Upur2

 

Chapter 2

The First Day at School

Monday arrived with a strange mixture of excitement and nervousness. It was to be my first day at school in Udhampur—a day that would later become one of the most treasured memories of my life. At that time, however, I had no idea that the place, the people, and the experiences awaiting me would someday occupy such a warm corner in my heart.

Dressed in my brand-new navy-blue school uniform and carrying an equally new school bag, I accompanied my father to the school. The winter morning was crisp and pleasant. As we entered through the main gate of the Kendriya Vidyalaya, I noticed an unusual silence across the grounds. The classes had already begun, and the playgrounds stood deserted.

We walked straight to the Principal’s office.

Even today, the first image of the Principal, Mr. Sukhraj Singh, remains vivid in my memory. He was almost bald, with only a thin fringe of hair around the sides of his shining scalp. Thick black-framed spectacles rested heavily on his nose, and his pale yellow shirt hung untucked over grey trousers. Sandals completed his rather simple appearance. There was no smile on his face; instead, he carried the unmistakable expression of a man burdened by endless responsibilities.

As we entered, he gestured politely to my father to sit down and then looked at me over the top of his spectacles.

“So, he is the boy?” he asked in a measured tone.

Then, turning to my father, he added seriously, “He cannot be placed officially on the school rolls until confirmation comes from the Sangathan.”

Those words instantly dampened my enthusiasm. I had arrived with great hopes of beginning a new chapter, but suddenly I felt awkward and unwanted, almost like an uninvited guest at someone else’s celebration.

“There is nothing to worry about,” my father replied confidently. “I will obtain the permission soon. Meanwhile, he must attend classes so that his studies do not suffer. Government procedures always take time.”

“Yes, yes,” the Principal nodded before fixing his eyes on me again. “And you must study hard.”

He rang the small brass bell placed on his table, summoning the peon, and instructed him to escort us to my class—IX B.

IX B.

The words immediately triggered disappointment in my mind.

“Why not IX A?” I wondered silently.

In those days, many students carried the childish belief that Section A consisted of the brighter students while Section B housed the weaker lot. I could not help wondering whether I had already been judged before even entering the classroom.

The peon led us along a corridor past a cemented stage situated between the Principal’s office and the classrooms. We finally stopped outside my new class. The teacher inside stepped out, greeted my father warmly, and then motioned me to enter.

Father smiled reassuringly, waved goodbye, and left.

For the first time, I stood alone inside my new classroom.

Almost immediately, a dark-complexioned boy who looked older than the rest walked towards me. Placing a friendly hand on my back, he guided me toward an empty seat in the middle row with the politeness of someone ushering an honoured guest.

“Thank you,” I said softly.

He smiled warmly and replied, “You can sit here, Giani.”

I almost laughed.

Why was he calling me “Giani”? Later I realized that since I was the only Sikh student in the class, he had innocently associated my appearance with the religious teachers he had seen in gurudwaras.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Joy Pratap,” he replied promptly. “But everyone calls me JP.”

The English period resumed, and the teacher continued his lesson while I quietly observed my new surroundings. The moment the teacher left, however, the entire class seemed to come alive. Several boys surrounded me immediately, asking where I had come from, which school I had attended, and where I lived in Udhampur.

Unlike my previous school in Allahabad, where students mostly came from affluent business families and elite civilian backgrounds, this school reflected the true diversity of Army life. Children from every social level studied together—sons of barbers, clerks, junior soldiers, senior officers, and occasionally businessmen as well. Yet there was no visible sense of superiority or inferiority among them. Their backgrounds could only be guessed from their accents and mannerisms, not from the way they treated one another.

Very soon, I began learning their names. Balram, who shared my bench, was among the first to befriend me. Then came Mahesh Chander, Narinder, Raina, and many others. The moment they discovered that I lived near the Chopra Shop area—where many Engineer officers resided—the students from that locality immediately adopted me into their informal circle and began offering help with notes, books, timetables, and other essentials needed by a newcomer.

It was also my return to a co-educational school after several years. Though I had studied in co-ed institutions during my childhood, I had spent the previous years in an all-boys school. In this classroom, one row was occupied by girls while the remaining two rows were for boys. My seat in the middle row placed me directly beside the girls’ section.

Naturally, curiosity about the newcomer spread quickly.

I noticed a few girls whispering among themselves while occasionally glancing in my direction.

“Yeh naya Sardarji kahaan se aaya hai?” one of them quietly asked JP.

JP explained whatever little he knew about me, probably embellishing it with positive details. The girl’s name, I later learned, was Reema. She was fair and attractive but carried the typical local civilian accent and mannerisms that somehow did not match my wavelength. She was more comfortable with the city crowd, and I made no particular effort to interact with her.

Another girl seated near the front appeared unusually lively and outspoken. She constantly joked with the boys, communicated dramatically through facial expressions, and enjoyed considerable attention from both students and teachers alike. Her name, I soon discovered, was Mallika—a name that seemed to float endlessly through classroom conversations. Though she fascinated many boys, her over-smart behaviour made me instinctively cautious.

When I turned towards the rear rows, however, I noticed a quieter group of students—especially a few graceful, soft-spoken girls who appeared studious and composed. Most belonged to the Chinar group, students living in Army quarters near the school known as the Chinar Complex.

Then my attention shifted to two boys seated toward the back.

