Upur 8

 Chapter 8: The Fight

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Still, John repeatedly teased me over the matter.

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

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

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

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

I remembered Rombi clearly.

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

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

How could a friend think this way?

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

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

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

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

That was enough.

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

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

“Stop it!”

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

By then the entire class had erupted into chaos.

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

We were dragged away from each other by force.

But the moment their grip loosened, I charged again.

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

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

John kept glaring at me.

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

“Aaaah!” he shouted.

Again everyone rushed in to restrain us.

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

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

Trying to catch my breath, I muttered,

“Now go and call your Rombi.”

The others burst out laughing while John looked helpless.

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

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

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

After class Panda came up smiling.

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

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

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

John lowered his eyes sheepishly.

Raina, meanwhile, found the entire episode hilarious.

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

Then, grinning wickedly, he added:

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

That made both of us laugh despite ourselves.

And just like that, the enmity ended forever.

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

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

For me it was an entirely new world.

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

I remember thinking in amazement:

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

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

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

Suddenly I asked him,

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

John laughed.

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

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

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

I touched his knee lightly.

“Here?”

“Yes, exactly there.”

I rubbed it gently and said sincerely,

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

John burst out laughing.

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

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

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

Both of us laughed loudly.

Then I asked him quietly,

“Did you tell anything at home?”

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

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

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

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

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

Then, after a pause, he leaned forward mischievously.

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

I smiled nervously.

“You tell first.”

“No. I asked first.”

I tried escaping cleverly.

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

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

“Wohi ek hi toh hai.”

(“There’s only one.”)

John narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

“I think we’ll have to fight again.”

“Why?”

“Because you never answer clearly.”

I finally replied vaguely,

“Woh gori wali.”

(“That fair-skinned one.”)

“Reema?” he asked instantly.

“So you like her?” I asked.

He smiled and nodded.

“And does she like you?”

“No idea.”

“So it’s one-sided?”

“For now, yes.”

“Best of luck then,” I laughed.

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

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

His face relaxed immediately.

“Then who were you talking about?”

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

“Oh! Mansingh?” he laughed.

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

John grinned.

“Patakha.”

“What does that mean?”

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

“But patakha means firecracker.”

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

Then I asked,

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

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

I sighed dramatically.

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

John laughed loudly and said,

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

That logic was strangely sensible.

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

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

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

Such transformations are difficult to imagine in adulthood.

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

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

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

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

Upur7

 Chapter 7: The Uncontrolled Laughter

Humour had always been my greatest weakness.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That was enough.

I burst out laughing right in front of Patthu Sir.

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

“I’ll find out, Sir.”

That finished me completely.

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

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

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

I immediately collapsed into another fit of laughter.

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

Even today, I miss that laughter.

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

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

And I discovered something important in life:

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

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

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

Perhaps it helped him concentrate.

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

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

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

“Meeeeeeooooow…”

The sound echoed softly across the classroom.

I froze.

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

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

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

Then came the second attack.

“Meeeeooooowww!”

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

But the damage had already begun inside us.

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

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

Mr Shambhu now looked directly at the three of us.

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

Still, he said nothing.

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

That encouraged Raina further.

“Meeeeowww… Meeeeeeooooowww… Meeeeow!”

Now I knew disaster was unavoidable.

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

Mr Shambhu slowly placed his book on the table.

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

The closer he came, the worse our condition became.

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

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

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

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

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

I nearly died.

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

Raina nodded thoughtfully.

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

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

“Did you see any boys?”

I could no longer even respond.

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

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

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

That was the breaking point.

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

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

Raman collapsed next.

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

“Whooooooshhhhh! Whooooshhhhhh!”

Two sharp cane strikes landed across his back.

But even that failed to stop us.

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

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

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

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

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

We were finally thrown out of the classroom.

Raina carried two fresh cane marks on his back.

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

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

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

Raman was still laughing in jerks.

Then Raina casually announced,

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

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

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

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

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

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

I wisely decided not to enter the class again.

I wanted to live another day.

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

“Some more?”

The bell finally rang.

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

Yet deep inside I felt slightly awkward.

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

Nalini asked me curiously what exactly had happened.

I could only reply,

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

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

Raina possessed another dangerous talent too.

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

There exists an unwritten rule in humour:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But one truth remains permanent:

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

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

Upur6

 Chapter 6: The Big Blast

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

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

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

That was when the trouble began.

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

Naturally, the minds of IX-B drifted elsewhere.

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

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

“Phat!”

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

She turned around immediately.

“What was that?”

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

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

The entire class sat frozen in silence.

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

Then came the second blast.

“BOOOOOM!”

This one was louder.

She spun around angrily.

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

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

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

Then suddenly—

“BOOOOOOOOOOM!”

The loudest blast yet shook the classroom.

This time nobody even blinked.

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

She stormed out of the classroom in tears.

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

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

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

Daddoo Sir finally declared dramatically,

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

The class somehow controlled its laughter.

Madam resumed the lesson nervously.

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

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

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

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

And at that exact moment—

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!”

A deafening explosion erupted directly beneath his chair.

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

The effect was unforgettable.

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

His first reaction was not anger.

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

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

The class sat stunned.

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

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

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

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

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

“But what?” Patthu Sir asked.

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

By then the Principal had returned to school.

The matter had escalated far beyond a harmless prank.

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

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

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

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

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

But the silence remained unbroken.

Soon JP gathered everyone and spoke in a low voice.

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

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

Yet, somewhere deep inside, the class had united.

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

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

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

The next day the punishment intensified.

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

For the first two rounds everyone ran sincerely.

After that it slowly transformed into a walking procession.

Students from other classes hooted at us from their windows.

“The Pataka Class! Yaaaaa! Yaaaaa!”

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

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

Meanwhile the teachers themselves had begun forming their own suspicions.

But nobody could prove anything.

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

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

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

Then he added nervously,

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

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

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

At this, JP and Panda exchanged anxious glances.

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

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

That settled the matter once again.

Silence returned.

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

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

I kept those thoughts locked safely inside my head.

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

Then one afternoon came a turning point.

