Upur 12

Chapter 12

The New Class

A new academic session had begun—a new day, a new class and, in many ways, a new beginning. We had entered Class X, the most important stage of our school life so far. Beyond this class lay the gateway to the wider world. The certificate we would earn at the end of the year would accompany us throughout our lives, opening doors to colleges and careers. Even the date of birth recorded on it would become the final official proof of our age, whether accurate or not.

For the first time, we would appear in the prestigious All India Secondary School Examination conducted by the Central Board of Secondary Education (CBSE). The very mention of the Board examination filled us with a curious mixture of pride and anxiety. Childhood was slowly giving way to responsibility.

The new session brought many changes. Some classmates who had struggled academically had failed and moved on. Others had left because their fathers had been transferred to new stations. A few had shifted to schools in Udhampur town. My close friend Balli had also departed for a city school, while Raman had left after his father's posting. Their absence left noticeable gaps in our little world.

Yet school life never remains empty for long. New faces appeared, bringing fresh energy into the class. Raina had somehow scraped through with grace marks earned largely because of his sporting achievements, while Vohra too had been promoted by the school authorities. Both solemnly declared that this year they would study seriously, especially since the Board examination included portions from Class IX as well.

Everyone seemed unusually cheerful. There were new books to cover, new teachers to evaluate and, most importantly, we now belonged to the senior-most batch in school. For me, however, the greatest joy was that Sanskrit had finally disappeared from our timetable.

Our classroom arrangement remained largely unchanged, except that the first row now consisted of boys, the second of girls and the third again of boys. With fewer students, the room looked surprisingly spacious.

The location of our new classroom offered far greater freedom than our previous one. To the left, beyond the school fence, ran a deep stream carrying icy mountain water at remarkable speed. Behind the classroom stretched open ground, beyond which stood another block housing the senior classes. A narrow, risky path led downhill towards the stream, passing beneath the barbed-wire fence.

Halfway down lay one of the best-kept secrets of our school days—a tiny cave known only to a select few. Hidden from prying eyes, it overlooked the sparkling stream below and offered a cool retreat during hot afternoons. The cave walls served as an unofficial archive of adolescent romance. Countless Romeos and Juliets had immortalised their love stories there by engraving their names with sharp stones. If someone were to scrape away the layers of dust even today, I am certain many of those declarations would still emerge from the rock.

The cave was also a favourite haunt for gossip, quiet reflection and, for a few adventurous souls, occasional smoking sessions. Reaching it, however, required courage. A single slip could send an unfortunate visitor tumbling nearly ten metres into the stream below. Only the bold—or perhaps the foolish—ventured there regularly.

Unlike our previous classroom, which lay directly under the Principal's watchful gaze, this location offered several discreet escape routes. Near the water point was a narrow track leading towards the Chinar residential complex. For boys with adventurous instincts, this strategic advantage was invaluable.

Our classroom itself was part of a temporary basha structure adjoining Class X-A. A thin partition separated the two sections. The sloping roof, false ceiling and large windows ensured excellent ventilation, making it one of the more comfortable classrooms in the school.

Soon, new teachers began introducing themselves, each bringing a unique personality that would leave a lasting impression on us.

The first among them was our Mathematics teacher, Mr Pardesi. He was a young bachelor in his late twenties, fair, slim and soft-spoken, with large steel-framed spectacles that enhanced his handsome Himachali features. Unsurprisingly, he became an instant favourite among the girls.

Mr Pardesi taught Mathematics exceptionally well and maintained a friendly relationship with all students. Since the age difference between him and us was relatively small, many students occasionally took him for granted. I, however, admired him immensely. Around this time, my father had significantly increased the pressure on me to excel in studies, particularly in Mathematics. I had begun studying topics at home even before they were taught in class.

As a result, I often answered questions quickly. I still remember one particular lesson on Mensuration. Mr Pardesi had barely begun writing a problem involving the conversion of a larger lead sphere into smaller ones when I immediately calculated the answer and announced confidently:

"Five hundred and twelve lead balls, Sir."

He had not even completed writing the question on the blackboard.

He looked at me in surprise, smiled and nodded approvingly. From that day onwards, I became one of his blue-eyed boys. His encouragement inspired me tremendously, and soon I began scoring full marks regularly in Mathematics.

Whenever unit test marks were announced, he would dramatically declare,

"Rajinder Singh Narula—ten out of ten!"

The announcement was invariably followed by enthusiastic applause from the entire class, including all the pretty girls such as Sonia, Reema, Judy and Nalini. At that age, such appreciation inflated my ego enormously, though in a harmless way.

By now, the backbenchers had evolved into a closely knit family. The absence of even one member was immediately noticed, and the missing friend would be genuinely missed.

