Upur3

 Chapter 3

The Days Ahead

The next morning marked the beginning of my real routine in Udhampur. Unlike the previous day, I had to reach school early enough to attend the morning assembly, something Balli had carefully explained to me while we walked back home the day before.

I finished my breakfast hurriedly, slung my school bag across my shoulder, and started descending the Sappers’ Enclave hill toward Chopra Shop. Balli was already waiting there with another boy whose face looked vaguely familiar.

The moment I reached them, Balli introduced him enthusiastically.

“This is Biswajeet Yogi,” he said. “But everyone calls him Poondri.”

Poondri smiled warmly and shook hands with me. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and cheerful-looking. While walking, he took unusually long strides and swung his arms energetically from side to side. A haversack hung casually from his shoulder. Though his rough features made him appear intimidating at first glance, his speech and manners were remarkably gentle.

“I also stay near Chopra Shop,” he explained, pointing toward a cluster of multi-storeyed buildings visible far behind the hills.

The three of us then continued toward school together.

Soon we reached a fork in the road near a beautifully constructed Gurudwara. Beyond it stood Carmel Convent School on our left.

Balli grinned mischievously.

“This school is only up to Class VIII,” he announced proudly. “After that, all the totays come to our school.”

That was the first time I heard the word totays being used for pretty girls. In Punjabi, the word literally referred to cloth cuttings or pieces, commonly used by shopkeepers, yet among schoolboys it had somehow evolved into coded slang for attractive girls. The term fascinated me, and before long I discovered it was part of the everyday vocabulary of boys not only in Udhampur but almost everywhere I travelled later in life.

We continued ahead and soon reached Bikram Park, a famous ground where, as Balli proudly informed me, Ranji Trophy cricket matches had once been played. Adjacent to it stood the Chinar Theatre Complex—the social heart of the cantonment and one of the most exciting places for youngsters like us.

The area had everything: a cinema hall, a CSD canteen, small shops selling daily necessities, and a neatly maintained shopping complex. Unlike the crowded, chaotic bazaars of civilian towns, this place was disciplined, orderly, and immaculately clean—an unmistakable reflection of Army administration.

Pointing toward the theatre, Balli added, “The manager is Rajdeep Sahni’s father—you know, the boy with the weak leg in our class. He can help us watch movie clips during free periods if we ever want to sneak in.”

The idea itself sounded thrilling.

Crossing the theatre complex, we descended toward the school gate where several Army school buses stood parked in neat rows. We entered our classroom briefly to keep our bags and then moved toward the large cemented stage where students were already assembling for the morning prayer.

As the bell rang, lines formed quickly and with surprising discipline. A group of students climbed onto the stage and began leading the morning prayer in chorus.

Out of habit, I immediately closed my eyes and started reciting the familiar convent-school prayer I had spoken for years.

“Our Father in Heaven, holy be Your name…”

But within seconds I sensed something was terribly wrong.

The rhythm around me sounded completely different.

I opened my eyes instantly and heard the entire assembly singing in Hindi:

“Daya kar daan vidya ka hamein Parmatma dena…”

I almost smiled.

“This is not even the Hindi version of the English prayer,” I thought. “It is an entirely different prayer altogether!”

Realizing my mistake, I quickly stopped speaking aloud and merely moved my lips silently until the prayer ended.

Soon after, a senior student stepped onto the stage to read the morning news.

“And now, the news read by Bhushan Awasthi of Govind House. Russia has successfully test-fired a new nuclear missile…”

He spoke with remarkable confidence, pausing occasionally to glance at the audience the way professional newsreaders did on television. Later I discovered that he too lived near my house, though he was a class senior.

The next performance was a sitar recital by his sister, Ambika Awasthi.

She was exceptionally fair, graceful, and soft-spoken, with a delicate voice that reminded me of singer Lata Mangeshkar. Sitting cross-legged on the carpet spread over the stage, she began playing the sitar with complete concentration.

Personally, I had never enjoyed the instrument much. Its slow, meditative tunes usually made me sleepy. Yet judging by the expressions on the teachers’ faces, her performance was clearly considered extraordinary.

The assembly concluded with physical training exercises. Students spread out across the ground, maintaining arm’s distance from one another while synchronized movements were performed to the beat of a solitary drum.

At the end, I waited instinctively for the familiar command I had heard for years in St. Joseph’s School:

“School dismissed!”

But instead, a loud voice thundered across the ground:

“Visarjan!”

Immediately, the lines dissolved and students marched back toward their classrooms.

As we proceeded, I noticed two PT teachers standing beside the pathway like silent inspectors. One of them was a heavily built, intimidating man whom John whispered was “Dabang Singh”—a teacher feared throughout the school. He rarely interacted with junior students and mostly dealt with sportsmen.

Beside him stood a younger PT teacher named Rajeev Sir, slim, smart, and pleasant-looking. Unlike Dabang Singh, he appeared approachable and friendly.

Their task was simple: identify latecomers and students wearing improper uniforms.

