Upur10

 

Chapter 10 : Outside the School

The hours after school were mostly spent in and around the residential area of Sappers Enclave, situated above a prominent place known as Chopra Shop. The strange thing about the name was that although everyone called it Chopra Shop, neither was there any Mr. Chopra nor any shop by that name during the time I lived there. Yet, the name had survived the years and become a permanent landmark in the cantonment.

All the Sapper officers lived on the hill opposite the market, and our house too was located there. Evenings usually belonged to the Sappers Officers’ Mess, where we gathered to play badminton. It was our regular RV — the place where all of us met after school before dispersing into the night.

I had another close friend, Gajbir, who was one class senior to me. Bulky, cheerful and full of life, he looked exactly like a grown-up version of the famous Glaxo baby, with his heavy hanging cheeks and innocent smile. John, Gajbir and I would sit together after games, exchanging the latest school gossip, analysing incidents from different classes and trying to understand what was happening in the mysterious teenage world around us.

Movies were another major attraction. Every Friday, English films were screened at the famous Chinar Theatre, one of the biggest landmarks of the cantonment. The entire youthful crowd of the complex would gather there. I still remember the day we went to watch The Ten Commandments, a marathon film nearly four hours long.

That day the theatre was overflowing. We could not get balcony tickets, which were reserved mainly for officers and their families, so we bought seats in the lower stalls near the screen. Everything appeared gigantic from there; our necks became stiff from looking upward throughout the film. Yet the experience was unforgettable. Students from all around the Chinar complex had arrived with their parents and friends. Gestures flew across rows, silly comments passed from one group to another, and laughter echoed through the hall.

The interval was even more entertaining. The lobby buzzed with excitement as our classmates crowded around the snack counters, munching samosas, chips and patties while discussing the movie in loud animated voices. It felt less like a cinema hall and more like a festival.

Another favourite place was the swimming pool at the Chinar Officers’ Institute, nearly three kilometres from our house. We visited it at least three times a week. The very walk to the pool was exercise enough, and after swimming endless lengths we would sleep like dead logs at night. Naturally, studies suffered and the backlog had to be covered the next day.

The most exciting part of swimming was the competition among ourselves — diving for coins thrown into deep water, racing underwater, or counting who could swim the maximum number of lengths. And then there were the endless teenage discussions while hanging lazily by the pool ladders with half our bodies submerged in water, commenting on colourful swimsuits and other “important matters” of adolescence.

The helipad stood close to the swimming pool. When standing on the diving board one could clearly see the pilot seated inside the helicopter as the giant machine hovered overhead before landing. After swimming sessions, everyone gathered in the changing room discussing performances, boasting of dives and races, while our eyes turned red from the bleaching powder in the water.

Once freshened up, we signed the outgoing register and rushed to the small bar nearby for cold drinks and snacks to refill our exhausted bodies.

The return journey home was another adventure in itself. Discussions revolved around who had swum the most lengths, whose butterfly stroke looked best, who dived most fearlessly, which girl looked the prettiest, and whose “affair” was rumoured with whom.

By the time we reached Bikram Park, an open ground about a kilometre away, the debate shifted to whether we should wait for a bus or hitchhike an Army vehicle going towards Chopra Shop. The final climb up the Sapper hill was always the toughest. It drained whatever little energy remained in us before we finally reached home. And just before parting, someone would suddenly ask the most dangerous question of the evening:

“Homework complete ho gaya?”

That single sentence could destroy all peace of mind.

After swimming there was only one subject on which I could concentrate — Mathematics. In every other subject I would fall asleep within minutes, my eyes refusing to obey my orders to stay open.

The cantonment itself was beautiful beyond words. Tall trees covered the landscape and tiny rivulets flowed through the outskirts where crystal-clear hill water rushed over rocks. Springs emerged naturally from rocky outcrops, forming shallow pools filled with tiny fish. Those places became our picnic spots.

Armed with catapults and occasionally my air gun, we would leave for Sunday outings carrying packed lunches. During summers we even took the risk of swimming in fast-flowing streams.

The long heart-to-heart conversations we had during those outings remain unforgettable. Lying on huge rocks with our feet dipped in cold flowing water, we discussed the strangest topics imaginable. Time passed so quickly that before we realised it, evening shadows had already begun stretching across the hills.

In simple words, life was completely bindass — carefree and fearless. We lived for the present and, at most, for tomorrow. Career planning had not yet entered our minds. Life revolved around adventure, trying new things and proving ourselves in every small challenge.

Most students living near the school were girls, and whenever there were a couple of free periods they would rush home for a short break. One day we had four consecutive free periods, and Nalini suggested that the entire group visit her house.

What followed felt like a military jungle patrol.

We sneaked out through a hidden shortcut behind the bushes, ensuring no teacher spotted us. Reaching the barbed-wire fence of the school, two boys held the wires apart while the girls carefully crossed over, lifting their skirts so they would not get entangled. One after another, everyone crossed silently.

Soon we reached a flowing nullah that remained full almost throughout the year. We hopped from stone to stone while crossing it. One boy slipped and fell into a pool of water, causing panic and laughter at the same time. He was pulled out immediately and the mission continued.

By then, Class IX-B had officially disappeared from school for half the day.

After crossing the stream we slipped through another fence and entered Prem Bhagat Enclave, the officers’ residential area. Suddenly we emerged onto the main road as if appearing from nowhere.

Nalini walked proudly in the lead as the host, followed by her closest friend Sonia and the other girls, while the boys marched behind them. Soon we reached her house.

There was no one at home except the servants. Within minutes the house was overflowing with classmates. Some occupied the sofas reading magazines, others settled on dining chairs because there was hardly enough space for everyone.

Nalini served us lemonade and snacks. Once our stomachs were full, someone switched on the music system and the girls immediately began dancing.

