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.

Upur 19

 Chapter 19: The High School Examination

The cloudburst incident had changed something within us.

After escaping death so narrowly near the stream, many of us had begun looking at life differently. The carefree recklessness that had once defined our days slowly gave way to a sense of maturity. We still laughed, played pranks, and argued over trivial matters, but somewhere deep inside, we had realised how fragile life could be.

And now another challenge stood before us—the Class X Board Examination.

For the first time in our lives, we were going to appear in a public examination.

The very words Board Exams carried an aura of fear.

Until then, examinations had always been conducted within the comforting confines of our school. We knew the teachers, understood their temperaments, and had grown accustomed to the familiar atmosphere of our classrooms. But this was different. We had heard countless stories about stern external invigilators, strict checking, and students being booked for even the slightest violation. The prospect of unknown examiners watching every movement filled even the brightest among us with anxiety.

The fear was visible on every face.

Would we be able to complete the paper on time? Would the questions be difficult? What if we forgot everything after entering the examination hall?

No one seemed to have answers.

Long before the examinations actually began, discussions about seating arrangements had become the favourite topic during recess. Since roll numbers were allotted alphabetically, students had already started calculating who was likely to sit beside whom.

Strangely, friendships too began following alphabetical order.

Those whose names started with the same letter suddenly became unusually friendly. They sat together, exchanged notes, clarified doubts, and behaved as though destiny itself had assigned them to a common cause.

JP, for instance, had become especially close to John because both their names began with the letter 'J'. They were convinced that their roll numbers would be consecutive and they would sit together during the examinations.

Fate, however, had other plans.

When the seating charts were finally displayed, JP found himself occupying the last seat of the first row while John was allotted the very first seat of the second row.

"So much for alphabetical friendship," John remarked philosophically, making us burst into laughter.

As the examinations drew closer, an unusual transformation swept through the class.

Students who had spent most of the year perfecting the art of idleness suddenly discovered the virtues of hard work. The backbenchers became regular visitors to the library. Free periods ceased to be free. Everywhere—inside classrooms, under trees, near the laboratory, even beside the football field—students could be seen with books in their hands.

The atmosphere had changed completely.

The incomplete syllabus worried everyone, forcing teachers to organise extra classes. Although these additional periods ate into our leisure time, nobody complained. The stakes were simply too high.

Our teachers, sensing our nervousness, devoted considerable time to explaining examination techniques.

Important questions were identified. Previous years' papers were collected and solved repeatedly. Teachers prepared guess papers, and soon the guess papers themselves became so voluminous that the brighter students prepared "guess papers from the guess papers."

Formula sheets for trigonometry were circulated. Physics equations were carefully listed. Chemical reactions were summarised in neat notebooks.

One topic, however, enjoyed legendary status.

The fractional distillation of crude petroleum.

Everyone was convinced that it would certainly appear in the examination. Consequently, detailed labelled diagrams of the towering distillation column were prepared and memorised with almost religious devotion. We quizzed one another endlessly.

"What comes after kerosene?"

"Diesel."

"And above petrol?"

"Petroleum gas!"

These impromptu quizzes continued wherever we met.

Despite the tension, there were moments of humour too.

One afternoon, while discussing strategies, JP once again assumed command.

"Listen carefully," he announced in a tone befitting a military commander. "During the first hour everyone will solve whatever they know independently. In the second phase we will quietly exchange information if required. During the last half-hour, we shall help one another fully. And in the final ten minutes, everyone must ensure that answer sheets are properly tagged."

The plan sounded remarkably professional.

Everyone nodded solemnly.

The objective-type questions demanded special preparation.

Codes were devised.

A sneeze meant option 'A'.

Clearing the throat signified 'B'.

Rubbing one's eyes indicated 'C'.

A cough represented 'D'.

The elaborate system amused us immensely, although whether it would actually work remained doubtful.

As regular teaching gradually decreased, many students stopped attending school altogether and preferred studying at home. Consequently, the classrooms looked unusually empty.

I found these days strangely emotional.

Our stay at Udhampur was nearing its end.

Army postings were due, and many families, including ours, had already received transfer orders. My father had been posted to Halwara. Similar news had begun arriving in other homes as well.

For children of military families, farewells were an unavoidable reality.

Still, knowing that did not make parting easier.

I often found myself looking around the classroom, wondering how many of these faces I would ever see again. The laughter, friendships, quarrels, and adventures of the past two years had become an inseparable part of my life.

Soon, all this would become memory.

The thought saddened me.

But there was little time for sentimentality. The examinations demanded complete attention.

At home, my playtime reduced drastically. Surprisingly, I did not miss it much. Anxiety had replaced recreation.

My greatest enemy was not the syllabus.

It was self-doubt.

I was confident in English, Hindi, History, Geography, and Civics. However, Commercial Mathematics, certain portions of Physics, and balancing chemical equations in Chemistry continued to trouble me.

Gradually, after completing my first revision, confidence began returning.

I also started helping friends with difficult concepts. Explaining chemical reactions and mathematical problems to others clarified my own understanding further.

That was when I discovered an important truth.

Teaching is the best form of learning.

No wonder teachers know their subjects so thoroughly.

The final week before the examinations arrived.

Six-digit roll numbers were distributed.

Hall tickets bearing our photographs suddenly made the whole affair seem real.

Some students carefully noted their roll numbers in diaries. Others wrote them on books, pencil boxes, or even their palms.

Those with consecutive roll numbers congratulated one another enthusiastically.

The first examination was scheduled for Monday.

English.

The much-awaited—and feared—day had arrived.

The school looked transformed.

Outside every examination hall stood easels displaying seating plans. Water containers had been strategically placed. Large charts proclaiming "Silence" and "Examination in Progress" hung prominently everywhere.

Most intimidating of all were the unfamiliar faces.

The external examiners.

The legendary figures we had discussed for months.

I located my seat and sat down quietly. Around me, students frantically revised notes until a sharp whistle ordered everyone to put away all books.

Instructions were read out.

Answer sheets were distributed.

An uneasy silence descended.

Soon the question papers arrived.

As I scanned the English paper, an immense sense of relief washed over me.

It was manageable.

The nightmare had not materialised.

I immersed myself in writing.

About half an hour later, I noticed something interesting.

The school coordinator arrived carrying an impressive assortment of refreshments—samosas, pastries, biscuits, and tea—for the external invigilator.

The examiner, initially stern and distant, gradually softened.

Animated conversation followed.

Plates were replenished repeatedly.

JP leaned towards Mahesh and whispered softly,

"Pataa liya isko."

("He's been won over.")

I struggled to suppress a smile and continued writing.

Soon afterwards, both the coordinator and the external examiner disappeared together.

The moment they vanished, our English teacher emerged from behind a wall like a covert operative.

Climbing onto the platform, he spoke in a low but authoritative voice.

"Everyone listen carefully and write down the answers for the objective questions."

He immediately started dictating.

"Question thirteen—option A. Fourteen—C. Fifteen—D..."

Pens raced across answer sheets.

A few confused students requested him to repeat.

The teacher exploded instantly.

"Yeh tumhare baap ka ghar nahin hai..." he snapped angrily. "I have very little time to help weak students pass. So keep quiet and write."

Nobody dared ask again.

After completing the objective answers, he even offered brief hints regarding essays and comprehension passages before disappearing as mysteriously as he had appeared.

A little later, the external invigilator returned, looking considerably more cheerful—and noticeably fuller.

The operation had succeeded.

