Surjya Pahar Mela

As all would agree, everyday in Sainik School was a new experience ...... a new story to tell. I just recalled a silly incident that happened when we were in class XI and would like to jolt down immediately before it gets lost in the passage of time. Lead Actor....Me, (phanindra Nath) Phanda, Ehsan (Bulon) and the villains....Mr. N. Acharjee & P.L.N .Sharma our Registrar.

All years we had been going to Goalpara (the nearest town) on weekends without permission. But on this rare occasion we seeked and got permission to go to Goalpara. It was the time of the year when the Surya Pahar mela was being organized. (Surjya Pahar is a small hill on the way to Goalpara and there is a Shiv Linga). So every year there used to be a mela which attracted many devotees to worship Lord Shiva and enjoy the Mela). Amazingly till class XI, I had never been there. So Me & Phanda planned to drop down to see the Mela on our way back from Goalpara. In fact that was the actual idea behind seeking permission to go to Goalpara citing fake reasons. As planned we came back early to enjoy the mela. We had lot of Kuhiyar (Sugarcane), Chingra (Samosa), Jelepi (Jalebi), Lal Mohan (Gulab Jamun) and what not. As it was a Sunday, many teachers also came that included the omnipresent Mr. G.C. Kalita (a renowned Maths Teacher) and his lovely daughter Miss. X (who was our classmate also) who saw me and gave a cool wink and Mr. N. Acharjee a great historian with incredibly incorrect English. We enjoyed the afternoon and came back in the evening. The gowoliya (village) girls in the mela were amazing for us as we hardly saw girls inside our school campus. Me and Phanda were very content with the day out. Next day morning just after the second period the peon from the registrars office came. He announced our names…Me and Phanda and asked us to go to the Registrars office. As rightly guessed by us the Historian had complained that we were in the mela. Mr. P.L.N. Sharma, our Dear Registrar was a Don in this own rights. He asked us why we had gone there…
So we explained that we that taken permission. Hence, it was okay…but he still started questioning us. He asked “Did you eat any junk food….we said “No”…. Did U got involved in gazing at girls…we said “No”…. He again asked….Did u eat Jalebi or Samosa…we again said “No”. Mr. P.L.N. was impressed by us and complemented us for maintaining school discipline in the outside world as well. That was it … we went back to our class but we forgot that we had met Bulon (our classmate) also in the Mela who had gone without any permission. After us…Bulon was called and we didn’t know that. He was also interrogated by the Don. Mr. Bulon in his will to save his own skin, gave all details of what we did in the Mela….eating all junk foods including Jalebi ,Samosa, Sugarcane, etc. What happened next, can easily be guessed by any SSGian…..Extra-Drill. Mr. P.L.N, who was so happy with us a moment before, got really pissed off. He called us to his room and started by saying… “you Buggers”. That was it….screwed….Me and Phanda were asked to wake him next day at 4am in the morning and take him on a cross-country jogging of 8km. What an experience……

NCC camp, Tenga Valley (1)

This story is in continuation of my previous story titled Selection for camp: Last 20

The sunglass wearing bus driver, drove like a maniac, as he navigated the severe turns on our way from Tezpur (Assam) to a town in Arunachal Pradesh (don’t remember the name now). The happiness that came out from getting to come out through the guarded gate of the school was intoxicating, more so, as only a few of us did so as the rest of the school carried out their mundane activities.
We were going to attend the ‘All India NCC camp, TENGA Valley, Arunachal Pradesh’ and get to spend approximately 14 days out of the school, away from those regular PTs, classes, uniforms, and the teachers and seniors.

We finally reached an army camp, and busied ourselves like hungry wolves in an army canteen, before sweeping down on the CSD canteen, nearby. Buses were rare in those parts, primarily occupied by the army, buses dint look feasible in that region. Signposts with quotes like ‘Speed Thrills But kills’ and ‘be gentle on the curves’ looked like ghost sign posts meant for none. After a night’s stay at the ‘barracks’ made of tin, we were shifted to our destination in a now decommissioned variant of the army truck called Shaktiman. We reached the camp site, after nightfall. The gurgling of a hilly river somewhere in the dark greeted us, as we climbed down the truck along with our respective ‘kit bags’. Our team from the school included:

A Non commissioned officer, who came with us from school and
some students from class IX, that included me. Will try recollecting their names: (kindly remind me if I missed out some)
Hemanta Kalita (3369)
Kingshuk Raktim (3345)
Anjit Logun (3292)
Kaushik Kiran Gogoi (3262)
Deepjyoti Pegu (3382)
Hirak Jyoti Bora (3367)
Samirul Hussain (3269?)
Amit Pandey (3292)
Safiqul Islam
ME

An initial fall in happened, as we stood in formation alongside several other teams hailing from different regions of the country. The gathering was presided over by a burly looking, foul mouthed NCO, who briefed us about the ‘RULES’ and primarily emphasized on the ‘NOT TO Dos’. We found shelter in one of the barracks alongside the river, which was partially occupied by NCC Orissa team, accompanied by their NCO. We occupied the empty beds on the other half of the room. At sharp 10pm, the Orissa team switched off the bulbs on their side of the world, while passing us a glance to do the same in our part of the world.