The boys, however, stood frozen.

Most of us did not even know how to dance, and I can certainly vouch for myself in that regard.

The girls soon realised they would have to take the initiative themselves — something considered extremely bold in those days. They began requesting the boys to join them, but we hid behind one another in embarrassment.

Finally, after continuous persuasion, John gathered enough courage to stand up. The moment he did, Nalini dragged him into the centre of the room. Once his initial hesitation vanished, he blended effortlessly with the girls while the rest of us watched in admiration and envy.

Narinder, whom everyone called Panda, followed next and soon he too was enjoying himself.

Even today I regret not participating that afternoon because I simply lacked the courage to overcome my shyness. Ironically, years later during my Army days in Pune, the situation completely reversed and we young officers were always desperately searching for dance partners at the famous RSI.

Eventually it grew late and we returned to school after an unforgettable adventure.

No studies were taking place anyway because rehearsals for the Annual Day function were in full swing. We moved to the primary section where our practice was scheduled after another hour.

The girls disappeared into their changing room while I, Raina and a few others wandered towards the Bhangra team. I knew absolutely nothing about dance steps and merely copied whatever the teacher demonstrated. Most of the time my awkward hopping movements made others laugh, but at least I participated sincerely.

Finally, the Annual Day arrived.

The girls performed first and danced beautifully. Then came our turn. Just before the finale, Raina instructed me to hook my foot around his and hop in a circle on one leg. I obeyed, and the moment I did so he burst out laughing — a habit impossible for him to control.

The audience, however, loved it.

There was loud applause at the end. Except for a few mistakes noticed only by me, the performance went surprisingly well. The entire day had been exhausting and by the time the programme ended it was already dark when I finally reached home.

Outside the Chinar complex there was a bus waiting point where students gathered after school. Many sat on the parapet wall surrounding the complex while waiting for buses.

One afternoon I noticed a college-going youth sitting arrogantly on that wall. He wore extremely tight trousers, had long hair and smoked cigarettes while blowing rings into the air.

A schoolboy politely requested him to shift slightly so he could sit too.

“Agge ja, itthe main baitha haan,” the fellow replied rudely.

(Go somewhere else. I’m sitting here.)

“There’s enough space. You can move a little,” the KV student replied.

“O jaa, main nahin uthda.”

(Get lost. I’m not moving.)

The student wisely kept quiet, assuming him to be some local hooligan.

Just then Raina arrived, having overheard the conversation.

“Tu kitthon da hain?” he asked sharply.

(Where are you from?)

“Assi te Jammu wale haan,” the fellow answered proudly.

(I’m from Jammu.)

“Kerhe school da hain?” asked Raina.

(Which school are you from?)

“School di gall karda hain? Assi te college vi chhad ditta hai.”

(You’re talking about school? I’ve already left college.)

“Then you should behave better,” Raina replied coldly.

The fellow took another puff and sneered,

“O kakke, ja apna kam kar. Vaddeyan naal is tarah nahin bolida.”

(Boy, mind your own business. Don’t talk to elders like this.)

“Main vi koi bacha nahin haan,” Raina shot back firmly.

(I’m not a child either.)

“O tere varge assi kai paida kar ke chhad ditte ne.”

(I’ve produced many like you.)

That sentence was enough.

In a flash, Raina punched and shoved him off the wall. The fellow toppled backward while Raina jumped inside the Chinar complex. Within seconds a full-fledged fight erupted.

The youth recovered quickly and took up a fighting stance. He kicked high towards Raina’s neck with his long legs. I was approaching from the CSD canteen side when I saw Raina suddenly grab his neck, pull his face downward and smash his knee into it. Blood burst from the fellow’s nose.

The opponent retaliated furiously, tearing Raina’s shirt and leaving him almost bare-bodied. Humiliated and enraged, Raina exploded with punches and kicks — hooks, front kicks and rapid combinations learnt from karate practice. Within minutes the opponent was flattened despite being a capable fighter himself.

Street fights are won more by morale, aggression and initiative than technique alone, and that day Raina possessed all three.

Before matters worsened, a Military Policeman intervened and separated them.

As he retreated, the fellow muttered,

“Kadi Jammu aayi te dassanga.”

(Come to Jammu sometime, then I’ll show you.)

Raina instantly replied,

“Ajj Udhampur aaya te bachenga nahin.”

(If you come to Udhampur today, you won’t be spared.)

And both finally walked away in opposite directions.

JP removed his vest and handed it to Raina so he could at least cover himself before going home. The fight ended with silent admiration from nearly every KV student present there.

There was also a tiny restaurant in the Chinar shopping complex owned by the father of one of our schoolmates. It was our favourite haunt during free periods or after bunking particularly boring classes. Samosas, chaat and tea tasted heavenly there.

It was at that restaurant that John taught me how to play “Dibbi,” a game involving a matchbox. The matchbox was placed at the edge of a table and flicked upward with the finger like a carrom striker. If it landed inside an empty glass placed nearby, it earned ten points. Landing on its longer edge meant five points and on the shorter edge seven.

The points were multiplied by ten paise to calculate winnings.

I hesitated to play for money because gambling — juaa — had been deeply drilled into my mind as morally wrong. Still, I enjoyed trying to flip the matchbox into the glass because the game itself was fascinating.

Tea flowed continuously alongside the game, especially among the city boys. Years later, after becoming adults, the same boys merely upgraded the setup: matchboxes became playing cards, tea became whisky and samosas turned into chicken tikka.

Only the scale changed.

I still never miss my share of snacks. Earlier it was samosas; now it is chicken tikka while my friends sip whisky and I quietly enjoy my cordial beside them.

Once I asked a friend why they always included me in their group despite the fact that I avoided some of their activities due to my principles.

His answer stayed with me forever.