It was a remarkably coordinated exercise.

Like students, like teachers, I thought.

Perhaps they too had once sat anxiously in examination halls.

We were strictly instructed not to discuss these happenings with anyone until all examinations concluded.

The Mathematics paper, however, unfolded differently.

Security was tighter, and very little assistance was possible.

Still, isolated incidents occurred.

I noticed one anxious father discreetly sending a chit to his daughter through students seated nearby. One teacher conveniently looked elsewhere.

Not everyone approved.

Nalini, among others, openly disliked such unfair practices.

Apparently, complaints reached higher authorities.

The very next day, while arriving for the History examination, we were astonished to find Military Policemen stationed around the examination halls.

Nobody except students and authorised staff was permitted near the premises.

The atmosphere changed instantly.

From that day onward, the examinations proceeded under strict supervision.

By then, however, we had become accustomed to the system.

One paper followed another.

History.

Science.

Mathematics.

Hindi.

Geography.

Finally, one glorious morning, it was over.

The examinations had ended.

An enormous burden seemed to lift from our shoulders.

Ironically, the sudden freedom felt strange.

For months our minds had remained constantly occupied. Now, with nothing left to study, an unexpected emptiness emerged.

Even sleep refused to come easily.

The next few days were spent watching films, meeting friends, and relaxing. Yet I found myself missing school.

I missed my classmates.

I missed the routine.

I missed Udhampur.

After the practical examinations, we assembled once again in school. Discussions revolved around future plans—Science, Commerce, Arts, Medicine, Engineering.

Everyone dreamed aloud.

Then came the holidays.

I travelled to Allahabad to spend time with my grandmother. Though I enjoyed myself thoroughly, memories of Udhampur returned every night before sleep.

Would I score well?

Where would everyone go?

Would we ever meet again?

The questions lingered endlessly.

One day, a letter arrived from Udhampur.

I had passed with good marks.

My joy knew no bounds.

When we eventually returned to Udhampur, I eagerly awaited the final gathering with my classmates.

The farewell ceremony was announced.

We were instructed to come in civilian clothes.

The next day the school campus looked dazzling.

Gone were the uniforms.

Bright colours, fashionable dresses, and cheerful laughter filled the assembly ground.

Awards were announced.

Then came the most anticipated moment.

Mr Tenth and Miss Tenth.

A boy from Section X-A won the title of Mr Tenth.

And Miss Tenth?

There was hardly any suspense.

It was Sonia.

As beautiful as she was intelligent, she had always been the obvious choice. She accepted the honour amidst thunderous applause while our entire section cheered enthusiastically.

A tea party followed.

Photographs were taken.

Promises were exchanged.

Addresses were written.

And then, slowly, inevitably, we began dispersing.

As I walked home that afternoon, I turned back once to look at the school building.

I did not know then that it would be the last time I would see many of my classmates together.

Childhood, I realised, rarely announces its departure.

It simply slips away quietly, leaving behind memories that remain alive forever.

Upur 18

 Chapter 18: The Furious Stream 

Late summer had arrived in Udhampur, but the heat showed no signs of relenting. The afternoon sun beat mercilessly upon the school grounds, making the classrooms unbearably warm and leaving everyone listless. The day had already acquired a lazy rhythm when our Civics period ended.

Luck seemed to be on our side. The teacher scheduled for the next period was absent, and it was followed by two Games periods. In senior classes, Games periods often meant freedom. Once you reported to the PT teacher and marked your presence, no one bothered much about where you disappeared thereafter.

A football was issued, and a few enthusiastic boys headed towards the playground. The girls gathered under the huge banyan tree near the field and soon became engrossed in hopscotch. Some boys wandered towards the football ground, while others searched for shady corners to escape the oppressive heat.

John, Poondri, Panda, Karan and I quietly drifted back towards our classroom, giving everyone the impression that we intended spending the free periods indoors.

The moment we entered the empty classroom, an idea struck me.

"Why don't we go down to the stream?" I suggested. "We can carry our tiffins, have a picnic and perhaps even go for a swim. We have enough time."

The proposal was accepted unanimously.

Within minutes, we were making our way down the narrow footpath that descended from the school towards the stream flowing below our classroom. The path wound past the old cave and through a patch of shrubs before finally opening onto the rivulet.

The sight instantly refreshed us.

Crystal-clear water flowed gently over smooth sandstone rocks, producing a soothing murmur. The stream was nearly fifteen metres wide, shallow at certain places and surprisingly deep at others. Along the home bank stood a huge overhanging rock beneath which the flowing water had carved out a cave-like pool. The water there was deep, still and ideal for swimming. On the opposite side rose a steep hill cut, whose shadow covered almost the entire width of the stream during late afternoons, making the place pleasantly cool.

Tiny fish darted beneath the transparent water.

"This is perfect," Panda declared.

We placed our tiffins and belongings atop a broad, flat rock near the bank and sat there for some time gossiping and discussing where we should swim. Everyone washed his face in the icy water.

Poondri, the tallest among us, rolled up his trousers and ventured into the stream.

"Hey, the water is freezing!" he shouted excitedly.

That was enough encouragement.

Panda immediately stripped down to his underpants and plunged into the deeper pool beneath the overhanging rock.

"Oh, this is heavenly!" he cried.

John soon joined him.

Karan, who was the least inhibited among us, removed all his clothes and jumped in stark naked, carefully spreading his clothes over the sunlit rock.

I too joined them, retaining only my undergarments.

For nearly an hour, we enjoyed ourselves thoroughly.

We splashed water at one another, raced against the current, dived repeatedly and explored every corner of the stream. Swimming in flowing water was completely different from swimming in a pool. The current constantly challenged us, demanding effort and skill.

Curious about the fish sheltering beneath the giant rock, Panda and I dived underwater to observe them more closely.

Suddenly I felt a sharp tingling sensation.

"Ouch!"

The tiny fish were nibbling at our skin.

Their bites felt exactly like ant stings.

Poondri immediately shouted towards Karan.

"Be careful! Those fish prefer soft flesh, and you aren't wearing anything!"

Even before he finished speaking, Karan let out an ear-splitting shriek.

"Oooooooooooiiiiiiiii!"

Clutching himself protectively, he emerged from the water at remarkable speed.

The rest of us burst into laughter.

Thoroughly alarmed by the fish, Karan abandoned the pool altogether and took refuge on the far bank.

We continued enjoying ourselves.

After some time, while floating quietly near the overhanging rock, I heard a distant rumbling sound.

At first, I dismissed it as thunder.

Far away on the horizon, dark clouds had gathered over the hills.

Meanwhile, Karan had discovered a new pastime.

Standing safely on the far bank, he began throwing stones at the clothes drying on the rock.

"Stop it!" John shouted. "You'll tear them!"

Karan ignored him and continued.

Soon a few undergarments developed small holes.

John scrambled out of the water to rescue the clothes, but Karan continued his bombardment, laughing uncontrollably.

Neither Panda nor I found this amusing and repeatedly asked him to stop.

Suddenly John, who was standing atop the rock collecting his clothes, froze.

"Hey!" he shouted. "Look upstream! What is that?"

Every head turned.

Nearly two hundred metres away, an enormous wall of muddy water was racing towards us.

It was accompanied by a terrifying roar.

The sound resembled thunder mixed with the grinding of giant boulders.

For a few seconds, none of us understood what we were witnessing.

Panda did.

Having visited the stream many times before, he instantly recognised the danger.

His face turned pale.