It was difficult for me to gauge, what was bothering the Orissa team that night as we chatted away much after the 10pm deadline. After all we had come out of the hostel after so long and for so short a time! Perhaps they could never understand the joy and excitement. Most them used to stay with their families unlike us, and that probably explains their ignorance. They were all of college going age and looked taller than us. We were in IXth. Our NCO wasn’t there. He was probably enjoying his freedom in his own ways, wasting away in some corner. The Orissa team confronted us, spearheaded by their NCO, pointing out our lack of discipline.
Now there are several concrete truths about SSGians, and one of them was their pride. We blasted them off their ass, as teams from other regions (esp. the NCC team from other parts of Assam came by, who we had already befriended during the short fall in).
The next morning, we got up quite late, as we found neatly folded beds on the other side. Though neat, each bed was dressed differently from the other. I smiled at the sight and went out after giving a loud wake up call for my friends. I stepped out and saw the river, flowing precariously close by. The sight was rather inviting, as the sunlight gleamed on its water. As I looked on the other side, I saw figures in a fall in, at the central fall in place in the middle. They were attending PT. I looked on the other side and I cared the least. Soon Kingshuk came out followed by others, and we started to plan our day, as if we were on a holiday! To be continued…

M.I. Room and PORK

Many a thing in our lives, perhaps happen because they are destined to happen. Perhaps many would and many wouldn’t agree.

I was in my VIth, my first year in Sainik School. Our First Phase test just got over and the very next day, I detected a painful boil on my bottom that led to fever. I went to the MI room (often termed as the pleasure house in school. As all you have to do there is eat, sleep and play, being exempted from everything else like PT, drills and classes.). The doctor examined the boil, as I embarrassingly looked outside through the window, and got me admitted till condition improved.

Being my first year in school, the thought of having to mix up with seniors (patients who were already admitted from senior classes) created a slight anxiety. As I packed my clothes, I brushed aside those anxieties, with the happy thought that I could sleep as long as I wanted! As I stepped into the MI room, the seniors stood there menacingly to greet me, and standing alongside was Mr. Janardhan ji, the ideal all rounder, who can apply first aids during games, assign medicines at times, insert syringes and bring food for us from the mess. My initial inhibition with the seniors turned out to be a false alarm, as they got friendly after small initial enquiries. It was fun as there were no rules; we could wake up late, sleep early, play and anything we wished. The seniors (Class IX) used to smoke, and that was a strange thing for me. It was there, where I learnt about the places like PWD and western canteen (out of bound places). We would often eat noodles brought from these areas by the seniors….and getting to taste noodles after so long felt simply amazing.

But the biggest breakthrough happened when a senior asked me, “Will u have pork?” I had never tasted pork. And I had often heard people saying its delicious and a lot of them going crazy to eat it. I looked at my seniors; I could see them expecting a positive answer from me and after much thought I gave them my consent. The seniors then collected 40 rupees from each and went to western canteen to bring Pork and Parathas. The rest of us waited eagerly for them. Thoughts about its taste kept coming to me and also the anxiety of the consequences if my parents would know about it. Amidst these thoughts the seniors arrived with two polybags.

After a quick inspection for law maintainers (teachers), they sprung into action, emptying the two polybags on two different plates, the parathas first and then the pork. I found the pork pieces quite cute, some white pieces attached to brown parts like two piece suits. There were other pieces that looked like mutton and few with bones. I was somewhat skeptical at first but after persuasion from the seniors I had my first bite of pork, it was awesome! I was still not sure about the attached piece when suddenly some body asked me to taste it, he said taste it is “tel” (Fat); it is very tasty and you’re going to love it. I took it, gave it a wired look and put it inside my mouth………..and it felt heaven.

That was the first time I tasted it and I must say I never looked back again. I ate it as when I got a chance during entire my stay in the school and still love it. I can miss many an important thing in my life, if pork was at stake, and that’s how much I love it.
As for my stay in M.I room- the pleasure house, I was released after 4 days with E.P.D. (exempted from PT and Drill) for 3 days. If I love pork, it perhaps because of the MI room with green roof and those seniors. Thank you!

Selection for Camp: The Last 20

The clutter in the 1000 sitting capacity mess, died down as the school captain hammered the table for the closing grace of the lunch. He announced, “Camp selection test for class IX will be held in the afternoon, and all students of class IX will have to ‘fall in’ in the main ground at 1400 and 30 hours. Dress would be regular games dress. Thank God for what we have received”.

1400 hours: Many of us are availing the precious half an hour break between lunch time and the prep class (which have been replaced by the selection process for my batch), snoring, or simply lying down, or reading some magazine dog eared and tattered by excessive use. Finally the ominous mess bell went off announcing the dressing up time for the selection and prep class for the rest.

Most of us reached for the selection on time. And our instructor/punisher wasn’t surprised that none of us were late, as we were all eager to buy that precious opportunity to go out of the school, in the form of the NCC camp, held at various parts of the country (in this case, 20 would be selected out of 150, for two different camps. One was to be held in Arunachal Pradesh and the other was yet to be disclosed). The top ten will get to go to Arunachal Pradesh, while the next 10 would have to wait.

All events started with a head count, and we counted 144, 2 sick in quarter (SIQ in our lingo) and 2 were admitted in MI ROOM. The instructor inspected us through his dark sun glasses and declared the first test. We had to run to a nearby landmark, Kodal Dhuwa Pukhuri (the literal translation would be ‘the spade washer’s pond) and come back to where we stood, and make it in the first hundred. The approximate distance would be 4 kilometers in total.

The blow of the whistle marked the beginning of the test, as we ran like there was no tomorrow. By the time, I made it back; we were drowned in our own perspirations. I made it within the first hundred and the last 44 were allowed to go and attend the prep classes. A wooden structure stood where we were standing. Coloured in stripes of black and white, it resembled a dwarfed football goalpost. The next test involved 20 chin ups, where one jumps and hangs from the bar, and lifts the body, till the chin cross the bar. Some more fizzled out, after failing to perform the task. A tired bunch of around 90 students now looked up at the instructor, eager to perform the next task.

