts in surviving examinations by unconventional means, offered various suggestions, but I lacked both the confidence and the temperament to follow their methods. Left with no alternative, I resolved to rely on hard work and whatever little I had managed to learn.

On the day of the re-test, the teacher instructed the three of us to sit separately at different corners of the cemented stage used for the morning assembly so that the regular class would not be disturbed.

As the question papers were distributed, Rajhans settled down quietly and began writing in his neat, methodical manner. Sonia, too, started writing confidently and at great speed. I, on the other hand, soon exhausted whatever little I knew and found myself staring helplessly at the paper.

After considerable hesitation, I finally gathered the courage to whisper to Sonia, asking if she could help me recall a few answers. She looked at me briefly, smiled, and continued writing. When I repeated my request, she jokingly asked me to show her the shloka I had written. Taking it as a positive sign, I readily obliged. She glanced at my answer sheet, smiled again and resumed her work.

I waited expectantly, but she remained absorbed in her own paper. Perhaps she had only intended to encourage me, or perhaps she did not wish to take any risks. Even today, I do not know the real reason.

A little later, she sought permission to drink some water and left her answer sheet on the stage. Frustrated and desperate, I was momentarily tempted to take advantage of the opportunity and look at her work. Just then, Sonia returned and firmly called out, "Rajinder, stop it."

Startled and embarrassed, I immediately returned to my seat. Surprisingly, she neither complained to the teacher nor mentioned the incident again. The mystery of her reaction has remained unresolved ever since. Perhaps one day, if she ever reads this account, she may reveal what she had been thinking.

Fortunately, I managed to clear the test with modest marks, and the final examination loomed ahead.

I calculated that I would need around thirty-five percent marks in the final examination to secure an overall pass. The situation was becoming increasingly serious. I worked hard, but I also realised that success in life often requires not merely effort but also thoughtful planning.

One afternoon, while sitting alone in the classroom during recess, worrying about the possibility of losing an entire academic year because of a single subject, my eyes drifted towards the slowly rotating ceiling fan. An unusual idea suddenly occurred to me. Since students and teachers rarely looked towards the ceiling, perhaps it could serve as an unlikely aid for recalling a few important points during the examination.

The thought remained my closely guarded secret.

The final examinations began in March 1979. I sought advice from bright students regarding important topics. Nalini regularly lent me her notes and marked crucial portions for revision. Balli encouraged me constantly, Sonia shared useful tips for forming antonyms, and Raina lightened my anxiety with his humour and practical suggestions. Despite all this support, the responsibility of passing ultimately rested on my shoulders.

Two days before the Sanskrit examination, after everyone had left following the English paper, I quietly remained behind in the classroom. Once it was empty, I implemented the plan that had occupied my thoughts for days. Having ensured that nobody was around, I noted down a few important lines at a place from where they might help me refresh my memory during the examination.

The following day, after the Science paper, I discreetly checked that everything remained undisturbed. I also carefully observed the invigilators and noticed that they seldom looked upwards. The plan appeared feasible, though certainly risky.

Finally, the day of reckoning arrived.

The invigilator distributed the question papers after issuing the customary warnings. Nervous but determined, I first attempted all the questions I genuinely knew. To my surprise, my preparation proved better than I had expected. As the examination progressed, I occasionally glanced upwards, pretending to recollect information. This helped me confirm certain details and correct a few minor mistakes.

By then, I was convinced that I had done enough to pass.

Suddenly, the Sanskrit teacher remarked to a student seated ahead of me, "Pratap, please inform the supervisor after the examination that this fan is making too much noise."

"Which fan, Ma'am?" he asked.

"The one above your head," she replied.

For a brief moment, a chill ran down my spine. I remained absolutely still, concentrating on my answer sheet and silently praying that my secret would remain undiscovered.

Thankfully, nothing happened.

Soon, the examination ended. The answer sheets were collected and the students streamed out of the classroom. I finished my entire water bottle in one go. The ordeal that had haunted me for months was finally over. Now, all that remained was to wait for the results and discover whether my struggle had been enough to save an academic year.

A few weeks later, the results were declared. With trembling hands, I opened my report card and immediately searched for only one subject—Sanskrit. I could hardly believe my eyes. I had scored 55 per cent marks.

For a few moments, I could see nothing else. My eyes filled with tears of relief and joy. Months of anxiety, endless bus journeys, extra classes, sleepless nights and constant fear had finally come to an end. After wiping my tears, I looked at my marks in the other subjects, which were more or less as expected.

That experience taught me an important lesson: every student fights battles that others seldom notice. While my classmates saw a cheerful and carefree boy, very few knew about the trauma and pressure I had endured throughout the year. Looking back, I realise that I could never have crossed that hurdle alone.

Nalini's notes, Balli's unwavering support, Sonia's guidance, Raina's humour and encouragement, and the goodwill of many other friends helped me survive one of the most difficult academic challenges of my school life. Had they not stood by me, I do not know what direction my life might have taken. Through this story, I thank all of them, wherever they may be today.

With the examinations over, the long-awaited holidays finally arrived. Like many others, I too left town with my parents and spent the vacation at my grandmother's house in Allahabad. The break was enjoyable, yet I often found myself missing my friends and the lively atmosphere of school.

Soon the holidays came to an end and we returned to begin a new academic session. We were now promoted to Class X-B, located towards the rear of the school, away from the Principal's office. A new classroom, new challenges and fresh adventures awaited us, and little did I know that Class X would prove to be one of the most memorable years of my school life.

The Great Chemistry Test Coup

 

The extraordinary security arrangements put in place for the NEET retest on June 21, 2026, to ensure a zero-error examination brought back a vivid memory from my school days. It was 1981, and I was studying in Class XI at Kendriya Vidyalaya, Halwara. What unfolded after a chemistry class test remains one of the most fascinating episodes of teenage ingenuity that I have ever witnessed.

The chemistry test carried significant weightage for the final assessment. Our teacher, known for his strictness, left nothing to chance. Before the test began, students were instructed to empty their bladders and drink sufficient water because, for the next hour, no one would be permitted to leave the classroom under any circumstances. The answer sheets were to be handwritten on pages torn from our own notebooks, with names and roll numbers clearly marked.

The examination commenced under these stringent conditions. Unfortunately, the paper turned out to be exceptionally difficult. By the time the answer sheets were collected, gloom had descended upon the classroom. Faces were long and dejected; some students looked devastated, while a few girls were even in tears. It appeared that poor marks were inevitable.

As soon as the teacher left, an emergency meeting of sorts was convened. Amid the despair, a classmate—let us call him Anoop—emerged as the leader. Speaking in hushed tones, he announced, "There is only one way out, provided everyone agrees and promises complete secrecy for at least a month."

With no better alternative in sight, the entire class agreed.