One day, an Education Inspector visited our school to assess Mr Pardesi's teaching skills. We happened to be studying Geometry, and Ansuyia and Nalini had prepared a beautiful model of a right circular cylinder to assist in the demonstration.

Mr Pardesi had meticulously prepared for the inspection. The diagrams were neatly drawn, the model was ready and he repeatedly rehearsed his opening line:

"Today, I shall teach you about the right circular cylinder."

Unfortunately, when the Inspector finally entered the classroom, nervousness got the better of him.

Adjusting his spectacles, he announced confidently,

"Today, I shall teach you about the right circulinder."

The entire class burst into suppressed giggles.

Poor Mr Pardesi realised his mistake instantly and blushed crimson, while the Inspector struggled equally hard to conceal his smile.

Mr Pardesi possessed all the attributes of a romantic film hero. I often overheard the girls discussing him in hushed tones, generously using words like "cute", "smart" and "handsome". He soon became their undisputed idol.

He too sensed their admiration. Whenever a girl approached him with a doubt, he would blush, smile shyly and quickly turn towards the blackboard to regain composure. If matters threatened to go beyond his comfort zone, he would suddenly assume a stern expression, withdrawing his smile completely and leaving everyone guessing what was going on in his mind.

He understood students remarkably well and never hesitated to help weaker pupils. Accessible, friendly and genuinely caring, he remains one of the finest teachers I have known.

If Mr Pardesi represented warmth and gentleness, our Hindi teacher, Mr Ram Avtar, was his complete opposite.

A tall, serious-looking man with a thick Haryanvi accent, he possessed an extraordinary ability to terrify mischievous boys without ever raising a hand. Whenever someone crossed the line, he would unleash such a fierce verbal barrage that the culprit would sit frozen in shock, unable to utter a word. The unfortunate student sitting next to the victim often found it far more difficult to control his laughter than the reprimanded boy himself, mainly because of the countless frowns that would suddenly appear on Mr Ram Avtar's face.

Despite his stern exterior, he was one of the most dedicated teachers in the school. Once he began teaching, the outside world ceased to exist for him. He immersed himself completely in the lesson, expecting similar concentration from us.

Nalini happened to be one of his favourite students. Having come from an ICSE convent school where Hindi had been introduced only in Class V, she initially struggled with both pronunciation and grammar. During one of the early classes, she was asked to read aloud. The moment she began, many students burst into laughter at her accent and hesitant pronunciation.

The laughter soon brought tears to her eyes.

Mr Ram Avtar immediately stopped the class.

Looking angrily around the room, he declared,

"Dekhna, ek din yeh hasegi aur tum roge. Yeh itney achchhey number layegi ki tum sab dekhtey reh jaaogey."

("Mark my words. One day she will laugh while all of you will regret laughing at her. She will score such high marks that you will be left simply staring.")

Those words transformed Nalini completely. Deeply touched by his faith in her, she worked relentlessly and gradually developed a genuine affection and respect for the teacher. In the Board examinations, she scored an impressive 85 per cent in Hindi—among the highest marks in the class—proving Mr Ram Avtar absolutely right.

Another unforgettable incident involving him occurred when we were required to fill out our Board examination forms.

As our class teacher, Mr Ram Avtar distributed the forms personally and carefully explained the procedure. The form consisted of two sections—an upper portion to be completed in class and a lower portion that had to be signed by parents and submitted later.

As the instructions were being given, Vohra stood up.

"Sir, my father is out of station. I won't be able to get the form signed immediately."

Peering over his spectacles in his characteristic style, Mr Ram Avtar replied,

"Koi baat nahin. Neechey wala portion baad mein sign karva lena, lekin upar wala toh abhi bhar lo."

("No problem. Get the lower portion signed later, but at least fill up the upper portion now.")

Satisfied, Vohra sat down.

Two days later, when everyone was submitting the signed forms, Vohra again stood up apologetically.

"Sir, my father still hasn't returned."

The teacher granted him additional time.

A week later, however, Vohra remained in the same predicament.

"Sir, I'm very sorry. My father has still not returned."

Mr Ram Avtar thought for a moment before offering what he believed was practical advice.

"Koi baat nahin. Aisa karo—apney Dad ka neechey wala portion apney paas rakho aur upar wala abhi jama kar do. Jab tumhare Dad aa jaayenge, sign karva ke de dena."

("No problem. Keep your Dad's lower portion with you and submit the upper portion now. Once your father returns, get it signed and submit it.")

The moment the words left his mouth, every boy in the class instantly understood the unintended double meaning.

An explosion of suppressed laughter swept across the room.

