Upur5

 Chapter 5: The Backbenchers

By the time Balli and I shifted to the back benches, the classroom had begun to reveal itself to me in an entirely different way. From there, I could observe the whole class without constantly turning around. Every movement was visible—the attentive students leaning over their notebooks, the restless boys whispering mischief into one another’s ears, the daydreamers staring through the windows, and the teachers trying to maintain order amidst the chaos of adolescence. Sitting at the back gave me an odd sense of command, as though I had silently become an observer of everyone’s hidden worlds.

Yet there was still one group beyond even my line of control—the girls seated behind me on the far right. Their row stretched longer than ours and reached all the way to the rear wall of the classroom. They occupied the most strategic position in the class. From there they could watch everyone ahead of them while remaining unseen themselves. Quietly, almost invisibly, they dominated the atmosphere of IX-B.

Watching classmates being caught during acts of mischief became an entertainment in itself. Many students carried on confidently under the illusion that the teacher was unaware, only to be abruptly exposed. From the back benches such scenes unfolded like theatre. Another advantage was comfort. Those seated in front had to keep swinging their necks left and right to follow the writing on the blackboard, whereas we at the back enjoyed a relaxed view.

There was also a pleasant openness around our seats. The middle boys’ row ended well before the back wall, leaving ample empty space behind us. To my right, the girls’ row extended farther with three additional desks. The result was better ventilation, more freedom of movement, and enough space behind us to fool around during summer afternoons.

Until then I knew little about the backbench girls except that they appeared far more graceful and composed than the louder front-bench crowd. Most of them came from the Chinar residential area and were daughters of Army officers. Their confidence, polished manners, and rapport with teachers naturally set them apart. Whenever a teacher asked a question, it was usually these girls who answered with clarity and confidence, often dominating the academic atmosphere of the class.

One among them was Ansuyia, who lived not far from my house. She was a typical South Indian girl who struggled with Hindi and spoke it cautiously, almost word by word. Perhaps because of a strict upbringing, she remained reserved and seldom interacted with boys. Unlike many others, she was rarely seen roaming around the Chinar complex or theatre area after school.

She had an oval face and extraordinarily long hair that nearly brushed the floor whenever she rose from her chair. Her dark complexion glowed beautifully whenever she smiled, revealing sparkling white teeth.

One incident involving her became unforgettable.

John had borrowed her notebook with a promise to return it before Tuesday, the day the assignment was to be submitted. Unfortunately, he forgot to bring it back. He had copied the assignment into his own notebook, but Ansuyia’s notebook remained at his house.

When she discovered this, she became furious. Word spread quickly through the class that she was waiting for John and intended to confront him the moment he arrived.

John, meanwhile, had left his schoolbag in class and gone out during recess. The instant he learned about her anger, he panicked and rushed home during a free period to retrieve the notebook and save himself from public humiliation.

While he was away, Panda mischievously provoked her.

“What happened? You look very angry today,” he asked innocently.

In her frustration she intended to say in Hindi:

“Let John come today—I’ll squeeze him like a lemon.”

But because of her imperfect Hindi, what she actually said was:

“Let John come today—I’ll squeeze his lemon.”

The entire class burst into uncontrollable laughter.

Poor Ansuyia stood bewildered, unable to understand what had gone wrong. It was only later, when the girls explained the unintended meaning of her sentence, that she realized why everyone had laughed. Embarrassed beyond words, she quietly stepped out of the classroom.

Meanwhile, John returned unnoticed and slipped her notebook back into her bag.

When she came back and demanded her notebook, John calmly replied, “Didn’t I return it to you in the morning?”

She stared at him angrily but hesitated to argue further, fearful of making another linguistic mistake. The tension on her face was obvious.

Trying to rescue the situation, I said gently, “Maybe you forgot. Check your bag once.”

She opened her bag immediately and found the notebook inside. Relief flooded her face, though confusion remained. She still could not understand when John had returned it. She looked at me gratefully and smiled.

“You… Rajinder?” she asked, pointing at me.

“Yes,” I replied smiling. “I know you too. You live near our office complex. Sometimes I pass that way while returning home.”

She nodded softly.

Ansuyia remained closer to the backbench girls than to anyone else in class. Perhaps similar backgrounds and upbringing made them comfortable with one another. She was simple, studious, and happiest in the company of her close friends.

Within a few days I noticed something else about that group—they mostly conversed in English. Balli later informed me that many of them had studied earlier in Carmel Convent School, which only went up to Class VIII. After that, students had no option but to join Kendriya Vidyalaya. Their convent-school background naturally reflected in their speech and mannerisms.

One afternoon, while I was arranging my notes, I overheard one of the girls asking John quietly:

“Who is that guy?”

I sensed immediately that she was referring to me.

John replied, “His name is Rajinder. He lives near my house and our fathers work in the same office.”

“He makes very good notes,” the tall girl remarked. “I saw DV Singh sir write ‘Very Good’ in his history notebook.”

Her words secretly pleased me. But another thought puzzled me completely.

Why had she called me “guy”?

