I, Me, Myself and the Unfair World

Let me begin with a confession. I am selfish. So are you. So is the person two cubicles away eating sprouts at 11 AM because suddenly samosa is evil! Corporate life & training has taught us that acknowledging a problem is 50% of the solution. (The other 50% is a town hall, a feedback form that no one fills, and a branded mug. 

When I take sick leave, it is because I am sick. Genuinely, medically, tragically sick. My throat insides became sandpaper, you know! I lay in bed all alone with an empty steel glass on the side table, since no one was around to refill. And still I replied to two critical messages. I am a true-blue-blood example of devotion to work. While, Rohan takes sick leave almost every Friday or Monday! In fact, his Instagram story actually mentioned that Kasauli is not a destination, it’s a journey to wellbeing. Actually, have you noticed, maybe it’s the air in the Board Room? Most senior folk fall sick around monthly, quarterly, half yearly reviews? Poor people. By God, we have seen less calculated moves at a chess championship. The hoarse voice is always so practiced and nuanced!

My body is a temple that occasionally collapses. Your body is just an alibi.

Everyone knows I work the smartest and the hardest. My workload is more than others. If workloads were a Netflix series, yours would be a 1-hour Standup Comedy versus my 14-Seasons Saga of betrayal, depression and undeserving suffering. I know this because I can feel it. Every email, every deck, every "quick five-minute call" that never ends in 5. My everything is hugely and logically bigger than yours! I'm literally drowning in work. You are simply "acting busy." I stay late as it's commitment. When you stay late, it's poor time management! Or sucking up to the boss. I get exploited when I get new assignments. When one is handed to you, it's favoritism of the boss.

Home work is on a different level. Only I can manage things at my place. The kids' need me to become the center of the galaxy for the science project. My maid, cook, driver, gardener get heavy breathing if they don’t see me every few hours. Don’t get me wrong. My spouse, in-laws and house-helps are lovely. But can I trust and delegate things to them? I have seen them working. You know, according to them "thoda sa dal" is a valid unit of measurement. So yes, I will log off by six. I need to be home or work from home whenever I am busier than usual. But you? Why do you need to leave early (630 PM in india is leaving early, right?) You have a mother-in-law, a husband, a driver, two maids and your kids are even teenagers and your own mother who lives in the same city! I have suggested all of this to people in the most supportive tone. My mother-in-law, spouse etc. is not available as agenda items for discussion.

The other very obvious unfair treatment to me are the leave/breaks offered to me. I took just one. A single uninterrupted, well-deserved and just about sufficient 2 weeks break. I earned it. I bled for it. I set my out-of-office & checked mail only "once or twice. And can you imagine? My colleague, Saurabh took for long breaks during the year!! One every quarter. Every break for 4 days each! How is it fair? Just one break for me versus four for him? Same number of days. But, I am furious. Because, it's daylight robbery of company leave policy by others. Am the loyal one here.

Logic has no business in matters of the heart or the annual leave tracker.

And then there are the invisible hiccups, or cups. The office boy brings tea, a little late today. I smirk since I feel betrayed. Maybe the coffee machine was acting funny. Or the lift stopped at 2 extra floors. I gave these excuses when I entered late in the meeting. But that chap cannot be late ever. It is noticed, when the housekeeping lady wipes our desk and we lift our coffee mug two inches so she can clean, we feel quite generous about it. Why?

We have an entire philosophy on our own exhaustion. Theirs, we never notice. Not because we're cruel. Because we are the busier and more important one. The main character in the script of life.

Trust me. None of this makes us villains. It makes us human. We experience our own lives in 4K with Dolby surround. Everyone else's is a muted, pixelated screen, B-Grade movie from the next room. Our story has flashback and a thrilling end for the next Season. The other person’s storyline is just a timestamp.

So what do we do now? Nothing much. For starters, just accept and acknowledge. Simply thank the office boy and may be ask, why is he late and just nod? Please start assuming the colleague's migraine is real. Please know, everyone has a washroom at home that can have a plumbing issue. If you ask me, honestly though, going by human evolution - from sharing fire in caves to fighting over parking spots and feeling jealous about leaves, am not too sure. We got better brains, but bigger egos and smaller hearts.

So, I'm not holding my breath. But hey, my sarcasm is actually concern for society. Yours, I'm not so sure about.

-Q

The Namkeen Wallet

My sister & I were luckier. My father & his siblings were lucky. We had parents who had been rubbed off by Anglo-Indians and urban Indians of post independent India. Am sure a lot of readers, including me, personally know and perhaps had parents, especially fathers, who never owned a wallet. Not a real one, anyway. What the man possessed was a large dry-washing-powder-packet-wrapper or the least-oily-namkeen-packet wrapper, turned inside out, wiped with the seriousness of a surgeon before her/his surgery, folded twice, tucked into his shirt’s left chest pocket. Inside lived the man’s liquid assets: two ten-rupee notes, one crisp fifty "for emergencies,", some odd ineligible papers for some random memory and critically, the Railway ID Card and the Railway Worker’s Union ID Card filed in a separate lighter transparent polythene. That was his ATM. No card, no PIN, no OTP. Sometimes, even a Monaco biscuit wrapper with trust issues.

Mothers, meanwhile, ran an import-export business out of the aangan/verandah. Every few months, the bartan-wali would arrive with her giant basket of shiny steel, and mothers would bring out a bundle: three of father's 1950s checkered shirts , Cl III school uniforms of children stored for well over 5 yrs to accumulate garments for better negotiations. And 3 sarees, 2 of self and 1 of her mother-in-laws, our Dadis, who was never happy and side with her daughter-in-law, except during such negotiations. Then the negotiation began. We all have been part of negotiations in our professional capacity. Be it wage-settlement with unions, or with vendors over office contracts or even our own salary negotiations during interviews. None of these could came close to how mothers & grandmothers were seen bargaining for that one extra bowl or spoon! They would just walk away with a patila, a thali and the moral high ground.

Nothing in our houses died. They just got reincarnated. The Bournvita jar became the dal jar. The Horlicks bottle held achaar. The Dalda tin became home to a money plant, which was ironic, because money was the one thing that never grew in our house. Old vests became pocha. Old pocha were slit in strips and were used to straighten plants in pots in balconies and entrances and in gardens, if you had one! Utility never ceased. A functional use was always imagined by the father, mother or grandparents. Money was less. But they were never short of economics! The old toothpaste tube got rolled flat with the new Ponds Cold Cream bottle until it let out a small squeak. Gift-wrapping paper was opened with the precision of a bomb squad, ironed, and saved to be used in someone’s upcoming birthday.

If you remember, there was a polythene bag full of polythene bags! A sacred kit bag nobody was allowed to question. School uniforms was always two sizes too big. Books were covered with the white side of old calendars because brown paper was for rich kids. The dining table and sofa had different covers for daily use and two special covers for two different set of guests – The regular ones who had to be shown alternate covers and the new or irregular one who was to be shown the most glamorous cover. Crockery lived in a glass cabinet, not to be touched & only for viewing purpose. China bowls were reserved for ultra special guests and relatives who were civil servants.

Grandparents had treasure. Hence, needed an iron or steel trunk. It smelled of naphthalene and secrets. Every wedding, festival or crisis, she'd open it and produce things none of us had ever seen: an unshiny silver glass which had to be rubbed till the Djinn came out! Or an old Kashmiri shawl or Benarasi Saree, a rusted brass kamandal, silver ornaments for festivals. Sometimes, a hundred-rupee note knotted into the corner of a handkerchief. It was always for the "Sahi waqt ke liye rakkha tha". The right time, though, was mostly for some relative’s wedding, never for us!

There was no phone. There was Mukherjee Aunty's phone and a diary. A diary that alphabetically had all numbers and names that one had to write and remember - of all own friends, friends of parents, all relatives and few random acquaintances. And we did remember it all! Finally, in early 90s, after a wait till Dashratputra came back to Ayodhya, families started getting their own landline. It sat on a table, covered religiously with crochet piece, now that you think - designed like a cobweb - with a tiny lock on the dial so the maid (and the children) couldn't make calls. The story of pagers, PCO and mobile phones is a novel in itself!