Most boys buried their faces in their desks. Unfortunately, I happened to be one of those caught laughing openly.

Mr Ram Avtar fixed me with a stern glare.

"Arey, mera muh kya joker ki tarah dikhta hai jo dekh ke hans rahe ho?"

("Does my face look like that of a joker that you are laughing at me?")

That day, John was sharing my bench. The sight of Mr Ram Avtar standing there with innumerable frowns adorning his face proved too much for him. He burst out laughing directly in front of the teacher.

That sealed our fate.

"Both of you—out!"

Outside the classroom, I leaned against the wall, desperately trying to control my laughter. My face had turned crimson and I was wheezing uncontrollably. According to John, I resembled a pressure cooker releasing steam.

After splashing cold water on our faces at the nearby water point, we finally regained composure and returned to class after the period had ended.

Even today, I often wonder why I never possessed the ability to suppress laughter like others. Perhaps they simply did not understand humour as intensely as I did.

Our new Biology teacher, Mr Garewal, was another unforgettable personality.

He hailed from a village near Gurdaspur in Punjab and carried with him the simplicity and innocence of rural life. Soft-spoken and good-hearted, he often mixed Punjabi and Hindi while teaching because he was not entirely comfortable speaking English.

Many students occasionally struggled to understand him and had to request clarification. Nevertheless, everyone liked him.

Initially, some students underestimated him because of his gentle nature. They soon discovered that this was a serious mistake. Whenever angered, he did not waste time scolding. Instead, his powerful farmer's hand would descend without warning. Considering his robust Punjabi physique, nobody was eager to experience it twice.

One day, he asked Vohra to explain the process of digestion in the human body.

Unfortunately, Vohra knew almost nothing about the topic.

Like a seasoned field commander seeking reinforcements, he nudged Raina seated beside him.

Raina knew even less.

Desperate, Raina twisted around and sought help from Gurbir Singh, the tallest boy in class, who sat behind him. Gurbir happened to stammer while speaking but possessed excellent presence of mind.

Gurbir began dictating in instalments.

"It is a process which..."

The sentence travelled from Gurbir to Raina and finally reached Vohra.

Standing confidently before the class, Vohra repeated loudly,

"It is a process which..."

Gurbir continued.

"...starts with the right hand..."

The message passed through Raina.

Vohra repeated obediently,

"...starts with the right hand..."

Finally, Gurbir concluded,

"...and ends with the left hand."

The final message duly travelled through Raina and emerged triumphantly from Vohra's mouth.

"...and ends with the left hand."

Only after completing the sentence did Vohra realise what he had actually said.

He immediately bent forward and began laughing in his characteristic jerky style.

For a few seconds, nobody understood. Then the girls suddenly burst into laughter, followed by the teacher and finally the rest of the class as comprehension dawned.

When Mr Garewal asked Gurbir how he had arrived at such an explanation, Gurbir instantly replied in his trademark stammer,

"Co-co-co-common sense bhi toh koi cheez hoti hai."

("There is something called common sense as well.")

Gurbir was unquestionably the hero of the day.

Little did we know that the greatest comedy of the year was still awaiting us—in the Physics laboratory.

The practical classes in Physics were among the most eagerly awaited periods of the week. Unlike the routine classroom lectures, practical sessions allowed us to move around freely, work in groups and, more importantly, indulge in a certain amount of harmless mischief.

Whenever the Physics teacher asked us to form groups for practical work, the classroom would instantly resemble a bustling marketplace. Students hurried in every direction, determined to team up with friends whose wavelengths matched their own.

Our group consisted of John, Nalini, Ajay, my newly made friend Venkat and me. As expected, every group in the class had been formed on the basis of friendship rather than academic merit.

One day, we were taken to the Physics laboratory to perform an experiment in optics. The objective was to determine the focal length of a convex lens. One member collected the apparatus, another arranged the equipment, while I volunteered to record the observations. Nalini, meticulous as ever, took charge of ensuring that the procedure was followed correctly.

Our work station happened to be near a window through which bright sunlight streamed into the laboratory. After carefully aligning the apparatus and completing the calculations, we successfully determined the focal length and sat back, waiting for the teacher to inspect our work.

When the teacher arrived, Nalini confidently explained the procedure and showed him our calculations. He appeared pleased with our performance and moved on to inspect the next group.

John, however, had suddenly become idle.

And, as the saying goes, an idle mind is the devil's workshop.

Bored and looking for amusement, he picked up one of the convex lenses and casually focused a beam of sunlight onto the back of the teacher's trousers. Curious, I watched silently.

Within a few seconds, to my utter disbelief, a thin wisp of smoke began rising from the fabric. Soon, a tiny hole appeared.