Two ropes stood dangling from a tall post. And we climbed like monkeys on the rope, some using their legs and some solely with their hands. No one fizzled out on this task, though many of us came down with bruised palms from the speed with which we descended, rubbing our palm with the coarse rope. We were taken on the gravel road, for push ups. For the next few minutes all I can remember now was the constant ‘up….down….up….down’. From my inverted view, I saw more students fizzling out, or simply collapsing on the ground. After what seemed like hours, around 50 of us stood the ground, looking extremely tired and the scorching sun seemed to have dimmed, probably due to the tiredness, rather than the actual onset of the evening which was still an hour away.

After a humanitarian break of 5 minutes we laid on the ground on our back and folded our knees, all set to start the next task – sit ups. The constant sound started all over again… ‘up…down…up…down’, constantly multiplied by the groans of many of us. Some more fizzled out. As they got up and collapsed on the green grass of the ground nearby. The sight of those sitting on the grass was tempting, but the hope of getting to go out of the school kept most of us performing the task. The sound of the bell in the school building across the road was followed by students rushing out juggling various balls, football, handballs, volley balls, basket balls, running to their respective grounds/courts. The whistle from the instructor meant that the test was over and as I struggled to get up, I saw my fellow mates for the first time in the entire afternoon; some were incredibly red and sweaty, while some stood there with pain written large on their face. Yet, we were the last twenty standing. The day light fast disappeared, as we limped towards our respective houses for a glass of water and a much deserved shower.

8pm. All houses assembled in the mess for dinner and we all had the same story to narrate. Our elbows won’t bend enough to lift a glass to our mouth or to take off the vest. We helped each other, as some roamed around asking for pain killers. What happens next? How did the camp go?

Dramatics: Stage Fright

Readers, who might have read my previous story titled Dramatics…losing in style, must have an idea by now, how things can go wrong by destiny, fate, luck, or whatever one might call it. And there were those rare days when everything seemed to go as per the plan, only to be screwed up by human follies and in dramatics, something called the ‘stage fright’. This is one such story.

I was in my IXth standard, and owing to my prior experience in acting, I got to act with senior students on behalf of Lohit House (one of the four senior hostels). Being a junior in Sainik School, bought me the role of the waiter in the play, as seniors took more glamorous roles, like that of the dukes and kings. The highlight of our plays (dramas) used to be the stage, the realistic props like furniture (lifted off from some teacher’s living rooms), fireplace, cupboards, actual trees, cannons and doors.

Doors play a crucial role in the humor of the story. So I will talk about it in slight detail. Each door in our hostels (we call them Houses, apparently to feel like a family. Ha!) used to have four flaps, two with nets and two made from solid wood . Like many other things (e.g. the TV rooms without TVs), the netted doors were defunct as well. So we plucked them off from their frames, covered the hollow from the missing net with coloured papers and transformed them into props per excellence.

THE PLAY: The setting is a European restaurant (Don’t ask me which country. I am not sure if the director himself had any idea.). As expected, the scapegoat, the junior, that was me stood there, as the curtain moved to the sides. I stood there cleaning crockery, placed on a wooden table. The lighting on the stage was always such that it blinded the performers from seeing the audience. Yet in my imagination I could see our teacher, Mr. X sitting with an arrogant look, “that’s my table huh!” as a lesser arrogant teacher, Madam Y sat there with “those are my crockery” look.

The play was going fine, and it was my turn to take the bill and enter the stage, and my script read somewhat like this, “Master Bull has sent the bill”. Now there was this senior student, Mr. R who sat there, looking anemic with acute stage fright. And before I could deliver my speech, he looked at me and said, “Why have you got the bill?” I wanted to run away from the stage and a minute presence of mind saw the words coming out of my mouth, “Coz master Bull has sent it”. It might have gone unnoticed to most amongst the audience. But I felt something worse was about to come, seeing the skin colour of Mr.R changing from red to greenish blue.

I prepared a tray of fake wine, and I had to carry it to the stage. The wooden doors stood there, separating the back stage and the front stage, as coloured papers hid the hollow from the missing nets of the door. I went towards the front stage, as suddenly, Mr. R shut the doors out of the blue. In spite of timely braking, my hands along with the tray pierced through the hollow colour papers, and there the poor waiter stood in the backstage, with half of his limbs in the front stage. Unlike my previous story, no one laughed, as another actor showed some amount of responsibility, as he helped me extract my hands, now wet with fake wine. The history of dramatics in our school is replete with such incidents, some told and mostly untold.

Cross Country

There were a lot of things about school life which, most of us disliked. Given an opportunity, each one’s list of ‘most hated’ aspects of school life will run into several pages. I also had my own, starting from the morning P.T. and ending with the often ‘foul smelling’ dinner at night. However, they were moderately bad, when compared to the thing that I hated the most – The cross country race!

Lest readers think I am a nerd, let me clarify that I was into several sports and 100 meter sprints were my favourite. But then I just couldn’t stand cross country races, the dusty rural route across villages and the occasional ‘check points’ where teachers would put stamps on my hands, and in the end, the depressingly sour oranges distributed to the participants.

Our green school bus used to follow us from the rear, throughout as a monstrous ambulance. I was always running close to it, trying to stage a collapse and get a joy ride all my way. However, my school had its way of injecting pride into the self, and there I ran year after year, close to that bus. However, it never failed to surprise me, to see many more arriving the finish line long after me, as I watched them chewing on the sour oranges.