The generation’s dream 4-wheeler was - Maruti 800 OX or a PAL-Fiat. When I started working early 2000s, I bought my parents a new Maruti 800 on EMI. Now, here's the thing. There is a new phone that is costlier than our dream car, while growing up! Funnily, many of us can probably afford it too. But at what cost?

We skip red lights and tell our kids, "late ho rahe hain, chalta hai." We want everyone to put their phone on silent except our own self because Putin calls us to consult on the Ukraine war! We advise people to not scream at our kids, the spouses or even the maids in public as that’s rude and bad social etiquette. But that does not apply to our own self. Because, we are from Marvel Comics! We click our food before we bless it. We throw parties with themes & budgets only to compare, not for fun. Unconsciously, we are teaching our kids to hate harder than to compete. The goal isn't to win anymore. It's to make sure the other person loses.

Social media is the new God. Everyone believes it blindly. A forwarded message, reel or article is more credible just because it aligns to what I think the true and right. No book, no research. No debate. Our parents prayed to two entities – God & Doctors. We fear Algorithms & plan our prayers even online now! We saw a father with a namkeen packet as his wallet and still give the rickshaw-wala a rupee extra sometimes. We saw a mother bargain like a shark and then give her loveliest saree to the maid for her daughter's wedding. Our kids are seeing us cursing the security guard for doing his job or arguing with the delivery boy over a 3-minute delay.  I have a leather wallet - with zero cash & three cards. UPI is primary.

This Diwali, may be, just may be, I'll turn a Haldiram's packet inside out, fold it twice, and keep some money in it for a while. Just to show my kids where the real wealth used to live.

-Q

Teach & Learn

My daughters’ school had organized a workshop for kids to learn traffic rules at school. Incidentally, it was a friend's birthday on the same day. Parents were dropping the children who were invited, all chirpy and excited, when suddenly one of the kids noticed the parent jumping the red light. She yelled to her father — the teacher had taught today itself that red means stop! The proud owner of the INR 1+ CR vehicle, laughed it off saying, “we were already late, and anyway traffic lights were still yellow”. The child didn't understand back then. But the adult she has become today does. We experience children being reprimanded to put their phones down at the table in restaurants, while the parent scrolls away merrily with a very lame excuse. Children are advised lying is a sin at tea time. And just before dinner they hear the parent telling a relative or a friend on the phone "we'd love to come but we have a family thing" that day while the real plan is absolutely zilch! The lesson isn't in the rulebook. It's in the rerun. Children are observing everything happening, grasping every tiny detail, stocking it up like special birthday gifts in the backroom of our head. And just like gifts, they open them alone, so they don't have to share it with anyone. What our kids don’t realize as they grow up, is that every other friend of theirs has an equally big idiot parent like us, gifting them such stupid life learnings! Slight difference arises when few of us choose to invite friends and share the misery.

There are some observations that we toil with for a bit, not knowing what to do, much like that photo frame or the bedsheet-cushion cover combo set gifted at the wedding. We shove them half-wrapped onto the top kitchen shelf or above the atleast almirah in the house. We wait for it to be re-gifted at the next invite that comes along. We are parents who tell our kids to be true friends and never share someone’s secrets, while taking screenshots of exchanges of private messages with a colleague and forward to another group chat saying, "just sharing that I wasn’t kidding”. The kid fidgets with the observation, keeps it away for a bit, only to re-gift it later at someone’s expense. We all get the same experience. The difference is who broke the chain. Who kept the bedsheet and used up the cushion covers. Who decided to stop and not forward the same message any further.

We all grow up. We all age. We do not mature. We spend our whole lives waiting for the one big leap — the one massive concept that will make us famous, popular or rich! Life doesn't hand out equal opportunities. What it does hand out are small chances, tiny decisions that, done right, add up to something huge. e.g., because I was running late I cut someone off at the light or someone cut mem doesn’t really matter. We are getting late, remember. But both of us get down to argue for the next 14 minutes, making is even more late! Instead of a simple "my bad, sorry, let’s move on", we built an entire traffic jam of office-goers with rippling effect of next 45 minutes. Could be the same parent above —the child has quietly learnt that inconveniencing people is perfectly OK as long as you complain about it loudly enough.

We all know parents who are furious like Sabu when their child gets 92% and not 95%. However, her/his Linkedin posts say "we should celebrate effort over outcome." The child may never see that caption. What the child will remember is the parent’s face looking at the report card. Similar confusion is gifted to the child in the building WhatsApp group – a random message gets a sarcastic reply. Which gets a worse one as a response. Screenshots ammunition is built & sprayed across for the next 3 hours - just so “everyone should know what kind of person X or Y is”. Meanwhile, the same parent is heard advising the child, “beta, there is absolutely no need to respond to bullies. Just ignore and walk away”. In a few days, the kid isn't confused anymore about the rule. The kid is unsure, why the rule apparently doesn't apply once you're old enough to have a smartphone.

We all jump yellow lights. We all get caught just when it turns red. And now, we're all in the jam that we built and never owned up to. A small brain in the backseat takes notes, nonetheless. Wrong notes forever.  Maturity was never about glamorous extravaganzas, but small, boring, mundane things well — when no one's watching, especially, human being at an impressionable age. Education tries to ensure we learn well enough to understand some things and understand well enough to not learn certain things. It's not always about action. It's also about staying aware to ignore the action, whenever one is wrong. Probably, why literacy doesn’t matter, education does, literally.

-Q

The Fifth Page

It was a windy evening. The kind that made almost every window whistle in alternate beats. Storm clouds had been circling the hills since late afternoon, hanging low over the Oak trees. The strong winds were fighting the heavy clouds that were swallowing Mussoorie in a grey, shifting curtains. As the games time was coming to an end, boys would for the faint scattering of lights from above the nets of the front and back pitches — small, golden promises of a life beyond roll-call and the prep-time bell. That evening, there was nothing. Just rains threatening to arrive, clouds pressing down upon the hills, and the wind rushing through the trees like an upset housemaster looking for a culprit.

As per standard Hills Schools’ Association rules —boys and girls were categorized on a height and weight formula system and all Sports and Athletic Committees ensured compliance – Sub-Juniors, Juniors, Inters and Seniors. Athletics was competed fiercely, across the groups. Sports team were fairly predictable. If you witness two matches of a team, you could take a calculated guess if your team will reach the finals or not. On the day of the finals though, it would be a whole new emotion. Much would depend on the venue, the crowd, the adrenaline and the referee! The camaraderie and conflicts of teams on some other day.

Today, was a very chilly day. Both the junior and senior boys’ cricket teams had won the finals. The juniors had defended a total of 112 on a difficult, uneven pitch; the seniors had chased 168 with two wickets to spare, largely because one batsman who refused to give up and a last over blinder by the captain. The two winning teams were awarded a special Mussoorie outing. Out of turn. In boarding schools, those three words carried more magic than a scholarship letter. And that too right after the match, which meant an evening outing, with a late-night movie and walking back to school through the dark slops, well past mid-night. The cheer leaders first carried the team on their shoulders and then carried back the kit bags with great warmth. Shared glory is glory, nonetheless! However, there were some special orders. Most of them were the usual individual asks – Royal Blue Chelpark ink bottles, Pilot pens and their dropper ink bottles, some gift items for the imaginary girl-friends, or siblings upcoming birthdays etc. Then came the exquisite ones – Sportstar, Filmfare & Stardust editions. Old editions that were cheaper. Because, one boy could not afford the cost of a new one. One time, one of the new-joinee swanky boy’ had asked his batchmate to bring him a Swiss Army knife. The boy stared at him and replied, “where do you think I am going - Switzerland?” Beneath the harmless requests lay some raw, unspoken items. Mussoorie had bookshops. And behind the bookshops, were small lanes, with tiny stalls, offering new and second-hand books and magazines already packed in brown-paper. These were the orders that could not be called out, spelt or written. They were simply, whispered and understood. Well, cricketers returned late night, victors and swollen celebrities. They brought the predictable items—some chocolates, comics, pens, cheap key rings.  And, the fully loaded magazines. Just not of guns. But for guns! New and second-hand adult magazines. Few of them had dog-eared novels whose covers had seen better years. Books passed from hand to hand with the solemnity of secret government files. Nobody ever openly admitted buying them. If seniors caught a junior with such such non-existing pages, it would be confiscated, rather non-seriously. For their reading. And returned without any damage. Tradition to be maintained. The official version was that the magazines had been “found.” Or “came along in the folds of another book, by mistake – since it looks like Reader’s Digest!  Within the class, every contributor had his turn. The system was democratic. The highest contributor received an early turn. Those who had paid less had to wait. Even the ones who could not pay, in the end, would get their hands on the pages. In fact, everyone managed to experience life —including the so-called intelligent, innocent and simple boys of the class. Many a times, they would first lecture us about moral decline. Then, after a week would innocently drop a one-liner, “Is my turn after @Sushil or before?”