Fortunately, I escaped their attention and reached the classroom safely.

The first period that day was Physics.

Even before the teacher entered, I heard Poondri shout loudly from across the room,

“JP! Is the first period Daddoo’s?”

“Yes,” JP replied hurriedly. “And speak softly. He has arrived.”

I was puzzled.

“Daddoo?”

In Punjabi, the word meant “frog.”

Before I could ask Balli who this mysterious Daddoo was, the teacher entered and the entire class stood up in respectful silence.

The lecture soon began.

“Yesterday we completed Newton’s Second Law,” the teacher announced while rolling a long piece of chalk between his fingers. “Today we shall study the Third Law of Motion.”

He looked around the class dramatically.

“Can anyone tell me what happens if I slap you?”

Mallika stood up immediately.

“Sir, we will feel pain and get a jerk,” she replied confidently.

The class burst into suppressed laughter while everyone waited for the teacher’s reaction.

“Correct,” he said seriously. “That means there will be a reaction. Therefore, for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. In this case, my slap is the action, and your pain is the reaction.”

I stared at him in disbelief.

“What an unusual method of teaching Physics,” I thought nervously, secretly hoping I would never have to experience such practical demonstrations personally.

While the teacher turned toward the blackboard to write, Balli leaned toward me and whispered,

“That is Daddoo Sir. Very strict fellow. Stay alert in his class.”

At last, the mystery was solved.

Yet I still wondered why the class had given him such a peculiar nickname. As I observed him more carefully, the resemblance became obvious. He had slightly protruding eyes, a small light-framed body, and a habit of making sudden little jumps after speaking a sentence—exactly like a frog.

The nickname fit perfectly.

The class ended, and after a few minutes a small-built boy named Sooraj approached me carrying a pair of spectacles.

“Please give these to Daddoo Sir,” he requested innocently. “He forgot them.”

Without thinking much, I took the spectacles and walked out. Only halfway to the staff room did it strike me that Sooraj himself could easily have delivered them. By then he had already vanished toward the library.

As I searched for the teacher, I encountered Rita, a girl from our class with striking reddish hair resembling that of Iranian gypsies.

“Have you seen Daddoo Sir?” I asked casually.

She burst into laughter and walked away without answering.

Confused, I immediately checked my uniform, my shirt buttons, even my trouser zip, wondering if something was wrong with my appearance. Everything seemed perfectly fine.

Still puzzled, I continued ahead and soon met my History teacher.

“Sir, have you seen Daddoo Sir?” I asked politely.

“Which Daddoo Sir?” he replied, staring at me curiously. “There is no teacher by that name.”

At that precise moment, John appeared from nowhere, quickly pulled me aside, and whispered urgently,

“What are you doing? Daddoo is only his nickname! His real name is Mr. Pandey!”

I almost froze in horror.

“You people will get me killed someday!” I muttered angrily.

Just then I spotted Mr. Pandey walking toward the Principal’s office. I rushed forward, handed over his spectacles respectfully, received a polite “thank you,” and returned to class.

The moment I sat down, Sooraj turned around mischievously.

“So… did you find Daddoo?” he asked with an innocent face.

For a brief second, I genuinely felt tempted to demonstrate Newton’s Third Law on him personally. But seeing everyone else casually using nicknames for teachers, I swallowed my irritation and simply responded with a stiff thumbs-up.

Later I asked Balli again why everyone called Mr. Pandey “Daddoo.”

“Because he jumps after every sentence,” Balli explained matter-of-factly. “Didn’t you notice?”

Now that I thought about it carefully, he was absolutely right.

Another teacher who soon became memorable was our Mathematics teacher, Mr. T.K. Chopra.

Unlike the strict Physics teacher, Mr. Chopra transformed Mathematics into entertainment. Elderly, cheerful, and endlessly patient, he taught through humour and simple memory tricks that made even difficult concepts feel easy.

I still remember the day he introduced us to Trigonometry.

Instead of making the subject frightening, he reduced the formulas to playful shortcuts. He explained:

Sine = Perpendicular divided by Hypotenuse

Cosine = Base divided by Hypotenuse

Tangent = Perpendicular divided by Base

To help us memorize them forever, he converted the formulas into a funny phrase:

“Pandit Badri Prasad, Har Har Bole.”

Even today, years later, I still remember those formulas exactly the same way while teaching my own children.

As the days passed, I slowly became familiar with every teacher and student in the school. Almost every teacher had acquired a nickname invented by students, and strangely enough, those nicknames were used more often than their real names.

I often wondered whether the teachers themselves knew about these secret identities and whether they found them amusing or offensive. Whatever the truth, one thing was certain—I had to remain extremely careful never to accidentally address any teacher by their nickname to their face.

Even today, every Teachers’ Day on the 5th of September, these memories return vividly. While talking to my children about school life, I often find myself smiling at those carefree days in Udhampur—the friendships, the laughter, the innocent mischief, and the unforgettable personalities who unknowingly shaped some of the happiest chapters of my childhood.