"Everybody out!" he screamed. "Run! It's a flash flood! Climb to higher ground immediately!"

Panic erupted.

We swam desperately towards the home bank.

John, already standing on the large rock, gathered everyone's clothes and sprinted towards the footpath leading back to school.

Karan faced a greater problem.

He was stranded naked on the opposite bank.

Realising that he would never reach our side in time, he scrambled up a tree whose branches projected over the stream.

I had barely reached the bank when I realised there was insufficient time to climb back to the rock. Without thinking, I clawed my way up the muddy embankment. The soil was slippery and soft. Digging my fingers into the wet earth, I hauled myself upwards like a desperate mountaineer until I finally reached the grassy ground near the school fence.

Panda ran towards the cave and climbed to safety.

Seconds later, the flood arrived.

The gentle stream transformed into a raging monster.

Within less than half a minute, the water level rose by nearly two metres—enough to drown even a tall man.

The roar became deafening.

Huge boulders tumbled violently beneath the muddy water, striking one another with tremendous force. The entire ground beneath us vibrated.

Sitting helplessly on higher ground in little more than our undergarments, we watched death pass below us.

Then Panda suddenly shouted,

"Look there!"

About ten metres upstream, several village boys who had been swimming earlier were now struggling desperately against the furious current.

Three managed to reach safety.

Two remained trapped.

The boys on the bank stretched branches and twigs towards them.

Just as one of the struggling boys seemed about to reach safety, a large stone carried by the torrent struck him on the head. He lost his grip and was swept away into the main current.

Moments later, the second boy too disappeared.

Their friends ran frantically along the bank shouting and searching for them.

We sat frozen with horror.

None of us spoke.

We were equally worried about Karan.

Still perched naked on the tree branch, he clung desperately while muddy water surged barely a foot beneath him.

We repeatedly shouted, urging him to move towards safer ground, but shock, fear and embarrassment held him motionless.

Fortunately, after nearly half an hour, the water level stopped rising.

Gathering courage, Karan cautiously climbed down and hid behind a large boulder.

Then came a request that, under ordinary circumstances, would have made us laugh uncontrollably.

"Panda!" he shouted. "Throw my trousers across!"

"How can I? The distance is too great!" Panda replied.

"Put stones inside them and throw them," Karan suggested anxiously.

Though shaken by everything we had witnessed, we quickly wrapped stones inside Karan's clothes, tied them securely with his belt and prepared an improvised projectile.

Poondri, being the strongest among us, was entrusted with the task.

"One... two... three!"

The bundle sailed gracefully through the air and landed safely on the opposite bank.

Karan rushed to retrieve it, undoubtedly thanking his stars that it had not fallen into the raging stream.

While all this was going on, we saw the carcass of a buffalo being tossed helplessly downstream. The animal bore fresh wounds and bruises inflicted by the boulders rolling beneath the muddy water.

The sight shook us profoundly.

If such a huge animal could be treated like a toy by the flood, what chance would any human being have stood?

Without exchanging another word, we decided to leave immediately.

Karan was instructed to return through the distant bridge after John successfully hurled his shoes across to him.

When we reached school, classes were still in progress.

Nobody knew where we had been.

Panda immediately ordered us to keep our mouths shut.

"If the Principal finds out that we skipped Games period and nearly got ourselves killed, we'll be finished," he warned.

Everyone agreed.

However, such incidents never remain secret for long.

Soon villagers gathered along both banks of the stream. Their shouts and cries could be heard clearly from our classrooms. Before long, students and teachers also assembled near the football field overlooking the stream.

Men carrying ropes, long bamboo poles and other improvised rescue equipment lined the banks. As the waters gradually receded, villagers managed to rescue several stranded animals and retrieve others that had been swept away.

The entire school remained abuzz with rumours.

That evening, after returning home, I found it impossible to sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I could still hear the terrifying roar of the flood and see the muddy wall of water racing towards us. It had been the closest encounter with death any of us had ever experienced.

The following morning, the newspapers carried the explanation.

A cloudburst had occurred in the outer regions of Udhampur, triggering a sudden flash flood in the stream. Eight people had been injured and several animals swept away in the disaster. The two village boys whom we had seen being carried away had fortunately been rescued downstream with serious injuries and admitted to hospital.

Only then did we truly understand what a cloudburst was.

None of us ever ventured into that stream again.

We had escaped death by mere seconds.

Of all of us, Karan had perhaps endured the greatest ordeal. Alone on that tree branch, naked and terrified, he had looked death directly in the eye.

Yet, as always happens among schoolboys, fear eventually gave way to humour.

Nearly ten days later, Poondri casually remarked to Karan during class,

"You looked exactly like a monkey sitting on that tree."

Only four of us burst into laughter.

The rest of the class looked puzzled.

Karan merely blushed—something entirely out of character for him.

Some memories, however terrifying, eventually become stories.

But none of us ever forgot the day when an innocent picnic nearly turned into a tragedy.

Upur 17

 

Chapter 17: The Second Fight

Growing up in a co-educational day school was an education in itself. Every morning, we arrived carrying not only our school bags but also our dreams, insecurities, friendships and occasional rivalries. The classrooms, playgrounds, corridors, library and bus stands together formed a miniature world of their own—a world where we learnt many lessons that no textbook could ever teach.

As we advanced through adolescence, most of us were slowly becoming mature and learning to understand one another better. Yet there were some boys who believed that rough behaviour was a sign of strength. Teasing, pushing and intimidating others enhanced their standing in the eyes of their friends. Unfortunately, because of my quiet and non-confrontational nature, I often found myself at the receiving end of such behaviour.

One such classmate was Mahesh Chander.

Mahesh was not really a bully at heart. In fact, beneath his rough exterior, he was a simple and straightforward boy. Tall, fair and sturdily built, he always carried a somewhat untidy and shabby appearance, which made him look older than the rest of us. He had a peculiar habit of swallowing half his words while speaking, making his speech unclear and difficult to understand. Consequently, many students maintained a distance from him, often unfairly judging him before even getting to know him.

JP was one of his few close friends, and the two were almost inseparable. Mahesh was also a good sportsman and an excellent runner, although he never managed to break into the school's top ranks.

Raina, however, considered Mahesh an ideal target for his endless mischief.

One afternoon, Raina played one of his most memorable pranks. During recess, he quietly slipped a live frog into Mahesh's geometry box and waited for the drama to unfold.

A little later, Mahesh returned to his seat, dropped heavily into his chair and casually opened the box.

The next instant, a blood-curdling scream echoed through the classroom.

Startled by the sudden movement of the frog, Mahesh reflexively flung the geometry box high into the air. Compasses, pencils and scales scattered in all directions before the box landed with a loud clang on the floor.

For a moment, there was stunned silence.

Then the entire class burst into laughter.

I too could not control myself.

Red-faced and thoroughly embarrassed, Mahesh looked around furiously. His eyes finally settled on me.

Marching straight towards me, he demanded angrily, "Why are you laughing?"

"Because everyone else is laughing," I replied casually. "The whole thing was funny."

He immediately pushed my shoulder in irritation.

"What do you think of yourself? Too smart, aren't you?"

Realising that he was genuinely upset, I stopped smiling at once.

"I had nothing to do with the prank," I said calmly. "Please don't misunderstand me."

He glared at me for a few seconds before returning to his seat.

No sooner had he sat down than Raina announced loudly,

"Why did you go to him? I was the one who put the frog there!"

