Upur6

 Chapter 6: The Big Blast

Winter was creeping into Udhampur. The leaves had begun turning yellow, and the evening breeze now demanded sweaters and jerseys. Shops across the city were packed with woollens, while the approaching festival of Deepawali brought another excitement altogether. Every market stall glittered with colourful boxes of crackers. Even the famous Chinar Complex was overflowing with them.

And if crackers entered the city, how could boys of our age resist them?

For us, fireworks were not merely festival items; they were symbols of adventure, thrill and rebellion. Crackers found their way everywhere — into pockets, schoolbags and eventually into classrooms too.

That was when the trouble began.

Around the same time, a new substitute Geography teacher had joined the school because our regular teacher, Mr Shambhu, had gone on leave. She was a pleasant-looking lady, soft-spoken and polite, but her classes were painfully dull. She simply read aloud from the textbook without explaining anything. Worse, she rarely looked at the students while teaching. Her eyes remained fixed on the back wall of the classroom as though she were addressing invisible students sitting there.

Naturally, the minds of IX-B drifted elsewhere.

And when the minds of boys like ours drifted, mischief was never far away.

One afternoon, while she was teaching with her back towards us, a tiny cracker exploded somewhere inside the classroom.

“Phat!”

The sound was small, but sharp enough to interrupt the silence.

She turned around immediately.

“What was that?”

One student replied innocently, “Madam, I think it was a small bomb.”

“That I also know,” she snapped, growing irritated. “But who did it?”

The entire class sat frozen in silence.

After staring at us for a few seconds, she turned back towards the blackboard and resumed teaching.

Then came the second blast.

“BOOOOOM!”

This one was louder.

She spun around angrily.

“Who is doing this? Don’t you people have any shame?”

A few boys lowered their heads to hide their laughter while others looked at her seriously, waiting to see what she would do next.

Unable to identify the culprit, she scolded the whole class and resumed writing on the board once again. For a few moments there was complete silence. Everyone appeared busy making notes.

Then suddenly—

“BOOOOOOOOOOM!”

The loudest blast yet shook the classroom.

This time nobody even blinked.

“I will not teach this class!” she cried. “I am reporting this matter to the Principal!”

She stormed out of the classroom in tears.

As she hurried towards the Principal’s office, I could see her wiping her eyes. Fortunately for us, the Principal was not in school at that moment. A little later, we saw Daddoo Sir arriving with her to investigate the matter.

Unknown to him, another cracker had already been planted somewhere inside the classroom.

The teacher explained the incident to Daddoo Sir, pointing towards the places where the crackers had exploded. But despite questioning everyone, the culprit remained invisible.

Daddoo Sir finally declared dramatically,

“Madam, please continue teaching. Let me see who bursts the next bomb. I will explode him!”

The class somehow controlled its laughter.

Madam resumed the lesson nervously.

“The clouds found at the highest altitude are called cirrus clouds and are white in colour…”

Meanwhile, Daddoo Sir glared at us with his naturally protruding eyes bulging even further.

“Now let me see how smart you people are,” he warned. “Show your smartness to me!”

Saying this, he sat down heavily on the chair placed near the stage.

And at that exact moment—

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!”

A deafening explosion erupted directly beneath his chair.

Someone had cleverly placed a powerful cracker bomb under the seat so that it would burst the moment weight was applied.

The effect was unforgettable.

Daddoo Sir literally jumped nearly two feet into the air, perfectly demonstrating Newton’s Third Law of Motion — the very law he himself had taught us only days earlier. He landed awkwardly on his hips with a thud before scrambling back to his feet.

His first reaction was not anger.

He immediately turned around anxiously to inspect the back of his trousers to ensure they were still intact.

I lowered my head instantly, expecting flames to burst out of him like scenes from Sholay.

The class sat stunned.

Even those who had planted the bomb appeared shocked by the scale of destruction they had caused.

The lady teacher ran out of the room again. Hearing the explosion, teachers from neighbouring classrooms rushed in. Soon Patthu Sir, who taught next door, took charge of the situation.

“I already knew this is the most mischievous class in the school,” he announced sternly.

Daddoo Sir, still dusting the back of his trousers repeatedly, muttered,

“Actually… I had come to control them… but…”

“But what?” Patthu Sir asked.

“I still cannot find the culprit,” Daddoo Sir said helplessly. “Otherwise I would have made him into a rooster by now!”

By then the Principal had returned to school.

The matter had escalated far beyond a harmless prank.

The entire class was ordered out onto the field. We were informed in clear terms that until someone confessed, there would be no regular classes for IX-B.

The Principal delivered a stern lecture and returned to his office.

As the teachers dispersed, Patthu Sir gave one final warning:

“Abhi bhi time hai… aadmi ke bachche ban jaao.”

(There is still time. Behave like decent human beings.)

But the silence remained unbroken.

Soon JP gathered everyone and spoke in a low voice.

“Listen carefully. Either the person responsible quietly confesses and ends the matter… or nobody opens their mouth. No matter what happens.”

The strange thing was that most of us genuinely did not know who had done it.

Yet, somewhere deep inside, the class had united.

The issue soon became a matter of prestige — both for the school administration and for IX-B. The Principal became determined to crack the mystery at any cost, while the students became equally determined not to betray anyone.

And thus began one of the strangest periods in our school life.

For the rest of the day we sat outside the classroom near the drain wall. Some boys lounged under the banyan tree where we usually ate lunch or played during games period. Strangely enough, nobody appeared unhappy. We were free from studies, roaming around the campus like political prisoners on parole.

The next day the punishment intensified.