The concentrated beam had started burning the teacher's trousers.

Fortunately, because there was some gap between the cloth and his skin, he remained completely unaware of what was happening.

At that very moment, the teacher turned towards John and said casually,

"Please check if something is burning. I can smell smoke."

Maintaining a perfectly serious expression, John immediately began inspecting electric switches and plugs around the laboratory, pretending to investigate the source of the mysterious smell. Watching his flawless performance, I realised that apart from being a prankster, he was also an exceptionally gifted actor.

A few moments later, disaster struck.

"Aaaaaaaaaah!"

The teacher suddenly let out a loud scream and jumped forward as the fire finally reached his skin.

Without missing a beat, John rushed towards him and announced helpfully,

"Sir, smoke is coming from your backside!"

Grabbing a nearby duster, he enthusiastically assisted in extinguishing the flames.

The fire was soon put out, but the damage had already been done.

A circular hole, nearly five centimetres in diameter, adorned the back of the teacher's trousers, revealing a generous portion of his white undergarments to the entire class.

Pandemonium followed.

Students looked at one another in complete bewilderment, each trying to solve the mystery of how the teacher's trousers had suddenly caught fire.

I maintained absolute silence.

Fear had replaced amusement. If the truth ever emerged, John's fate would undoubtedly be sealed forever.

The mystery remained unsolved.

Everyone—including the teacher himself—eventually concluded that he had accidentally brushed against a mosquito coil placed near the window.

Only two people ever knew the real cause.

John and I carried that secret with us long after the teacher had left the school a few months later.

Biology practicals and theory classes were equally entertaining, though for entirely different reasons.

Mr Garewal found it particularly difficult to teach the chapter dealing with the reproductive system. Being a simple and somewhat shy man from a conservative rural background, he was visibly uncomfortable while drawing and explaining the reproductive organs on the blackboard.

The discomfort, unfortunately, was not confined to him alone.

The moment he began sketching the diagrams, suppressed giggles invariably erupted across the classroom—interestingly, more from the girls' side than from the boys'.

The boys, naturally, could not remain silent spectators for long.

One day, after carefully drawing the male excretory and reproductive systems, Mr Garewal made an arrow pointing towards the rectum in order to label it.

Just as he prepared to write the label, a voice suddenly emerged from somewhere among the boys:

"Oooooooooooeeeeeeeeee!"

The sound perfectly resembled the cry of someone who had been struck by the arrow itself.

For a brief moment there was stunned silence.

Then, unable to control himself, Mr Garewal burst out laughing.

The entire class followed.

What made these classes even more memorable was the courage displayed by some of the girls. They would ask the most awkward and embarrassing questions imaginable—questions that many boys would not have dared to ask even in private.

Poor Mr Garewal would answer them patiently, though his embarrassment was often painfully visible. Occasionally, just when he thought he had escaped a particularly uncomfortable topic, another girl would innocently request,

"Sir, could you please explain that once again?"

His ordeal would begin all over.

Yet, to his immense credit, he never frowned, lost his temper or refused to answer. Overcoming his own inhibitions, he always ensured that our doubts were cleared.

There was, however, another amusing misunderstanding associated with him.

Mr Garewal had a habit of tying his turban rather close to his eyebrows. As a result, the cloth would occasionally slip down and partially obstruct his vision. Instead of adjusting the turban with his hands, he had developed the peculiar habit of raising and twitching his eyebrows to push it slightly upward.

To an unfamiliar observer, it often appeared as though he was winking.

One day, while teaching, he inadvertently twitched his eyebrows while facing Ansuyia.

Poor Ansuyia immediately assumed that the teacher had winked at her.

Deeply embarrassed, she avoided looking at him for the remainder of the class. Later, after discussing the matter with Nalini, both concluded that Mr Garewal was rather creepy. Nalini further reinforced the theory by claiming that she too had occasionally noticed similar "sly looks".

From that day onwards, both girls stopped asking him questions altogether.

Several weeks later, however, they finally observed him adjusting his turban in exactly the same manner while looking elsewhere. The truth dawned upon them instantly.

The two laughed heartily at their own misunderstanding and subsequently resumed normal interactions with him.

Looking back, Class X was much more than a year devoted to Board examinations. It was a year filled with deepening friendships, innocent crushes, unforgettable laughter and lessons that extended far beyond textbooks.

Every teacher, knowingly or unknowingly, shaped us in ways that we understood only much later in life.

At that time, however, we remained blissfully unaware that while we were busy creating memories inside those temporary classrooms, life was quietly preparing us for challenges and adventures far greater than school examinations.

One such unforgettable experience was waiting just around the corner.