To my inexperienced ears, “guy” sounded absurdly similar to the Hindi word for a cow. I wondered what feature of mine resembled one. It was perhaps the first time I had heard the word used in conversation. Since I had never been fond of novels or English fiction, such expressions were unfamiliar to me.

When I later asked Balli about it, he shrugged helplessly.

“Must be some English word. Why bother about it?” he said.

Many days later, while chatting with John at home, I finally discovered that “guy” simply meant a boy or person. I laughed loudly that evening, mocking my own bookish ignorance.

The girl who had used the word was Nalini Krishnan.

John introduced her dramatically in his usual James Bond style:

“Her name is Nalini… Nalini Krishnan. Her father is an Army officer. She lives in Chinar.”

Nalini was the tallest girl in our class—thin, quiet, and dignified. Her voice was so soft that teachers often asked her to repeat herself unless the classroom was perfectly silent. Yet despite her low voice, she commanded immense respect. She was perhaps the most intelligent and mature student in IX-B.

Nobody dared play mischief with her. A single stern glance from her could silence even the most troublesome boy. Sensitive by nature, she expected people to choose their words carefully around her. Yet she was approachable, kind, and always willing to help weaker students.

Teachers, too, handled her cautiously—not merely because of her intelligence, but because she was the daughter of a senior Army officer.

She was also deeply fond of novels. Her schoolbag almost always contained a Mills & Boon paperback peeping out beside her tiffin box. Perhaps it was her reading habit that gave her polished vocabulary and conversational ease—qualities I only began appreciating much later in life.

One lunch break I noticed a small gathering of boys and girls around the last bench where Nalini usually sat beside another beautiful girl. As I looked toward them, both suddenly noticed me.

“Hello,” they said together, beckoning me with a nod.

I rose from my chair and walked over awkwardly.

“Hello,” I replied. “I am Rajinder.”

“We know,” Nalini smiled. “John has already told us about you.”

Then she pointed toward the girl beside her.

“She is Sonia.”

“Sonia Rukmini Mansingh,” the girl corrected proudly.

The long name completely confused me. She hardly looked South Indian despite possessing a name grand enough to sound like an address.

She was strikingly beautiful—with large expressive eyes, high cheekbones, a sharp Roman nose, and an effortless elegance that drew attention the moment she spoke. Though she hailed from Rajasthan, she spoke Hindi with a slight accent and scored exceptionally well in Sanskrit.

Unlike the quieter girls, Sonia was bold, lively, and full of energy. She spoke loudly, laughed freely, and carried herself with tremendous confidence. Every boy in class dreamed of talking to her, though most lost courage because of their weak English. Whenever she answered a teacher’s question, the entire classroom instinctively turned to look at her.

Together, Nalini and Sonia brought life to the class. Their corner of the room felt like the very powerhouse of IX-B. Without them, the classroom atmosphere seemed strangely dull.

We spoke at length about schools, subjects, and backgrounds.

“How long have you been here?” I asked Nalini.

“About three months now,” she replied.

“And you?” I asked Sonia.

“A little less than her,” she answered with a smile.

I glanced through Sonia’s notebook. Her handwriting was as attractive as her personality—large, neat, and expressive, unlike Nalini’s smaller, compact writing.

“You make very good notes,” Nalini said after examining my history notebook carefully page by page. The “Very Good” remarks from DV Singh sir had clearly impressed her.

Then she added warmly, “If you ever need help, let me know. We also study Social Studies in English.”

That single sentence relieved me enormously.

Until then, I had felt isolated because most students studied Social Studies in Hindi while I preferred English. Even the teachers dictated notes largely in Hindi, making me feel out of place. But now, for the first time, I felt I had allies.

Thus our little “English syndicate” slowly came into existence. It consisted of Nalini, Sonia, John, myself, and another quiet girl named Judy, who lived near Nalini’s house.

Judy was extraordinarily shy. Her voice was so soft that even a person standing three feet away struggled to hear her properly. Fair and delicate-looking, she resembled a Gurkha girl. She mostly remained confined within the girls’ circle and hurried everywhere as though perpetually late for something.

I never spoke much with her because of both her reserved nature and the awkward distance between our seats. Yet one memory of hers remained unforgettable—she would secretly hide her younger brother under the desk during the last period after his junior classes ended early, so that they could go home together afterward.

Ranjeet Vohra, the giant sportsman of our class, attended school only occasionally because of tournaments and competitions. But whenever he appeared—like a visiting professor—he naturally joined our group. Balli, however, remained too shy around the girls and usually disappeared quietly.

The girls in our circle were the class toppers, and fierce academic rivalry existed among them. One could sense the tension whenever marks were announced. Yet none of them showed much interest in sports or debates, which explained why most inter-school prizes in such activities were usually bagged by IX-A.

Still, ours was a uniquely united class.

No outsider dared tease our girls or pick a fight with any student from IX-B—junior or senior alike. The strong personalities in our class ensured that everyone stood together.

And somewhere amidst those noisy classrooms, awkward friendships, innocent crushes, and endless laughter, the bonds of our youth were quietly taking shape.