Mahesh muttered something under his breath, undoubtedly an abuse directed at Raina, but he wisely chose not to confront him physically. He knew very well that he could not overpower Raina in a fight.

Raina responded with his trademark laughter.

"He he he he he!"

Mahesh looked away and pretended not to hear him.

Mahesh had an elder brother, Vikrant, who studied in another section. Vikrant was a much sharper boy, an accomplished sportsman and, incidentally, a close friend of Raina. Whenever Mahesh found himself cornered during arguments, he invariably invoked his brother's name. The mere mention of Vikrant was often enough to discourage any potential opponent.

Unfortunately, Mahesh had developed another habit that affected me directly.

At that stage of my life, I had not yet started wearing a turban and usually covered my head with a scarf. For reasons best known to him, Mahesh seemed to derive immense amusement from tugging at it, touching it or deliberately disturbing it whenever he passed by.

Initially, I ignored these acts.

I was younger than most boys in the class—smaller in build and nearly a year or two junior to many of them. By temperament, I was peaceful and preferred avoiding unnecessary confrontations. I believed that friendships were more important than arguments and that patience could resolve most misunderstandings.

Repeatedly, I requested Mahesh to stop.

Repeatedly, he ignored me.

Gradually, the teasing escalated into pushing.

Whenever Raina ridiculed or embarrassed him, Mahesh appeared to vent his frustration on me, perhaps because he considered me an easy target who would never retaliate.

One day, while leaving the classroom, he deliberately shoved me hard.

I turned around.

"Enough," I said firmly. "Please behave yourself."

Instead of stopping, he pushed me once again.

Unwilling to create a scene, I quietly moved to another vacant chair.

To my annoyance, he followed me there and continued provoking me.

By now, I had lost my patience.

"Leave me alone!" I shouted.

The sudden outburst surprised everyone. A few girls sitting nearby looked in our direction.

Embarrassed, Mahesh walked away. But the expression on his face made it clear that the matter was far from over.

A little later, I stepped outside to drink water.

As I returned, Mahesh called out to me.

I ignored him.

The next thing I knew, he had grabbed my shirt.

Before I could react, he dragged me away from the classroom towards the lonely pathway leading to the cave behind the academic block. I resisted, but he was physically much stronger.

"What is the matter?" I asked.

I had barely completed the sentence when he pushed me violently.

I lost my balance and fell flat on my back.

Within seconds, he was on top of me.

Straddling my abdomen, he pinned me firmly to the ground and gripped my neck.

"What do you think of yourself?" he shouted angrily.

I tried desperately to free myself.

I pushed.

Kicked.

Twisted.

Rolled.

Nothing worked.

Every time I almost escaped, he overpowered me again.

Soon, a crowd gathered around us. Some boys cheered. Others laughed. A few merely watched with curiosity.

To them, it was entertainment.

To me, it was humiliation.

As I lay pinned helplessly beneath him, gasping for breath, panic slowly gave way to desperation. For the first time, I realised that patience and submission had brought me to this situation.

I had only two choices—either continue suffering humiliation or defend myself.

Instinct took over.

Summoning all the strength I could muster, I raised my head and bit him hard on the cheek.

Mahesh screamed.

Startled by the sudden pain, he loosened his grip instantly.

By now, I was so angry and humiliated that I continued holding on. In my desperation to free myself, I shook my head instinctively, much like I had once seen our pet dog do during a fight.

The crowd, which had until then been enjoying the spectacle, suddenly realised that matters had become serious.

Several boys rushed forward.

After considerable effort, they finally managed to separate us by pressing my cheeks apart.

Blood immediately began trickling down Mahesh's face.

Four deep teeth marks were clearly visible.

His friends quickly escorted him to the hospital without informing any teacher or the Principal, largely because they knew that he had initiated the confrontation and wished to avoid further complications.

As for me, I returned to class shaken but strangely relieved.

For the first time, I had stood up to a bully.

Raina looked at me mischievously and asked, "So, how deep was the kiss?"

"What else could I do?" I replied. "I couldn't even breathe."

"Good," he said approvingly. "Now he won't trouble you again."

Although I appeared calm outwardly, anxiety gradually replaced my relief.

The next day, Mahesh did not come to school.

Nor did he come the day after.

By the third day, I had begun imagining the worst.

What if his parents complained?

What if the Principal summoned me?

What if my parents were called to school?

The uncertainty became unbearable.

Unable to carry the burden any longer, I decided to tell my mother.

That evening, after returning home, I cautiously began narrating the background of the incident.

"There is one boy in class who keeps troubling me," I explained. "I warned him many times, but he wouldn't stop."

"You must also have done something to provoke him," my mother said.

"No," I replied honestly. "He pushed me down and held me so tightly that I couldn't even breathe. I had no other option."

"Why didn't you complain to a teacher?" she asked.

"I thought I would handle it myself," I replied. "And now the matter is over."

Fortunately, she did not pursue the subject further.

On the fourth day, Mahesh finally returned.

His face was swollen and a white cross-shaped plaster covered his cheek.

Walking up to me, he said quietly, "I have already taken three injections. You really bit hard."

"You left me with no choice," I replied honestly. "I was completely overpowered."

To my immense relief, he revealed that he had told his parents that an insect had bitten him. Since they had seen only the dressing and not the wound itself, they had accepted his explanation.

"What did the doctor say?" I asked curiously.

Mahesh smiled painfully.

"He said it looked more like the aftermath of a bloody dogfight."

For the first time since the incident, both of us laughed.

Over the next few days, I saw him enduring considerable discomfort. Gradually, my anger disappeared and was replaced by guilt. Whenever I saw him wincing in pain, I felt genuinely sorry.

One afternoon, I advised him to apply warmth to the injured cheek to reduce the pain.

He looked at me with friendly eyes.

There was no trace of revenge in them.

When the teacher later enquired about his injury, Mahesh calmly repeated that it was an insect bite.

The entire class lowered their heads to hide their laughter.

A few days later, the plaster was removed.

Four faint scars remained permanently etched on his cheek.

Initially, Mahesh tried to hide them with his hand, but eventually he stopped bothering.

Those scars had become my unintended signature.

Even today, whenever I remember them, I feel uncomfortable and somewhat ashamed. Yet I also know that whatever I did, I did purely in self-defence.

Strangely enough, the fight that could have turned us into lifelong enemies became the foundation of an enduring friendship.

Mahesh never troubled me again.

Instead, we gradually became good friends.

Looking back today, I realise that the incident taught both of us an important lesson. Mahesh learnt that even the quietest person has a breaking point, while I learnt that courage sometimes emerges only when one is pushed into a corner.

Even today, whenever we meet, Mahesh proudly points towards the faint scars on his cheek and reminds everyone of our famous fight. And Raina, true to his nature, never misses the opportunity to tease us—me for "kissing" Mahesh and Mahesh for being "kissed".

Some memories, it seems, are destined to remain evergreen.

Upur 16

 Chapter 16: The teenage shows effect

We were perhaps too young to understand love in its entirety, yet old enough to recognize that something unusual happened when boys and girls began taking a special interest in each other. Our minds were curious, our emotions restless, and our understanding incomplete. We sensed far more than we could comprehend. Those who ventured into these unfamiliar emotional territories often discovered that crossing invisible boundaries was far easier than dealing with the consequences later.