“You are like the joker card in a pack,” he said. “You fit everywhere.”

That day I understood that friendship is not built on identical habits. It survives on trust, truthfulness, affection, loyalty and humour.

Adventure always attracted me — trekking, hunting, exploring long routes with packed lunches and discovering hidden streams. Sometimes we walked to the swimming pool through village tracks behind Sappers Enclave, crossing streams, fields and the helipad route.

We halted near flowing water to eat lunch, rest and occasionally swim in deep still pools hidden beneath giant rocks. Entering the water below those huge boulders to watch fish swimming nearby carried its own thrill.

At times we sat beside a bowli — a natural spring emerging from rocks — drinking icy mineral water directly from its source. The water tasted unbelievably sweet and refreshing. We filled our bottles completely before continuing our journey.

On the way we plucked mulberries and ber from thorny bushes, scratching our hands while stuffing our pockets full of fruit.

Then came the game of ducks and drakes on the water surface, where the winner earned a treat at the Chinar restaurant the following day.

Those were truly unforgettable days.

Even now, I am certain that every friend who shared those moments with me must pause while reading this chapter, smile quietly and drift back into those memories once again.

Upur 9

 Chapter 9: The English Teacher

Teaching English in Kendriya Vidyalaya was an art possessed by only a handful of teachers. Unlike the Convent and Public schools, where speaking English was almost a culture and often treated as a status symbol, our school had a different atmosphere altogether. Most students came from ordinary middle-class or service backgrounds, and English was spoken fluently only by a few girls and some boys from defence families.

Spoken English and grammar were two completely different worlds. A student fluent in speaking was not necessarily good at grammar, and one who mastered grammar often struggled to speak confidently. Only a few among us were comfortable with both. For most students, English was merely another theoretical subject — something that could be passed with minimum effort unless one lacked even the basic foundation or had no educational support at home.

Much depended upon the seriousness with which the subject was taught. More importantly, it depended on the man standing before the blackboard.

Our first English teacher was Mr Pahariwal. He spoke English heavily influenced by Hindi pronunciation, and therefore we never truly experienced the charm of the language through him. Yet he maintained excellent discipline because of his strict punishments, which everyone feared. The class usually remained quiet during his periods. Homework was limited to written exercises, and life moved on comfortably under him. In simple words, his expectations from us were modest, and so were our efforts.

Then one day everything changed.

A lean, sharp-featured man in his mid-thirties entered our classroom with a stiff-necked confidence and an intense personality. He walked straight to the dais, placed his books on the table, looked around the class, and spoke in a deep, commanding voice.

“Well students, I am Mr Rathore, your new English teacher. I will be taking your class from today onwards. I do not teach merely to earn my bread. I put my heart and soul into my work, and I expect the same seriousness from my students. Within a few days, you yourselves will realise what I mean.”

The class instantly fell silent.

“Before we begin,” he continued, “let us know each other better. Yes, bête, what is your name?”

And thus began the introductions. Each student stood up, spoke their name, and mentioned from which part of the town they travelled daily to school. Some replied in English, others in Hindi. Mr Rathore listened carefully to every answer, observing each student closely.

Even the girls, who otherwise chatted endlessly during classes, sat properly and answered with unusual seriousness.

After the introductions, he opened our English textbook, glanced through a few pages, and closed it again.

“I will teach grammar along with literature,” he announced. “Those weak in grammar will improve under me because I shall correct every mistake alongside the lessons. Tomorrow, all of you will bring a separate notebook for Tenses. Remember my words — it will help you not only in examinations but throughout your life.”

By then more than half the period had passed. For the remaining fifteen minutes he taught us The Face on the Wall by Ruskin Bond without once looking at the textbook. The class sat stunned. His narration was so vivid that it felt less like a lesson and more like a story unfolding before our eyes. Nobody whispered. Nobody moved.

When the bell rang, he swept out of the class as quickly as he had entered, like a gust of wind carrying unfinished business elsewhere.

For the rest of the day, he became the only topic of discussion.

Everyone sensed one thing clearly — this man meant business.

The next day almost every student arrived carrying a new notebook. Only a few careless ones still took him lightly. That day he began teaching “Tenses.”

He drew a beautiful grid on the blackboard — four columns and three rows — and systematically wrote down all forms of past, present, and future tenses with their variations. Then he took a simple sentence and transformed it into twelve different tense forms, making the entire concept astonishingly easy to understand.

Suddenly he stopped.

“All those who have not brought notebooks, stand up.”

The guilty students rose slowly in pin-drop silence.

“You do not have enough money to buy a notebook? If you cannot afford one, take the money from me and buy it.”

Then, without raising his voice further, he ordered them out of the class.

The message was loud and clear.

After he left, panic spread among the weaker students. They immediately began completing assignments, afraid of facing humiliation later. Soon clusters formed around the desks of intelligent girls. Nalini’s desk resembled a help centre. Sonia and Ansuyia too were surrounded by anxious classmates seeking help with grammar exercises.

The very next day, when Mr Rathore entered the class, every student rose and wished him respectfully.

“Sit down,” he said. “Today we shall study literature. First I will narrate the story, and later you may read it from the book. When I narrated this story in IX-A, many students actually cried.”

The class instantly leaned forward.

“The story is The Home Coming, about a boy named David Copperfield who longs desperately to return home after living far away from his family…”

And then he began.

His narration cast a spell upon the class. We listened as though watching a grand 70mm film. Nobody looked at their watches. Some rested their chins on their palms; others sat stiff-backed, eyes fixed upon him. Even the weakest students, usually indifferent to English, sat completely absorbed.

By the time the bell rang, we did not realise how forty minutes had vanished.

The next day, however, was grammar day — and grammar meant terror.

As Mr Rathore entered, nervous faces stiffened. Silence gripped the room.