Evening prep would be the masterpiece timing of concealment. Textbooks were opened on desks. Exercise books were placed strategically. A geography atlas could hide almost anything if held at the correct angle. One could keep his contraband of Stardust or Filmfare inside. Another used the Science Guide Book perhaps believing that no teacher would voluntarily inspect Physics after 6 PM in the evening.

My turn came on this particularly stormy night. The wind was howling outside, and rain had begun striking the metal roofs in quick, hard bursts. Prep time had started at six-thirty. Seven was dinner. My turn came in the post-dinner prep time, before eventually retiring to the dormitory. I acquired the magazine. Slipped it between my Social Science textbook, positioning myself in a way that my left part of the body was on the window wall, where the lightening would flicker in weakly, while the class tube lights would fall right through the cracks of my folded elbow, hiding the real reading for today. It was a copy of Gladrags. Shyla Lopez was on the cover. My heart was beating with the unnecessary seriousness of a boy doing something he had no real understanding of. The pages of the old edition still had the shine of new. Shyla had made it even more special. The mag smelled of nervous excitement and several previous young boy’s owners shaky fingers that would have turned the pages.

I had barely reached the fifth page. Shyla was saying all the nice soft and mushy things in her interview. When her Lopez appeared to rise from the center page. At first, I thought the outside storm noise is making giving a background effect. But she seemed to move towards me now. She took a long hair-pin bend into the air and I looked up. There was Mr. Bhat. The moment froze. The blood froze. Our eyes locked. And my unfortunate imagination flashed in front of my eyes with the efficiency of our PWD staff! I was rusted and rusticated. I was sitting by the window of a train, leaving Doon station, forever. The hills were disappearing behind me. And there, absurdly, impossibly, Shyla Lopez sat in my lap—still on the cover, still inside the magazine, solely responsible my destruction.

Mr. Bhat said nothing for what felt 1888, the day school was established till date when it was closing all doors on me. He slowly folded the magazine now that was in his hands, looked at the cover and then looked at me. In a voice, as stern, clear and as cold as the rain drops outside, he said, “This is not what one should read, especially before bed”.

He walked away. The memory gives sweet shivers —not because I could never lap Shyla. Because, I still carry an image of a bending Shyla and Mr. Bhat together, on the fifth page.

-Q

Expensive Sandila Laddoos

A few of us met on 17^th August, 2026 in Delhi. The regulars at our regular place. We had two new entrants. Ritik Pandey from 2018 batch. And Rajkumar Kar from 1994 batch. Rajkumar and I go back centuries. Our fathers were batchmates in Chittranjan Locomotive Apprenticeship Program (or whatever they used to call it then), sometime in the mid-1960s. Rajkumar’s father continued at the Chittaranjan Workshop. I don’t remember how and why, my father somehow managed to actually go and teach in Oak Grove for a few years (1968-72). Rajkumar and Jayanti (my elder sister) joined OG together in 1986 in Cl IV & III respectively. We had gone to drop them to Jharipani. I have been reminded a million times of how I slipped & fell in the moss-laden swampy puddle on the Camel’s Back top during that trip. The next year, Monisha (Rajkumar’s elder sister) & I joined OG in Cl VIII and Cl IV respectively. Some lovely trips, stories and memories between our families. Not today.

 

Our Monday meeting wasn’t planned as such. Boys had not met well over 3 months. Batteries were drying up. We wanted to meet eagerly. We had added Ritik into the NCR WhatsApp Group only a few days ago. And suddenly as we were discussing meeting up, someone added Rajkumar’s number! What a splendid surprise. Rajkumar had left school in 1993. We did not meet until 1997 I guess. It was the trip to finalize Monisha and Prithviraj’s wedding. Another fantastic trip and awesome memories. Not today.

 

On Monday, once at the venue, post the usual first 10-minute leg pulling of who has a bigger paunch and a tiny penis, a larger butt and smaller fingers, we settled. Old times talk started. And Rajkumar reminded us of a late night train journey incident involving him and I. This is today!

 

It was 1991. The Mandal Commission protests had erupted across the country. In Jharipani, most of us understood approximately nothing about reservations, commissions or national politics. Our idea of current affairs was whether a senior had finally taken bath after 23 days of hibernation, someone had broken up with an imaginary girlfriend, or whether this month it will be fish in place of chicken in the special dinner. However, the tension outside the school gates had to eventually reach us. School closed suddenly, and children were to be sent home. This is where Mr. R K Mallick (my father) enters the story. Less like a father and more like the Global Guardian of the boys and girls traveling on Doon Express (9up/10 down). I believe, Doon Express terminates couple of stations before Doon now, to manage rail traffic and ease passenger commotion. Mr. Mallick was now responsible for over 50+ boys & girls. He had to get them safely out of School and take them up to Lucknow railway station, where they would be handed over to the next set of global guardians up to their final destination in Bihar (and some parts of now what is Jharkhand). Imagine the trust and confidence parents had on each other. The sense of belief that a set of people, with shared-yet-broken travel time responsibility, will take equal amount of care and caution and bring my child through this 1500-2000 kms journey. And the conviction on the institution they were working in, the Indian Railways cannot go wrong! How do they reach Doon station from school? What about their luggage, snacks, dinner or if anything goes wrong? This was not the first time that another parent was guarding and bringing another child. Only this time the scale was different. All was the responsibility of one/few people and it was OK. No guilt. No one’s fault. It was all collective responsibility. Rare today. Before the train took off, dinner had to be arranged for this army of hungry kids? I am guessing, perhaps, in that time of calculations and assuming some unforeseen eventuality, my father would have handed over INR 50/- to me. Honestly, I don’t remember. Burt, so many children, so few people to oversee, it was a riot in the coach. And zero accident! Everyone was counted, fed, seated, provided a place to stretch and sleep.

 

A boarding-school child will tell you that the definition of an ‘emergency’ is extremely flexible. Rajkumar and I discovered that our emergency was hunger. We were very hungry. Naturally, we were on the same berth. We controlled telling each other first. Then, once trauma was shared, we controlled doing anything about it. What could we on a moving train. Suddenly, the train had started slowing down. Rajkumar being the elder and wiser quickly realized some station is arriving. In the total dark late night, when even Batman was half-sleepy, The Sandila Station arrived. Yes, Sandila, famous for its sweet culinary history. A town sensible people buy sweets and remember the occasion with dignity. Rajkumar and I were neither sensible nor people. We were 13 & 15 yrs old hungry and insensible boys who had INR 50/- to splurge! We spotted aloo puri. How much? INR 5/- each. That’s INR 10/-. Perfect. We still save enough for the famous Laddoos. Two plates, please. The hawker started making the hot puris and warming the aloo. He was going about his job patiently. While we were lying on the bottom berth, our hearts and stomach were pounding in equal beat and hands waiting to pounce on the leaf plate, stitched by matchsticks or broomsticks. He handed over the two plates and asked for money. I handed over the crisp INR 50/- note. The hawker had taken the note. We had taken the plates and had started hogging. The train whistle blew. The train started moving. The hawker just had to not move! And he didn’t. But the INR 50/- note was moving away and finally vanished. Rajkumar and I froze. Holding our plates, we watched our financial future slip away. The hunger vanished. Instantly. The puris lost all charm. Laddoos were anyways not on our menu. We had just fried a fifty rupee note along with puris!