In those days, school life was very different from what it is today. Boys generally moved around in groups of boys, while girls preferred the company of other girls. Except during laboratory periods, project assignments, cultural activities or occasional academic discussions, members of the opposite sex were rarely seen alone together. During recess, we usually sat in mixed groups, chatting, joking and discussing everything under the sun—from cricket matches and examinations to films and teachers.

There were, however, a few exceptions.

Among them, Rohit and Garima were undoubtedly the most talked-about pair in the entire school.

Garima was often described as broad-minded because she was comfortable interacting with boys, especially Rohit. She was friendly with everyone, yet maintained a respectful distance from most boys. With Rohit, however, things were entirely different.

Rohit himself was an interesting personality. He was not exceptionally brilliant in academics, nor was he an outstanding sportsman. Yet he possessed something that many others lacked—an irresistible charm. He was cheerful, approachable and remarkably helpful. Whether it was carrying a project file, helping someone with homework, escorting a friend to class or lending notes, Rohit was always available.

He never hesitated to help girls, even if they belonged to another class. Many willingly accepted his assistance and some occasionally exploited his generous nature. Nevertheless, Rohit never appeared to mind.

He had joined our school in Class X after moving from Solan, a small town in Himachal Pradesh. Ever since his arrival, he had managed to establish friendships across classes.

His ambition was unusual.

Unlike most of us, who dreamed of becoming doctors, engineers or army officers, Rohit wanted to enter theatre and eventually become a film star. He often discussed cinema, acting and dramatics with remarkable passion. Listening to him, one could easily believe that he was destined for the silver screen.

Another remarkable quality of his was his ability to convince people.

Even when he was unsure of an answer in class, he would respond so confidently that teachers often found themselves accepting his explanation. Watching him, one sometimes wondered whether confidence alone could substitute knowledge.

Garima, meanwhile, was attractive, graceful and possessed a striking personality. She was of medium height, fair-complexioned and carried herself with a natural elegance. Many girls admired her while some quietly envied her popularity.

She and Rohit could frequently be seen together near the swimming pool, outside Chinar Theatre or around the library—places considered ideal meeting spots by students in those days.

Rumours regarding their relationship circulated constantly.

Garima was sincere and hardworking in studies. Yet she devoted considerable time to Rohit. During examinations she often risked disciplinary action by helping him whenever he struggled. Their exchange of handwritten notes during class had become so frequent that it was practically an accepted routine.

Half the class unwillingly participated as messengers.

John and I often discussed them.

"What does Rohit find so special in Garima?" I once asked. "There are many girls who are more intelligent and perhaps even prettier."

John smiled knowingly.

"How many times must I explain?" he said. "When someone falls in love, nobody else matters. To that person, the one they love becomes the most special person in the world."

His explanation invariably ended the discussion.

A few days later, an incident occurred that remained etched permanently in my memory.

We had just finished our games period and were returning to class.

John suddenly decided to visit the washroom.

"You come along," he suggested.

"My bladder is empty," I replied.

"Then go for company," he laughed.

I dismissed his suggestion and walked alone towards the classroom.

As I approached, I noticed that the room was still empty. Most students had not yet returned from the playground.

Expecting an empty classroom, I entered casually.

The moment I stepped inside, I stopped abruptly.

For a few seconds I simply stood there, unable to move.

In one corner of the classroom, partially hidden from the doorway, stood Rohit and Garima. Completely unaware of my presence, they were sharing a kiss.

I immediately froze.

Until that day, romance had existed for me only in films, novels and whispered conversations among classmates. Seeing two of my own classmates expressing their affection so openly came as a profound surprise.

I quietly stepped back without making a sound.

Outside the classroom, my heart pounded rapidly.

Should I enter?

Should I cough to announce my presence?

Should I pretend that I had seen nothing?

I had absolutely no idea.

For several moments, I remained standing outside, struggling to understand my own feelings. I felt embarrassed, curious, shocked and strangely excited—all at the same time.

Curiosity eventually won.

I cautiously looked inside once more.

They were still talking softly to each other, completely absorbed in their own world.

I withdrew immediately.

"No," I told myself. "They deserve their privacy."

Just then, John appeared in the corridor.

One glance at my expression and he immediately sensed that something unusual had happened.

I motioned him to remain silent and asked him to look inside.

He did so and returned smiling.

"First time?" he whispered.

I nodded.

"Oh, I've seen them together before," he replied casually.

Before I could ask further questions, John deliberately raised his voice.

"Have you brought the English notebook?" he shouted.

The startled pair immediately stepped apart.

When we entered, Rohit looked visibly uncomfortable.

"What were you doing?" John asked innocently.

"We were discussing Biology notes," Rohit replied.

John looked around.

"Without notebooks?"

"The notes are on the desk," Rohit answered quickly.

John merely smiled.

Fortunately, the arrival of other students ended the awkward moment.

Yet my thoughts remained disturbed throughout the day.

During Hindi class, I was so distracted that I failed to answer a simple question correctly, inviting laughter from the entire class and a sharp comment from the teacher.

Even while walking home, my mind repeatedly returned to the incident.

That evening, while sharing tea and samosas with John at Chinar Restaurant, I listened eagerly as he began narrating yet another story about Rohit and Garima.

As the sun gradually disappeared behind the distant hills and we resumed our journey home, I realized something important.

Without my noticing, childhood had begun giving way to adolescence.

And with it had arrived curiosity, confusion, friendships, secrets and the mysterious emotion called love.

Upur 15

 Chapter 15

The Pranks

Childhood and adolescence are perhaps the only periods in life when mischief is not merely tolerated but celebrated. A prank played in youth seldom remains just an act of foolishness; it becomes a treasured memory, retold decades later with the same laughter and excitement. Even senior officers, businessmen and professionals, when reunited with old friends, invariably return to stories of schoolboy escapades. Rank, status and age disappear, and for a few precious moments they become children again.

Pranks were the heartbeat of our class.

Some were harmless, some daring, and a few bordered dangerously on disaster. Yet every prank brought with it thrill, suspense, laughter and, occasionally, lessons that remained with us for life.

One of the central figures in many such adventures was our chemistry teacher, Mr Augastha.

Mr Augastha was an unusual personality. He walked with such graceful movements that, when viewed from behind, many students jokingly remarked that he resembled a lady. He was completely unconcerned about what others thought of him and had the habit of speaking whatever came to his mind without bothering about diplomacy or consequences. Most importantly, he possessed an extraordinary ability to ignore minor disturbances and continue teaching as if nothing had happened.

One day, while he was busy explaining chemical reactions on the blackboard, disaster nearly struck.

A boy sitting in the back benches mischievously flicked a small piece of chalk towards a friend. His aim, however, was hopeless.

Instead of hitting the intended target, the chalk struck Shilpa, a tall and heavily built girl seated in the front row directly below the dais.

Shilpa froze.

For a second she looked stunned. Then her face turned crimson.

In those days, even an accidental incident involving a boy and a girl could become a matter of prestige. The class fell silent. Everyone sensed trouble.

Mr Augastha, meanwhile, remained blissfully unaware, continuing to write equations on the blackboard.

Whispers erupted across the room.

Who had thrown the chalk?

The girls sitting in the rear benches had clearly seen the culprit, but wisely chose not to reveal his identity. They maintained complete silence.

Shilpa, however, was not willing to let the matter pass. She rose from her seat, clutching the offending piece of chalk in her hand.

The atmosphere among the boys became electric.

Every backbencher lowered his head.

I distinctly remember the dreadful thought racing through our minds:

What if she names the wrong person?

Being falsely accused of teasing a girl was social suicide in those days.