He rubbed his hands together, smiled faintly, and asked, “So, shall we begin?”

The blackboard was already decorated with the topic “Tenses,” neatly written and underlined by the front-bench student. Mr Rathore drew his familiar grid and wrote:

“What will be its past tense?”

Hands shot up instantly. But Mr Rathore ignored the volunteers. His eyes searched instead for the fearful faces trying to avoid attention.

Finally his gaze stopped at Nalini.

“Yes, go on.”

“I had gone,” came her soft reply from the backbench.

“I could not hear you, bête. Louder.”

“Sir… I had gone.”

“Good.”

He deliberately chose Nalini because he knew she would answer correctly. It relaxed the class slightly and restored confidence among the students.

Then came the next question.

“What will be the future tense?”

Once again fear spread through the room. This time his eyes stopped at Balli.

Poor Balli stood up trembling. Kumar, his bench partner, could not help him. The example was new, and Balli’s notebook offered no rescue.

After fumbling helplessly, Balli muttered in Hindi, “Main jaaoonga…”

“Good! But speak in English,” said the teacher.

Encouraged slightly, Balli tried again.

“I go…”

“Sit down,” Mr Rathore replied. “Your take-off level is too low. You must work hard.”

Balli sat down, relieved that the storm had passed.

Then came JP’s turn.

“I go tomorrow,” JP answered hurriedly.

“Where are you going tomorrow?” Mr Rathore fired back instantly. “You are not going anywhere. You will remain here till you become fit in Tenses!”

The class burst into suppressed laughter while the girls giggled openly.

Then, in complete seriousness, he announced:

“You are below average in English. Therefore, for the next fortnight I shall also take the last period daily to improve your grammar.”

That very day the last period was converted into an English class.

Before leaving earlier, he had assigned ten sentences to be converted into different tenses. When he checked them later, four students had failed to complete the work.

What followed terrified everyone.

“Show me your hands.”

Whoooosh!

The cane landed sharply on their palms.

“Aaaaaah!”

“If you do not understand something, I can teach you a hundred times,” he thundered. “But if you do not even attempt to learn, that is unacceptable!”

Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!

He spared neither boys nor girls, though he reduced the intensity for the girls. Shockingly, no girl cried. Most accepted the punishment silently.

Raina too received two hard whacks and later pretended to laugh them off, though he was later seen rubbing the back of his trousers quietly. Hips, after all, do not lie — even if lips do.

Yet, despite the terror, results began to show.

Students who could barely form a sentence started speaking grammatically correct English. Homework no longer meant merely writing answers. It meant writing, checking, memorising, practising with friends, and preparing mentally to face Mr Rathore’s questions.

Soon his fame spread throughout the school. Other teachers envied the attention he received. Everywhere one heard only one name — Mr Rathore.

But there was another side to him.

While punishing students he often lost control and behaved almost irrationally. His harshness, especially towards girls, slowly created resentment.

One day Sonia entered the class weeping bitterly. Tears rolled down her cheeks while her elder sister and some senior girls rushed in to console her. We later learnt that Mr Rathore had humiliated her before the Principal and forced her to apologise despite her insisting she was innocent.

Though the exact issue remained unclear, Sonia felt deeply hurt and betrayed. Watching senior students console her strangely irritated me because I felt that as her classmates, it should have been our responsibility to stand beside her.

That incident exposed the darker side of Mr Rathore’s personality.

Then came the confrontation nobody in school would ever forget.

During a combined class of both sections, several students failed to answer questions and were lined up for punishment. Mr Rathore moved down the row, caning boys and girls alike without hesitation.

Then he reached Ranjeet Vohra.

Vohra was a legendary sportsman of the school — strong, fearless, and already furious at the teacher’s behaviour, especially towards girls.

“Show your palms,” ordered Mr Rathore.

“No,” Vohra replied firmly. “You will not hit me.”

“You show me your hands. No arguments.”

“No. This ends here.”

And before anyone realised it, Vohra gripped one end of the cane tightly.

The class froze.

“Leave the cane,” Mr Rathore warned.

“No.”

For a few tense moments both stood facing each other in absolute silence. Finally Mr Rathore released the cane and declared angrily:

“There will be no English class until you apologise publicly before everyone!”

Then he stormed out.

The incident spread through the school like wildfire.

“Aaj class mein teacher ke saath panga ho gaya!”

Before rumours reached the Principal, Mr Rathore himself reported the matter. But the Principal faced a delicate situation. Vohra was not an ordinary student; he was the school’s star athlete who had brought glory to the institution.

Eventually a compromise was reached. Vohra would apologise publicly, and Mr Rathore would stop corporal punishment altogether.

The next day Vohra climbed onto the stage, muttered a four-second apology before both sections, and the matter officially ended.

But Mr Rathore’s anger did not disappear.

Unable to beat students now, he resorted to humiliation and verbal abuse instead, which often hurt even more deeply.

Then another controversy erupted.

One day during class he announced dramatically:

“I have discovered a shameful act by a girl student. A photograph of a half-nude girl was pasted inside her notebook. Very disgraceful behaviour.”

While speaking, he repeatedly glanced toward the backbench girls — Sonia, Nalini, and Ansuyia. Naturally, the entire class assumed one of them was responsible.

The girls were furious.

A few days later Nalini and Ansuyia confronted him after class.

“Sir,” Nalini said calmly, “you mentioned that photograph while looking directly at us. The boys now think we are responsible. Kindly tell us whose notebook it actually was.”

Mr Rathore avoided the question.

But the girls persisted until finally he agreed to show them the notebook.

The next day he produced it.

To everyone’s surprise, the picture was merely that of Nadia Comăneci wearing a gymnast’s costume. The notebook belonged not even to a girl from our class, but to a Class VIII sports student who admired the Olympic champion.