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

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

We were impressed.

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

Then he asked quietly,

“So what do you all want to do?”

JP stepped forward immediately.

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

Vohra looked around once more.

“Sure?”

“Yes,” the class responded together.

Even Karan joined in firmly.

“Jo bhi hoga dekha jayega.”

(Whatever happens, we’ll face it.)

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

Vohra nodded gravely.

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

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

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

“Yeh patakey kisne bajaye… hum nahin batayenge…”

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

The entire class burst into laughter and joined the chorus.

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

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

Other classes meanwhile had begun envying us.

To them, IX-B had become legendary.

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

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

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

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

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

What followed was not a lecture.

It was an emotional appeal.

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

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

Then his voice softened.

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

He paused before continuing.

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

Then he walked away silently.

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

For the first time in seven days, nobody smiled.

Even a few girls had tears in their eyes.

The speech had shaken us.

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

Yet the culprits still did not confess.

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

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

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

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

The entire class smiled with relief.

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

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

True or not, I cannot confirm.

But one thing I can definitely say—

What planning.

What unity.

What coordination.

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

Upur5

 Chapter 5: The Backbenchers

By the time Balli and I shifted to the back benches, the classroom had begun to reveal itself to me in an entirely different way. From there, I could observe the whole class without constantly turning around. Every movement was visible—the attentive students leaning over their notebooks, the restless boys whispering mischief into one another’s ears, the daydreamers staring through the windows, and the teachers trying to maintain order amidst the chaos of adolescence. Sitting at the back gave me an odd sense of command, as though I had silently become an observer of everyone’s hidden worlds.

Yet there was still one group beyond even my line of control—the girls seated behind me on the far right. Their row stretched longer than ours and reached all the way to the rear wall of the classroom. They occupied the most strategic position in the class. From there they could watch everyone ahead of them while remaining unseen themselves. Quietly, almost invisibly, they dominated the atmosphere of IX-B.

Watching classmates being caught during acts of mischief became an entertainment in itself. Many students carried on confidently under the illusion that the teacher was unaware, only to be abruptly exposed. From the back benches such scenes unfolded like theatre. Another advantage was comfort. Those seated in front had to keep swinging their necks left and right to follow the writing on the blackboard, whereas we at the back enjoyed a relaxed view.

There was also a pleasant openness around our seats. The middle boys’ row ended well before the back wall, leaving ample empty space behind us. To my right, the girls’ row extended farther with three additional desks. The result was better ventilation, more freedom of movement, and enough space behind us to fool around during summer afternoons.

Until then I knew little about the backbench girls except that they appeared far more graceful and composed than the louder front-bench crowd. Most of them came from the Chinar residential area and were daughters of Army officers. Their confidence, polished manners, and rapport with teachers naturally set them apart. Whenever a teacher asked a question, it was usually these girls who answered with clarity and confidence, often dominating the academic atmosphere of the class.

One among them was Ansuyia, who lived not far from my house. She was a typical South Indian girl who struggled with Hindi and spoke it cautiously, almost word by word. Perhaps because of a strict upbringing, she remained reserved and seldom interacted with boys. Unlike many others, she was rarely seen roaming around the Chinar complex or theatre area after school.

She had an oval face and extraordinarily long hair that nearly brushed the floor whenever she rose from her chair. Her dark complexion glowed beautifully whenever she smiled, revealing sparkling white teeth.

One incident involving her became unforgettable.

John had borrowed her notebook with a promise to return it before Tuesday, the day the assignment was to be submitted. Unfortunately, he forgot to bring it back. He had copied the assignment into his own notebook, but Ansuyia’s notebook remained at his house.

When she discovered this, she became furious. Word spread quickly through the class that she was waiting for John and intended to confront him the moment he arrived.

John, meanwhile, had left his schoolbag in class and gone out during recess. The instant he learned about her anger, he panicked and rushed home during a free period to retrieve the notebook and save himself from public humiliation.

While he was away, Panda mischievously provoked her.

“What happened? You look very angry today,” he asked innocently.

In her frustration she intended to say in Hindi:

“Let John come today—I’ll squeeze him like a lemon.”

But because of her imperfect Hindi, what she actually said was:

“Let John come today—I’ll squeeze his lemon.”

The entire class burst into uncontrollable laughter.

Poor Ansuyia stood bewildered, unable to understand what had gone wrong. It was only later, when the girls explained the unintended meaning of her sentence, that she realized why everyone had laughed. Embarrassed beyond words, she quietly stepped out of the classroom.

Meanwhile, John returned unnoticed and slipped her notebook back into her bag.

When she came back and demanded her notebook, John calmly replied, “Didn’t I return it to you in the morning?”

She stared at him angrily but hesitated to argue further, fearful of making another linguistic mistake. The tension on her face was obvious.

Trying to rescue the situation, I said gently, “Maybe you forgot. Check your bag once.”

She opened her bag immediately and found the notebook inside. Relief flooded her face, though confusion remained. She still could not understand when John had returned it. She looked at me gratefully and smiled.

“You… Rajinder?” she asked, pointing at me.

“Yes,” I replied smiling. “I know you too. You live near our office complex. Sometimes I pass that way while returning home.”

She nodded softly.

Ansuyia remained closer to the backbench girls than to anyone else in class. Perhaps similar backgrounds and upbringing made them comfortable with one another. She was simple, studious, and happiest in the company of her close friends.

Within a few days I noticed something else about that group—they mostly conversed in English. Balli later informed me that many of them had studied earlier in Carmel Convent School, which only went up to Class VIII. After that, students had no option but to join Kendriya Vidyalaya. Their convent-school background naturally reflected in their speech and mannerisms.

One afternoon, while I was arranging my notes, I overheard one of the girls asking John quietly:

“Who is that guy?”

I sensed immediately that she was referring to me.

John replied, “His name is Rajinder. He lives near my house and our fathers work in the same office.”

“He makes very good notes,” the tall girl remarked. “I saw DV Singh sir write ‘Very Good’ in his history notebook.”

Her words secretly pleased me. But another thought puzzled me completely.

Why had she called me “guy”?