One of them smiled and waved cheerfully. He was fair, lean, athletic-looking, and carried himself with easy confidence. Beside him sat another fair boy with a serious face but unmistakably childish features.

“I am John… John Benet,” he announced dramatically, pausing between his names exactly the way James Bond introduced himself in films.

I lowered my head toward my desk and laughed quietly to myself.

“A junior Bond,” I thought.

Within the first hour itself, the classroom’s invisible social map became clear to me. The city students occupied the front rows, the Chinar group sat toward the rear right, the Garhi students clustered near the middle, and the Chopra Shop boys were spread across the classroom in smaller groups.

Then the lunch bell rang.

Most students rushed outside into the warm winter sunlight while a few remained inside the classroom. During the break, I properly met John and discovered that he too lived near my house in the Sappers’ Enclave above Chopra Shop. Even better, our fathers worked in the same office. That alone was enough to create an instant bond.

Soon another boy approached me.

“I am Jagmohan Singh Raina,” he said while shaking my hand.

He was the same fair and athletic-looking boy I had noticed earlier. After introducing himself briefly, he hurried away, promising to speak properly later.

Meanwhile, Balram and I continued talking.

Though physically strong and healthy, Balram struggled academically, especially in English. Yet he possessed one quality I admired immensely—absolute sincerity. He explained everything honestly and patiently, sharing whatever notes and guidance he could.

He began narrating details about almost every student in class in his Punjabi-influenced Hindi.

“We should sit at the back from tomorrow,” I suggested. “Then we can see the whole class and talk easily with everyone.”

He agreed immediately.

He then warned me about one particular teacher.

“Patthu Sir checks homework very strictly,” he whispered seriously while handing me his notebook so I could copy the questions.

“Patthu?” I asked, trying not to laugh.

“His real name is Mr. Pahariwal,” Balram grinned. “But everyone calls him Patthu. And soon you too will start calling me Balli.”

He even gave me his home address and assured me that I could approach him whenever I needed help. The affection behind his gesture touched me deeply.

JP joined us moments later with the confidence of a local gang leader.

“If anyone troubles you,” he declared proudly, “just tell me. I’ll handle the rest.”

He behaved as though the entire school functioned under his command. I nodded politely, though inwardly I felt amused by his dramatic self-importance.

The final period of the day was History.

The teacher, Mr. Digvijay Singh, immediately impressed me. He was tall, broad-built, and carried an authoritative personality that initially appeared intimidating. Yet within minutes I realized he was among the warmest and most cheerful teachers in the school.

That day he was teaching the Indus Valley Civilization.

“Can anyone explain how the cities were planned?” he asked the class.

I raised my hand.

He looked at me and nodded.

“Sir, the cities were scientifically planned,” I answered confidently. “The roads intersected at right angles, the drainage system was properly designed with covered drains, and the houses were well ventilated.”

“Very good!” he exclaimed with visible delight. “Beta, aap kahaan se aaye ho?”

“From St. Joseph’s, Allahabad, Sir,” I replied. “And I joined today.”

The entire class suddenly looked at me differently. Since I had answered in fluent English—a rarity during History discussions in Kendriya Vidyalayas—I was instantly branded as a “good student.” News travelled through the classroom almost like a chain reaction.

From that day onward, Digvijay Singh became one of my favourite teachers. Though he appeared strict from a distance, he believed in encouraging students rather than frightening them. Unlike many teachers who followed the “spare the rod and spoil the child” philosophy, he motivated through kindness and respect.

By the time the final bell rang, I already felt accepted.

Students packed their bags noisily and streamed out of the classroom. Since my house was only about three kilometres away, I decided to walk home instead of using the school bus.

Balram, JP, and John accompanied me initially. At the bus stop, JP and John boarded the local bus while Balli continued walking with me toward Chopra Shop. We talked continuously about school, teachers, classmates, and plans for the next day. Before parting ways, we fixed a meeting point for the following morning so we could go to school together.

As I climbed uphill toward Sappers’ Enclave, I felt deeply satisfied.

My first day at the new school had gone far better than I had expected.

That evening, John came over to invite me for badminton. During our game, he entertained me endlessly with stories about the local crowd of Udhampur. He spoke dramatically about school pranks, troublesome boys, mysterious outsiders, local toughs, and romantic gossip surrounding students and girls. He possessed an unusual talent for storytelling—always ending his tales midway so that curiosity forced the listener to return for the remaining part later.

He also proudly explained how he and JP travelled free in the local “Padha Bus.”

Their technique was astonishingly clever. They boarded from the rear door while the conductor remained busy issuing tickets near the front. Midway through the journey, when the bus halted near Carmel Convent School, they slipped out quietly and re-entered from the front entrance after the conductor had moved toward the rear. By the time the bus reached Chopra Shop, they simply got down unnoticed—having completed the entire journey without purchasing a ticket.

“And what if the conductor catches you?” I asked curiously.

“Then buy a ticket immediately and pretend you just boarded,” John replied casually.

Later, I discovered another common trick used by regular passengers. Instead of paying the full fare of twenty paise, many handed the conductor only fifteen paise. The conductor quietly pocketed the amount without issuing a ticket, thereby benefiting both himself and the passenger. However, if anyone demanded a proper ticket, the full fare was charged honestly.

After badminton, we went to the Officers’ Mess, ate fried peanuts, and played table tennis before finally returning home.

The day had been long, exciting, and unforgettable.

And now, before sleeping, there still remained one final duty—the homework for the next day at school.