There was nothing obscene about it.

It was only Mr Rathore’s distorted interpretation that had created the controversy.

Nalini later contacted the younger student and confirmed the truth. Gradually the rumours died down, and the boys who had mocked the girls realised how unfairly they had judged them.

Had it been some timid student instead of Nalini and her friends, the stigma might have remained forever.

In the end, Mr Rathore remained one of the most unforgettable teachers of our lives — a man who transformed our English dramatically, inspired discipline and confidence, yet also left behind memories of fear, humiliation, and controversy.

He shaped us deeply — both positively and negatively.

Upur 8

 Chapter 8: The Fight

I always preferred the company of friends who respected my feelings, spoke openly, and carried an easygoing nature. Some boys did become my friends, but knowingly or unknowingly they often toyed with emotions and crossed limits in the name of fun. I disliked such behaviour deeply. Even if they meant no harm, it was a habit I could never truly accept, and gradually I began keeping my distance from such people.

John was different. He loved moving around with the city boys because they exposed him to a world far removed from cantonment life. Through them he experienced things that ordinary schoolboys rarely came across so early in life. Their circle included college boys, sons of businessmen who had abandoned studies, scrap dealers, clerks, and even grown men who smoked, drank, abused freely, and boasted endlessly about their romantic and sexual adventures. Many of them carried foul mouths and rough manners.

Being associated with such people made John feel worldly, experienced, and powerful. He believed he understood life better than the rest of us sheltered cantonment boys. Slowly, he developed the misconception that he possessed an upper edge over those who were untouched by that world.

The problem was not merely that he liked such company. He constantly tried to project it in front of others. He would subtly make people feel immature or inexperienced if they did not share his interests. Since he spent time with those rough characters, he had also developed the belief that they could get away with anything because they had connections with influential people. That gave him confidence, but it also changed him. At times he smoked and drank secretly, later chewing cardamom before going home to hide the smell.

For many city boys these habits were part of everyday life. To me, however, all this seemed too early and unnecessary. My upbringing had been completely different.

From childhood I had been an ardent admirer of Lee Falk’s legendary character, the Phantom. His comics were my favourite companions, and even today I remain fond of them. I dreamt of becoming like him and unconsciously began copying his ideals. Later in life I realised how strongly childhood heroes shape one’s personality.

The Phantom stood against wrongdoing, so did I. He never smoked or drank, and neither did I. He admired beauty, loved animals, respected nature, sought adventure, and possessed physical courage. Naturally, I tried to imitate those qualities too. He was not excessively studious, and I happily accepted that similarity as well. His love for jungles, horses, martial arts, and fearless living fascinated me endlessly. Looking back, I feel grateful to Lee Falk for creating a hero filled with values worth following.

My Sikh upbringing strengthened those beliefs further. Smoking and tobacco were considered wrong, which gave me additional resolve to stay away from such habits. Still, I remained curious about the world around me. I wanted to observe things firsthand, understand how people behaved, and know why they did what they did. Unlike some decent boys who avoided such company altogether, I never hesitated to observe from a distance.

Several times I tried discouraging my friends from indulging in such habits by simply showing disinterest whenever they discussed them. But my efforts had little effect. Eventually I stopped interfering and limited myself to humour and casual friendship.

Still, John repeatedly teased me over the matter.

“Tu abhi bachcha hai, bada ho kar sikhega,” he would say.

(“You’re still a kid. You’ll learn when you grow up.”)

At first I ignored it. But he began repeating it publicly in front of others, making me appear immature and inexperienced. Though he occasionally admitted he was joking, he never stopped. Gradually the teasing began pricking me like a needle.

One day, when he repeated the same line again, I lost my temper. I warned him sharply not to say it again. He was stunned by my reaction and immediately argued back. In the heat of the moment he hinted that he had powerful outside contacts and could easily “sort me out” if he wished. Among those names was a local fellow called Rombi, whom he had introduced to me once.

I remembered Rombi clearly.

I had first seen him outside the school premises near Chinar Complex. He had a scooter chain hanging around his neck, holding both ends in his hands as he roamed about like a street tough. He wore a maroon shirt, white trousers, shiny leather shoes, and carried the exact appearance of a Hindi-film villain. John had shaken hands with him proudly in front of me, as though displaying an important connection. Rombi was supposedly a scrap dealer with links to local policemen and a reputation for muscle power.

When John used his name to threaten me, something inside me snapped.

How could a friend think this way?

We played together every evening. Yet now he was indirectly threatening me through a local goon. The thought hurt me more than the threat itself. Anger slowly replaced friendship.

The next time he repeated the same thing, I replied coldly:

“I don’t care whom you know or befriend, but don’t tease me like this again. If you repeat it, I’ll hit you back—anywhere.”

Instead of backing down, he deliberately repeated it once more.

That was enough.

Already boiling with anger, I punched him hard in the chest as we stepped out of the classroom. He staggered backward and crashed against the door. Instantly he swung his heavy schoolbag into my stomach, knocking the air out of me. Furious, I kicked his leg and he fell down.

As he got up abusing me, he punched me back and I lost balance. Rage exploded inside me. I rushed forward again and landed another blow on his shoulder. Just as I prepared to strike him on the jaw, I heard the girls shouting:

“Stop it!”

For a split second my attention shifted. John seized the opportunity and rammed his head into my stomach, throwing me backward violently.

By then the entire class had erupted into chaos.

Raina and the others came running, half laughing and half trying to separate us. Even while they held us apart, I managed to kick John once more in the stomach, making him gasp for breath.

We were dragged away from each other by force.

But the moment their grip loosened, I charged again.

This time John’s back hit a desk and he fell against it facing upward. I jumped over him and gripped his neck with both hands. He twisted sideways and punched my waist hard enough to loosen my grip. Getting free, he shoved me again and I crashed onto a chair.