The first phase of the operation began immediately. Over the next twenty minutes, every student rewrote the entire paper, this time consulting textbooks and notes. The answers were not exact replicas of the ideal solutions but were reasonably close. Since the pages used came from the same notebooks as the original answer sheets, the newly prepared set looked remarkably authentic. The sheets were bundled neatly and secured with a rubber band, closely resembling the original collection.

The second phase required precision and coordination. Two boys accompanied Anoop towards the staff room. Student No. 1 positioned himself near a corridor turn, while Student No. 2 stood outside the staff room. Anoop waited at a distance with the substitute bundle concealed in his school bag.All were in sight of each other.

The chemistry teacher had left the original answer sheets on a table before stepping out briefly. The moment he moved away, Student No. 2 touched his nose, signalling that the opportunity had arrived. Once the teacher had crossed the danger zone, Student No. 1 rubbed his ears, indicating an all-clear. Acting swiftly and calmly, Anoop entered the staff room, exchanged the bundles within seconds, and walked out as casually as he had entered.

No celebrations followed. No discussions took place. Everyone dispersed silently, behaving as though nothing unusual had occurred.

A few days later, when the corrected papers were distributed, the teacher's bewildered expression was priceless. He seemed unable to comprehend how an entire class had performed so well in what he believed was an exceptionally tough examination.

Looking back after many decades, I realise that the episode revealed an unusual distinction between tactical and strategic thinking. Conventional cheating methods—such as carrying slips, copying from neighbours, or writing answers on desks—are tactical in nature. They are individual acts aimed at solving an immediate problem. What occurred in our classroom, however, reflected a strategic mindset: meticulous planning, teamwork, compartmentalisation of information, deception, timing, and flawless execution. Equally significant was the strict adherence to the 'need-to-know' principle; no one discussed the operation afterwards, ensuring that the secret remained buried for years.

Yet, it must be emphasised that this story should not be viewed as a guide or justification for malpractice in examinations, particularly competitive ones. It was merely a youthful rebellion against what students perceived as an unfairly difficult test and belongs to a different era.

The enduring lessons worth preserving are positive ones alone: unity is strength, information should be shared only on a need-to-know basis, and sometimes, silence truly is golden.

Upur10

 

Chapter 10 : Outside the School

The hours after school were mostly spent in and around the residential area of Sappers Enclave, situated above a prominent place known as Chopra Shop. The strange thing about the name was that although everyone called it Chopra Shop, neither was there any Mr. Chopra nor any shop by that name during the time I lived there. Yet, the name had survived the years and become a permanent landmark in the cantonment.

All the Sapper officers lived on the hill opposite the market, and our house too was located there. Evenings usually belonged to the Sappers Officers’ Mess, where we gathered to play badminton. It was our regular RV — the place where all of us met after school before dispersing into the night.

I had another close friend, Gajbir, who was one class senior to me. Bulky, cheerful and full of life, he looked exactly like a grown-up version of the famous Glaxo baby, with his heavy hanging cheeks and innocent smile. John, Gajbir and I would sit together after games, exchanging the latest school gossip, analysing incidents from different classes and trying to understand what was happening in the mysterious teenage world around us.

Movies were another major attraction. Every Friday, English films were screened at the famous Chinar Theatre, one of the biggest landmarks of the cantonment. The entire youthful crowd of the complex would gather there. I still remember the day we went to watch The Ten Commandments, a marathon film nearly four hours long.

That day the theatre was overflowing. We could not get balcony tickets, which were reserved mainly for officers and their families, so we bought seats in the lower stalls near the screen. Everything appeared gigantic from there; our necks became stiff from looking upward throughout the film. Yet the experience was unforgettable. Students from all around the Chinar complex had arrived with their parents and friends. Gestures flew across rows, silly comments passed from one group to another, and laughter echoed through the hall.

The interval was even more entertaining. The lobby buzzed with excitement as our classmates crowded around the snack counters, munching samosas, chips and patties while discussing the movie in loud animated voices. It felt less like a cinema hall and more like a festival.

Another favourite place was the swimming pool at the Chinar Officers’ Institute, nearly three kilometres from our house. We visited it at least three times a week. The very walk to the pool was exercise enough, and after swimming endless lengths we would sleep like dead logs at night. Naturally, studies suffered and the backlog had to be covered the next day.

The most exciting part of swimming was the competition among ourselves — diving for coins thrown into deep water, racing underwater, or counting who could swim the maximum number of lengths. And then there were the endless teenage discussions while hanging lazily by the pool ladders with half our bodies submerged in water, commenting on colourful swimsuits and other “important matters” of adolescence.

The helipad stood close to the swimming pool. When standing on the diving board one could clearly see the pilot seated inside the helicopter as the giant machine hovered overhead before landing. After swimming sessions, everyone gathered in the changing room discussing performances, boasting of dives and races, while our eyes turned red from the bleaching powder in the water.

Once freshened up, we signed the outgoing register and rushed to the small bar nearby for cold drinks and snacks to refill our exhausted bodies.

The return journey home was another adventure in itself. Discussions revolved around who had swum the most lengths, whose butterfly stroke looked best, who dived most fearlessly, which girl looked the prettiest, and whose “affair” was rumoured with whom.

By the time we reached Bikram Park, an open ground about a kilometre away, the debate shifted to whether we should wait for a bus or hitchhike an Army vehicle going towards Chopra Shop. The final climb up the Sapper hill was always the toughest. It drained whatever little energy remained in us before we finally reached home. And just before parting, someone would suddenly ask the most dangerous question of the evening:

“Homework complete ho gaya?”

That single sentence could destroy all peace of mind.

After swimming there was only one subject on which I could concentrate — Mathematics. In every other subject I would fall asleep within minutes, my eyes refusing to obey my orders to stay open.

The cantonment itself was beautiful beyond words. Tall trees covered the landscape and tiny rivulets flowed through the outskirts where crystal-clear hill water rushed over rocks. Springs emerged naturally from rocky outcrops, forming shallow pools filled with tiny fish. Those places became our picnic spots.

Armed with catapults and occasionally my air gun, we would leave for Sunday outings carrying packed lunches. During summers we even took the risk of swimming in fast-flowing streams.

The long heart-to-heart conversations we had during those outings remain unforgettable. Lying on huge rocks with our feet dipped in cold flowing water, we discussed the strangest topics imaginable. Time passed so quickly that before we realised it, evening shadows had already begun stretching across the hills.

In simple words, life was completely bindass — carefree and fearless. We lived for the present and, at most, for tomorrow. Career planning had not yet entered our minds. Life revolved around adventure, trying new things and proving ourselves in every small challenge.

Most students living near the school were girls, and whenever there were a couple of free periods they would rush home for a short break. One day we had four consecutive free periods, and Nalini suggested that the entire group visit her house.

What followed felt like a military jungle patrol.