Given the nature of the run, there were a few known good runners, who would eventually get to wear that gold colored medal with the red ribbon. Cdt. Monowar Hussain (3374) was one of them. Now it was really difficult to stand out amongst the worst runners, much more difficult than being known as a ‘good runner’ simply because so many of us were bad runners without doubt. That’s where Cdt. Nicholus (3334) stood apart, undoubtedly one of the worst runners during our times.

Its 2001, and we are in our XIIth standard. Many of us had gained weight (or simply lost stamina) with our self-assigned freedom to walk around during PT hours and eat around during games hours. Then the countdown began for the D-day! the cross country! While many went for practice runs, I would often see it as a waste of precious energy, which I could probably accumulate for the final day. The probable winners would be practicing with alarming regularity, coming back dusty and smelling of sweat.

The D day: A swarm of participants from the four senior houses gathered at the athletic ground, shouting house slogans and songs. Some IXth students also had the additional burden of carrying the flag staff of their houses. Finally, the sound of the air gun led to a momentary madness, as people ran like mad bulls. I looked out for the green ambulance and having sighted it, I smiled with satisfaction of having found my partner.

The final lag consists of a cluster of shops, often termed as the PWD area. And that’s where supporters keep waiting to cheer and drag the dying runners in order to make it to the finishing line. Good runners having finished theirs often turned up there to help ‘bad runners’. Now lets recall the two names, Monowar Hussain (3374) and Nicholus (3334) – the good and the worst runners respectively.

Nicholus was sweating and looked on the ground, as he crossed the PWD region, to avoid the embarrassment of being the ‘last to finish’ once again. He saw Monowar beside him, and asked him, ‘whats your position this time?’
Monowar smiled, revealing his gaping teeth, ‘I am still running’.

THAT slap on the back of ur neck!!!

well, there would be a very few of us who have been fortunate enough (or rather unfortunate) to not have tasted that dhaap on the back of your neck by our very own Verma sir..
I am going to narrate how I managed to join that elite club...

we had just graduated to class X and had reported back to the school after vacations...as always only a handful of us had joined back after the holidays...I was amongst those few who reported in time for a change...me, 3362 and 3268 were placed in room no 3 of Chilarai house...we were the only students that night in the room and we gossiped till very late at night...Now, those who know the three of us knows what it takes to wake us up in the morning...that night , being very tired after the journey and after so much of gossiping, we went off to sound sleep and literally slept like logs...the next morning I woke up and saw 3268 sitting in his bed with that "oh shit! im gone" look...it took me a fraction of second to realise what was wrong and that same look adorned me...I could hear the whistle in the PT ground and see white clad figures running near the athletic ground from my window...you don't need to be a rocket scientist to know what was coming next and waiting for it, somehow couldn't help laughing at the irony of that first day of class X...3268 was the first to go..Verma sir came in and 3268 was flying all around the place..after a good no of dhaaps, his attention shifted to me...I had figured that the only way to divert my mind from this hammering was to count the no of dhaaps and so I did just that (I lost count after the 22nd blow as I almost blacked out)..in the meantime 3362 who was attending to his morning rituals, came inside the room having heard the commotion. But the instant he saw what was happening, he jumped off to the quadrangle...this diverted Verma sir and he went after his next prey...after around five minutes of running around 3362 had his share..

May be we had felt bad, disgusted and very low after those dhaaps then, but when I think of it now I just cannot help laughing...the way 3268 was flying or 3362 ran around with Vermaji on his prowl...it was fun...I know most of u have had a taste of it...and I'm very curious to know the stories of my fellow mates in this elite club...please share this unique lifetime experience with us..

The Laughter Gene

The biology lab wears a different look today, with separate spaces allocated for each student. Its our XIth biology practical test, and barring a few most of us clueless as to what we were supposed to do with the stuff that lay on the table – some test tubes, microscopes, dye, plants, slides etc. Our internal examiner kept sitting on one end behind a large wooden table, calling one of us one at a time and grilling on Viva rounds. As we wondered about clueless, staring at our tables, students kept going towards that table when their turn came by - it was happening according to roll numbers, like most other things in the school.

My roll number is 3295. 3296 left school half way through and 3294 is a close friend of mine and we shared similar fate by virtue of our numbers. Time passed by without much activity on my table, as I kept throwing questioning look at 3294, only to be answered back in the same way. Losers as we were, throughout. News came that we would be called in pairs for the viva, instead of one-at-a-time, as we were running out of time.

XIth exam is perhaps, the most frightening time for a senior in Sainik School, where we self license ourselves to do stuff that is ‘out of the rule’ only to be countered in the XIth exam by our teachers – it being an internal examination, assessed by our own teachers, unlike the XIIth Boards.

We could finally hear our numbers (3294 & 3295) being called out and we moved hesitantly towards the chairs across the large wooden table facing Mr. Ghosal. Mr. Ghosal is a tall man and slightly dark skinned. Infamous for his flaring nostrils when he gets agitated- the sight became more frequent as his tolerance level dipped low ever since he came back from the ‘Staff college’ two years back as an NCC officer. I somehow managed to retain my name in his list of ‘good students’, only to be deflated in the incident that I am narrating today.

So, we occupied the two wooden footstools, as he flipped through the two notorious science books – Part I & Part II, the contents of which, I had seldom seen. So, he looked at 3294 and shot his first question. 3294 looked intelligent as he pondered about the question, until he came up with a stupid answer. Without responding to his answer, Mr. Ghosal looked at me with hope and repeated the same question. I fumbled, and repeated what 3294 said, in a hope of not being worse than my neighbour, since I dint have the answer myself. I imagined a slightly blown up nostril of our interrogator, as he flipped through the pages of the Part I book even more vigorously.