 

What were we going to say in the morning? There was no explanation. None running through our minds sounded remotely convincing. Boarding school cunningness kicked in along with rules of friendship. Rajkumar and I were in this mess together. Fifty bucks in 1992 was not 50 bucks of today. We had some answering to do. Well, next morning was as busy as the previous evening for my father and the other parents on the platform. Rajkumar and Monisha stayed with us for a couple of days before moving on to Chittaranjan. Those days were light and fun. Somehow, I don’t remember if my father asking about the money. I don't remember whether the puris were any good. But I remember Rajkumar being by my side and always reassuring, “don’t worry, we will manage it together”. No big motivation or a grand speech. Just being by the side. A lifelong companionship. Definitely worth more than fifty bucks.

 

Boarding-school taught us that friendship is a tradition. And tradition had declared that every event is a mass, social and community event. The entire class would be party to your party. Including, the gatherings where you yourself may be the decoration! And sometimes the cake! You are being cut, passed on to be distributed and finally thrown into the bin for being too sweet! They are forged under shared circumstances such as cold dormitories, homesickness, uncommon problems with common seniors, the constant possibility of getting dhunned by a senior for no faulty of your and then there is the weather of Jharipani! The union of the cloud & fog, rain travelling down the oak leaves, moss filled walls, hills disappearing completely without warning only to arrive back along with the sun in a new green jacket with silver buttons. Boys and girls who grow up in the hills like us develop a peculiar sense of belonging. We may not even like everyone. Some people we would happily have pushed down a hill returning from Mussoorie on a second Saturday trip to town! Decades later, though, when a familiar damp smell, half-frozen-creamy porridge on the table, a nickname or phrase is mentioned and you are a 13-yr old yet again, wanting to flee this life and rush back to the platform, wait for friends and carry the familiar swag.

 

Drenched Independence

In the late-80s to mid-90s, we would proceed on a 4-week summer vacations. I am not sure why! Most people would run to the hills during summers. We were supposed to go down to the plains and bear the heat! We didn’t realize this scam till we had become dark walnuts from the summer fry. Most of us wanted May to go on forever. Founders’ Day preps in full swing, most days were spent moving around the campus showing off that we were participating at something. Basically, we were just loitering around. Suddenly, on 2^nd June we were pushed down the slope to go and loiter in the by-lanes of our native places, aimlessly, which we were doing in much better weather conditions all of May anyway! And for 4 whole weeks! So, am still not sure why was the summer break necessary? We came back quickly in July to the shouts and screams of kids in the hospital OPD, courtesy Mr. Usmani’s hammers, who, the rumor is, applied for a Carpenter’s job but became a Compounder due to small spelling mistake in his Application Form! He continued to repair. Albeit, patients, in the way he knew best. Hammers and nails. Of course, am kidding. The hospital staff were sweethearts. They took care of kids, like fresh cherries in sour cream. The clouds of Mussoorie though were never happy! They would behave like permanent citizens and balk at us at our return. They came every morning without uniforms, without a prep bell, and without bothering to ask permission from anyone. They sat low over the oak trees; wandered right through our windows into dormitories, classes and dining halls. On especially foggy mornings, one could wake up, look at window and briefly wonder if it was early morning, late evening or just that we had been transferred to another planet.

Some boarding school memories grow old with us. Some remain stubbornly the same: the smell of wet August moss, moist clothes, smell of Brahmi Amla Kesh Oil, the ring of the golden bell and the deep belief that a special lunch is worth any amount of patriotic suffering. August 15 was one such day. It was not merely a holiday. For some, it meant sleeping late. Basically, the seniors. Juniors had their  job cut out. Sleeping late after the usual washing, waking up earlier than usual to get hot water ready for The Senior, freshening up themselves, getting ready on time, being inspected, and queuing up on time to walk up to the Junior School playgrounds and wait forever for the same Chief Guest, year on year; sometimes waiting in the rains and yet proudly. After all it was for Bharat! Funnily, every alternate year saw some child fainting, mostly from the NCC, Scouts or Guides gang. The gang who are supposed to be tougher than the general public!

Preparations for Independence Day parade began hurriedly, a few days before the D-Day. The NCC cadets marched around the front pitch with much seriousness only for the grub that would be served on Thursdays. The taste of fresh cupcakes and cream rolls still come back and linger on taste buds many a day, even today. The khaki uniforms were well maintained, the belts shone and the boots were polished well by juniors to reflect the shining belts. Scout, were not quite cadets yet. That did not stop us from behaving as if national security depended upon us! We would march in threes, swing our arms at the correct angle, and not sideways towards the Instructor in a saree as if she was Major General. It was lovely. Across the valley, the girls’ school prepared as Guides. Since, we were so used to watching them in the white & navy blue, that the Guides uniform made them even more desirable! On top of it, the scarves and purposeful footsteps, just made it much sensual. They were considerably more organized than boys. It was irritating and yet unsurprising. Girls always seemed to know where their blazers or overcoats are. Even their raincoats and gumboots were kept as if on a tray. Boys would discover their own belongings! During parade practice, a senior’s greatest pleasure was correcting a junior’s marching.

“Left means your other left,” one would say.

“But this is my left,” the junior would protest.

“Not in this school,” the senior would reply.

And so we marched, left-right-left, through damp grass and cloud, while the mountains watched us with the calm indifference of mountains. The teachers were different too. At least, that was what we believed. Teachers seemed to exist, everywhere. They taught history in class, caught us whispering during prep time, supervised our games even though they may not have picked a racquet themselves ever but over a period of 5 batches, turned into lovely players. A boarding-school teacher could recognize your handwriting, your excuses, your appetite, and who are you by your shadow in the dark dormitory. They could tell which boy had fever, which one was homesick and which one had hidden a ‘biological novel’ inside a social science book. Far from home, they were our Sergeant, Referee, Doctor, temporary parent and permanent guardians.

Back to Independence Day. In the morning the weather could be brilliant at breakfast. A clean blue patch of sky, a hopeful sun, clouds sitting politely beyond the hills. By the time we would walk to JS, for parade, clouds would suddenly remember its Jharipani! Fog would roll in, the wind would sharpen, and the rain would introduce herself with one innocent drop on the shining metal badge on the uniform—followed immediately by a quick downpour to test our patriotism. We stood in formation, rain drops slowly sliding down our collars, trying not to move. The band played bravely. The flag rose, the anthem began, and everyone looked upward—partly with pride and partly to judge whether the next cloud was about to burst. Inevitably, came the command that everyone was waiting for – “Run to the covered shed!” Military discipline disappeared. NCC cadets, Scouts, Guides, teachers, prefects, tiny juniors, and boys who had been marching perfectly for forty-five minutes all rushed toward the JS covered shed. Shoes splash. Caps fly. Someone always fell in the stamping. Someone else laughed at exactly the wrong moment. The shed filled with wet uniforms, steaming breath, and the smell of damp wool.

