Upur 20

 

Chapter 20: Bye Bye Udhampur

The farewell party had ended, the laughter had faded, and summer vacations had quietly taken over our lives.

A few days later, I went to school to collect my mark sheet. I walked through the familiar gates with excitement, hoping to meet my friends one last time before leaving Udhampur. Deep inside, I still believed that our group would somehow gather again in the same classroom, sit on the same benches, and laugh as if nothing had changed.

But destiny had already begun scattering us.

I learnt that Sonia had left the station soon after the results because her father had been posted out. Nalini too had gone away. John had also left with his family. Vohra had departed for Delhi to stay with relatives. Raina met me once or twice at Chinar Restaurant, but after that he too disappeared into the vastness of life.

Only JP and Panda remained in Udhampur because their families were permanent residents of the town.

Our once inseparable group had dissolved without ceremony.

No grand farewell.

No final photograph.

No promises.

One day we were together; the next day we had simply vanished from one another's lives.

For the first time, I understood that childhood friendships do not always end with goodbyes. Sometimes they end silently.

I suddenly found myself alone.

Very alone.

The bustling corridors, the assembly ground, the football field, the water point, the cave, Chinar Restaurant—everything remained exactly as before, yet nothing felt the same.

I now spent most of my remaining days in Udhampur with Gajbir, the only close friend still around.

Soon, our family too received orders to move.

Our next destination was Halwara—an Air Force Station in Punjab.

For a child growing up in a defence environment, shifting stations every few years was considered normal. New schools, new houses, new friends and new beginnings were all part of life.

Yet this departure felt different.

Very different.

Because Udhampur was no longer merely a posting.

It had become home.

The day we finally left remains etched in my memory even today.

As our vehicle rolled out of Udhampur, I looked outside quietly. The same roads curved through the hills. The same streams sparkled in the morning sunlight. The same bridges stood proudly across the rivulets. The same deodar trees lined the roads, whispering in the cool breeze.

Everything looked exactly the same.

Only I was leaving.

I tried hard to remain composed.

After all, boys of my age were not supposed to cry.

But emotions seldom obey rules.

As we climbed down the winding mountain roads, the hills seemed alive. Every familiar turn appeared to recognise me.

The trees swayed gently as if waving goodbye.

The streams murmured softly.

The bridges stood silently like old sentinels.

It almost seemed as if the entire valley was saying,

"Come back someday. We shall still be waiting."

My eyes turned repeatedly towards the distant twin peaks of Vaishno Devi, which remained visible for a long distance on the road to Jammu. For years, those peaks had watched over our lives.

Slowly, mile after mile, they began receding.

Smaller.

Fainter.

More distant.

Until finally they disappeared altogether behind the mountains.

Something inside me disappeared with them.

Questions flooded my mind.

Would I ever return?

Would John still be there?

Would I ever again sit with Raina, tease Mahesh, listen to JP's plans, or laugh at Panda's jokes?

Would I ever meet Sonia, Nalini, Vohra, Daddoo, Digvijay, Balli and the countless others who had unknowingly become an inseparable part of my everyday existence?

Would they even recognise me if we met years later?

Or would we merely walk past one another as strangers?

I sat quietly by the window, watching the hills race backwards.

The cool mountain breeze entered through the half-open window and dried the tears that had unknowingly escaped my eyes before they could even roll down my cheeks.

Nature itself seemed to console me.

Exhausted by emotions, I eventually rested my head against the glass pane and fell asleep.

When I woke up, Udhampur was gone.

Like a beautiful dream.

Only memories remained.

Life, however, does not pause for anyone.

After reaching Halwara, the cycle started all over again.

A new house.

A new Kendriya Vidyalaya.

New teachers.

New classmates.

New friends.

A new bicycle.

A new life.

But Halwara was very different from Udhampur.

There were no hills.

No valleys.

No cool mountain breeze.

Instead, there were endless plains, scorching summers and the deafening roar of fighter aircraft routinely breaking the sound barrier overhead. Initially, the thunderous sound startled me. Later, like everything else in military life, it became routine.

Gradually, Udhampur receded into the background of life.

But it never truly left me.

Whenever I sat in my new classroom, I would unconsciously imagine Sonia and Nalini sitting on my right, while John, Vohra and Raina occupied the benches to my left.

For a few fleeting moments, the old classroom would come alive again.

I often narrated stories of Udhampur to my new friends. Through those stories, my old friends continued to live within me.

Occasionally, sportsmen returning from inter-school competitions brought snippets of news about Raina and others. But information about the girls became almost impossible to obtain.

Still, their smiling faces remained fresh in my memory.

I possessed no photographs.

No letters.

No addresses.

Yet their memories never faded.

Years rolled on.

School ended.

College came and went.

I studied engineering while staying in a hostel in South India, where I encountered people from every corner of the country and learnt much about the world beyond cantonments.

Later, I joined the Army.

Fate, however, had its own plans.