We sneaked out through a hidden shortcut behind the bushes, ensuring no teacher spotted us. Reaching the barbed-wire fence of the school, two boys held the wires apart while the girls carefully crossed over, lifting their skirts so they would not get entangled. One after another, everyone crossed silently.

Soon we reached a flowing nullah that remained full almost throughout the year. We hopped from stone to stone while crossing it. One boy slipped and fell into a pool of water, causing panic and laughter at the same time. He was pulled out immediately and the mission continued.

By then, Class IX-B had officially disappeared from school for half the day.

After crossing the stream we slipped through another fence and entered Prem Bhagat Enclave, the officers’ residential area. Suddenly we emerged onto the main road as if appearing from nowhere.

Nalini walked proudly in the lead as the host, followed by her closest friend Sonia and the other girls, while the boys marched behind them. Soon we reached her house.

There was no one at home except the servants. Within minutes the house was overflowing with classmates. Some occupied the sofas reading magazines, others settled on dining chairs because there was hardly enough space for everyone.

Nalini served us lemonade and snacks. Once our stomachs were full, someone switched on the music system and the girls immediately began dancing.

The boys, however, stood frozen.

Most of us did not even know how to dance, and I can certainly vouch for myself in that regard.

The girls soon realised they would have to take the initiative themselves — something considered extremely bold in those days. They began requesting the boys to join them, but we hid behind one another in embarrassment.

Finally, after continuous persuasion, John gathered enough courage to stand up. The moment he did, Nalini dragged him into the centre of the room. Once his initial hesitation vanished, he blended effortlessly with the girls while the rest of us watched in admiration and envy.

Narinder, whom everyone called Panda, followed next and soon he too was enjoying himself.

Even today I regret not participating that afternoon because I simply lacked the courage to overcome my shyness. Ironically, years later during my Army days in Pune, the situation completely reversed and we young officers were always desperately searching for dance partners at the famous RSI.

Eventually it grew late and we returned to school after an unforgettable adventure.

No studies were taking place anyway because rehearsals for the Annual Day function were in full swing. We moved to the primary section where our practice was scheduled after another hour.

The girls disappeared into their changing room while I, Raina and a few others wandered towards the Bhangra team. I knew absolutely nothing about dance steps and merely copied whatever the teacher demonstrated. Most of the time my awkward hopping movements made others laugh, but at least I participated sincerely.

Finally, the Annual Day arrived.

The girls performed first and danced beautifully. Then came our turn. Just before the finale, Raina instructed me to hook my foot around his and hop in a circle on one leg. I obeyed, and the moment I did so he burst out laughing — a habit impossible for him to control.

The audience, however, loved it.

There was loud applause at the end. Except for a few mistakes noticed only by me, the performance went surprisingly well. The entire day had been exhausting and by the time the programme ended it was already dark when I finally reached home.

Outside the Chinar complex there was a bus waiting point where students gathered after school. Many sat on the parapet wall surrounding the complex while waiting for buses.

One afternoon I noticed a college-going youth sitting arrogantly on that wall. He wore extremely tight trousers, had long hair and smoked cigarettes while blowing rings into the air.

A schoolboy politely requested him to shift slightly so he could sit too.

“Agge ja, itthe main baitha haan,” the fellow replied rudely.

(Go somewhere else. I’m sitting here.)

“There’s enough space. You can move a little,” the KV student replied.

“O jaa, main nahin uthda.”

(Get lost. I’m not moving.)

The student wisely kept quiet, assuming him to be some local hooligan.

Just then Raina arrived, having overheard the conversation.

“Tu kitthon da hain?” he asked sharply.

(Where are you from?)

“Assi te Jammu wale haan,” the fellow answered proudly.

(I’m from Jammu.)

“Kerhe school da hain?” asked Raina.

(Which school are you from?)

“School di gall karda hain? Assi te college vi chhad ditta hai.”

(You’re talking about school? I’ve already left college.)

“Then you should behave better,” Raina replied coldly.

The fellow took another puff and sneered,

“O kakke, ja apna kam kar. Vaddeyan naal is tarah nahin bolida.”

(Boy, mind your own business. Don’t talk to elders like this.)

“Main vi koi bacha nahin haan,” Raina shot back firmly.

(I’m not a child either.)

“O tere varge assi kai paida kar ke chhad ditte ne.”

(I’ve produced many like you.)

That sentence was enough.

In a flash, Raina punched and shoved him off the wall. The fellow toppled backward while Raina jumped inside the Chinar complex. Within seconds a full-fledged fight erupted.

The youth recovered quickly and took up a fighting stance. He kicked high towards Raina’s neck with his long legs. I was approaching from the CSD canteen side when I saw Raina suddenly grab his neck, pull his face downward and smash his knee into it. Blood burst from the fellow’s nose.

The opponent retaliated furiously, tearing Raina’s shirt and leaving him almost bare-bodied. Humiliated and enraged, Raina exploded with punches and kicks — hooks, front kicks and rapid combinations learnt from karate practice. Within minutes the opponent was flattened despite being a capable fighter himself.

Street fights are won more by morale, aggression and initiative than technique alone, and that day Raina possessed all three.

Before matters worsened, a Military Policeman intervened and separated them.

As he retreated, the fellow muttered,

“Kadi Jammu aayi te dassanga.”

(Come to Jammu sometime, then I’ll show you.)

Raina instantly replied,

“Ajj Udhampur aaya te bachenga nahin.”

(If you come to Udhampur today, you won’t be spared.)

And both finally walked away in opposite directions.

JP removed his vest and handed it to Raina so he could at least cover himself before going home. The fight ended with silent admiration from nearly every KV student present there.

There was also a tiny restaurant in the Chinar shopping complex owned by the father of one of our schoolmates. It was our favourite haunt during free periods or after bunking particularly boring classes. Samosas, chaat and tea tasted heavenly there.

It was at that restaurant that John taught me how to play “Dibbi,” a game involving a matchbox. The matchbox was placed at the edge of a table and flicked upward with the finger like a carrom striker. If it landed inside an empty glass placed nearby, it earned ten points. Landing on its longer edge meant five points and on the shorter edge seven.

The points were multiplied by ten paise to calculate winnings.

I hesitated to play for money because gambling — juaa — had been deeply drilled into my mind as morally wrong. Still, I enjoyed trying to flip the matchbox into the glass because the game itself was fascinating.

Tea flowed continuously alongside the game, especially among the city boys. Years later, after becoming adults, the same boys merely upgraded the setup: matchboxes became playing cards, tea became whisky and samosas turned into chicken tikka.

Only the scale changed.

I still never miss my share of snacks. Earlier it was samosas; now it is chicken tikka while my friends sip whisky and I quietly enjoy my cordial beside them.

Once I asked a friend why they always included me in their group despite the fact that I avoided some of their activities due to my principles.

His answer stayed with me forever.

“You are like the joker card in a pack,” he said. “You fit everywhere.”

That day I understood that friendship is not built on identical habits. It survives on trust, truthfulness, affection, loyalty and humour.