The most dangerous part of the day: waiting for the chief guest. Every year, as reliable as rain, the chief guest was Dr. Saini, the dentist. Dr. Saini was probably a very good dentist. He had kind eyes, a respectable manner, and a speech that appeared to have been written during the same decade as the Constitution. He spoke about freedom, duty, discipline, dental hygiene, and the bright future of India. We clapped at the appropriate places, while secretly wondering whether he had noticed the school’s extraordinary yawns and droops. The waiting felt murderous. We were wet, hungry, and convinced that lunch was being held hostage by a speech. The teachers-maintained faces of solemn national feeling. Somewhere, a boy whispered, “Will there be paneer?” That, more than any slogan, united the school. And there was paneer. The special lunch was always the same: puri, chole, fried rice, curd, salad, paneer, and sweets. The menu appeared on every important day—2 October, 15 August, Janmashtami, Diwali—like a dependable old friend who had never learned a new recipe and did not need to. Same menu. Same taste. Same glorious awesomeness. The puris were warm and slightly oily; the chole were rich enough to make us forget the rain; the paneer was guarded by kitchen staff as if it were national treasure; the salad gave the meal an official appearance of health; and the sweets disappeared with the speed and mystery of a magic trick.

More than three decades later, even today, memories stay drenched of our caged independence - the fog, the wet parade bajree grounds, the Sergeant’s shouted instructions, Dr. Saini’s annual speech, and that mad dash to the Junior School covered shed. And one of the strongest of these memories is the taste of that special lunch— puri, chole, fried rice, curd, salad, paneer, and sweets after a pretty morning, marching afternoon and waiting for Dr. Saini to finish his speech. We keep wishing for that special lunch again: the same menu, the same taste, the same hunger—and perhaps, just for old times’ sake, Dr. Saini arriving a little late.

 -Q

Sullen Sunday Sunsets

July/August, the months defined the place. A steady deluge of rains, day and night. And even if it stops for a while, the surroundings continue to send rain drops down our paths, walls, shoes and socks. The soaked olive-green oak leaves would carry droplets, the moss laden tree branches would catch and throw water, the sloping metal roofs ending in small triangled-wooden frames would decorate running wet beads of water all across the building stretch. Jharipani would be wrapped in a soft, drenched shawl made with the threads of fog, mist and clouds, winding together and hiding the sun from us for days. If we were lucky, there would be enough sun rays to make an ant laugh! We loved it there. At least I did. The moss on low stone walls, the slope to the covered shed, the north side of the principal’s residence nobody goes anymore. A kind of green that looks soft even though it isn't. And the leaves this time of year go silver on one side and olive on the other, so when the wind moves through the Oak the whole hillside seems to be winking at you. The Tuckman has been coming on Saturdays even before my father was teaching here. The Tuckman remembered that my father liked the cookie with the extra jam. So, he would slyly give me the same. Aayajis in JS Dorm had tucked in generations of homesick boys. The bearers had served us, played alongside and saved us from every possible worry – teachers, seniors, strangers and known devils. The mountains don't change. Neither do these people of Jharipani. It is unexplainable to people who didn't grow up in such villages — it just feels like being held, forever.

Sunday evenings were a different animal though. Through the year, not just around this time. You felt a slight nudge in the under-belly. The first time at around 530 PM. Just when you know the bell will ring in a bit. When sunlight is going from gold to orange to purple and pink. At the fag-end of the front pitch. Just above the IOW Workshop. Suddenly, it has gone. The bell rings. Everyone queues up for the roll-call. We walk up to the dorm to freshen up. Sweat still clutches the vest. And the nervousness makes it even more cold and tight. Once down, back to the classroom for the prep before supper, there is continuous nervous murmuring. Monday is out there waiting, and Monday belongs to everyone but us.

Every batch gets it. Every batch gives it. It’s called “tradition." It goes on. Sometimes it was silly — press-ups, standing on beds reciting the school song, or shouting the name of popular dame while enacting to jack off. Sometimes, it would go further than anyone would ever admit to. You learn fast never to share it with anyone. Because, if you do, you get more of it! With time, you know which seniors to avoid always, which one is having a tough time this week and hence not to venture in his territory, which one is likeable and actually ends up saving some juniors from the fury of the jury! The worst part isn't your own mistakes. It's knowing that if Ramesh forgets his blazer button, or if Prashant gets caught passing a whisper during prep, it isn't just them —the batch hears a “move in” after lunch or dinner and non-stop reminders are showered like the rain of Jharipani. Hence, Sunday evenings were slow and dark. Nights were spent lying in bed, listening to the oak branches hitting the glass panes or wind chiming with the cricket calls. Some boys would actually do the Math on who in the class is most likely to mess up tomorrow. You pray it isn't you. You didn’t want to be ‘dhunned’ by seniors and batchmates in quick succession!

Sunday night the dorm goes quiet in the typical boarding-school way — not silent, just careful. A junior is sulking two beds down and pretending he is not. A boy is staring at the ceiling doing the Math. The dark mountains outside are beautiful as they always are, but now they're not holding you anymore. They are mere witness to what shall unfold tomorrow. And then Monday arrives. Somehow, it's always survivable. There is a hangover on Tuesday. By Wednesday its routine – the brotherhood held together by shared fear and hope, it is not me!

Teachers know everything and do nothing. That’s part of the tradition. They will do just enough so that things stay unnoticed. Some new teachers who come as ad-hoc, may try to act funny. Within a year they are straightened by seniors in calmer and cunning ways. However, they can't protect you from Monday because they don't understand or feel, our Monday.

I still dream about Jharipani. Not just the happy parts. Even the hard ones. Because they made the golden parts even more shiny. Today, as life gets flat and morose, on such Sunday evenings, I feel the pull to go back. Back to my version of – chilly drenched evenings, moss-green windows, silver oak leaves, boys banter and a tiny frightening Sunday evening shiver.

-Q

Friendship in Capsules

#Friendship rarely announces itself in grand gestures. More often, it arrives in the tiny moments of waiting, in a phone call, in a letter, in the easy familiarity that grows by meeting regularly and realizing eventually you are invisibly tied together. Else, what would you call the relationship between a care-taker and a terminal patient, both probably, fully aware, this won’t last. Or a Nanny and an infant. One, a mentally and emotionally balanced individual and the other who has just been pulled out from a really moist place into this big bad, painful and mad world. In between the infant and death, is life. To live we need to breathe. To keep breathing easy, we need peace and contentment. To have a contented life, we need healthy relationships. Usually, we call it a relationship if it has a longer time tenure. But, we can have small, yet rich and full relationships. Every relation has a life of its own. People need to know how and how much to nurture. We need to invest, for anything to grow – time, effort, energy, money, emotions, silences and words. Specially, in human relationships. after a point, it doesn’t matter, if both are contributing equal proportions. Because, the relationship is not measuring. The people in it are. And if people are counting, it will never be equal. We all want to win. If there is a winner, the other one is a loser. And the loser remembers. A friend doesn’t.

Friendship is a habit. It is the rhythm of the daily mundane life. In boarding school, we could play in groups, or walk with just one person. And it may not be even the same person, every day. It was the common habits and daily rituals that defined the relationship. Exactly why after school is over, the feeling transcends batches. It is no longer about the same batch anymore. Every girl and boy who passed out of that wooden gate had shared experiences, every day. We walked the same wild paths, sat on the same wooden bench, ate the same cold porridge, ran through the same echoing corridors, got ‘dhunned’ by seniors for the same silly mistakes, had the same teachers with nicknames living through centuries, loved the same monogram and sang the same school song. That kind of friendship is not for fun. It is made of survival. One friend remembers the dates, another the joke, a third kid remembers the real excuse but stays silent for the fourth to shine through the conversation. A batchmate may be the closest, but a schoolmate is an equal witness to the same skyline, buried in the memory of every alumni. It is important to mention here, it doesn’t matter, how many years have you spent together. Some people are not in touch even though they spent the growing decade together. Some have become real good friends, with the age difference qualifying well beyond mother-daughter or father-son and the other possible combinations!

Some friendships show courage without pretending to be heroic. They help a person face the world a little steadier. They make distance from loved ones manageable, the loneliness of being far from parents becomes softer, the bullying becomes a little less tiring, and the hospital stays a lot less solitary. They show that real character is not in how someone behaves when everything is hunky dory, but in the small, unguarded moments. That is the hidden architecture of friendship — not the big declarations, but the repeated kindnesses. There is also something deeply revealing about the people who disappear and re-appear again and again in life, or in ordinary situations. A batchmate always ending up paying that last Rs. 2/- short for the bun omelet, the one last movie ticket, or the full class contribution that you cannot afford this time. Then, there is a friend who does not ask for much, only an assured, silent evening walk. Today, do you listen to someone when there is nothing to gain from them? Do we remember names? Do we stay patient when the same story is told twice? True relationships, do not demand a dramatic answer. Just a humane presence.