Immediately after assembly we were again ordered to remain outside the classroom. Later the PT teacher made the entire class — including the girls — run around the assembly ground along the peripheral road that passed beside the middle and senior school blocks.

For the first two rounds everyone ran sincerely.

After that it slowly transformed into a walking procession.

Students from other classes hooted at us from their windows.

“The Pataka Class! Yaaaaa! Yaaaaa!”

We waved back proudly as if participating in an Olympic parade, though inwardly we cursed them thoroughly.

The girls were especially upset because none of this was their fault. Yet surprisingly, frustration still had not appeared on anyone’s face. Boys gossiped, wandered around campus, slipped away to Chinar Complex on fake errands, completed pending homework or simply wasted time. The girls sat chatting, reading novels or discussing theories about who might be behind the blasts.

Meanwhile the teachers themselves had begun forming their own suspicions.

But nobody could prove anything.

On the third day cracks finally began appearing within the class unity.

One of the front-benchers, Sooraj, exhausted by the punishment, pleaded,

“Yaar, whoever has done this should confess. What is the point of troubling everyone?”

Then he added nervously,

“If nobody speaks, I will tell the teachers whom I suspect.”

“Do you actually know who did it?” someone asked sharply.

“No,” he admitted. “But I can name the person I suspect. Why should I suffer for somebody else’s prank?”

At this, JP and Panda exchanged anxious glances.

Later they quietly spread the message that anyone who tried to accuse another student would himself be branded the culprit by the entire class.

“If anyone confesses now,” JP warned, “he could be suspended or even thrown out of school.”

That settled the matter once again.

Silence returned.

But for the first time, suspicion began growing inside me.

Why were JP and Panda working so hard to suppress the issue? Were they simply protecting the class… or hiding something?

I kept those thoughts locked safely inside my head.

Meanwhile the school administration also seemed to have planted informers among us, but nobody trusted anyone anymore.

Then one afternoon came a turning point.

Ranjeet Vohra — the oldest boy in our class and a respected sportsman — called a few of us near the drain outside the classroom.

“Listen carefully,” he said seriously. “The Principal called me and asked me to help identify the culprits. But you people are my friends first. My loyalty is with you.”

We were impressed.

He could easily have tried to become the Principal’s favourite student, but instead he chose solidarity with us.

Then he asked quietly,

“So what do you all want to do?”

JP stepped forward immediately.

“We stay silent,” he declared. “Everyone.”

Vohra looked around once more.

“Sure?”

“Yes,” the class responded together.

Even Karan joined in firmly.

“Jo bhi hoga dekha jayega.”

(Whatever happens, we’ll face it.)

From the classroom window, Mallika watched the entire discussion with visible excitement.

Vohra nodded gravely.

“Fine then. Stay united. Don’t break midway.”

To pass time, he asked someone to bring his guitar.

Soon he began strumming dramatically and singing in imitation of Sholay:

“Yeh patakey kisne bajaye… hum nahin batayenge…”

(Who burst the crackers… we will never tell…)

The entire class burst into laughter and joined the chorus.

When he forgot the guitar notes midway, he converted the instrument into a tabla and continued beating rhythms on its wooden body while everyone sang along.

Meanwhile the Principal, sitting inside his office, could apparently hear everything. Perhaps he assumed this was part of some secret operation by his trusted student Vohra, because he never interrupted us.

Other classes meanwhile had begun envying us.

To them, IX-B had become legendary.

A class suspended from studies, singing songs, roaming freely and guarding a mysterious secret.

By the fifth day, some students stopped attending school altogether because they assumed there would be no classes anyway. Parents became worried as half-yearly examinations approached. Pressure began mounting on the Principal from all sides.

Finally even the local Sub Area Commander reportedly advised him not to jeopardise the students’ studies over a prolonged ego battle.

The Principal was trapped between discipline, reputation, parents and higher authorities.

On the seventh day, after assembly, he addressed only our class while the rest of the school dispersed.

What followed was not a lecture.

It was an emotional appeal.

He spoke not as a Principal, but as a deeply hurt man.

He reminded us that the teacher had been specially appointed so our studies would not suffer. He described how humiliated and helpless she must have felt. He asked us whether we would ever tolerate such treatment towards our own mothers or sisters.

Then his voice softened.

“I will not punish you anymore,” he said quietly. “I do not want innocent students to suffer further. But I am disappointed — not merely in those who did this, but also in those who protected them.”

He paused before continuing.

“One day you will grow up and understand this pain.”

Then he walked away silently.

Some students standing nearby noticed tears falling from his eyes onto his collar.

For the first time in seven days, nobody smiled.

Even a few girls had tears in their eyes.

The speech had shaken us.

That day the class unanimously decided the matter had gone too far.

Yet the culprits still did not confess.

So finally we drafted a collective apology letter addressed to the teacher, not the Principal. Every student signed it.

In it we admitted our shame, apologised sincerely and requested her to return to class. We explained that although we truly did not know the culprit, the entire class regretted the incident deeply. We also pleaded with her not to misunderstand our affection and respect for the Principal.

The letter was quietly placed on the Principal’s table through the staff clerk.

The next morning, during assembly, we saw the Geography teacher once again standing in the teachers’ row.

The entire class smiled with relief.

She resumed teaching us for the next three days until Mr Shambhu eventually returned from leave.

Even today, I cannot say with certainty who masterminded the explosions. But from whispers, rumours and fragments of conversation gathered much later, I sensed that the plan may have originated with Karan, been executed by Panda and encouraged by Mallika, while JP knew about it without directly participating.

True or not, I cannot confirm.

But one thing I can definitely say—

What planning.

What unity.

What coordination.

And perhaps, behind every successful operation, there really is a girl somewhere in the background.