Adventure always attracted me — trekking, hunting, exploring long routes with packed lunches and discovering hidden streams. Sometimes we walked to the swimming pool through village tracks behind Sappers Enclave, crossing streams, fields and the helipad route.

We halted near flowing water to eat lunch, rest and occasionally swim in deep still pools hidden beneath giant rocks. Entering the water below those huge boulders to watch fish swimming nearby carried its own thrill.

At times we sat beside a bowli — a natural spring emerging from rocks — drinking icy mineral water directly from its source. The water tasted unbelievably sweet and refreshing. We filled our bottles completely before continuing our journey.

On the way we plucked mulberries and ber from thorny bushes, scratching our hands while stuffing our pockets full of fruit.

Then came the game of ducks and drakes on the water surface, where the winner earned a treat at the Chinar restaurant the following day.

Those were truly unforgettable days.

Even now, I am certain that every friend who shared those moments with me must pause while reading this chapter, smile quietly and drift back into those memories once again.

Upur 9

 Chapter 9: The English Teacher

Teaching English in Kendriya Vidyalaya was an art possessed by only a handful of teachers. Unlike the Convent and Public schools, where speaking English was almost a culture and often treated as a status symbol, our school had a different atmosphere altogether. Most students came from ordinary middle-class or service backgrounds, and English was spoken fluently only by a few girls and some boys from defence families.

Spoken English and grammar were two completely different worlds. A student fluent in speaking was not necessarily good at grammar, and one who mastered grammar often struggled to speak confidently. Only a few among us were comfortable with both. For most students, English was merely another theoretical subject — something that could be passed with minimum effort unless one lacked even the basic foundation or had no educational support at home.

Much depended upon the seriousness with which the subject was taught. More importantly, it depended on the man standing before the blackboard.

Our first English teacher was Mr Pahariwal. He spoke English heavily influenced by Hindi pronunciation, and therefore we never truly experienced the charm of the language through him. Yet he maintained excellent discipline because of his strict punishments, which everyone feared. The class usually remained quiet during his periods. Homework was limited to written exercises, and life moved on comfortably under him. In simple words, his expectations from us were modest, and so were our efforts.

Then one day everything changed.

A lean, sharp-featured man in his mid-thirties entered our classroom with a stiff-necked confidence and an intense personality. He walked straight to the dais, placed his books on the table, looked around the class, and spoke in a deep, commanding voice.

“Well students, I am Mr Rathore, your new English teacher. I will be taking your class from today onwards. I do not teach merely to earn my bread. I put my heart and soul into my work, and I expect the same seriousness from my students. Within a few days, you yourselves will realise what I mean.”

The class instantly fell silent.

“Before we begin,” he continued, “let us know each other better. Yes, bête, what is your name?”

And thus began the introductions. Each student stood up, spoke their name, and mentioned from which part of the town they travelled daily to school. Some replied in English, others in Hindi. Mr Rathore listened carefully to every answer, observing each student closely.

Even the girls, who otherwise chatted endlessly during classes, sat properly and answered with unusual seriousness.

After the introductions, he opened our English textbook, glanced through a few pages, and closed it again.

“I will teach grammar along with literature,” he announced. “Those weak in grammar will improve under me because I shall correct every mistake alongside the lessons. Tomorrow, all of you will bring a separate notebook for Tenses. Remember my words — it will help you not only in examinations but throughout your life.”

By then more than half the period had passed. For the remaining fifteen minutes he taught us The Face on the Wall by Ruskin Bond without once looking at the textbook. The class sat stunned. His narration was so vivid that it felt less like a lesson and more like a story unfolding before our eyes. Nobody whispered. Nobody moved.

When the bell rang, he swept out of the class as quickly as he had entered, like a gust of wind carrying unfinished business elsewhere.

For the rest of the day, he became the only topic of discussion.

Everyone sensed one thing clearly — this man meant business.

The next day almost every student arrived carrying a new notebook. Only a few careless ones still took him lightly. That day he began teaching “Tenses.”

He drew a beautiful grid on the blackboard — four columns and three rows — and systematically wrote down all forms of past, present, and future tenses with their variations. Then he took a simple sentence and transformed it into twelve different tense forms, making the entire concept astonishingly easy to understand.

Suddenly he stopped.

“All those who have not brought notebooks, stand up.”

The guilty students rose slowly in pin-drop silence.

“You do not have enough money to buy a notebook? If you cannot afford one, take the money from me and buy it.”

Then, without raising his voice further, he ordered them out of the class.

The message was loud and clear.

After he left, panic spread among the weaker students. They immediately began completing assignments, afraid of facing humiliation later. Soon clusters formed around the desks of intelligent girls. Nalini’s desk resembled a help centre. Sonia and Ansuyia too were surrounded by anxious classmates seeking help with grammar exercises.

The very next day, when Mr Rathore entered the class, every student rose and wished him respectfully.

“Sit down,” he said. “Today we shall study literature. First I will narrate the story, and later you may read it from the book. When I narrated this story in IX-A, many students actually cried.”

The class instantly leaned forward.

“The story is The Home Coming, about a boy named David Copperfield who longs desperately to return home after living far away from his family…”

And then he began.

His narration cast a spell upon the class. We listened as though watching a grand 70mm film. Nobody looked at their watches. Some rested their chins on their palms; others sat stiff-backed, eyes fixed upon him. Even the weakest students, usually indifferent to English, sat completely absorbed.

By the time the bell rang, we did not realise how forty minutes had vanished.

The next day, however, was grammar day — and grammar meant terror.

As Mr Rathore entered, nervous faces stiffened. Silence gripped the room.

He rubbed his hands together, smiled faintly, and asked, “So, shall we begin?”

The blackboard was already decorated with the topic “Tenses,” neatly written and underlined by the front-bench student. Mr Rathore drew his familiar grid and wrote:

“What will be its past tense?”

Hands shot up instantly. But Mr Rathore ignored the volunteers. His eyes searched instead for the fearful faces trying to avoid attention.

Finally his gaze stopped at Nalini.

“Yes, go on.”

“I had gone,” came her soft reply from the backbench.

“I could not hear you, bête. Louder.”

“Sir… I had gone.”

“Good.”

He deliberately chose Nalini because he knew she would answer correctly. It relaxed the class slightly and restored confidence among the students.

Then came the next question.

“What will be the future tense?”

Once again fear spread through the room. This time his eyes stopped at Balli.

Poor Balli stood up trembling. Kumar, his bench partner, could not help him. The example was new, and Balli’s notebook offered no rescue.

After fumbling helplessly, Balli muttered in Hindi, “Main jaaoonga…”

“Good! But speak in English,” said the teacher.

Encouraged slightly, Balli tried again.

“I go…”

“Sit down,” Mr Rathore replied. “Your take-off level is too low. You must work hard.”