Some memories stay, not because they were extraordinary. But because they were truly ordinary, in exactly the right way. They remind us that friendship is often less about being inseparable and more about the reassurance that there is someone who knows. S/he won’t judge me. Infront of whom, I can laugh, cry, shout or just sit without a word for hours. I can become and stay, the real me, always.

1996 Batch

 

#MusafirCafé Musings

If you have grown up in a boarding school, it lives in your mind not merely as a place on a map. It is engraved like a birth mark on the face that you just have to see every day in the mirror. Up to you, whether you love it or hate it. Tucked away in Mussoorie hills, Jharipani is nestled among groves of silver oak, where the leaves, when touched by the foggy winds, would shimmer and twist between green and silver like a secret breathing softly in the mountains. For those of us who grew up there, Jharipani was not a location. It was a rhythm, a story, a state of mind.

Just outside the school stood an old British circuit house, which now in the last few days has fired into popularity. Jharipani Castle was once a British-era retreat, for British travelers and soldiers. Later, apparently gifted to the Patiala royal family and we remember it as Patiala House even today. In our days, it was still a locked, infested with wild flora and fauna, quiet and mysterious place. It was long before it acquired the cozy charm and popularity it now enjoys as a homestay-style hotel. Today, of course, it has found new life and new fame, especially because of the lovely web series on Netflix about love, love lost and love lived forever, named Musafir Cafe. In our years, the place carried an entirely different aura. Till the late 2000s, people spoke of it as though it were haunted. No one particularly wished to stop there, and certainly no one wanted to test the rumours that floated around it in the usual boarding-school way — half fear, half exaggeration, and all imagination. The place had an enchanting view nonetheless. One could not help but look up while crossing it and feel that peculiar thrill that only hill stations can give — that mixture of beauty, loneliness, and old-world silence.

@SudipBajpai & I would always talk about going to school on off-times, i.e. when its not a Reunion. When its only the two of us. Even if not the two us; two like-minded batchmates. We would name boys like Nitin Mishra, Ajitesh Das and finally saying actually any Tagorian would do! In 2010, the two of us had made such a sudden plan during an Independence Day long weekend break. We were not sure of the stay. But Mr. Dubey & Juyal ensured a room in the school Guest House. No visit happened till 2018. When a week before Sports Day dates in 2018, he called again. And we just went! And we ended up staying at Jharipani Castle. Don’t remember how we ended up getting a room. Luck favors the lusty boys! The nearly famous 19th Century Café, did not even exist back then in 2018. A casual plan that later reveal to be an emotional pilgrimage of sorts.

This trip, we decided to take the train from our destinations and reached Doon station by 730 AM and Jharipani Castles by 8:45 AM. Like the old school, proud, immature boys who just wanted to be in the vicinity of Jharipani, we reached, just managed to see the room, walked up to the edge of the property’s fence to see Doon Valley and plonked ourselves from 9 AM sitting like dead like rocks until 1 p.m. We did not move. Not even to pee. We stayed planted on that chair, facing the endlessly beautiful Doon Valley, as though the view itself were enough to nourish us. In a sense, it was. There were probably 7-10 cups of tea and coffee each— mixed, matched, repeated, and over-relished — some cookies too, until the bearer, who had clearly started the day with patience and ended it with regret, stopped serving after the fourth order. It felt perfect - unhurried, indulgent, and slightly absurd.

But, we had not come merely to park ourselves as dinosaurs. We had come for Sports Day. The wrist watch shouted - Rocky Sir (@anandsinghrawat) must already have completed his Torch Bearer lap! The realization filled us with that familiar boarding-school shame. Not from guilt. The awareness that the day is slipping away while you are busy admiring Doon Valley. Plus, another rocket by the name @sunnybakshi would be waiting to fire his terse torpedos of abuses and curses on us! We finally picked ourselves, took bath with the reluctance of people being dragged away from a beloved dream, and prepared ourselves for the descent. Halfway down, I still felt like a sitting duck trying to behave like a walking whale. Yet there is something about the path to a school ground in the hills that restores you little by little. The air changes first. Then the sound. Then, almost without warning, the slope gives way to the open field, and the whole world seems to brighten. We were in the valley — just as it always had been. There is a particular magic to Sports Day in the hills, a magic that cannot be manufactured elsewhere. The virgin winter sun falls on the sweaty athletic bodies of boys and girls with a kind of affectionate warmth. The spikes bite into the earth, and from them rises the smell of fresh soil, sharp and honest and alive. The grass looks greener than green. The stands tremble with cheers. The races unfold with the fierce innocence of youth. Winning screams break out one after another, and every child seems to be carrying not just speed or strength, but a whole little universe of pride.

If Founders’ Day was the heart of Oak Grove School, Sports Day was the soul.

Sports Day, belonged to the children in a more intimate way. It was noisy, breathless, imperfect, gloriously human. It was where rivalries were born and dissolved, where house loyalties became sacred, where one cheer from the stands could make a runner believe he was destined for greatness, and where one glance from the field could make a girl in violet shorts seem like poetry itself. It was not merely about medals or rankings. It was about belonging. It was about honor. Honor of the House. It was also about - teachers pretending to be calm, boys trying to look athletic, girls carrying grace like a second skin, and the cheering party trying to be part of the same youthful symphony. You long, almost childishly, to go back and run that one race, cheer one more time for your house, or simply stand by and watch your childhood sweetheart in those violet shorts, as if the whole purpose of the day had secretly been that one fleeting glimpse.

After all the hulla of Sports Day ended, Bajpai and I sat on Covered Shed steps till it turned dark and silent. We then trudged back slowly to Jharipani Castle. But the day had not ended. The hills had one last trick left for us. Just as we were on the gates of Jharipani Castles, about twenty meters away, two young Bagheeras (Black Panthers) suddenly appearing from the hillside, leaped out on the dark grey slopy road coming from Nepal Palace. With the easy confidence of creatures who know the terrain better than any human ever will, the young cubs waved their tails at us in their own royal fashion, and vanished into the dark of the green bushes sliding down into the valley side. Before we could fully collect ourselves, they were gone. It was the kind of moment one never quite forgets. Not because it was dramatic, but because it felt so perfectly in tune with the place. The hills, time again reminds you that you are only a visitor in their world. That night, the conversation was Bagheeras, Lions, Tigers and Jim Corbett. We sat in the dining hall of Jharipani Castles, had fresh five cups of coffee. Finally, the bearer, with the weary resignation of a man who had seen enough of us for one day, said, “Sir, 11 baj gaye. Coffee, milk aur mera enthu — sab khatam.”

That is how boarding school remains in the end — not as a web series that starts and may be have a few seasons. It is a permanent weather living inside you. Our lives have become like web series, full of episodes, edits, and endless scrolling. Somewhere beneath all of this, we miss the 70 mm life - the hills, the virgin spirit, our Valley Green, the laughter, the longing, and the pure, unfiltered magic of Jharipani and its small castles.

1996 Batch

 

Pahaadi Protests!

 At the halfway crossroads of life, whenever the rain falls a certain way, I am carried back to the slopes of Jharipani, where Oak Grove School sat amid real oak groves. It was almost too real, as if the hills had been placed there on purpose just to tear the fog out of the clouds. We lived high enough for mornings to arrive in pure gold, and low enough for the skyline to turn from sunflower yellow to the deep purple of jamun whenever October climbed in.