Breathing heavily, I grabbed the chair to strike back, but by then the others overpowered both of us completely. We were forced onto our seats while the class buzzed with excitement.

John kept glaring at me.

That glare irritated me so much that I sprang up once again and lunged forward, landing one final punch on his chest.

“Aaaah!” he shouted.

Again everyone rushed in to restrain us.

At that exact moment the bell rang for the next period.

Both of us were exhausted, bent forward, huffing and puffing. Oddly enough, with the fight over, the anger had also disappeared.

Trying to catch my breath, I muttered,

“Now go and call your Rombi.”

The others burst out laughing while John looked helpless.

The free period in which we had unknowingly demonstrated our “fighting skills” was finally over. Soon classes resumed as if nothing had happened.

By the time school ended, even the bitterness had faded.

Only the scratches on my hands and the soreness in my body reminded me of the battle we had fought a few hours earlier.

After class Panda came up smiling.

“So, how was the fight? And where exactly did this Rombi come from?”

I told him to ask John since he was the expert on such personalities. Panda laughed and explained that Rombi was actually more of a flashy show-off than a dangerous criminal. He roamed around near the school mainly to impress girls.

“Do you seriously think he would fight you just because John asked him to?” Panda said.

John lowered his eyes sheepishly.

Raina, meanwhile, found the entire episode hilarious.

“Why do you fellows fight among yourselves?” he laughed. “No outsider can interfere in our class matters. Our class is strong enough to handle anything.”

Then, grinning wickedly, he added:

“Come on, at least demonstrate the fight once more. It was entertaining!”

That made both of us laugh despite ourselves.

And just like that, the enmity ended forever.

Strangely, after that fight our friendship became stronger than before. John never teased me in that hurtful manner again. Even when he joked, it remained healthy and respectful. Gradually we became closer than ever.

He began sharing many things with me—the city boys, their affairs, their girlfriends, the local toughs, the hidden gossip of school life, even stories about young officers trying to gather information about schoolgirls through mutual contacts.

For me it was an entirely new world.

Slowly, I started understanding the unseen currents flowing around us. One day a friend even showed me a love letter written by a girl from our own class while we sat inside the jungle patch between the school and Chinar Complex.

I remember thinking in amazement:

“My God! This class is like a film industry. So many stories are unfolding silently around us.”

Compared to John, I felt like an innocent novice. Yet those discussions fascinated me because at that age curiosity ruled our minds.

One evening, after badminton, we sat in the mess near our house eating fried peanuts mixed with chopped onions—something that remains my weakness even today—and drinking Coke.

Suddenly I asked him,

“How did you feel when I punched you first?”

John laughed.

“It felt as if a huge rock had slammed into my chest. I got so angry that I hit you instantly with the only thing in my hand—my schoolbag. And how did you feel when I hit you?”

“It felt as if someone had dropped a heavy stone on my stomach,” I replied. “That’s why I kicked you back immediately. Did it hurt badly?”

“Oh yes,” he said, pointing to his knee. “It hurt like hell.”

I touched his knee lightly.

“Here?”

“Yes, exactly there.”

I rubbed it gently and said sincerely,

“I’m sorry. But I had completely lost my temper. And the worst part was that the girls saw us fighting.”

John burst out laughing.

“Yaar, tu toh number bana gaya unke saamne. Kick badi zabardast maari thi.”

(“You actually impressed them with that kick!”)

“No chance,” I replied. “I fell like Humpty Dumpty after your bag attack. That cancelled everything.”

Both of us laughed loudly.

Then I asked him quietly,

“Did you tell anything at home?”

“Pagal hai kya? Aisi baatein ghar mein thodi batate hain!”

(“Are you mad? Nobody discusses such things at home!”)

“Then what do you discuss at home? Girls?” I teased.

“Chhod yaar… woh baatein dil se karte hain.”

(“Leave it… such things are discussed from the heart.”)

Then, after a pause, he leaned forward mischievously.

“Now tell me honestly—which girl do you like most in class?”

I smiled nervously.

“You tell first.”

“No. I asked first.”

I tried escaping cleverly.

“From beauty point of view, intelligence, or overall personality?”

“Stop complicating things. Tell me one overall choice.”

“Wohi ek hi toh hai.”

(“There’s only one.”)

John narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

“I think we’ll have to fight again.”

“Why?”

“Because you never answer clearly.”

I finally replied vaguely,

“Woh gori wali.”

(“That fair-skinned one.”)

“Reema?” he asked instantly.

“So you like her?” I asked.

He smiled and nodded.

“And does she like you?”

“No idea.”

“So it’s one-sided?”

“For now, yes.”

“Best of luck then,” I laughed.

“But wait,” he said suddenly. “You took her name too.”

“No, I didn’t. I only said ‘the fair one.’”

His face relaxed immediately.

“Then who were you talking about?”

“The one with two-three names joined together. I can never remember them properly.”

“Oh! Mansingh?” he laughed.

“Yes! Sonia Rukmini Mansingh. The girl who sits with Nalini.”

John grinned.

“Patakha.”

“What does that mean?”

“A very attractive girl.”and she is intelligent also - blend of both.

“But patakha means firecracker.”

“Do you want to eat mangoes or count the seeds?” he replied impatiently, ending the discussion.

Then I asked,

“If Sonia is so then why do  you prefer Reema?" 

“Because she’s too smart for me and  I like simple desi girls.”

I sighed dramatically.

“If Sonia is too smart for you, then where do I stand?”

John laughed loudly and said,

“You talk as if she’s your girlfriend and Reema is mine. We’re only discussing our choices for fun. Anyway, in four or five years they’ll all be married to men older than us. If we can’t win them in real life, at least we can make them our dream girls in our thoughts. Nobody can stop us from it, not even them.”