Balli sat down, relieved that the storm had passed.

Then came JP’s turn.

“I go tomorrow,” JP answered hurriedly.

“Where are you going tomorrow?” Mr Rathore fired back instantly. “You are not going anywhere. You will remain here till you become fit in Tenses!”

The class burst into suppressed laughter while the girls giggled openly.

Then, in complete seriousness, he announced:

“You are below average in English. Therefore, for the next fortnight I shall also take the last period daily to improve your grammar.”

That very day the last period was converted into an English class.

Before leaving earlier, he had assigned ten sentences to be converted into different tenses. When he checked them later, four students had failed to complete the work.

What followed terrified everyone.

“Show me your hands.”

Whoooosh!

The cane landed sharply on their palms.

“Aaaaaah!”

“If you do not understand something, I can teach you a hundred times,” he thundered. “But if you do not even attempt to learn, that is unacceptable!”

Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!

He spared neither boys nor girls, though he reduced the intensity for the girls. Shockingly, no girl cried. Most accepted the punishment silently.

Raina too received two hard whacks and later pretended to laugh them off, though he was later seen rubbing the back of his trousers quietly. Hips, after all, do not lie — even if lips do.

Yet, despite the terror, results began to show.

Students who could barely form a sentence started speaking grammatically correct English. Homework no longer meant merely writing answers. It meant writing, checking, memorising, practising with friends, and preparing mentally to face Mr Rathore’s questions.

Soon his fame spread throughout the school. Other teachers envied the attention he received. Everywhere one heard only one name — Mr Rathore.

But there was another side to him.

While punishing students he often lost control and behaved almost irrationally. His harshness, especially towards girls, slowly created resentment.

One day Sonia entered the class weeping bitterly. Tears rolled down her cheeks while her elder sister and some senior girls rushed in to console her. We later learnt that Mr Rathore had humiliated her before the Principal and forced her to apologise despite her insisting she was innocent.

Though the exact issue remained unclear, Sonia felt deeply hurt and betrayed. Watching senior students console her strangely irritated me because I felt that as her classmates, it should have been our responsibility to stand beside her.

That incident exposed the darker side of Mr Rathore’s personality.

Then came the confrontation nobody in school would ever forget.

During a combined class of both sections, several students failed to answer questions and were lined up for punishment. Mr Rathore moved down the row, caning boys and girls alike without hesitation.

Then he reached Ranjeet Vohra.

Vohra was a legendary sportsman of the school — strong, fearless, and already furious at the teacher’s behaviour, especially towards girls.

“Show your palms,” ordered Mr Rathore.

“No,” Vohra replied firmly. “You will not hit me.”

“You show me your hands. No arguments.”

“No. This ends here.”

And before anyone realised it, Vohra gripped one end of the cane tightly.

The class froze.

“Leave the cane,” Mr Rathore warned.

“No.”

For a few tense moments both stood facing each other in absolute silence. Finally Mr Rathore released the cane and declared angrily:

“There will be no English class until you apologise publicly before everyone!”

Then he stormed out.

The incident spread through the school like wildfire.

“Aaj class mein teacher ke saath panga ho gaya!”

Before rumours reached the Principal, Mr Rathore himself reported the matter. But the Principal faced a delicate situation. Vohra was not an ordinary student; he was the school’s star athlete who had brought glory to the institution.

Eventually a compromise was reached. Vohra would apologise publicly, and Mr Rathore would stop corporal punishment altogether.

The next day Vohra climbed onto the stage, muttered a four-second apology before both sections, and the matter officially ended.

But Mr Rathore’s anger did not disappear.

Unable to beat students now, he resorted to humiliation and verbal abuse instead, which often hurt even more deeply.

Then another controversy erupted.

One day during class he announced dramatically:

“I have discovered a shameful act by a girl student. A photograph of a half-nude girl was pasted inside her notebook. Very disgraceful behaviour.”

While speaking, he repeatedly glanced toward the backbench girls — Sonia, Nalini, and Ansuyia. Naturally, the entire class assumed one of them was responsible.

The girls were furious.

A few days later Nalini and Ansuyia confronted him after class.

“Sir,” Nalini said calmly, “you mentioned that photograph while looking directly at us. The boys now think we are responsible. Kindly tell us whose notebook it actually was.”

Mr Rathore avoided the question.

But the girls persisted until finally he agreed to show them the notebook.

The next day he produced it.

To everyone’s surprise, the picture was merely that of Nadia Comăneci wearing a gymnast’s costume. The notebook belonged not even to a girl from our class, but to a Class VIII sports student who admired the Olympic champion.

There was nothing obscene about it.

It was only Mr Rathore’s distorted interpretation that had created the controversy.

Nalini later contacted the younger student and confirmed the truth. Gradually the rumours died down, and the boys who had mocked the girls realised how unfairly they had judged them.

Had it been some timid student instead of Nalini and her friends, the stigma might have remained forever.

In the end, Mr Rathore remained one of the most unforgettable teachers of our lives — a man who transformed our English dramatically, inspired discipline and confidence, yet also left behind memories of fear, humiliation, and controversy.

He shaped us deeply — both positively and negatively.

Upur 8

 Chapter 8: The Fight

I always preferred the company of friends who respected my feelings, spoke openly, and carried an easygoing nature. Some boys did become my friends, but knowingly or unknowingly they often toyed with emotions and crossed limits in the name of fun. I disliked such behaviour deeply. Even if they meant no harm, it was a habit I could never truly accept, and gradually I began keeping my distance from such people.

John was different. He loved moving around with the city boys because they exposed him to a world far removed from cantonment life. Through them he experienced things that ordinary schoolboys rarely came across so early in life. Their circle included college boys, sons of businessmen who had abandoned studies, scrap dealers, clerks, and even grown men who smoked, drank, abused freely, and boasted endlessly about their romantic and sexual adventures. Many of them carried foul mouths and rough manners.

Being associated with such people made John feel worldly, experienced, and powerful. He believed he understood life better than the rest of us sheltered cantonment boys. Slowly, he developed the misconception that he possessed an upper edge over those who were untouched by that world.

The problem was not merely that he liked such company. He constantly tried to project it in front of others. He would subtly make people feel immature or inexperienced if they did not share his interests. Since he spent time with those rough characters, he had also developed the belief that they could get away with anything because they had connections with influential people. That gave him confidence, but it also changed him. At times he smoked and drank secretly, later chewing cardamom before going home to hide the smell.

For many city boys these habits were part of everyday life. To me, however, all this seemed too early and unnecessary. My upbringing had been completely different.

From childhood I had been an ardent admirer of Lee Falk’s legendary character, the Phantom. His comics were my favourite companions, and even today I remain fond of them. I dreamt of becoming like him and unconsciously began copying his ideals. Later in life I realised how strongly childhood heroes shape one’s personality.