He shot his second bullet at 3294 and my goodness, 3294 was way off the mark. His explanation was from another part of the book, and Mr. Ghosal finally couldn’t tame his nostrils! He attempted to hit 3294’s knuckles, with a pencil, as he dodged them. I have been suppressing my laughter for a while now, and finally out it came. I wasn’t surprised when 3294 stared at me and followed suit. I tried hard to contain my laughter, and do the necessary damage control, but that was not to happen.

Mr. Ghosal shot his final bullet to me. ‘What are the characteristics of a sea horse’?

An image of a White Sea horse floated in my mind and I was happy, I knew what it was. But when it came to answering his questions, nothing came out in the form of words or sentences. As I struggled and repeated the word…Sir, errr…. sir, he looked at me with encouragement and said, ‘say son’ …And out it came, “sir it lives in water”. For a moment, it felt his nostrils will blow up. He gathered his calm and said, “Oh really! I dint know that”

I don’t remember, how long did we two laugh. Frightened to the bone with the constant prospect of being ‘flunked’ in the practical and being sent to pack out from the school, we laughed even louder. Nothing moved around us, as we two laughed and the entire class looked at us with horror.
“Look at these two clowns”, Mr. Ghosal said laughing, as he was infected by the clowns’ laughter. As the NCC officer within him resurfaced its claim for some decency, he looked at us and asked, “So gentlemen, tell me, which hormone is responsible for your laughter”. We looked at each other, and neither of us had the answer, and we laughed more.

I would like to thank Mr. Ghosal through this story. We both got decent grading in our Biology practical and managed to get promoted to XIIth.

Bus ride to Goalpara

I did most of my travel on the roof, even when the seats were empty, on that stony road between my school and Goalpara- a standard-operations-procedure to avoid getting caught by staff members, who might be travelling. It was another Sunday in the autumn of 1999, as I made some notes of things that some boys wanted me to get for them from Goalpara. Escaping to Goalpara, without getting caught involved meticulous planning, and some sort of a team work, esp. during those probable surprise ‘head counts’. I carefully scrutinized the open grounds that lay between where I stood and the boundary wall, and hastily started to walk across it. I avoided waiting in the bus shed, where wary looking, lungi clad villagers stood looking towards the direction from where the bus would come anytime. Apart from the bus that can come unannounced anytime, any of my teachers and the armyman principal were equally unpredictable. So I waited amongst the moist shrubs and tall grasses, alongside a few others, living a similar fate.

An emerging cloud of dust at a distance announced the arrival of the bus, that triggered a mild commotion as villagers, started to move towards the road, in order to occupy the seats before the rest. As the bus screeched to a halt, pushing forward the rickety seats momentarily, I climbed the rooftop and found several more, from my school. They must have boarded (climbed) the bus in the shed that came before where I waited. A petite junior repositioned himself on a bundle of jute, to create a space for me, with an indistinct salutation.

The bus swayed and rattled dangerously everytime it gave way to a passing vehicle in the narrow road, as the wind hit us right on the face. Dodging dangling branches from the roadside trees and lying low, everytime the bus stopped, to avoid being seen, I finally climbed down after 30 mins, and looked around for possible predators. My schoolmates dispersed to various directions, carrying out their respective missions. A group went towards the cinema, as I took leave from them.

There was something about the air in that town those days. It was intoxicating to know, that no walls surrounded me at that moment, and I was, even if temporarily, FREE. I went to a shady restaurant and had a sumptuous meal, followed by desserts in the form of stale sweet meats. I made a mental note of the shops that I needed to visit as I paid the waiter. The sun was right above my head and it was a race against time. As I motioned a cycle rickshaw to pull over, it swayed towards its left, only to reveal another behind it carrying a tall black person and a shorter version of him beside him. I turned away in a swift move, trying to hide behind the thin wooden frame of the rickshaw. It went away without stopping and I had no way to verify if they had seen me.

5 p.m. Its not yet dark and most of the tasks have been completed. The only thing that remained undone was that I could not find a copy of the latest ‘TEENAGER’ for a friend of mine. A little tired and the darkness around, gave me the leisure to occupy a vacant space in the bus shelter, instead of waiting in the shrubs behind it. The shelter was unusually empty, and the precariously hanging ‘handiman’ (conductors) in the auto rickshaws threw uncertain looks at me. The last waiting passenger, beside me, also left somewhere in the dark. I kept looking at the distance hoping to see the headlights of the arriving bus.

5.30ish. It was a great relief to find another classmate getting off from the rickshaw outside the bus shed. The rickshaw puller hurriedly pocketed the fare and said, the last bus has been cancelled. We exchanged a quick look, picked up our bags and started to walk towards the road that went to our school. The meager lighting of the town soon gave way to an eerie darkness, flanked by hills on both sides of the road. The gurgling of the water sounded menacing as we walked over the wooden bridge across some indistinct river. A little frightened, and a little excited, we walked fast and that sometimes transformed into mild running.

8pm. We crossed Surya Pahar (now a major tourist spot in Assam), a newly excavated site during those days, with rocky hills, ancient bricks and coins. It would be untrue if I said I wasn’t scared. I was and so was the other friend, as we hurriedly crossed the area. Realizing the time, it occurred to us that we had missed our dinner, and our only hope would be banking on some ‘resourceful’ friends who would siphon off some food from the mess and bring it to the hostel.