That logic was strangely sensible.

Both of us burst into laughter again, finished our coke and peanuts, and headed home as evening darkness settled around the cantonment.

Later that night, while making my notes on physics, I kept thinking about the day.

In the afternoon we had fought with genuine anger, rolling on the classroom floor like enemies. By evening we were sharing secrets, discussing girls, apologising sincerely, and laughing together like brothers.

Such transformations are difficult to imagine in adulthood.

A child’s heart is still clean, untouched by layers of ego and bitterness. I realise that today.

Sometimes even now a strange thought crosses my mind: if nations carried the innocence of children, perhaps even enemies could become friends within a day.

Thinking that, I completed my physics notes on Motion, solved a few numerical problems, and finally went to sleep.

The day of punches, laughter, bruises, friendship, and heartfelt conversations had come to an end.

Upur7

 Chapter 7: The Uncontrolled Laughter

Humour had always been my greatest weakness.

Not ordinary laughter, but the kind that arrives like an uncontrollable storm and refuses to stop. I had realised very early in life that laughter is infectious. It spreads faster than fire in dry grass. Some people can suppress it instantly and regain a straight face within seconds, but I was never blessed with that ability.

And because of this weakness, I suffered a great deal in school.

Teachers almost always caught me laughing, while the real culprits escaped easily. Boys like Raina could transform their expressions within a split second, like chameleons changing colour. One moment they would be laughing uncontrollably, and the next moment they would sit with perfectly innocent faces, staring attentively at the blackboard as if nothing had happened.

Naturally, the teacher’s eyes always stopped on me.

As a result, I often received punishment not only for my own laughter but also for everyone else’s share. Ironically, that only made the situation funnier for the others. The more I tried to suppress my laughter under strict classroom conditions, the more violent it became inside me. After a point it became physically unbearable. Breathing turned difficult, my stomach cramped with pain and my eyes watered uncontrollably.

Some teachers even began suspecting that there was genuinely something wrong with me psychologically.

One day Patthu Sir, Mr Pahariwal himself, discussed the matter seriously with Raina.

“Isko kya koi dimaagi takleef hai jo yeh har waqt hansta rehta hai?” (Is he suffering from some mental problem that he keeps laughing all the time?)

Raina looked at me immediately and made one of his famous funny faces — the exact expression of a man desperately trying to control laughter.

That was enough.

I burst out laughing right in front of Patthu Sir.

This only strengthened the teacher’s suspicion that I was mentally unstable. Meanwhile, Raina instantly changed his face back to normal and replied with complete seriousness,

“I’ll find out, Sir.”

That finished me completely.

I could barely breathe. Tears rolled from my eyes while Patthu Sir walked away even more convinced that I needed medical attention.

When the period ended, I told Raina angrily that I would never sit beside him again.

Like an idiot, he made the same funny face once more.

I immediately collapsed into another fit of laughter.

Exhausted beyond limits, I finally escaped to the water point outside the classroom just to recover my breath. Raina knew exactly how to exploit this weakness of mine, and though I hated the embarrassment it caused, I secretly admired his mastery over humour.

Even today, I miss that laughter.

I still possess the same weakness, but very few people now can trigger it the way Raina did. That part of me has remained dormant ever since, waking up only occasionally when I meet someone equally gifted after years.

The strange thing was that it was rarely the joke itself that made me laugh. Most of the jokes I had already heard before. What truly destroyed me was Raina’s timing. He had an extraordinary talent for narrating absurd things precisely when complete seriousness was expected.

And I discovered something important in life:

The fear of humiliation drastically reduces one’s ability to control laughter.

One unforgettable incident occurred during a Geography class conducted by Mr Shambhu.

He was actually a good teacher and not particularly strict. He generally ignored low-level chatter as long as the class was not disturbed badly. But he had one peculiar habit. Whenever he wished to emphasise an important point, he would raise his chin upward and close his eyes while speaking. After finishing the sentence, he would slowly lower his head again.

Perhaps it helped him concentrate.

That day he was teaching us the layers of the atmosphere.

“The lowest layer is called the troposphere…” he explained in his usual style, chin raised and eyes closed.

At that exact moment, Raina produced a long, realistic cat sound.

“Meeeeeeooooow…”

The sound echoed softly across the classroom.

I froze.

Raman, who had recently joined from Gauhati in Assam and happened to be sitting beside us that day, also stiffened immediately.

Mr Shambhu slowly opened his eyes the way people wake up from deep meditation during shavasana. He looked around calmly but, finding no clue, quietly resumed his lecture.

There was mild murmuring in the class, but nothing serious enough to interrupt the lesson.

Then came the second attack.

“Meeeeooooowww!”

This time Raman and I kicked Raina hard under the desk, begging him silently to stop.

But the damage had already begun inside us.

Suppressing laughter had created such pressure within our bodies that our eyeballs practically seemed ready to burst out. We had clamped our palms tightly over our mouths, making even breathing difficult.

What made matters worse was watching the teacher slowly reopen his eyes each time in majestic slow motion, as if returning from another world.

Mr Shambhu now looked directly at the three of us.

Raina’s fair face had already turned reddish from suppressing laughter, and the teacher finally understood that he was the culprit while Raman and I were merely victims of infectious laughter.

Still, he said nothing.

Instead he continued teaching while throwing murderous looks towards us from time to time. Then, as usual, he raised his chin and closed his eyes once again.

That encouraged Raina further.

“Meeeeowww… Meeeeeeooooowww… Meeeeow!”

Now I knew disaster was unavoidable.

I was gasping for air. My lungs felt as if they would explode. At that moment I honestly did not care about punishment anymore. I simply wanted permission to run outside and laugh properly before suffocating to death.