Before Shilpa could utter a single word, Mr Augastha turned around, irritated at the interruption.

"Yes... what is your problem?" he asked sharply.

"Sir, someone threw this chalk at me from behind," she replied innocently, holding up the evidence.

Mr Augastha looked at the chalk piece, then at Shilpa.

Without missing a beat, he pointed towards the dais and said matter-of-factly,

"Yes... keep it here. You girls can play with the chalk later."

Then he calmly turned back to the blackboard and resumed teaching.

For a moment there was stunned silence.

Then the backbenchers exploded.

Unable to laugh openly, many buried their faces in their palms. Others bent under their desks, their shoulders shaking uncontrollably. I remember boys gasping for breath as they struggled to suppress their laughter. The veins on some necks had visibly swollen due to the effort.

Shilpa looked around suspiciously.

Sonia, sitting in the last row, quickly signalled her to remain quiet.

Believing perhaps that another girl must have accidentally thrown the chalk, Shilpa reluctantly sat down.

The crisis had passed.

We silently thanked our stars.

If mischief had a permanent ambassador in our class, it was undoubtedly JP.

JP possessed an almost romantic fascination for electricity. Whether it was repairing switches, making electrical gadgets in the physics laboratory or experimenting with wires, he was always the first volunteer. He even carried a green-handled Taparia screwdriver tucked into his trousers like a professional electrician.

One gloomy monsoon afternoon, when dark clouds had turned the classroom unusually dim, JP decided to conduct one of his "experiments."

During recess, he somehow managed to insert a ten-paise coin inside an electric bulb and fixed it back in the holder.

Then he waited.

Patiently.

Like a hunter waiting beside a trap.

A few of us were taken into confidence and instructed merely to "watch the fun."

Soon Mr Augastha entered the classroom and began teaching. After a few minutes he paused.

"It's too dark," he said. "Sooraj, switch on the light."

Sooraj obediently walked to the switchboard.

Click.

BOOOOOM!

The bulb exploded like a miniature bomb.

Glass fragments showered across the classroom.

Fortunately, no one was injured.

"Ofhooooo!" exclaimed Mr Augastha in his trademark feminine style.

That single expression was worth the entire operation.

The conspirators nearly collapsed with laughter.

Then, quite unexpectedly, Mr Augastha looked directly at JP.

"Can you tell me whether this was an exothermic or an endothermic reaction?"

JP, who had been proudly twirling his screwdriver beneath the desk, froze.

"Exothermic, sir," he replied after considerable hesitation.

"Good," said the teacher.

JP brightened.

"Now tell me why."

JP's confidence evaporated instantly.

He looked helplessly around the class.

No assistance came.

After waiting for a few seconds, Mr Augastha smiled.

"So, it was a tukka—a lucky guess?"

"No sir," protested JP.

"Then tell me the reason."

"I had read it in the book, sir."

Mr Augastha folded his arms.

"While standing on the desk and changing the bulb a few minutes ago?"

The entire class erupted.

JP stood speechless.

He had been caught red-handed.

"Sorry, sir."

"So you think you can fool your teacher?" Mr Augastha said dramatically. "Shame! Shame!"

His peculiar manner of speaking made the class laugh even harder.

JP quietly sat down, defeated.

Only then did we realise that our apparently absent-minded teacher observed far more than he let on. He simply chose not to waste time over every act of mischief.

The most daring operation ever undertaken by our class occurred after a physics test conducted by Daddoo Sir.

The paper was brutal.

When the answer sheets were collected, despair was visible on every face. Some girls were on the verge of tears. Nobody expected to pass.

As discussions continued gloomily, Panda suddenly summoned everyone.

"I can save the entire class," he announced confidently.

Every eye turned towards him.

Panda then unveiled one of the most audacious plans ever conceived by schoolboys.

Within one hour, everyone would reattempt the paper at home using books and notes. Fresh answer sheets would be prepared and tied exactly like the original bundle.

Meanwhile, Daddoo Sir would be lured away from the staff room.

The operation was planned with military precision.

Poondri would request Daddoo Sir to solve difficult problems in class.

The girls would ensure he remained occupied.

I was assigned surveillance duty near Water Point Number Two.

JP would monitor the opposite approach.

Raina would stand outside the staff room carrying a pile of notebooks as camouflage.

John would act as courier.

Panda himself would execute the replacement.

The mission commenced.

Miraculously, everything unfolded exactly as planned.

The original bundle disappeared.

The new bundle appeared in its place.

No alarms were raised.

Two days later, Daddoo Sir entered class carrying the corrected papers.

His expression puzzled us.

Everyone had scored exceptionally well.

No student had obtained less than sixty percent.

Daddoo Sir looked deeply suspicious.

He repeatedly glanced at us while distributing the answer sheets.

But he said nothing.

The class maintained complete silence.

The secret remained buried forever.

Years later, however, we realised that although the prank had succeeded brilliantly, it had also taught us an important lesson: shortcuts could provide temporary relief, but hard work alone could guarantee success in life's real examinations.

Another memorable incident involved three exceptionally bright students who attempted to outsmart their biology teacher.

The class test required students to answer any four out of six questions.

Three boys quietly attempted five.

Their logic was simple.

If the teacher accidentally checked all five, they might gain additional marks.

The plan worked—almost.

Two of them escaped unnoticed.

Venkat did not.

An exceptionally intelligent student with beautiful handwriting, Venkat answered all five questions flawlessly.

The teacher, impressed, awarded him forty-five marks.

Out of forty.

The impossible score immediately exposed the deception.

"Why did you answer five questions?" asked the teacher.

Venkat smiled innocently.

"Sorry, sir. I forgot in the excitement."

The teacher accepted the explanation and asked him to strike out one answer.

His score instantly dropped.

Meanwhile, his two accomplices retained their inflated marks.

Venkat glared at them threateningly.

The others smiled quietly.

For a moment it appeared he might expose them.

But revealing the truth would implicate everyone.

Displaying admirable sportsmanship, he swallowed his disappointment and remained silent.

Young minds are extraordinarily fertile and creative.

The same imagination that once engineered harmless school pranks, if channelled wisely, can later build careers, institutions and even nations.

Whenever I look back today, I realise that those mischievous boys were not merely pranksters.

They were future engineers, officers, teachers and professionals rehearsing—through laughter, risk and adventure—the art of life itself.

Upur 14

 Chapter 14: Conversations, Crushes and Dreams

If examinations measured our academic progress, the conversations that took place between classes revealed who we truly were. School life was not confined to textbooks, blackboards and report cards. It unfolded in whispered secrets, animated discussions, harmless gossip, innocent crushes and dreams that seemed entirely attainable at sixteen.

Some of my fondest memories of school are not of lessons taught in classrooms but of the moments in between—those precious minutes after one teacher had left and before the next arrived, during free periods, or over lunch breaks. Those brief intervals transformed our classroom into a world of its own.

The moment a teacher stepped out, the room would erupt into life. Conversations sprang up in every corner, blending into a continuous hum that resembled a swarm of busy bees. We had become so accustomed to that sound that complete silence would have felt unnatural.

Some students stretched themselves across their desks and drifted into short naps, particularly during the lazy afternoon periods. Others ran between the rows of benches, inventing games on the spot. Many gathered in small groups, sharing stories, jokes, rumours and secrets that they believed would remain confidential forever.