As the country simmers yet again in the protests of the young and the restless, I am reminded of the crackle of arguments in our Mussoorie days. The Mandal Commission storm of the early 1990s, and later the early calls for a separate hill state in 1994–95, which eventually became Uttarakhand in 2000, were the big background noises of our childhood. As kids, all between 8 and 18 years of age, we had little inkling of what happened outside the school gates. Newspapers arrived 24 hours late, television was a weekly entertainment box. Current affairs, for most of us, meant the imaginary affairs boys carried around in their heads with a girl, usually chosen and thrust upon them by batchmates. We had barely heard of government policies, laws, bylaws, acts, or any such serious adult business. Political anger was a completely alien concept. And yet these two waves changed the air in the hills forever. We began to sense the mood of the mountains. I believe it was around early 1990 when the Mandal Commission became the rage across the country. As the recommendations were announced/implemented, the country erupted into protests and counter-protests. Those undercurrents, and the over-estimated emotions that came with them, reached Jharipani too. Since we were mostly not allowed to step out of the building, and certainly not out of the campus, we overheard things knowingly and unknowingly. Teachers spoke in hush-hush tones of protestors coming to the school, passing by, or pausing outside the campus gates on their way to Mussoorie or down to Doon. We were far too young to judge anything happening around us. In fact, we were so blissfully oblivious that Protestors were not our celebrities! Anyone who had seen protestors crossing the road became our Superstar of the Day! And if someone had actually interacted with a protest group, that person instantly became Super Human.

We were made to believe that it only mattered if they came very near to us. I think some of us secretly wanted that to happen. Most of us were just ignorant and quite happy with life being delightfully uneventful. We had no idea we would somehow become part of the story. But, we did. School closed, and we were sent home. For the first time in my living memory, I experienced the Lucknow Durga Puja of 1990. Those ten days deserve a story of their own. They were life-changing for me. More of that later.

Jharipani sharpened every feeling. Dormitory beds were always cold. Quilts and blankets were only warm enough if you stayed frozen in one single position all night like a museum exhibit. Sweaters were warm, but mufflers itched. Shoes stayed polished only until the last step out of the dormitory, after which they immediately became honest again. Every boy learned to carry loneliness with comic pride. Jharipani made everything easier to bear. The people of Jhits could tell from a child’s face whether he or she was hungry, missing parents, had been dhunned by a senior, or had been caught red-handed doing something and was now waiting for the final punishment verdict. Then there was the weather. The mist would roll into the classroom so thickly that we could almost gulp its wetness. The fog would swallow the Doon Valley whole. Rains would fall without pause for days and weeks, and yet nothing ever felt gloomy. And then the sunshine — freshest, sharpest, and warmest in the most completely unfair way. I could go on forever. Jharipani was our secret, the one the mountains kept from the world below.

The next great commotion came in 1994–95, when we were the senior-most batch on campus, in Classes XI and XII. By then we knew a little more than before, though not nearly enough to pretend we were wise. We still had our daily superstars and superhumans, and we remained gloriously ignorant for a while. But not for long. We ended up shouting slogans over trucks and buses arranged by local Mussoorie protestors, driving up the hilly roads, and having the time of our lives. We reinvented our sports cheering cries into pro-Uttarakhand slogans. “Water-Water Steam Steam — Pull Together Uttarakhand Team!” was the best one I remember. There were many more. I think one ran to the tune of “Uttarakhand do, Vikas lo!” We would laugh ourselves breathless at our own brilliance. It was nonsense, of course, but it was our nonsense, and we shouted it with the confidence of people who believed they had discovered the language of revolution. We became deadly serious the moment outsiders were around.

Best of all, and a full-length movie story material – As per curriculum, senior boys who chose Arts would walk to the Girls’ School for Political Science and Geography classes. We staged a magnificent story about what those passing protestors had supposedly done to innocent boys, our batch. That, naturally, led to immense tension and life-scaring possibilities. Eventually, school closed down, yet again! Am pretty sure, the lead actors will be reading this bit soon. Let us connect, offline, my bouyzzzz!

Children do what children always do: we turned history into child’s play. Still, even in all the mischief, something serious entered the mind. We did not understand the full meaning, but we could feel its shape. Teachers and staff spoke of identity, fairness, pride, and the right to be seen. These were very large words for 12- to 14-year-olds. Jhits, once again, taught us to digest big feelings in small doses. What remains strongest in me is not the politics, but the beauty of those days. The early winter sunlight falling across us. The monsoon paths turning slippery and dramatic, every step a negotiation. The evenings arriving shyly, and the sky seeming almost within touching distance.

Oak Grove gave us not just schooling, but memory with altitude. It gave us the hills, the hunger, the cold mornings, the broken slogans, the first stirrings of civic life, and the strange, beautiful lesson that childhood sits playfully hidden in the corridors of our lost and forgotten stories. We remember those years with tenderness, because though we are no longer boys and girls, and though the slogans have faded and the country has entered yet another wave of change, the hills remain. In their silence, I still hear the echo of our voices — half play, half protest, fully alive.

1996 Batch

Founders’ Day

As with every passing year, the first morning of June arrives—bright, golden, and gently warm. Yet, unlike any ordinary lazy summer dawn, boys and girls are already astir. There’s a quiet urgency in the air: fresh faces, nimble movements, small preparations for the grand finale. Every step carries a spark, every child brims with anticipation, eager for their moment to shine. Parents gather with pride, some with an extra gleam of triumph if their child graces more than one stage. Their confidence in sending their little ones to this secluded hillside sanctuary feels reaffirmed today.

This day is the culmination of months of toil—sweat, tears, and sometimes even blood—all converging into one magnificent celebration. The first sight that stirs the heart is the long stream of white uniforms, punctuated with maroon, as children descend from the three slopes—GS, JS, and BS—into the Valley. Soon follow the costumed performers, guided by their mentors: GS with bamboo dances and special acts, JS with vibrant, multicultural spectacles, and BS with their daring pyramids, yoga feats, and fiery leaps (where boys, sometimes bleeding, wore their wounds like badges to impress the girls!). From above, the Valley is a breathtaking canvas—lush green, adorned with decorations, the Pushtas cleared for the parents’ pavilion, and the entire Jharipani community gathered to cheer. Every applause, every encouraging shout, even for a stumble, carries warmth. The dignitaries’ canopy gleams, the children’s seating polished, and at the heart lies the pitch—precisely marked, shimmering with Choona.

This is the moment to honor the unsung heroes behind the spectacle. Foremost, the 4th Class Staff—rising before dawn, preparing the Valley, working tirelessly without supervision. Their devotion is pure, driven only by the joy of watching us shine. The younger BS classes shoulder heavy tasks too—lugging benches, hauling props, arranging the Valley with strength and spirit. Gratitude flows to Classes VI, VII, and VIII. And then, to the Principal, the Office, the three Heads, the Organizing Committee, and every teacher—whose meticulous planning, flawless execution, and tireless dedication ensure perfection down to the last second. From welcoming the Chief Guest to bidding farewell to every parent and child, they orchestrate it seamlessly, year after year. A salute to them! And a heartfelt nod to the Alumni, who return for Founders, Sports Day, and reunions—you are cherished.

Between the Valley festivities and the awaited Evening Cultural Program lies a pause. JS children retreat to dorms for rest; I recall the Bhangra troupe being pampered with massages by Aayajis. By evening, the Auditorium brims—Chief Guest, dignitaries, teachers, families, friends, and once again, nearly all of Jharipani. The stage bursts alive: JS and GS with spirited group songs, dazzling dances, GS and BS with stirring dramatics, BS with their orchestra, and finally, JS with the thunderous Bhangra. Tomorrow, we leave for home. Yet tonight, no one remembers departure. This is home. This soil is ours. This display is worth the year-long wait. This showcase is worth every drop of sweat, every tear, every scar. It is a spectacle, a testament to talent, a celebration of each child embodying their parents’ pride, their teachers’ guidance, and the Spirit of Oak Grove, on this Day.

 

1996 Batch

Boom Boom Banga!

He remembered each and every boy who passed out

Didn’t matter if you were a star or went without a shout

In his eyes every boy was the same

He would tell you every incident with the exact name.