The Phantom stood against wrongdoing, so did I. He never smoked or drank, and neither did I. He admired beauty, loved animals, respected nature, sought adventure, and possessed physical courage. Naturally, I tried to imitate those qualities too. He was not excessively studious, and I happily accepted that similarity as well. His love for jungles, horses, martial arts, and fearless living fascinated me endlessly. Looking back, I feel grateful to Lee Falk for creating a hero filled with values worth following.

My Sikh upbringing strengthened those beliefs further. Smoking and tobacco were considered wrong, which gave me additional resolve to stay away from such habits. Still, I remained curious about the world around me. I wanted to observe things firsthand, understand how people behaved, and know why they did what they did. Unlike some decent boys who avoided such company altogether, I never hesitated to observe from a distance.

Several times I tried discouraging my friends from indulging in such habits by simply showing disinterest whenever they discussed them. But my efforts had little effect. Eventually I stopped interfering and limited myself to humour and casual friendship.

Still, John repeatedly teased me over the matter.

“Tu abhi bachcha hai, bada ho kar sikhega,” he would say.

(“You’re still a kid. You’ll learn when you grow up.”)

At first I ignored it. But he began repeating it publicly in front of others, making me appear immature and inexperienced. Though he occasionally admitted he was joking, he never stopped. Gradually the teasing began pricking me like a needle.

One day, when he repeated the same line again, I lost my temper. I warned him sharply not to say it again. He was stunned by my reaction and immediately argued back. In the heat of the moment he hinted that he had powerful outside contacts and could easily “sort me out” if he wished. Among those names was a local fellow called Rombi, whom he had introduced to me once.

I remembered Rombi clearly.

I had first seen him outside the school premises near Chinar Complex. He had a scooter chain hanging around his neck, holding both ends in his hands as he roamed about like a street tough. He wore a maroon shirt, white trousers, shiny leather shoes, and carried the exact appearance of a Hindi-film villain. John had shaken hands with him proudly in front of me, as though displaying an important connection. Rombi was supposedly a scrap dealer with links to local policemen and a reputation for muscle power.

When John used his name to threaten me, something inside me snapped.

How could a friend think this way?

We played together every evening. Yet now he was indirectly threatening me through a local goon. The thought hurt me more than the threat itself. Anger slowly replaced friendship.

The next time he repeated the same thing, I replied coldly:

“I don’t care whom you know or befriend, but don’t tease me like this again. If you repeat it, I’ll hit you back—anywhere.”

Instead of backing down, he deliberately repeated it once more.

That was enough.

Already boiling with anger, I punched him hard in the chest as we stepped out of the classroom. He staggered backward and crashed against the door. Instantly he swung his heavy schoolbag into my stomach, knocking the air out of me. Furious, I kicked his leg and he fell down.

As he got up abusing me, he punched me back and I lost balance. Rage exploded inside me. I rushed forward again and landed another blow on his shoulder. Just as I prepared to strike him on the jaw, I heard the girls shouting:

“Stop it!”

For a split second my attention shifted. John seized the opportunity and rammed his head into my stomach, throwing me backward violently.

By then the entire class had erupted into chaos.

Raina and the others came running, half laughing and half trying to separate us. Even while they held us apart, I managed to kick John once more in the stomach, making him gasp for breath.

We were dragged away from each other by force.

But the moment their grip loosened, I charged again.

This time John’s back hit a desk and he fell against it facing upward. I jumped over him and gripped his neck with both hands. He twisted sideways and punched my waist hard enough to loosen my grip. Getting free, he shoved me again and I crashed onto a chair.

Breathing heavily, I grabbed the chair to strike back, but by then the others overpowered both of us completely. We were forced onto our seats while the class buzzed with excitement.

John kept glaring at me.

That glare irritated me so much that I sprang up once again and lunged forward, landing one final punch on his chest.

“Aaaah!” he shouted.

Again everyone rushed in to restrain us.

At that exact moment the bell rang for the next period.

Both of us were exhausted, bent forward, huffing and puffing. Oddly enough, with the fight over, the anger had also disappeared.

Trying to catch my breath, I muttered,

“Now go and call your Rombi.”

The others burst out laughing while John looked helpless.

The free period in which we had unknowingly demonstrated our “fighting skills” was finally over. Soon classes resumed as if nothing had happened.

By the time school ended, even the bitterness had faded.

Only the scratches on my hands and the soreness in my body reminded me of the battle we had fought a few hours earlier.

After class Panda came up smiling.

“So, how was the fight? And where exactly did this Rombi come from?”

I told him to ask John since he was the expert on such personalities. Panda laughed and explained that Rombi was actually more of a flashy show-off than a dangerous criminal. He roamed around near the school mainly to impress girls.

“Do you seriously think he would fight you just because John asked him to?” Panda said.

John lowered his eyes sheepishly.

Raina, meanwhile, found the entire episode hilarious.

“Why do you fellows fight among yourselves?” he laughed. “No outsider can interfere in our class matters. Our class is strong enough to handle anything.”

Then, grinning wickedly, he added:

“Come on, at least demonstrate the fight once more. It was entertaining!”

That made both of us laugh despite ourselves.

And just like that, the enmity ended forever.

Strangely, after that fight our friendship became stronger than before. John never teased me in that hurtful manner again. Even when he joked, it remained healthy and respectful. Gradually we became closer than ever.

He began sharing many things with me—the city boys, their affairs, their girlfriends, the local toughs, the hidden gossip of school life, even stories about young officers trying to gather information about schoolgirls through mutual contacts.

For me it was an entirely new world.

Slowly, I started understanding the unseen currents flowing around us. One day a friend even showed me a love letter written by a girl from our own class while we sat inside the jungle patch between the school and Chinar Complex.

I remember thinking in amazement:

“My God! This class is like a film industry. So many stories are unfolding silently around us.”

Compared to John, I felt like an innocent novice. Yet those discussions fascinated me because at that age curiosity ruled our minds.

One evening, after badminton, we sat in the mess near our house eating fried peanuts mixed with chopped onions—something that remains my weakness even today—and drinking Coke.

Suddenly I asked him,

“How did you feel when I punched you first?”

John laughed.

“It felt as if a huge rock had slammed into my chest. I got so angry that I hit you instantly with the only thing in my hand—my schoolbag. And how did you feel when I hit you?”

“It felt as if someone had dropped a heavy stone on my stomach,” I replied. “That’s why I kicked you back immediately. Did it hurt badly?”

“Oh yes,” he said, pointing to his knee. “It hurt like hell.”

I touched his knee lightly.

“Here?”

“Yes, exactly there.”

I rubbed it gently and said sincerely,

“I’m sorry. But I had completely lost my temper. And the worst part was that the girls saw us fighting.”

John burst out laughing.

“Yaar, tu toh number bana gaya unke saamne. Kick badi zabardast maari thi.”

(“You actually impressed them with that kick!”)

“No chance,” I replied. “I fell like Humpty Dumpty after your bag attack. That cancelled everything.”