A few industrious souls seized every free moment to complete pending assignments. Remarkably, some possessed the extraordinary ability to talk, laugh and write simultaneously, much like experienced homemakers who can knit an entire sweater while carrying on a lively conversation without once looking at the needles.

Little did we realise then that decades later, these conversations would remain far more vividly etched in memory than many of the lessons taught in class.

Among the academically inclined, discussions revolved around homework, important chapters, likely examination questions and the exchange of precious notes. Kaushal, Umesh and Rajhans were legends in this regard. Their notebooks, meticulously written with fountain pens, were works of art in themselves.

Fountain pens ruled supreme in those days. Ball pens were considered inferior and were often blamed for spoiling handwriting. Refilling fountain pens inevitably left fingers stained with ink, and therefore whenever these diligent scholars claimed they had not studied the previous night, their ink-marked hands betrayed them instantly. Confronted with the evidence, they would merely smile sheepishly.

Kaushal alone was generous enough to lend his carefully prepared notes without hesitation. The others guarded theirs like treasured possessions, fearing—quite rightly—that repeated borrowing would leave the once-pristine pages dog-eared and worn.

The girls, too, possessed some of the finest notebooks in the class. Nalini was approachable, though deciphering her tiny handwriting often required immense patience. Sonia's notes were equally good, but she exercised great discretion in deciding who deserved the privilege of borrowing them.

Academic discussions among these groups could range from algebraic equations and fractional distillation to the dreaded chapters on profit, loss, shares and dividends. Even plans for group study involved deciding who would bring which notebook rather than discussing evening games.

Project work was another matter altogether. Preparing charts was almost an art form. Students decorated them with sketch pens, colourful headings, grains and seeds pasted carefully to create three-dimensional effects. Gothic lettering outlined in black marker was especially fashionable and instantly elevated the status of any project.

At the other end of the spectrum were those whose conversations revolved around movies, fashions, friendships and, inevitably, girls. Every class had a few self-appointed experts on romance and relationships, and ours was no exception.

One particular classmate stood out. With long hair brushing his ears, a perpetually dramatic expression and a swagger worthy of a low-budget Hindi film villain, he was impossible to ignore. To our endless amusement, some girls appeared genuinely impressed by him, which only encouraged his theatrics further.

Spending too much time with this group could be exhausting. No matter where the discussion began, it somehow found its way back to romance, glamour or matters that seemed far beyond our years. I often wondered how they managed to concentrate on their studies at all.

Our own group—the backbenchers occupying the first row—represented a balanced mixture of curiosity, mischief and ambition. Like all teenagers, we too were curious about the world around us, but instinctively understood where to draw the line.

Most of us came from disciplined military backgrounds. Our evenings were spent playing outdoor games, swimming, reading books or visiting the library. By the time homework was completed, little energy remained for anything else.

Naturally, many of our conversations centred around the Armed Forces. We dreamt of joining the Army, Navy or Air Force and imagined ourselves attending glamorous officers' parties, living adventurous lives and serving the nation. Growing up in a military environment, such aspirations came naturally.

Adventure, too, featured prominently in our discussions. We planned imaginary trekking expeditions, picnics, bird-hunting trips and debated endlessly about film stars and celebrated beauties of the era.

English movies screened in the cantonment cinema generated discussions lasting several days. Interestingly, the audience attending the film often became as important a topic as the movie itself. If someone returned from holidays after watching a newly released film, narrating its story became his unofficial responsibility.

Among our classmates, Pratap was undoubtedly the fashion icon.

The son of a prosperous businessman, he remained permanently updated with the latest Bombay trends. His enormous bell-bottom trousers fluttered dramatically in the wind whenever he stood outside the classroom. We would promptly begin singing the National Anthem, pretending that his trousers resembled a flag waving proudly in the breeze.

Pratap accepted our teasing with remarkable good humour.

Always impeccably dressed, he smelled of expensive perfume, carried a comb permanently tucked into his back pocket and never missed an opportunity to groom his carefully styled hair whenever a girl passed by—or every ten minutes, whichever occurred earlier.

Watching Pratap was sufficient to keep us informed about the latest fashions sweeping across the country.

Years later, after I had joined the Army, I visited him in Udhampur. He welcomed me warmly and introduced me to his wife. The moment she left the room, he flashed the same mischievous smile I remembered from school and asked, in our old teenage code, "Isn't my wife a real tota?"

Some people, I realised, never truly grow old.

The girls, too, had their own circles and confidences. Most remained within their groups, though a few mingled freely with everyone. Unsurprisingly, friendships, crushes and occasional romances flourished during those years.

Love letters circulated discreetly. Coming from a relatively sheltered background, I was astonished when friends demonstrated the authenticity of certain letters by matching the handwriting with classroom notebooks.

Among the more obvious couples were Garima and Rohit, whose friendship was common knowledge. In a close-knit cantonment school, very little remained secret for long.

One day, our group discussed what we hoped to become in life.

I remained uncertain. Being an average student, I had little idea where destiny would eventually lead me. Yet I dreamt of either flying aircraft in the Air Force or enjoying the vibrant life of an Army officer. At times, influenced by family expectations, I contemplated becoming a doctor.

Others had dreams of their own. Nalini and Sonia hoped to marry defence officers because they disliked remaining in one place for too long. Vohra dreamt of moving to the United States, Gurbir wanted to become an engineer, while Raina hoped for a career connected with sports.

Destiny, however, had different plans for all of us.

Neither Nalini nor Sonia married into the Armed Forces. Vohra never went abroad. Raina eventually joined the services, while I entered engineering before finally finding my way into the Army.

Looking back, it is remarkable how seriously we discussed matters that now seem wonderfully naïve. Some dreams faded, some unexpectedly came true, and some transformed into entirely different journeys.

Yet, if given a choice, I would gladly return to those carefree afternoons once again—to the noisy classroom, the endless conversations, the innocent crushes and the dreams that made every tomorrow seem full of possibilities.

For in the end, it is not marks or report cards that remain with us; it is these conversations, these friendships and these dreams that become the most treasured souvenirs of school life.

Little did we know then that adulthood, waiting quietly beyond the school gates, would soon test those dreams in ways we could never have imagined.

Upur 13

Chapter 13: Sports

Although academics took centre stage in Class X because of the looming Board examinations, sports still occupied a special corner in school life. Most of us treated the games period as a welcome break from studies, but in our class there were two boys for whom sports was not merely recreation—it was a way of life. They were Vohra and Raina.

Vohra was nothing short of a legend in our school. A National Champion among Kendriya Vidyalayas in both shot put and javelin throw, he had earned a reputation that extended far beyond Udhampur. His achievements were so exceptional that the school often overlooked his academic shortcomings and promoted him with generous support from the teachers. Raina, too, was a talented sportsman who regularly represented the school at State-level competitions.

While these stars spent their games periods training seriously, the rest of us participated more out of compulsion than passion. In those days, Kendriya Vidyalayas largely encouraged games requiring minimal equipment, such as Kho-Kho and Kabaddi. Unfortunately, neither appealed to me. I preferred racket sports like badminton and tennis.

As a result, during most games periods, we reluctantly played a few rounds of Kho-Kho before retreating under the sprawling banyan tree to gossip. Nearby, the girls busied themselves with hopscotch and occasionally basketball when the weather permitted. Kabaddi, besides being rough, invariably left our uniforms covered in dust, giving us yet another excuse to avoid it.

On one occasion, a few of us attempted shot put under Vohra's guidance. The experience was humbling. Our throws scarcely travelled half the distance that his did. We laughed at our pathetic attempts while Vohra effortlessly hurled the heavy iron ball across the field.