To my inexperienced ears, “guy” sounded absurdly similar to the Hindi word for a cow. I wondered what feature of mine resembled one. It was perhaps the first time I had heard the word used in conversation. Since I had never been fond of novels or English fiction, such expressions were unfamiliar to me.

When I later asked Balli about it, he shrugged helplessly.

“Must be some English word. Why bother about it?” he said.

Many days later, while chatting with John at home, I finally discovered that “guy” simply meant a boy or person. I laughed loudly that evening, mocking my own bookish ignorance.

The girl who had used the word was Nalini Krishnan.

John introduced her dramatically in his usual James Bond style:

“Her name is Nalini… Nalini Krishnan. Her father is an Army officer. She lives in Chinar.”

Nalini was the tallest girl in our class—thin, quiet, and dignified. Her voice was so soft that teachers often asked her to repeat herself unless the classroom was perfectly silent. Yet despite her low voice, she commanded immense respect. She was perhaps the most intelligent and mature student in IX-B.

Nobody dared play mischief with her. A single stern glance from her could silence even the most troublesome boy. Sensitive by nature, she expected people to choose their words carefully around her. Yet she was approachable, kind, and always willing to help weaker students.

Teachers, too, handled her cautiously—not merely because of her intelligence, but because she was the daughter of a senior Army officer.

She was also deeply fond of novels. Her schoolbag almost always contained a Mills & Boon paperback peeping out beside her tiffin box. Perhaps it was her reading habit that gave her polished vocabulary and conversational ease—qualities I only began appreciating much later in life.

One lunch break I noticed a small gathering of boys and girls around the last bench where Nalini usually sat beside another beautiful girl. As I looked toward them, both suddenly noticed me.

“Hello,” they said together, beckoning me with a nod.

I rose from my chair and walked over awkwardly.

“Hello,” I replied. “I am Rajinder.”

“We know,” Nalini smiled. “John has already told us about you.”

Then she pointed toward the girl beside her.

“She is Sonia.”

“Sonia Rukmini Mansingh,” the girl corrected proudly.

The long name completely confused me. She hardly looked South Indian despite possessing a name grand enough to sound like an address.

She was strikingly beautiful—with large expressive eyes, high cheekbones, a sharp Roman nose, and an effortless elegance that drew attention the moment she spoke. Though she hailed from Rajasthan, she spoke Hindi with a slight accent and scored exceptionally well in Sanskrit.

Unlike the quieter girls, Sonia was bold, lively, and full of energy. She spoke loudly, laughed freely, and carried herself with tremendous confidence. Every boy in class dreamed of talking to her, though most lost courage because of their weak English. Whenever she answered a teacher’s question, the entire classroom instinctively turned to look at her.

Together, Nalini and Sonia brought life to the class. Their corner of the room felt like the very powerhouse of IX-B. Without them, the classroom atmosphere seemed strangely dull.

We spoke at length about schools, subjects, and backgrounds.

“How long have you been here?” I asked Nalini.

“About three months now,” she replied.

“And you?” I asked Sonia.

“A little less than her,” she answered with a smile.

I glanced through Sonia’s notebook. Her handwriting was as attractive as her personality—large, neat, and expressive, unlike Nalini’s smaller, compact writing.

“You make very good notes,” Nalini said after examining my history notebook carefully page by page. The “Very Good” remarks from DV Singh sir had clearly impressed her.

Then she added warmly, “If you ever need help, let me know. We also study Social Studies in English.”

That single sentence relieved me enormously.

Until then, I had felt isolated because most students studied Social Studies in Hindi while I preferred English. Even the teachers dictated notes largely in Hindi, making me feel out of place. But now, for the first time, I felt I had allies.

Thus our little “English syndicate” slowly came into existence. It consisted of Nalini, Sonia, John, myself, and another quiet girl named Judy, who lived near Nalini’s house.

Judy was extraordinarily shy. Her voice was so soft that even a person standing three feet away struggled to hear her properly. Fair and delicate-looking, she resembled a Gurkha girl. She mostly remained confined within the girls’ circle and hurried everywhere as though perpetually late for something.

I never spoke much with her because of both her reserved nature and the awkward distance between our seats. Yet one memory of hers remained unforgettable—she would secretly hide her younger brother under the desk during the last period after his junior classes ended early, so that they could go home together afterward.

Ranjeet Vohra, the giant sportsman of our class, attended school only occasionally because of tournaments and competitions. But whenever he appeared—like a visiting professor—he naturally joined our group. Balli, however, remained too shy around the girls and usually disappeared quietly.

The girls in our circle were the class toppers, and fierce academic rivalry existed among them. One could sense the tension whenever marks were announced. Yet none of them showed much interest in sports or debates, which explained why most inter-school prizes in such activities were usually bagged by IX-A.

Still, ours was a uniquely united class.

No outsider dared tease our girls or pick a fight with any student from IX-B—junior or senior alike. The strong personalities in our class ensured that everyone stood together.

And somewhere amidst those noisy classrooms, awkward friendships, innocent crushes, and endless laughter, the bonds of our youth were quietly taking shape.

Upur4

 Chapter 4: Meeting the Sassy Crowd

I was still new to the school and, with every passing day, another face became familiar, another name found its place in memory. Gradually, I began identifying people not merely by their appearance but by the incidents associated with them. First impressions formed quickly in school life, and more often than not, they stayed forever. I realised how true the saying was — the first impression is the last impression.

The boys occupying the front rows, especially on the left side of the classroom, mostly belonged to the city group. Many of them were weak in English, careless toward studies, and inclined toward very different interests from those of the students seated at the rear. There existed an invisible divide between the front-bench city crowd and the quieter, more disciplined boys at the back.

Another thing I noticed was their awkwardness around girls. Their conversations frequently drifted toward crude humour and vulgar remarks, something I deeply disliked. Occasional harmless joking was understandable; after all, laughter itself was one of my greatest weaknesses. I enjoyed humour immensely, often laughing before realising that the line of decency had already been crossed. By the time I felt uncomfortable enough to withdraw, it would usually be too late. That awkwardness troubled me.