8.15. We reached an open noisy space with frogs croaking all around. It was the ‘kodal dhowa pukhuri’ (spade Washer’s pond). I really would want to find someday, how that pond got such a peculiar name! We could see the yellow halo from the halogen, covered by the tree that stood right above the guard’s cabin in the entry gate. Seeing some movement and what looked like a beam from scooter lamp, we decided to bypass the guard. We descended into the shrubs between the road and the boundary wall, and climbed it. The spot certainly wasn’t one of those usual ‘infiltration & exfiltration’ points and as we climbed down, my friend landed with a thud. A beam from the guard’s search light came towards us, as we held our breath and lied on the moist, thorny bushes.

The guard probably found something more interesting and he stopped flashing towards our direction. We crawled for a while, till we were sufficiently separated from the guard for his beam to fall on us, or for our sounds to reach him. Our shoes flip flopped on the muddy unused lands, as loose clay splashed to our face. We climbed the road that went to the ‘dhobi ghat’ (cloth washers) and then crossed the athletic ground, and again climbed down the road to the shallow between the auditorium and Aniruddha House. The silence in the Houses meant, dinner wasn’t over yet. So, we waited beside a tree, next to the pond, with a blue board, saying, ‘fishery. built with an estimated amount of Rs.X’.

We could finally hear the distinct grace marked my three ‘hits’ on the table with a wooden hammer, by the school captain followed by, ‘Thank God for what we have received’. The familiar sound of the energetic gossip, esp. after a meal brought a smile across my face. We smiled at each other and mingled with the crowd.

STUDYING LATE NIGHT

We often hear a lot about Sainik School, good and mostly bad reputations. One such was about the concept of seniority and juniors. Like it or not, its very much there and it's a legacy. Today's juniors are tomorrow's seniors and while not justifying any righteousness about it, nothing else can replace this structure, the way it maintains discipline and smooth functioning of the Houses. When I became a senior, I too carried forward the legacy of my seniors…

It's the legacy of 'late night' parties, during the 'preparatory months' preceding the board exams. We would carry (steal/rob/persuade) food from the mess and feast on them during early hours of the morning. Someone collected rice from the mess in polybags, and pressed them to accommodate the maximum volume, while some others would collect vegetables and pulses.

Studying was one quality that came very hard to SSGians. The idea of the feast would keep us awake, as we gossiped away through the night. Finally when the clock would strike 2-2.30 am, some ever resourceful seniors would usher some juniors to collect banana leaves from the backyard gardens of our House masters and Superintendents. Sometimes as the junior, chopping the leaves and later as the senior pulling out the rusty electric heater to cook the rice, I have always enjoyed the idea of such a feast.

As the food was heated, the banana leaves are being cut according to the number of people available in the feast. Most of the times, someone would take out some home made pickle from his cupboard and that would be the most precious item in the menu. Gossip would follow after the feast, accompanied by smoking. By dawn break, we often slept promising to "study from tomorrow" only to make the promise again and again with each passing day…….that's our story of Lohit house and I am sure my friends from other houses will have similar stories to share…

Story of a missing net

Meaninglessly bounded on one side, by steel nets, as the other remained open; the tennis court was an exclusive domain of the ‘Staff’. During games hour in the evening, as we ran after skinless footballs and at times played football with volley balls, some class VIth students would be seen, standing behind that meaningless net. Through which the tennis ball would inevitably pass and the boy would run to fetch it.

Come 2000, and we have reached XIth standard, a time for some revenges and some mischief. I personally did not have any attachments with tennis, and fortunately I never had to stand behind those nets during my VIth standard. The only remote attachment was probably the fact that Martina Hingis was a rave those days. I liked her, but there were already settlements underway between ‘tennis fans’ about who deserved her more. So from the point where I stood, she stood ‘booked’ for me. One such Hingis’ lover was Bhaskar Pegu, now a doctor. I hope he comes up with some effective treatment to undo Hingis’ rate of balding.

Morning classes were always one of excitement, as the crimes of the previous night got revealed, at times by the victims (mostly the teachers) and mostly through the horse’s mouth (us).
Today’s story is about one such mediocre tennis fan like me, who liked Martina Hingis and that’s where the world of tennis began and ended for him. But when mischief was concerned, SSGians hardly ever hunted for justifications, coz it was too easy to find one. In his case, he probably found one, in the VIth students standing behind the nets, deprived of playing with his friends – the only source of entertainment during those days. (Apart from occasional screening of movies, about which, we can talk at another time).

Another night in SSG, and there were no events pipelined for the next day, apart from regular activities. So, Mr. G hand picked a few trustworthy mates and briefed them about his plans, partially. So they donned their camouflage fatigues and carefully removed the iron railing from the wooden frame of the window, and stepped out into the dark one after another – four in total. They moved silently, in a slightly bent posture, towards the tennis court.

The calm breeze fluttered the tennis net that cut the court into two exact halves. The net looked quite different from such proximity; its holes were too large and G wondered how it managed to stop the green ball without fail. Two of them started to remove the net from the poles as two stood on two ends, guarding for unwanted visitors. They bundled up the net, and one asked G, ‘where do we drop it?’.

Background: Houses (hostels) matter a lot in Sainik School. And one is always fiercely loyal to one’s House, and interestingly all of us were good friends, across houses on individual basis, barring a few exceptions. G and all his mates were from Lohit house and they had rivalries with Chilarai House.

So when one of them asked G, ‘where do we drop it?’. G scratched his head and raised his gaze which landed on the house nearest to it – it was Chilarai House! A glint appeared on his eyes, as he was hit by the idea, ‘Ek goli, do shikar’. They dumped the net behind Chilarai House and reached Lohit House and tapped the window, and a sleepy junior hurriedly took out the rod from the frame.