As a young officer, my very first posting was near Jammu.

Coincidentally, my father too was posted once again to Udhampur.

The call of memory proved irresistible.

One day, riding my motorcycle, I set out for Udhampur.

As the familiar hills emerged before me, I felt an indescribable emotion.

The roads were the same.

The bridges were the same.

The streams were the same.

Even Chopra's shop still stood where it always had.

It felt as though time itself had stood still waiting for my return.

I went straight to my old school.

My classroom still existed.

A few new buildings had appeared, but otherwise everything looked remarkably familiar.

And yet something vital was missing.

My classmates.

Class X-B was now occupied by children who knew nothing about us.

The laughter had changed.

The faces had changed.

Only the walls remembered.

I entered the empty classroom after school hours and quietly sat on the same bench where I had once spent countless days with my friends.

Memories flooded back with such force that for a moment I could almost hear John's laughter, Raina's teasing remarks and Sonia's gentle voice.

The bell rang.

Children rushed out.

Silence returned.

I remained seated.

Alone.

After some time, I walked towards the old cave route, only to discover that it had been blocked.

I then proceeded to the Principal's office.

On the way, I instinctively cupped my hands and drank water from Water Point Number Two exactly as I had done years ago.

Some habits never die.

I located one of the old clerks who had been extremely active during our school days. Time had added grey hair and maturity to his face.

I asked hopefully,

"Is anyone from the 1980 batch still here?"

He looked at me for a moment and replied,

"Are you talking about the batch of Raina and Vohra?"

I almost jumped with joy.

For someone to remember those names after so many years seemed unbelievable.

He informed me that Divvya was now teaching in the same school and that our mathematics teacher, Mr Chopra, was still there.

As we were talking, I noticed a grey-haired gentleman approaching us with the same familiar smile.

"Aur Sardar Sahib, kisko dhoondh rahe ho?" he asked cheerfully.

For a moment I stared.

Then recognition dawned.

It was Mr Chopra.

My mathematics teacher.

The same teacher who had once drilled trigonometric identities into our heads.

I smiled.

"Sir, I am from Raina and Vohra's batch. Your student."

For a second he looked puzzled.

Then suddenly recognition flashed across his face.

I had been the only Sikh boy in the class.

He embraced me warmly.

His laughter remained unchanged.

Only his eyes had become moist.

Soon afterwards, I met Divvya.

She too recognised me instantly.

The years vanished.

We were children once again.

Later, I met Balli, JP, Panda, Pratap and even Raina, who happened to be on leave.

We spent hours reliving old memories.

Some had become successful professionals.

Some had achieved wealth.

Some had risen to positions of authority.

Others had remained ordinary.

But one thing had not changed.

The affection.

The warmth.

The bond.

Destiny continued weaving strange threads.

In 1997, I was posted to Udhampur itself and met even more classmates. During another posting at Hisar, I met Mr Chopra once again—this time as Principal of Kendriya Vidyalaya Hisar—along with our beloved Hindi teacher, Mr Ghanshyam.

The world, I realised, was indeed small.

I also met the old waiter at Chinar Restaurant.

When he learnt who I was, he simply refused to accept payment for samosas.

I had to insist repeatedly.

Years later, in Pune, I unexpectedly met John.

The reunion was joyous enough, but he had another surprise.

Taking me to a house nearby, he asked mischievously,

"Guess whose house this is."

I failed.

The door opened.

Standing before me was Reema.

The same Reema whose name had once featured in our endless teenage discussions.

She was now a mother of two, yet the warmth of her smile remained unchanged.

Time had moved on.

But memories had not.

In 2006, while posted in Leh, I happened to read a book written by someone whose name sounded familiar.

He turned out to be Nalini's father.

To my astonishment, Nalini herself was visiting her parents at Bangalore at that very time.

After decades, I finally spoke to her again.

Only Sonia remained untraceable.

For years I searched everywhere.

Army stations.

Old acquaintances.

Friends of friends.

Nothing.

Then, after more than three decades, destiny intervened once again.

Through Facebook, I located Sonia's sister and eventually managed to establish contact with Sonia herself.

My search of thirty-two long years had finally ended.

Life had come full circle.

Today, more than a generation has passed.

Our children are older than we were when we studied together.

Everyone is busy.

Everyone is occupied.

Life has scattered us across the globe.

Yet not a single day passes when I do not remember Udhampur.

Many important events occurred later in my life.

Nothing, however, could erase those memories.

Perhaps that is why I wrote this book.

Not merely to narrate stories.

But to gather my friends once again.

If not physically, then at least through memories.

Because friendships forged during childhood are unlike any others.

They cannot be recreated.

They can only be cherished.

After decades, I finally obtained our old group photograph through social media.

It remains one of my most treasured possessions.

People say time heals everything.

I disagree.

Time merely teaches us how to live with memories.

For me, it was "Bye Bye" to Udhampur only in the physical sense.

In my heart, I never left.

And perhaps, I never will.