Still, they were my classmates, and avoiding them entirely was impossible. I had to learn how to deal with such people, and that education came the hard way because I had never encountered such a crowd before.

Among them was a notorious group led by Karan — a boy who could hardly spend five minutes discussing anything sensible. Almost every conversation in his circle revolved around pornography, smoking, or some mischief. Through John, I was gradually introduced to them and occasionally dragged along to witness their adventures outside class.

For the first time in my life, I saw boys preparing cigarettes mixed with bhaang. Near the thick bushes between the Chinar Theatre complex and the school flowed a narrow freshwater stream, and wild cannabis plants grew abundantly there. The boys would rub the leaves vigorously between their palms without plucking them. Gradually, a sticky black residue formed from sweat and plant sap. They scraped it onto paper, mixed it carefully with cigarette tobacco, rolled the cigarettes again, and then smoked them with exaggerated style — imitating film actors and hippies.

Soon their eyes would turn red, yet they behaved as though they had achieved some grand milestone in masculinity. To them, smoking symbolised maturity, toughness, and superiority. Many even believed it impressed girls. I never understood that logic. No decent girl, I felt, could truly admire such foolishness. Sadly, that illusion existed among youngsters everywhere and, even years later, continues in different forms.

One afternoon during recess, I found myself cornered by that group. They were discussing obscene topics and laughing loudly. I tolerated it silently for some time, but eventually their vulgarity became unbearable.

Suddenly one of them turned toward me.

“How many buckets of water can you carry at once?” he asked mockingly.

“Two,” I answered innocently. “One in each hand.”

“No,” another boy interrupted proudly, “I can carry three.”

“How?” I asked.

“One in each hand,” he replied, pointing obscenely toward his trouser zipper, “and the third here.”

The entire group burst into laughter.

I felt humiliated. The joke had clearly been aimed at me. For a brief moment anger rose inside me, but then instinct took over.

“In that case,” I replied loudly, “I can carry five.”

The laughter stopped instantly.

“How?” someone challenged.

“Two in my hands,” I answered calmly, pointing toward my zipper, “and the remaining three — including you — here.”

For a second there was stunned silence. Then the entire group exploded with laughter, including Karan himself.

That single reply earned me unexpected respect.

Standing nearby and watching the exchange was Jagmohan Singh Raina.

“Yaar, tune toh in sab ko chup kara diya!” he laughed.

(You completely silenced them!)

“It just came to my mind at the right moment,” I admitted.

Raina burst into his peculiar laugh — a strange, infectious sound that instantly multiplied the humour of any situation. I joined him, and from that moment onward we became close friends.

Even today, years later, the mere memory of his laughter can make me smile in the middle of an unrelated conversation.

Raina was an exceptional sportsman. He frequently travelled outside the station for athletics meets and games competitions, which naturally affected his studies. Academics interested him very little, but he possessed a remarkable talent for surviving examinations through clever tactics and sharp instincts. He was fearless, street-smart, and known as a capable fighter if provoked. Yet beneath that rugged exterior lay an affectionate and cheerful nature capable of lifting anyone’s mood.

One day, after spending an entire period sitting beside him, laughing and chatting, I returned to my seat and asked Balli:

“Who usually sits next to Raina? That seat is always empty.”

“Udhar ek Bhayya baithta hai,” Balli replied casually.

(A big brother sits there.)

I was puzzled.

“Why do you call him ‘Bhayya’?”

“Because he’s not really a boy,” Balli answered seriously. “He’s a fully grown man — around twenty-one.”

“In Class Nine?” I exclaimed.

Balli nodded. “And the strongest fellow in the school. National-level shot put and javelin champion.”

A few days later I finally met him.

When I entered the classroom that morning, I noticed a heavily built man seated among the students, laughing and narrating stories from a sports meet in Delhi. At first glance I mistook him for a young PT instructor. He had thick moustaches, long hair touching his ears, and the confident personality of an adult.

Raina introduced him.

“This is Ranjeet Vohra.”

Despite his intimidating appearance, Ranjeet turned out to be warm-hearted and cheerful. Like Raina, he enjoyed humour, though not with the same brilliance. Since he spent most of his time in sports camps and tournaments, studies remained secondary for him. Yet unlike many others, he spoke fluent English, which gave him an edge and made him popular even among teachers.

The principal himself had instructed the staff to ensure Ranjeet cleared his examinations because he had brought honour to the school through national-level achievements. Teachers avoided punishing him, partly out of respect and partly because nobody wanted the awkwardness of disciplining someone physically stronger than most adults around.

He smoked openly and looked far older than a schoolboy. In fact, watching him smoke never seemed odd because he hardly looked like a student at all.

One day during library period, the entire class lined up and marched toward the library situated diagonally opposite the principal’s office. It was a long hall filled with rows of tables and shelves.

At the far end sat the librarian — a terrifying figure.

He was tall, heavily built, and wore a huge moustache that merged into the beard along his cheeks, giving him a fierce appearance. He rarely smiled and peered over his newspaper as though every student entering the library was a criminal under investigation.

Naturally, the boys had nicknamed him “Ravana.”

I soon realised that the students assigned nicknames to teachers only after deep observation. Each nickname captured the personality of the teacher with astonishing accuracy.

The library soon fell silent. Some students read books; others completed homework or biology diagrams. Meanwhile, the mischievous group quietly planned its next adventure.

I happened to be seated between Karan and another smart-looking city boy named Narinder, whom everyone called “Panda.”

Karan whispered something to Panda and both grinned mischievously.

“Giani ko scenery dikhate hain,” Karan muttered.

(Let’s show Giani some scenery.)

From the library windows, snow-covered mountains were already visible in the distance, so I wondered what additional “scenery” they intended to show me.

A moment later Karan deliberately dropped a pencil beneath the enormous table covered with green cloth hanging almost to the floor. The pencil rolled deep underneath.

Panda seized the opportunity. While Ravana remained engrossed in his newspaper, Panda quietly slipped beneath the tablecloth and disappeared under the table.