His javelin throws were even more astonishing. I still remember our PT teacher, Mr Dabang Singh, prudently positioning himself at what he believed would be the farthest point of the throw with a measuring tape in hand. Each time, Vohra's javelin sailed far beyond his estimate, forcing him to unroll the entire tape in disbelief. No other student in the school came remotely close to matching those distances.

We had two PT teachers. Mr Dabang Singh was a giant of a man—strict, reserved and somewhat intimidating. His own shot put throws landed only a few feet behind Vohra's. His assistant, Mr Rajeev, was the complete opposite. Young, approachable and soft-spoken, he connected effortlessly with students.

Mr Rajeev would patiently demonstrate how to shoot a basketball, explaining the finer points of balance, timing and body movement. His enthusiasm made sports enjoyable. Sadly, such personal attention was reserved mostly for promising athletes. The average student was generally left to fend for himself.

This, I felt, was one area where government schools lagged behind many public and convent schools. True sports culture is not merely about producing champions; it is about instilling sporting spirit in every child.

Most often, a football would simply be handed over to us and the teachers would quietly disappear. The game would begin without coaching, strategy or even proper teams. We chased the ball from one end of the field to the other with boundless energy but very little skill.

Our football ground bordered a small river. Occasionally, an overenthusiastic kick would send the ball tumbling down the slope into the water below. Retrieving it became an adventure in itself. Several natural springs dotted the hillside, and many of us preferred resting beside these cool streams rather than returning to the game. Some would sit with their feet immersed in the crystal-clear water, lazily kicking the recovered ball back into the field while the others continued playing.

When time was short, we often played a fascinating game called 'Dog and Bone'. A handkerchief placed in the centre served as the 'bone', while two players circled cautiously around it, waiting for the slightest opportunity to snatch it and race back to safety before being caught. The game was simple, fast and immensely entertaining.

Looking back, sports in many government schools suffered not because of lack of funds but because of lack of initiative. Much depended on a student's own interest. Those who were genuinely motivated learned and improved; the rest merely passed time.

Indian society during those days attached far greater importance to academics than sports. Parents firmly believed that studies ensured livelihood, whereas sports remained an uncertain pursuit. Consequently, sporting achievements often came at the cost of academic performance.

To compensate, schools sometimes awarded generous marks to star athletes. Though well-intentioned, this practice merely created false confidence. A far better approach would have been to provide extra academic support so that talented sportspersons could excel in both fields.

At home, I regularly played badminton and occasionally tennis. On the way to the swimming pool lay an Army tennis court where officers usually played. There I often saw Jasjot Kaur, a senior from our school.

She was an outstanding tennis player. Agile, athletic and fiercely competitive, she moved across the court with remarkable speed and power, often troubling even experienced male players. Watching her play was itself an education in determination and skill.

Every year, the school also conducted the National Physical Efficiency Drive (NPED) tests. Students were awarded one-star, two-star or the coveted three-star ratings based on their physical performance in events such as sprinting, long jump, high jump and endurance runs.

Only a handful of students in the entire school earned three stars, making them celebrities of sorts. The badges they wore proudly on their blazers commanded admiration and respect. These certificates also carried considerable value during admissions to professional institutions.

Sports tours were another source of excitement. Selected students travelled to places like Jammu and Delhi to participate in tournaments organised by the School Games Federation of India (SGFI). Raina would return from such trips with endless stories, each retelling becoming more colourful and entertaining than the last.

Travelling without parents at such a young age taught valuable lessons in independence, responsibility and teamwork. Living together, sharing resources and facing unfamiliar situations strengthened friendships and fostered maturity.

Interacting with players from other schools also broadened one's horizons. A student who considered himself unbeatable within the school quickly realised the vastness of competition outside. Such exposure shattered complacency and inspired improvement.

Yet, sports tours also highlighted another reality. Adolescence is a vulnerable age, and proper guidance from teachers becomes essential. Unfortunately, some teachers appeared more interested in winning trophies than in nurturing character and values.

Despite these shortcomings, whenever we travelled outside, all internal rivalries vanished. House loyalties disappeared, and we represented the school as one united team. Friendships deepened, grudges ended and bonds strengthened.

Ironically, Kendriya Vidyalayas never lacked funds for sports equipment. What they often lacked was efficient management. I had earlier studied in Don Bosco (St Anthony's School) Shillong, where every child received sports equipment freely against a simple identity card. Bats, pads, stumps—everything was readily available.

Government schools presented a different picture. Students seeking equipment were frequently met with excuses: "The storekeeper is absent," "Come later," or "The items are unavailable." Eventually, many simply gave up.

I once witnessed something deeply disturbing in another Kendriya Vidyalaya. Before an inspection, our PT teacher summoned a few of us to the sports store after school. Brand-new footballs, volleyballs and cricket pads, still wrapped in polythene, were deliberately cut and damaged to make them appear worn out and regularly used.

I watched in disbelief as perfectly good equipment, which students had long been denied, was destroyed merely to satisfy paperwork and audit requirements.

That incident left a lasting impression on me. If resources meant for children could be wasted so casually, how could sports truly flourish?

Yet, despite all these shortcomings, schools still produced outstanding sportspersons like Vohra and Raina. Their success was a testimony not to the system, but to individual determination.

Perhaps that is why the line painted on the back of a truck travelling from Jammu to Srinagar has remained etched in my memory:

"Sau mein se nabbe beimaan, phir bhi mera Bharat mahaan."

As adolescence progressed, however, our interests gradually began shifting beyond classrooms and playgrounds. Sports remained important, but new emotions, friendships and distractions were quietly entering our lives—ushering us into yet another unforgettable phase of growing up.

The final paragraph creates a natural bridge to a subsequent chapter on friendships, teenage attractions, social life, or other experiences of adolescence.

Upur 12

Chapter 12

The New Class

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Five hundred and twelve lead balls, Sir."

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

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

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

"Rajinder Singh Narula—ten out of ten!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

Adjusting his spectacles, he announced confidently,

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

The entire class burst into suppressed giggles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The laughter soon brought tears to her eyes.

Mr Ram Avtar immediately stopped the class.

Looking angrily around the room, he declared,

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

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

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

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

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

As the instructions were being given, Vohra stood up.

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

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

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

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

Satisfied, Vohra sat down.

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

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

The teacher granted him additional time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

An explosion of suppressed laughter swept across the room.

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

Mr Ram Avtar fixed me with a stern glare.

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

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

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

That sealed our fate.

"Both of you—out!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Unfortunately, Vohra knew almost nothing about the topic.

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

Raina knew even less.

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

Gurbir began dictating in instalments.

"It is a process which..."

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

Standing confidently before the class, Vohra repeated loudly,

"It is a process which..."

Gurbir continued.

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

The message passed through Raina.

Vohra repeated obediently,

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

Finally, Gurbir concluded,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gurbir was unquestionably the hero of the day.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

John, however, had suddenly become idle.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A few moments later, disaster struck.

"Aaaaaaaaaah!"

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

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

"Sir, smoke is coming from your backside!"

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

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

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

Pandemonium followed.

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

I maintained absolute silence.

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

The mystery remained unsolved.

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

Only two people ever knew the real cause.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oooooooooooeeeeeeeeee!"

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

For a brief moment there was stunned silence.

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

The entire class followed.

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

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

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

His ordeal would begin all over.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One such unforgettable experience was waiting just around the corner.