Next Day: Unlike most other ‘nocturnal crimes’, this wasn’t immediately revealed during the class the next day. The gang curiously realized that no one seemed to be noticing the absence of the net, as they walked past it, neither the teachers and nor the students. As the sun ascended and slowly started descending to the western horizon, students hurried towards their respective play grounds, the group maintained an observant eye on the tennis court. Teachers started arriving and they stood there, where the net used to stand. Unwilling to miss out on the fun, two of the gang members moved closer to eavesdrop on the conversation.

One of the teachers spoke… ‘it was right here, when we left yesterday. Who can it be’

Another teacher: ‘Some villager must have stolen it, probably to use it as fishing net’.

The rest of the teachers nodded in unison agreeing with the theory being put forward.

The gang celebrated their achievement under the small hutment canteen over some flour smelling gulab jamuns and cigarettes. G wondered, how the teachers could not know that the holes were too large for the net to be used as fishing net. How could they not suspect the hand of the students and launch a search for the net within the campus and then find it behind Chilarai House. What happened next, I don’t know. Perhaps its still lying there, half buried in earth and covered by the wild grass. Chilaraians must be knowing.

Purani Jeans: my first cigarette

It was the autumn of 1998. And the story that I am narrating happened one night – the night before our Puja break. I was in my Xth standard, Lohit house. Most of my classmates stayed in the designated Common room (Room number 6) meant for Xth students. Some stayed in the senior rooms (Room no 1 & 4) with XIIth students. I happened to be in room number 4.

Whether someone celebrated Puja or not, it was always a moment of exaggerated festivity, as we packed our bags much in advance in order to go home. I packed my stuff, in room number 4 and went to sleep. Unable to contain my excitement, I went to Room number 6 at 1.30 a.m. to meet my classmates.

Rooms in our hostels are seldom locked, unless super seniors were punishing seniors inside the rooms, and trying not to humiliate them in front of juniors. So as I went to the common room (room no.6), I was surprised to see the door locked from inside. I knocked the door and an ongoing murmuring dies down into a hushed up silence. Someone must have checked me through the key hole and opened the door.

I got a warm welcome in the form of a variety of 'slangs' while some sighed in relief that it was not someone senior. As my eyes adapted to the darkness, I saw small orange lights moving like fireflies and picked up a familiar smell, mostly found in the senior rooms. I realized that they were smoking cigarettes and then I asked them for one. Most of them laughed and whispered, claiming it to be 'too strong' for me. But my persistence gave way and I got a menthol cigarette.

I asked another friend (3294) to light it for me, as he gave a smile of pride, like an old acquainted smoker and lighted it for me. As I puffed, I don't remember the taste of it distinctly. But what I remember is the sense of having achieved that 'status symbol', like having passed a test and having promoted to an 'elite group'. I could not wait for the vacation to be over so that I could be back to school and smoke. I continued to smoke for the next two years in school and continued it till college after that I left it almost a hundred times and as "Mark Twain says leaving cigarettes is the easiest thing to do, I myself have left it 200 hundred times".

Statutory warning: cigarette smoking is injurious to health.

Kabaddi

A little less glamorous in its nature, Kabaddi was one of those few games where anyone could participate, in the absence of an established way of testing one’s skills. (The other such game must be kho kho).

Location: The Kabaddi ground beside Aniruddha house.
VIIIth standard students were busy passing buckets of water for the event across the barbed fencing. Participants warmed up, in their ‘unestablished’ ways. While one flexed his wrist, a hairy legged friend (and now an opponent) stretched his knees. Today’s match was Lohit versus Lachit and I was in the Lohit team.

An interesting aspect about Kabaddi and Kho Kho was that, these were the games, where there were no established ‘dominant Houses’ and these were the events where labeled underdogs (as far as games were concerned) could hope to win. Lachit house was one such, during my tenure.

The shrill hooting of the whistle was followed by ‘Kabaddi – Kabaddi’ or by the more expert ones ‘hututtu hututu’. I was enjoying jumping on anything that resembled like a group of men. Went out several times and came in again. The cycle followed for a while and the whitening black board, indistinctly displayed the scores. It could at best be described as neck-to-neck.

A sudden realization hit me as I stood on my side of the court…ALONE. The rest were standing outside the court, in a queue eager to re-enter. Had I been placed in that situation today, I would have definitely run away. But those days, House spirits mattered and more importantly the responsibility to honour one’s existence as an SSGian.

My House mates shouted, and so did our opponents’. I felt feverish, as the Lachitian team, standing inside the court, jeered at me. They chose Palash Baruah (33??) to come and stampede me. As I have mentioned, how nothing mattered in Kabaddi. Whether I was fast and nimble, or that I could jump higher and longer. Probably there was just one thing that mattered – the size of the individual. And he was larger than me by a huge margin.

Perhaps goats felt the same way, tied by a rope for the tiger to come and feed on it, so that the hunter could kill the tiger. I could see Palash cross the middle line, growling like a tiger ‘Kabaddi Kabaddi Kabaddi’ as I started to run around the small rectangular space. I could also see a hidden sneer, as his lips moved slightly uttering ‘kabaddi kabaddi kabaddi’. I so wished that he would suddenly sneeze and the ‘kabaddi kabaddi’ would stop and he would be thrown out. But miracles seldom happen, the way you wish it to be. But they do happen nonetheless, in some other ways.