Both of us laughed loudly.

Then I asked him quietly,

“Did you tell anything at home?”

“Pagal hai kya? Aisi baatein ghar mein thodi batate hain!”

(“Are you mad? Nobody discusses such things at home!”)

“Then what do you discuss at home? Girls?” I teased.

“Chhod yaar… woh baatein dil se karte hain.”

(“Leave it… such things are discussed from the heart.”)

Then, after a pause, he leaned forward mischievously.

“Now tell me honestly—which girl do you like most in class?”

I smiled nervously.

“You tell first.”

“No. I asked first.”

I tried escaping cleverly.

“From beauty point of view, intelligence, or overall personality?”

“Stop complicating things. Tell me one overall choice.”

“Wohi ek hi toh hai.”

(“There’s only one.”)

John narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

“I think we’ll have to fight again.”

“Why?”

“Because you never answer clearly.”

I finally replied vaguely,

“Woh gori wali.”

(“That fair-skinned one.”)

“Reema?” he asked instantly.

“So you like her?” I asked.

He smiled and nodded.

“And does she like you?”

“No idea.”

“So it’s one-sided?”

“For now, yes.”

“Best of luck then,” I laughed.

“But wait,” he said suddenly. “You took her name too.”

“No, I didn’t. I only said ‘the fair one.’”

His face relaxed immediately.

“Then who were you talking about?”

“The one with two-three names joined together. I can never remember them properly.”

“Oh! Mansingh?” he laughed.

“Yes! Sonia Rukmini Mansingh. The girl who sits with Nalini.”

John grinned.

“Patakha.”

“What does that mean?”

“A very attractive girl.”and she is intelligent also - blend of both.

“But patakha means firecracker.”

“Do you want to eat mangoes or count the seeds?” he replied impatiently, ending the discussion.

Then I asked,

“If Sonia is so then why do  you prefer Reema?" 

“Because she’s too smart for me and  I like simple desi girls.”

I sighed dramatically.

“If Sonia is too smart for you, then where do I stand?”

John laughed loudly and said,

“You talk as if she’s your girlfriend and Reema is mine. We’re only discussing our choices for fun. Anyway, in four or five years they’ll all be married to men older than us. If we can’t win them in real life, at least we can make them our dream girls in our thoughts. Nobody can stop us from it, not even them.”

That logic was strangely sensible.

Both of us burst into laughter again, finished our coke and peanuts, and headed home as evening darkness settled around the cantonment.

Later that night, while making my notes on physics, I kept thinking about the day.

In the afternoon we had fought with genuine anger, rolling on the classroom floor like enemies. By evening we were sharing secrets, discussing girls, apologising sincerely, and laughing together like brothers.

Such transformations are difficult to imagine in adulthood.

A child’s heart is still clean, untouched by layers of ego and bitterness. I realise that today.

Sometimes even now a strange thought crosses my mind: if nations carried the innocence of children, perhaps even enemies could become friends within a day.

Thinking that, I completed my physics notes on Motion, solved a few numerical problems, and finally went to sleep.

The day of punches, laughter, bruises, friendship, and heartfelt conversations had come to an end.

Upur7

 Chapter 7: The Uncontrolled Laughter

Humour had always been my greatest weakness.

Not ordinary laughter, but the kind that arrives like an uncontrollable storm and refuses to stop. I had realised very early in life that laughter is infectious. It spreads faster than fire in dry grass. Some people can suppress it instantly and regain a straight face within seconds, but I was never blessed with that ability.

And because of this weakness, I suffered a great deal in school.

Teachers almost always caught me laughing, while the real culprits escaped easily. Boys like Raina could transform their expressions within a split second, like chameleons changing colour. One moment they would be laughing uncontrollably, and the next moment they would sit with perfectly innocent faces, staring attentively at the blackboard as if nothing had happened.

Naturally, the teacher’s eyes always stopped on me.

As a result, I often received punishment not only for my own laughter but also for everyone else’s share. Ironically, that only made the situation funnier for the others. The more I tried to suppress my laughter under strict classroom conditions, the more violent it became inside me. After a point it became physically unbearable. Breathing turned difficult, my stomach cramped with pain and my eyes watered uncontrollably.

Some teachers even began suspecting that there was genuinely something wrong with me psychologically.

One day Patthu Sir, Mr Pahariwal himself, discussed the matter seriously with Raina.

“Isko kya koi dimaagi takleef hai jo yeh har waqt hansta rehta hai?” (Is he suffering from some mental problem that he keeps laughing all the time?)

Raina looked at me immediately and made one of his famous funny faces — the exact expression of a man desperately trying to control laughter.

That was enough.

I burst out laughing right in front of Patthu Sir.

This only strengthened the teacher’s suspicion that I was mentally unstable. Meanwhile, Raina instantly changed his face back to normal and replied with complete seriousness,

“I’ll find out, Sir.”

That finished me completely.

I could barely breathe. Tears rolled from my eyes while Patthu Sir walked away even more convinced that I needed medical attention.

When the period ended, I told Raina angrily that I would never sit beside him again.

Like an idiot, he made the same funny face once more.

I immediately collapsed into another fit of laughter.

Exhausted beyond limits, I finally escaped to the water point outside the classroom just to recover my breath. Raina knew exactly how to exploit this weakness of mine, and though I hated the embarrassment it caused, I secretly admired his mastery over humour.

Even today, I miss that laughter.

I still possess the same weakness, but very few people now can trigger it the way Raina did. That part of me has remained dormant ever since, waking up only occasionally when I meet someone equally gifted after years.

The strange thing was that it was rarely the joke itself that made me laugh. Most of the jokes I had already heard before. What truly destroyed me was Raina’s timing. He had an extraordinary talent for narrating absurd things precisely when complete seriousness was expected.

And I discovered something important in life:

The fear of humiliation drastically reduces one’s ability to control laughter.

One unforgettable incident occurred during a Geography class conducted by Mr Shambhu.

He was actually a good teacher and not particularly strict. He generally ignored low-level chatter as long as the class was not disturbed badly. But he had one peculiar habit. Whenever he wished to emphasise an important point, he would raise his chin upward and close his eyes while speaking. After finishing the sentence, he would slowly lower his head again.

Perhaps it helped him concentrate.

That day he was teaching us the layers of the atmosphere.

“The lowest layer is called the troposphere…” he explained in his usual style, chin raised and eyes closed.

At that exact moment, Raina produced a long, realistic cat sound.

“Meeeeeeooooow…”

The sound echoed softly across the classroom.

I froze.

Raman, who had recently joined from Gauhati in Assam and happened to be sitting beside us that day, also stiffened immediately.

Mr Shambhu slowly opened his eyes the way people wake up from deep meditation during shavasana. He looked around calmly but, finding no clue, quietly resumed his lecture.