After a few minutes he crawled back toward Karan, lifted the cloth slightly, whispered something, and then Karan bent toward me.

“Panda is calling you.”

Curiosity overcame caution.

I slid quietly beneath the table and followed Panda through the dimly lit maze under the long wooden desks. We crawled silently past shoes, dangling legs, and chair frames.

Suddenly Panda stopped.

He pointed ahead.

I looked carefully — and immediately understood.

The boys’ navy-blue trousers had ended. Ahead were only girls’ polished black shoes, white socks, bare knees, and glimpses of skirts hanging over crossed legs.

This was the “scenery.”

My heart leapt into my throat.

Panda, however, behaved like an experienced commando on a secret mission. He grinned mischievously while I sat frozen in terror, imagining the humiliation if anyone discovered us there.

Then, to worsen matters, he slowly tugged at the edge of one girl’s skirt.

I shut my eyes instantly, convinced we were finished.

Nothing happened.

The girl remained unaware.

Panda looked delighted by my panic.

Finally he gestured for us to retreat. I crawled back with the caution of a cat, terrified even of the sound my shoes might make on the floor. Reaching the boys’ section again felt like returning safely from enemy territory.

Back at my seat, Panda whispered with a grin:

“How was the scenery?”

I merely wiped my face and took a deep breath.

At that moment Ravana lowered his newspaper and glared over its edge. The look alone was enough to freeze blood.

Trying to appear innocent, I quickly selected a few books and approached his desk for issue.

Unfortunately, the bell rang just as I placed them before him.

“Abhi bell sunai nahin di?” he thundered.

(Didn’t you hear the bell?)

“Yes, sir,” I replied politely, “but since I’ve already brought the books, could you kindly issue them?”

“Yahaan har kaam time se hota hai,” he said sternly.

(Everything here happens according to time.)

“Alright, sir. I’ll come next period,” I said meekly and turned back toward the shelf.

Then came his heavy voice again:

“Oye, idhar aao.”

(Hey, come here.)

I walked back nervously.

“Tum naye lagte ho. Lao, main issue kar deta hoon. Lekin agli baar time se aana.”

(You seem new. Alright, I’ll issue them, but next time be on time.)

“Sir, I was on time,” I replied honestly. “The bell rang before I could place the books on your table.”

For a moment he stared at me. Then, unexpectedly, a faint smile appeared on his face.

“Tum bahut baatein karte ho.”

(You talk too much.)

I blushed, collected the books, and hurried out.

Outside, Raina was laughing uncontrollably.

“Yaar, tune toh aaj Ravana ko bhi hasa diya!”

(You actually made Ravana smile today!)

Before I could respond, Karan appeared beside us.

“Giani, scenery kaisi lagi?” he teased.

(So, how did you like the scenery?)

I merely nodded to avoid further discussion.

“Tomorrow,” he declared proudly, “I’ll show you even better scenery.”

“No thanks,” I answered immediately. “That was more than enough.”

Panda laughed.

“Giani darr gaya kya?”

(Are you scared?)

“It’s not fear,” I replied seriously. “It’s the fear of embarrassment and guilt.”

By then they had understood my nature and gradually stopped dragging me into such adventures.

Many of those rough-edged boys came from very different backgrounds. Their definition of fun, their language, and even their attitudes toward girls differed sharply from those of the service-class children. Since they lacked confidence in English, they usually avoided girls who spoke fluent English, fearing embarrassment. Perhaps that was why they preferred sitting far away from them.

Still, despite all differences, there was rarely genuine hatred among anyone in class. Everyone more or less believed in a simple policy — live and let live.

And slowly, amidst all these strange personalities, I too was learning the ways of my new world.

Upur3

 Chapter 3

The Days Ahead

The next morning marked the beginning of my real routine in Udhampur. Unlike the previous day, I had to reach school early enough to attend the morning assembly, something Balli had carefully explained to me while we walked back home the day before.

I finished my breakfast hurriedly, slung my school bag across my shoulder, and started descending the Sappers’ Enclave hill toward Chopra Shop. Balli was already waiting there with another boy whose face looked vaguely familiar.

The moment I reached them, Balli introduced him enthusiastically.

“This is Biswajeet Yogi,” he said. “But everyone calls him Poondri.”

Poondri smiled warmly and shook hands with me. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and cheerful-looking. While walking, he took unusually long strides and swung his arms energetically from side to side. A haversack hung casually from his shoulder. Though his rough features made him appear intimidating at first glance, his speech and manners were remarkably gentle.

“I also stay near Chopra Shop,” he explained, pointing toward a cluster of multi-storeyed buildings visible far behind the hills.

The three of us then continued toward school together.

Soon we reached a fork in the road near a beautifully constructed Gurudwara. Beyond it stood Carmel Convent School on our left.

Balli grinned mischievously.

“This school is only up to Class VIII,” he announced proudly. “After that, all the totays come to our school.”

That was the first time I heard the word totays being used for pretty girls. In Punjabi, the word literally referred to cloth cuttings or pieces, commonly used by shopkeepers, yet among schoolboys it had somehow evolved into coded slang for attractive girls. The term fascinated me, and before long I discovered it was part of the everyday vocabulary of boys not only in Udhampur but almost everywhere I travelled later in life.

We continued ahead and soon reached Bikram Park, a famous ground where, as Balli proudly informed me, Ranji Trophy cricket matches had once been played. Adjacent to it stood the Chinar Theatre Complex—the social heart of the cantonment and one of the most exciting places for youngsters like us.

The area had everything: a cinema hall, a CSD canteen, small shops selling daily necessities, and a neatly maintained shopping complex. Unlike the crowded, chaotic bazaars of civilian towns, this place was disciplined, orderly, and immaculately clean—an unmistakable reflection of Army administration.

Pointing toward the theatre, Balli added, “The manager is Rajdeep Sahni’s father—you know, the boy with the weak leg in our class. He can help us watch movie clips during free periods if we ever want to sneak in.”

The idea itself sounded thrilling.

Crossing the theatre complex, we descended toward the school gate where several Army school buses stood parked in neat rows. We entered our classroom briefly to keep our bags and then moved toward the large cemented stage where students were already assembling for the morning prayer.