Mr Shambhu slowly placed his book on the table.

Without interrupting his lecture even for a second, he picked up his cane and calmly walked towards our desk.

The closer he came, the worse our condition became.

Finally he stopped beside Raina and ordered all three of us to stand up.

Raman and I hesitated because our mouths were still buried inside our palms in a desperate attempt to hide our laughter. Raina alone managed to stand first.

Raising the cane above his shoulder, the teacher asked sternly,

“Yeh voice kisne nikaali hai?” (Who made this voice?)

“Boys? Kaun se boys?” (Boys? Which boys?) replied Raina innocently.

I nearly died.

“Main boys nahin, voice bol raha hoon.” (I said voice, not boys.) the teacher clarified impatiently.

Raina nodded thoughtfully.

“Mainay toh koi boys nahin dekhe yahaan aate hue.” (I did not see any boys coming here.)

Then, turning towards me with a perfectly serious face, he asked,

“Did you see any boys?”

I could no longer even respond.

My head remained buried on the desk while my body shook violently.

The teacher knew perfectly well that Raina was deliberately confusing him. Raising his chin once again and tightening his grip on the cane, he repeated slowly,

“Main boys nahin… voice bol raha hoon.” (I am saying voice, not boys.)

That was the breaking point.

I suddenly stood up, exploded into uncontrollable laughter and finally inhaled the deep breath for which I had been struggling.

“Sir!” I gasped between laughter. “Please ask him to stop making me laugh!”

Raman collapsed next.

The moment he burst out laughing, Raina too lost all remaining control over himself.

“Whooooooshhhhh! Whooooshhhhhh!”

Two sharp cane strikes landed across his back.

But even that failed to stop us.

There we were — three boys laughing helplessly in front of an increasingly furious teacher. Tears streamed down our faces, our cheeks had turned red and our bodies shook uncontrollably.

The rest of the class stared at us in utter confusion.

And the funny part was that the entire catastrophe had started from one stupid observation. Before class, Raina had simply whispered to us:

“Watch carefully how Sir raises his chin and closes his eyes while teaching.”

Once we noticed it, every repetition became funnier than the previous one. Then the cat sounds pushed the situation beyond recovery.

We were finally thrown out of the classroom.

Raina carried two fresh cane marks on his back.

Oddly enough, I felt grateful to the teacher because at least now we were free to laugh openly and save our lungs from bursting.

Outside the class we bent over, breathing heavily like exhausted runners after a two-mile sprint. Slowly the pressure inside our chests eased.

I immediately headed towards the water point, washed my face and drank water greedily.

Raman was still laughing in jerks.

Then Raina casually announced,

“Chalo Chinar Chowk ke samose khate hain.” (Come, let’s go eat samosas at Chinar.)

“You keep quiet now,” I warned him. “And don’t make that face at me again.”

By then my lungs felt completely drained and I was half asleep from exhaustion.

Still, the three of us went to Chinar Complex where we had samosas, bread and tea. Afterwards we slipped into the nearby theatre with the help of some of Raina’s friends working there and watched a few scenes and songs from a movie before returning to school.

When we came back, the Geography period was about to end.

From outside the classroom I could still see Mr Shambhu teaching with his chin raised and eyes closed.

I wisely decided not to enter the class again.

I wanted to live another day.

Beside me stood Raina with the same mischievous expression on his face, silently asking:

“Some more?”

The bell finally rang.

As soon as we entered the classroom, everyone surrounded us demanding an explanation for the mysterious laughter. I simply pointed towards Raina and escaped responsibility.

Yet deep inside I felt slightly awkward.

I wondered what the girls must be thinking about us. Most probably they had concluded that the three of us were mentally unstable idiots laughing without reason.

Nalini asked me curiously what exactly had happened.

I could only reply,

“It cannot be explained. It can only be experienced.”

And honestly, she would probably have called us fools had she known the real reason.

Raina possessed another dangerous talent too.

He loved narrating fictional comic stories using classmates, teachers and even their parents as characters, whether people liked it or not. Those who could tolerate jokes about themselves stayed and enjoyed the sessions. Others quietly escaped before becoming targets.

There exists an unwritten rule in humour:

Only those who can bear jokes upon themselves earn the right to joke about others.

Raina followed this rule sincerely. If somebody mocked him, he accepted it sportingly without resentment.

Balli, however, was poor at tolerating jokes on himself. So during such sessions he quietly disappeared. He also had weak eyesight and eventually shifted to the front benches because he could not read the blackboard properly. Raman then occupied his place beside us.

Raman was gentle, submissive and easy-going. Since he had arrived from Gauhati, we simply nicknamed him “Gauhati,” and the name stayed with him till he left school.

John, meanwhile, preferred roaming with the local city boys and cultivating contacts outside school. He usually stayed around Vohra, Raina and Karan because it made him feel influential and adventurous.

As for me, my friendship with them remained largely confined to humour, classroom fun and occasional visits to Chinar Restaurant.

Raina was famous for yet another remarkable skill — producing all kinds of strange sounds from his throat. Cats, dogs, puppies, rooster calls, girlish voices and countless other high-pitched noises emerged from him effortlessly. His rooster imitation became especially legendary.

Vohra and I eventually nicknamed him “Kua-Kua Guy.”

Sometimes he would keep repeating those sounds continuously during class, causing severe “laughter attacks” among us. Vohra had learnt some of these techniques too, but unlike Raina he rarely used them during lectures because he carefully maintained his respectable image.

By the time I finally left Udhampur, I felt I had earned a PhD in laughter and jokes.

Very few jokes today genuinely make me laugh because I have heard most of them already.

But one truth remains permanent:

No matter how good a joke is, its success depends largely upon the person narrating it.

Because ultimately, the narrator is the man behind the gun.

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.

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.