There was mild murmuring in the class, but nothing serious enough to interrupt the lesson.

Then came the second attack.

“Meeeeooooowww!”

This time Raman and I kicked Raina hard under the desk, begging him silently to stop.

But the damage had already begun inside us.

Suppressing laughter had created such pressure within our bodies that our eyeballs practically seemed ready to burst out. We had clamped our palms tightly over our mouths, making even breathing difficult.

What made matters worse was watching the teacher slowly reopen his eyes each time in majestic slow motion, as if returning from another world.

Mr Shambhu now looked directly at the three of us.

Raina’s fair face had already turned reddish from suppressing laughter, and the teacher finally understood that he was the culprit while Raman and I were merely victims of infectious laughter.

Still, he said nothing.

Instead he continued teaching while throwing murderous looks towards us from time to time. Then, as usual, he raised his chin and closed his eyes once again.

That encouraged Raina further.

“Meeeeowww… Meeeeeeooooowww… Meeeeow!”

Now I knew disaster was unavoidable.

I was gasping for air. My lungs felt as if they would explode. At that moment I honestly did not care about punishment anymore. I simply wanted permission to run outside and laugh properly before suffocating to death.

Mr Shambhu slowly placed his book on the table.

Without interrupting his lecture even for a second, he picked up his cane and calmly walked towards our desk.

The closer he came, the worse our condition became.

Finally he stopped beside Raina and ordered all three of us to stand up.

Raman and I hesitated because our mouths were still buried inside our palms in a desperate attempt to hide our laughter. Raina alone managed to stand first.

Raising the cane above his shoulder, the teacher asked sternly,

“Yeh voice kisne nikaali hai?” (Who made this voice?)

“Boys? Kaun se boys?” (Boys? Which boys?) replied Raina innocently.

I nearly died.

“Main boys nahin, voice bol raha hoon.” (I said voice, not boys.) the teacher clarified impatiently.

Raina nodded thoughtfully.

“Mainay toh koi boys nahin dekhe yahaan aate hue.” (I did not see any boys coming here.)

Then, turning towards me with a perfectly serious face, he asked,

“Did you see any boys?”

I could no longer even respond.

My head remained buried on the desk while my body shook violently.

The teacher knew perfectly well that Raina was deliberately confusing him. Raising his chin once again and tightening his grip on the cane, he repeated slowly,

“Main boys nahin… voice bol raha hoon.” (I am saying voice, not boys.)

That was the breaking point.

I suddenly stood up, exploded into uncontrollable laughter and finally inhaled the deep breath for which I had been struggling.

“Sir!” I gasped between laughter. “Please ask him to stop making me laugh!”

Raman collapsed next.

The moment he burst out laughing, Raina too lost all remaining control over himself.

“Whooooooshhhhh! Whooooshhhhhh!”

Two sharp cane strikes landed across his back.

But even that failed to stop us.

There we were — three boys laughing helplessly in front of an increasingly furious teacher. Tears streamed down our faces, our cheeks had turned red and our bodies shook uncontrollably.

The rest of the class stared at us in utter confusion.

And the funny part was that the entire catastrophe had started from one stupid observation. Before class, Raina had simply whispered to us:

“Watch carefully how Sir raises his chin and closes his eyes while teaching.”

Once we noticed it, every repetition became funnier than the previous one. Then the cat sounds pushed the situation beyond recovery.

We were finally thrown out of the classroom.

Raina carried two fresh cane marks on his back.

Oddly enough, I felt grateful to the teacher because at least now we were free to laugh openly and save our lungs from bursting.

Outside the class we bent over, breathing heavily like exhausted runners after a two-mile sprint. Slowly the pressure inside our chests eased.

I immediately headed towards the water point, washed my face and drank water greedily.

Raman was still laughing in jerks.

Then Raina casually announced,

“Chalo Chinar Chowk ke samose khate hain.” (Come, let’s go eat samosas at Chinar.)

“You keep quiet now,” I warned him. “And don’t make that face at me again.”

By then my lungs felt completely drained and I was half asleep from exhaustion.

Still, the three of us went to Chinar Complex where we had samosas, bread and tea. Afterwards we slipped into the nearby theatre with the help of some of Raina’s friends working there and watched a few scenes and songs from a movie before returning to school.

When we came back, the Geography period was about to end.

From outside the classroom I could still see Mr Shambhu teaching with his chin raised and eyes closed.

I wisely decided not to enter the class again.

I wanted to live another day.

Beside me stood Raina with the same mischievous expression on his face, silently asking:

“Some more?”

The bell finally rang.

As soon as we entered the classroom, everyone surrounded us demanding an explanation for the mysterious laughter. I simply pointed towards Raina and escaped responsibility.

Yet deep inside I felt slightly awkward.

I wondered what the girls must be thinking about us. Most probably they had concluded that the three of us were mentally unstable idiots laughing without reason.

Nalini asked me curiously what exactly had happened.

I could only reply,

“It cannot be explained. It can only be experienced.”

And honestly, she would probably have called us fools had she known the real reason.

Raina possessed another dangerous talent too.

He loved narrating fictional comic stories using classmates, teachers and even their parents as characters, whether people liked it or not. Those who could tolerate jokes about themselves stayed and enjoyed the sessions. Others quietly escaped before becoming targets.

There exists an unwritten rule in humour:

Only those who can bear jokes upon themselves earn the right to joke about others.

Raina followed this rule sincerely. If somebody mocked him, he accepted it sportingly without resentment.

Balli, however, was poor at tolerating jokes on himself. So during such sessions he quietly disappeared. He also had weak eyesight and eventually shifted to the front benches because he could not read the blackboard properly. Raman then occupied his place beside us.

Raman was gentle, submissive and easy-going. Since he had arrived from Gauhati, we simply nicknamed him “Gauhati,” and the name stayed with him till he left school.

John, meanwhile, preferred roaming with the local city boys and cultivating contacts outside school. He usually stayed around Vohra, Raina and Karan because it made him feel influential and adventurous.

As for me, my friendship with them remained largely confined to humour, classroom fun and occasional visits to Chinar Restaurant.

Raina was famous for yet another remarkable skill — producing all kinds of strange sounds from his throat. Cats, dogs, puppies, rooster calls, girlish voices and countless other high-pitched noises emerged from him effortlessly. His rooster imitation became especially legendary.

Vohra and I eventually nicknamed him “Kua-Kua Guy.”

Sometimes he would keep repeating those sounds continuously during class, causing severe “laughter attacks” among us. Vohra had learnt some of these techniques too, but unlike Raina he rarely used them during lectures because he carefully maintained his respectable image.

By the time I finally left Udhampur, I felt I had earned a PhD in laughter and jokes.

Very few jokes today genuinely make me laugh because I have heard most of them already.

But one truth remains permanent:

No matter how good a joke is, its success depends largely upon the person narrating it.

Because ultimately, the narrator is the man behind the gun.