As the bell rang, lines formed quickly and with surprising discipline. A group of students climbed onto the stage and began leading the morning prayer in chorus.

Out of habit, I immediately closed my eyes and started reciting the familiar convent-school prayer I had spoken for years.

“Our Father in Heaven, holy be Your name…”

But within seconds I sensed something was terribly wrong.

The rhythm around me sounded completely different.

I opened my eyes instantly and heard the entire assembly singing in Hindi:

“Daya kar daan vidya ka hamein Parmatma dena…”

I almost smiled.

“This is not even the Hindi version of the English prayer,” I thought. “It is an entirely different prayer altogether!”

Realizing my mistake, I quickly stopped speaking aloud and merely moved my lips silently until the prayer ended.

Soon after, a senior student stepped onto the stage to read the morning news.

“And now, the news read by Bhushan Awasthi of Govind House. Russia has successfully test-fired a new nuclear missile…”

He spoke with remarkable confidence, pausing occasionally to glance at the audience the way professional newsreaders did on television. Later I discovered that he too lived near my house, though he was a class senior.

The next performance was a sitar recital by his sister, Ambika Awasthi.

She was exceptionally fair, graceful, and soft-spoken, with a delicate voice that reminded me of singer Lata Mangeshkar. Sitting cross-legged on the carpet spread over the stage, she began playing the sitar with complete concentration.

Personally, I had never enjoyed the instrument much. Its slow, meditative tunes usually made me sleepy. Yet judging by the expressions on the teachers’ faces, her performance was clearly considered extraordinary.

The assembly concluded with physical training exercises. Students spread out across the ground, maintaining arm’s distance from one another while synchronized movements were performed to the beat of a solitary drum.

At the end, I waited instinctively for the familiar command I had heard for years in St. Joseph’s School:

“School dismissed!”

But instead, a loud voice thundered across the ground:

“Visarjan!”

Immediately, the lines dissolved and students marched back toward their classrooms.

As we proceeded, I noticed two PT teachers standing beside the pathway like silent inspectors. One of them was a heavily built, intimidating man whom John whispered was “Dabang Singh”—a teacher feared throughout the school. He rarely interacted with junior students and mostly dealt with sportsmen.

Beside him stood a younger PT teacher named Rajeev Sir, slim, smart, and pleasant-looking. Unlike Dabang Singh, he appeared approachable and friendly.

Their task was simple: identify latecomers and students wearing improper uniforms.

Fortunately, I escaped their attention and reached the classroom safely.

The first period that day was Physics.

Even before the teacher entered, I heard Poondri shout loudly from across the room,

“JP! Is the first period Daddoo’s?”

“Yes,” JP replied hurriedly. “And speak softly. He has arrived.”

I was puzzled.

“Daddoo?”

In Punjabi, the word meant “frog.”

Before I could ask Balli who this mysterious Daddoo was, the teacher entered and the entire class stood up in respectful silence.

The lecture soon began.

“Yesterday we completed Newton’s Second Law,” the teacher announced while rolling a long piece of chalk between his fingers. “Today we shall study the Third Law of Motion.”

He looked around the class dramatically.

“Can anyone tell me what happens if I slap you?”

Mallika stood up immediately.

“Sir, we will feel pain and get a jerk,” she replied confidently.

The class burst into suppressed laughter while everyone waited for the teacher’s reaction.

“Correct,” he said seriously. “That means there will be a reaction. Therefore, for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. In this case, my slap is the action, and your pain is the reaction.”

I stared at him in disbelief.

“What an unusual method of teaching Physics,” I thought nervously, secretly hoping I would never have to experience such practical demonstrations personally.

While the teacher turned toward the blackboard to write, Balli leaned toward me and whispered,

“That is Daddoo Sir. Very strict fellow. Stay alert in his class.”

At last, the mystery was solved.

Yet I still wondered why the class had given him such a peculiar nickname. As I observed him more carefully, the resemblance became obvious. He had slightly protruding eyes, a small light-framed body, and a habit of making sudden little jumps after speaking a sentence—exactly like a frog.

The nickname fit perfectly.

The class ended, and after a few minutes a small-built boy named Sooraj approached me carrying a pair of spectacles.

“Please give these to Daddoo Sir,” he requested innocently. “He forgot them.”

Without thinking much, I took the spectacles and walked out. Only halfway to the staff room did it strike me that Sooraj himself could easily have delivered them. By then he had already vanished toward the library.

As I searched for the teacher, I encountered Rita, a girl from our class with striking reddish hair resembling that of Iranian gypsies.

“Have you seen Daddoo Sir?” I asked casually.

She burst into laughter and walked away without answering.

Confused, I immediately checked my uniform, my shirt buttons, even my trouser zip, wondering if something was wrong with my appearance. Everything seemed perfectly fine.

Still puzzled, I continued ahead and soon met my History teacher.

“Sir, have you seen Daddoo Sir?” I asked politely.

“Which Daddoo Sir?” he replied, staring at me curiously. “There is no teacher by that name.”

At that precise moment, John appeared from nowhere, quickly pulled me aside, and whispered urgently,

“What are you doing? Daddoo is only his nickname! His real name is Mr. Pandey!”

I almost froze in horror.

“You people will get me killed someday!” I muttered angrily.

Just then I spotted Mr. Pandey walking toward the Principal’s office. I rushed forward, handed over his spectacles respectfully, received a polite “thank you,” and returned to class.

The moment I sat down, Sooraj turned around mischievously.

“So… did you find Daddoo?” he asked with an innocent face.

For a brief second, I genuinely felt tempted to demonstrate Newton’s Third Law on him personally. But seeing everyone else casually using nicknames for teachers, I swallowed my irritation and simply responded with a stiff thumbs-up.

Later I asked Balli again why everyone called Mr. Pandey “Daddoo.”

“Because he jumps after every sentence,” Balli explained matter-of-factly. “Didn’t you notice?”

Now that I thought about it carefully, he was absolutely right.

Another teacher who soon became memorable was our Mathematics teacher, Mr. T.K. Chopra.