 

A man who lived to love all his boys

For him there were no Brigadier and no Vice Roys

You will remain a student whom he helped grow

His affection for his boys was always a grand show.

 

If angry, he was a blind warrior,

But when in mood, Boy! no one was merrier.

He could tell you stories - grand and untold,

But his present boys were best, mind you - not the old.

 

He had no favorites; everyone was his own

Everyone was “bhondu-paattha”, though a difference in his tone

Clear in his heart and straight with his talk

By God, if he is pissed, you are in for a shock.

 

Don’t look for a horse or a taanga

If behind you with a bat is Baanga

Run for your life and get out of his sight

So what if you are the school captain, kick he might!

 

We love you Sir, for the man you are

We love you Sir, you are the best by far

We miss you now on visits to the Oak

People like you made a man out of a wild bloke.

Q/`1996 Batch

STD – A Disease & A Cure

Sundays were funny days during those days. 

Mobile phones were largely unheard of. At best, they would be seen as walkie-talkie toys in Hollywood movies and some really snazzy music videos which had chase sequences. Just a few years before this time of our lives, the most common mode of communication was letters. The next mode for urgent messages to be sent were still telegrams. For news of death or imminent natural and unnatural dangers, like someone’s daughter had run away with the driver, trunk calls were booked. Only a handful of people had access to landline phones. 

At the time that I come to share, landlines had become fairly common at residences of the privileged. To possess one of these instruments and to actually have a live connection, I hear, some natural and unnatural rituals including Tantrik routines were performed. Some unreliable sources claim animal sacrifices to have been made so that MTNL shows mercy. Few had landline connections. And to reach them, the vast majority now had access to shops that had an STD/ISD-making business. During my college days in Calcutta, I would work at one such STD booth. The most interesting fact is my college timings were 0630 AM till 0930 AM, in the morning. This meant, by the time a large part of the City of Joy was still rubbing their joyous eyes contemplating how to waste today, my today was over! I was out of college gates and into the STD shop by 1030 AM. The job didn’t pay much. But I did realize soon enough that if I pay attention, not so much to the business, but the people, their emotions, the slow-motion events of everyday Calcutta and rearrange all that seems scattered, I will gather a lot. In a few months, a Ladies’ Tailor set shop next shutter. That is another world to conquer some other time! Within a few years from here, some of these once small-time STD booth operators had become smart businessmen! They had invested monies from STD/ISD into a larger communications business. With further financial aid from friends, relatives, and many a time loans from a certain bank where friends and relatives worked, some of them had a booming cybercafé as their core business with few STD/ISD booths and a couple of printers & photocopiers doing XEROX! I believe, only XEROX breathes within Canon & HP machines now.

Sunday was the only day when there was no college for me and since I was supposed to have come into the habit of waking up early because of my college timings, I was sometimes made to open the shutters of the shop at 0630 AM until someone took over giving me the breakfast break till I went back to relieve that someone for his lunch break. And the cycle went on, around the meals of the day. Sundays were brisk business for the shop too. Right from the time shutters went up, every few minutes there was someone walking in to break news. The walk-ins were profiled well later in time. Really early mornings were mostly booked by parents who wanted to speak to their children studying/working in another city or sports freaks who would just barge in, make quick 20 seconds calls calling their idiot friends & informing them that they won’t make it to the grounds as their parents found out he had failed a subject or sudden change in venue of the match or that one’s elder brother had snatched away the fresh t-shirt and hence he needs the dirty one. Pre-lunch slots ranged from invitees who were running late for a lunch invitation, to people who were calling to cancel their trip, and a few odd ones sometimes who were inviting people on the spot! I was invited to one such lunch myself in lieu of the next STD call that would be made by this particular family. Post lunch was like a Russian Roulette. You never knew what’s coming. While Calcutta has always been infamous to enjoy siesta even on working days, Sundays were magical. There was supreme activity Sunday post-lunch. Young couples would keep hopping in and out to confirm, reconfirm or reschedule their Sunday evening rendezvous depending upon the climate at home. Young married girls would come to complain about mothers-in-law. Some mothers would make hurried visits for their daughters and rush off. There were businessmen hoping to catch their lender or borrower at home on a Sunday afternoon and make their case for a Monday meeting. I loved the matchmaking conversations between people on Sunday post-lunch game time when the virtues of the girl would be served like starters, main course, and the best sweet dish after a Sunday lunch. Or the boy was being described by the relative on my side as if he was personally groomed by Arun Govil to take over the mantle of Ram in the next Season of Ramayan. 

There was a grumpy old-aged personality who would walk in, hand over a number scribbled on a scruffy piece of paper, which would mostly go unanswered, and then that person would sit for ages sharing life experiences for whatever time it took to finish. Apparently, the person had the time and so did I! It did sound boring, initially. But as time went by, and the visits became regular, I found myself half-waiting for this particular personality. With time, I could sense that this person came prepared too, almost rehearsed to make an impression on me. Finally, there came Sundays, when the person would come only to have a conversation with me. No phone number, no paper. No grumpiness. Guess, I had answered his call. 

Caliber

It was a time when I was single. It was a time when Bajaj & Kawasaki were still a couple though. Bajaj & Kawasaki decided to make out. And they gave birth to a beauty called Caliber. Man, what a celebration she had when she came out. With a brilliant advertisement, of swiveling and tilted wheeling of the ‘green’ one. The slow motion of the visuals and the easy background score made sure I fall into the temptation. I had very recently started earning. And had promised myself, no more pocket money from parents, anymore. But,”kambakht ishq hai jo, sara jahaan hai vo….”  

Till the month I received my first salary, my parents would send me my pocket money, without ever being reminded of it. I would get a call from my father, every month, without fail, informing me that he had transferred money into my bank account & I should continue enjoying life, non-stop & without any worry. And I did, without fail. Incidentally and fortunately, the year my father retired from his 37 years’ service with the Indian Railways, I got a job. My first salary was four times the measly monthly pocket money my father would send me. I was ecstatic just by the thought of having four times the fun I was having till now. And not for moment till that time, had I imagined, I need to repay my parents. In fact, I had fallen in love now. And I could not afford this love life style. So, the only people I could think of, were my poor & now retired parents. My parents had come to Chennai to watch me walk into office on my first day to work. (People from my Chennai days would remember ‘that first day to work’ is another story to share, but some other time). I had stayed in a company sponsored accommodation for the first week, but my parents knew I would not stay too far from office. But, now, within the first six months of my joining my first job, I had fallen in love, as expected of a man, with a machine. And I needed my parents’ support, yet again. More specifically, monetary support.

I am the only son. And I had been a good son, so far. I had never asked anything that was out of means, ever in life. Or at least, I believed so. I mean, after attending a boarding school in the hills, graduating from another city and post-graduation from yet another city, all taken care of by my parents, I actually didn’t have much to ask for. Until today. When I had fallen in love & had to have her in my possession. The best part was, it name. It was K-Bajaj Caliber. I mean, it was just made for me! Although, I had fallen for the ‘green’ one which would come in the advertisements, the moment I walked into the showroom for my test ride, I knew I would not look good on it. So, i opted for the more professional, black model with a golden & maroon swoosh on the petrol tank. And what a ride it was. “ekdam makkhan”.  And it was mine, forever.

But I had to pay a price for it. Well, actually, my parents had to pay for it. My father, to be more precise. I mean, not that my mother did not work. She probably worked more than my father. Just that she was never paid any salary. Much like most “house makers”. So, it was my father’s responsibility to ensure I am well off, monetarily. I think, it was my mother’s responsibility to ensure my father complied to his responsibilities. Anyhow, my only ask was, you pay the down payment & I will manage the monthly EMI for the 2-wheeler. Simple no? Now, my father had just retired. He had plans. Which he unraveled to me much later, during the time I was trying to buy my parents a 4-wheeler, using the same logic – I will pay the down payment, you manage the monthly EMI! That is when he had given me one of his usual Oxford English dialogues - You invest on horses. You invest in jockeys. I had not invested on the bike. I had invested in you.

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