Unlike the strict Physics teacher, Mr. Chopra transformed Mathematics into entertainment. Elderly, cheerful, and endlessly patient, he taught through humour and simple memory tricks that made even difficult concepts feel easy.

I still remember the day he introduced us to Trigonometry.

Instead of making the subject frightening, he reduced the formulas to playful shortcuts. He explained:

Sine = Perpendicular divided by Hypotenuse

Cosine = Base divided by Hypotenuse

Tangent = Perpendicular divided by Base

To help us memorize them forever, he converted the formulas into a funny phrase:

“Pandit Badri Prasad, Har Har Bole.”

Even today, years later, I still remember those formulas exactly the same way while teaching my own children.

As the days passed, I slowly became familiar with every teacher and student in the school. Almost every teacher had acquired a nickname invented by students, and strangely enough, those nicknames were used more often than their real names.

I often wondered whether the teachers themselves knew about these secret identities and whether they found them amusing or offensive. Whatever the truth, one thing was certain—I had to remain extremely careful never to accidentally address any teacher by their nickname to their face.

Even today, every Teachers’ Day on the 5th of September, these memories return vividly. While talking to my children about school life, I often find myself smiling at those carefree days in Udhampur—the friendships, the laughter, the innocent mischief, and the unforgettable personalities who unknowingly shaped some of the happiest chapters of my childhood.

Upur2

 

Chapter 2

The First Day at School

Monday arrived with a strange mixture of excitement and nervousness. It was to be my first day at school in Udhampur—a day that would later become one of the most treasured memories of my life. At that time, however, I had no idea that the place, the people, and the experiences awaiting me would someday occupy such a warm corner in my heart.

Dressed in my brand-new navy-blue school uniform and carrying an equally new school bag, I accompanied my father to the school. The winter morning was crisp and pleasant. As we entered through the main gate of the Kendriya Vidyalaya, I noticed an unusual silence across the grounds. The classes had already begun, and the playgrounds stood deserted.

We walked straight to the Principal’s office.

Even today, the first image of the Principal, Mr. Sukhraj Singh, remains vivid in my memory. He was almost bald, with only a thin fringe of hair around the sides of his shining scalp. Thick black-framed spectacles rested heavily on his nose, and his pale yellow shirt hung untucked over grey trousers. Sandals completed his rather simple appearance. There was no smile on his face; instead, he carried the unmistakable expression of a man burdened by endless responsibilities.

As we entered, he gestured politely to my father to sit down and then looked at me over the top of his spectacles.

“So, he is the boy?” he asked in a measured tone.

Then, turning to my father, he added seriously, “He cannot be placed officially on the school rolls until confirmation comes from the Sangathan.”

Those words instantly dampened my enthusiasm. I had arrived with great hopes of beginning a new chapter, but suddenly I felt awkward and unwanted, almost like an uninvited guest at someone else’s celebration.

“There is nothing to worry about,” my father replied confidently. “I will obtain the permission soon. Meanwhile, he must attend classes so that his studies do not suffer. Government procedures always take time.”

“Yes, yes,” the Principal nodded before fixing his eyes on me again. “And you must study hard.”

He rang the small brass bell placed on his table, summoning the peon, and instructed him to escort us to my class—IX B.

IX B.

The words immediately triggered disappointment in my mind.

“Why not IX A?” I wondered silently.

In those days, many students carried the childish belief that Section A consisted of the brighter students while Section B housed the weaker lot. I could not help wondering whether I had already been judged before even entering the classroom.

The peon led us along a corridor past a cemented stage situated between the Principal’s office and the classrooms. We finally stopped outside my new class. The teacher inside stepped out, greeted my father warmly, and then motioned me to enter.

Father smiled reassuringly, waved goodbye, and left.

For the first time, I stood alone inside my new classroom.

Almost immediately, a dark-complexioned boy who looked older than the rest walked towards me. Placing a friendly hand on my back, he guided me toward an empty seat in the middle row with the politeness of someone ushering an honoured guest.

“Thank you,” I said softly.

He smiled warmly and replied, “You can sit here, Giani.”

I almost laughed.

Why was he calling me “Giani”? Later I realized that since I was the only Sikh student in the class, he had innocently associated my appearance with the religious teachers he had seen in gurudwaras.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Joy Pratap,” he replied promptly. “But everyone calls me JP.”

The English period resumed, and the teacher continued his lesson while I quietly observed my new surroundings. The moment the teacher left, however, the entire class seemed to come alive. Several boys surrounded me immediately, asking where I had come from, which school I had attended, and where I lived in Udhampur.

Unlike my previous school in Allahabad, where students mostly came from affluent business families and elite civilian backgrounds, this school reflected the true diversity of Army life. Children from every social level studied together—sons of barbers, clerks, junior soldiers, senior officers, and occasionally businessmen as well. Yet there was no visible sense of superiority or inferiority among them. Their backgrounds could only be guessed from their accents and mannerisms, not from the way they treated one another.

Very soon, I began learning their names. Balram, who shared my bench, was among the first to befriend me. Then came Mahesh Chander, Narinder, Raina, and many others. The moment they discovered that I lived near the Chopra Shop area—where many Engineer officers resided—the students from that locality immediately adopted me into their informal circle and began offering help with notes, books, timetables, and other essentials needed by a newcomer.

It was also my return to a co-educational school after several years. Though I had studied in co-ed institutions during my childhood, I had spent the previous years in an all-boys school. In this classroom, one row was occupied by girls while the remaining two rows were for boys. My seat in the middle row placed me directly beside the girls’ section.

Naturally, curiosity about the newcomer spread quickly.

I noticed a few girls whispering among themselves while occasionally glancing in my direction.

“Yeh naya Sardarji kahaan se aaya hai?” one of them quietly asked JP.

JP explained whatever little he knew about me, probably embellishing it with positive details. The girl’s name, I later learned, was Reema. She was fair and attractive but carried the typical local civilian accent and mannerisms that somehow did not match my wavelength. She was more comfortable with the city crowd, and I made no particular effort to interact with her.

Another girl seated near the front appeared unusually lively and outspoken. She constantly joked with the boys, communicated dramatically through facial expressions, and enjoyed considerable attention from both students and teachers alike. Her name, I soon discovered, was Mallika—a name that seemed to float endlessly through classroom conversations. Though she fascinated many boys, her over-smart behaviour made me instinctively cautious.

When I turned towards the rear rows, however, I noticed a quieter group of students—especially a few graceful, soft-spoken girls who appeared studious and composed. Most belonged to the Chinar group, students living in Army quarters near the school known as the Chinar Complex.

Then my attention shifted to two boys seated toward the back.

One of them smiled and waved cheerfully. He was fair, lean, athletic-looking, and carried himself with easy confidence. Beside him sat another fair boy with a serious face but unmistakably childish features.

“I am John… John Benet,” he announced dramatically, pausing between his names exactly the way James Bond introduced himself in films.

I lowered my head toward my desk and laughed quietly to myself.

“A junior Bond,” I thought.

Within the first hour itself, the classroom’s invisible social map became clear to me. The city students occupied the front rows, the Chinar group sat toward the rear right, the Garhi students clustered near the middle, and the Chopra Shop boys were spread across the classroom in smaller groups.

Then the lunch bell rang.

Most students rushed outside into the warm winter sunlight while a few remained inside the classroom. During the break, I properly met John and discovered that he too lived near my house in the Sappers’ Enclave above Chopra Shop. Even better, our fathers worked in the same office. That alone was enough to create an instant bond.

Soon another boy approached me.

“I am Jagmohan Singh Raina,” he said while shaking my hand.

He was the same fair and athletic-looking boy I had noticed earlier. After introducing himself briefly, he hurried away, promising to speak properly later.

Meanwhile, Balram and I continued talking.

Though physically strong and healthy, Balram struggled academically, especially in English. Yet he possessed one quality I admired immensely—absolute sincerity. He explained everything honestly and patiently, sharing whatever notes and guidance he could.

He began narrating details about almost every student in class in his Punjabi-influenced Hindi.

“We should sit at the back from tomorrow,” I suggested. “Then we can see the whole class and talk easily with everyone.”

He agreed immediately.

He then warned me about one particular teacher.

“Patthu Sir checks homework very strictly,” he whispered seriously while handing me his notebook so I could copy the questions.

“Patthu?” I asked, trying not to laugh.

“His real name is Mr. Pahariwal,” Balram grinned. “But everyone calls him Patthu. And soon you too will start calling me Balli.”

He even gave me his home address and assured me that I could approach him whenever I needed help. The affection behind his gesture touched me deeply.

JP joined us moments later with the confidence of a local gang leader.

“If anyone troubles you,” he declared proudly, “just tell me. I’ll handle the rest.”

He behaved as though the entire school functioned under his command. I nodded politely, though inwardly I felt amused by his dramatic self-importance.

The final period of the day was History.

The teacher, Mr. Digvijay Singh, immediately impressed me. He was tall, broad-built, and carried an authoritative personality that initially appeared intimidating. Yet within minutes I realized he was among the warmest and most cheerful teachers in the school.

That day he was teaching the Indus Valley Civilization.

“Can anyone explain how the cities were planned?” he asked the class.

I raised my hand.

He looked at me and nodded.

“Sir, the cities were scientifically planned,” I answered confidently. “The roads intersected at right angles, the drainage system was properly designed with covered drains, and the houses were well ventilated.”

“Very good!” he exclaimed with visible delight. “Beta, aap kahaan se aaye ho?”

“From St. Joseph’s, Allahabad, Sir,” I replied. “And I joined today.”

The entire class suddenly looked at me differently. Since I had answered in fluent English—a rarity during History discussions in Kendriya Vidyalayas—I was instantly branded as a “good student.” News travelled through the classroom almost like a chain reaction.

From that day onward, Digvijay Singh became one of my favourite teachers. Though he appeared strict from a distance, he believed in encouraging students rather than frightening them. Unlike many teachers who followed the “spare the rod and spoil the child” philosophy, he motivated through kindness and respect.

By the time the final bell rang, I already felt accepted.

Students packed their bags noisily and streamed out of the classroom. Since my house was only about three kilometres away, I decided to walk home instead of using the school bus.

Balram, JP, and John accompanied me initially. At the bus stop, JP and John boarded the local bus while Balli continued walking with me toward Chopra Shop. We talked continuously about school, teachers, classmates, and plans for the next day. Before parting ways, we fixed a meeting point for the following morning so we could go to school together.

As I climbed uphill toward Sappers’ Enclave, I felt deeply satisfied.

My first day at the new school had gone far better than I had expected.

That evening, John came over to invite me for badminton. During our game, he entertained me endlessly with stories about the local crowd of Udhampur. He spoke dramatically about school pranks, troublesome boys, mysterious outsiders, local toughs, and romantic gossip surrounding students and girls. He possessed an unusual talent for storytelling—always ending his tales midway so that curiosity forced the listener to return for the remaining part later.

He also proudly explained how he and JP travelled free in the local “Padha Bus.”

Their technique was astonishingly clever. They boarded from the rear door while the conductor remained busy issuing tickets near the front. Midway through the journey, when the bus halted near Carmel Convent School, they slipped out quietly and re-entered from the front entrance after the conductor had moved toward the rear. By the time the bus reached Chopra Shop, they simply got down unnoticed—having completed the entire journey without purchasing a ticket.

“And what if the conductor catches you?” I asked curiously.

“Then buy a ticket immediately and pretend you just boarded,” John replied casually.

Later, I discovered another common trick used by regular passengers. Instead of paying the full fare of twenty paise, many handed the conductor only fifteen paise. The conductor quietly pocketed the amount without issuing a ticket, thereby benefiting both himself and the passenger. However, if anyone demanded a proper ticket, the full fare was charged honestly.

After badminton, we went to the Officers’ Mess, ate fried peanuts, and played table tennis before finally returning home.

The day had been long, exciting, and unforgettable.

And now, before sleeping, there still remained one final duty—the homework for the next day at school.