The jeering of supporters became louder as he neared me, and then finally touched me, deep inside my territory. Without second thought, I jumped on him and grabbed his feet. I could feel myself dragged for a moment and then some violent jerks knocked me on my face, as a cloud of dust blinded my sight. Suddenly the movements settled down and I could hear the whistle blowing. Palash had been stopped, and a team mate of mine came inside in return. We eventually lost the match and for many, it was an uneventful match. But for me, it was a personal memory that reinforced the right to believe in oneself.

Few days after Shivratri.....

At the very beginning please forgive me for my lack of command over the language and a request to Shisir to kindly edit this script whenever you have time....

Most SSGians are infamous for their unpredictable bathing habits. And no one would probably blame them, if you could understand how the scenario of water was in SSG. Water spitted out from the steel pipes in unison, only three times a day, for 30 minutes to an hour each (I still don’t know whose hands controlled those knobs for water supplies. Whoever it be, he must be one constipated, irritated soul). Most of us would walk out to the hand pump, wiping the lather of soap on their bodies, towards the hand pump, as the supply stopped. Oh, the hand pump! It puked more iron than water, and at times only iron. Talking about water, one cannot ‘not mention’ the only place where there was always water…the concrete tank in each hostel, where inmates would scoop down iron buckets to aid their nature’s call. In an artificial desert like SSG, the only reason that the tank remained ‘filled’ throughout was because it was actually dirty, even by SSG standards.

It was a Sunday, a few days after Shivratri. X and Y, walked down to PWD market, an out-of-bound area for students. As is usual, they landed at Hemo’s shop (Hemo was the one who would sell everything to students, from maggi to meat, and most importantly with homely warmth). Hemo offered them some left over ‘Bhang’ from Shivratri. As any other SSGian would have acted, X and Y’s eyes glinted and they gulped down three glasses each, underestimating the influence that it might have, more so after having been left to ferment, doubling its power.

X and Y started their backward journey to their house in confidence. Within 5 minutes, the walk turned into a sway and by the time they reached the house, Y was laughing as if there was no tomorrow. Friends rushed to his aid and gagged him, before he roused the suspicion of the House Master. During the commotion, someone noticed that X was curiously missing. A silent manhunt was launched and reports came that X was seen going towards the bathing area. When some went up there, X stood there with his legs in the air, and his head immersed in the sparkling water of the tank…that never dried. As he was pulled out, releasing a fountain of bubbles in the water, he fumbled with all sincerity, ‘Murtu bhang khai garam hoi goise o.... heyehe thanda kori asu’ (My head was heated up with the stuff, so was cooling it off).

Note: If anyone finds X, please take him for a good shower.

A to Z: Lessons of Life

Some amongst us joined the Armed forces, some are into academics, and some have established their foot holds in the private industry. Its heart warming to see SSGians in almost every possible sphere, successful in their own ways. During the last few years of my stay in SSG, many of the staff member would claim, how students from the institution always found a place for himself in the society and professional life, even if they did not join the forces. It dint make sense to me then. But when I came out and mingled with people outside the boundary walls of SSG, everything made sense.

This is what I have termed here as the A to Z of life. Its tough life in SSG, and its definitely not for everyone. But the ones who chose to stay will cultivate those qualities, willingly or unwillingly. Depending on one’s ‘desires’, one can stay above the water, or simply stand on the top, either by hook or by crook. I cite two examples:

I still remember a fat classmate of mine, who would always come last in the PT run and surprisingly always managed to reach for meals ahead of others.

Bunking class is a common phenomenon. However, doing so is trickier in SSG, as you also have to take care of the prying senior’s eyes apart from the poky teachers. We always knew the probable consequences of bunking classes and we still did. And the best of all, the quality always remain with us.
I had a friend who was endowed with a wide, round belly, who joined army after passing out from SSG. Posted in a border district of J & K, he would bunk and run to Delhi every month, to meet his girl friend. So frequently were his visits that I often doubted whether he actually was in the army. Undoubtedly he was an SSGian!



Very often it happens so that I get to meet fellow ex SSGians working and some even settled with families. What sets them apart is that they never change at all…the absurd gossiping, notoriety and endless recollections.

No matter, what I am today or where I am today, I can never deny that SSG taught me to believe in myself, with partial contribution from my SSG seniors. Every time I was caught with some mischief up on my sleeves, I would get to hear the famous saying, ‘meet me after lunch/dinner/games/tea’. So much so that there was a time when meals felt incomplete without getting to hear such statements.

Being a labeled ‘black sheep’ I happened to be the choice of most seniors when they wanted to do some research. In fact I even felt, that I had helped many to start off their career as a senior in SSG, and I am proud about it. Its been an amazing journey, with its due share of ups and downs, and SSG made who I am today.

Note: I am the Deben in Shisir’s story Whats in a name

Whats In a Name

‘Whats in a name; even a rose with any other name, will smell as sweet’ – Shakespeare

It meant different things to different people in SSG to have the same first names and be in the same class. :)

I know a story, borne out of similar fate, which at best can be described as Tragicomic. The two were very different, be it in any aspect, physical appearance or others. The only two things that they seemed to share were their first names ‘Deben’ and their batch.

‘Rule breaking’ in Sainik School was inevitable. What was possible however was to break them without being detected (of course with your astrological stars in the right place). While day to day breaches happened like, going to out-of-bound canteens (PWD and WESTERN canteens) and everyone did it without a second thought, the hardcore ones could seldom be found in the campus during the weekend.

Both the ‘Debens’ were in their IXth standard – the most worrisome stage of one’s SSG existence (my personal opinion). It’s the stage when one enters the ‘Senior houses’ and get treated like ‘milk toothed’ juniors after having spent THREE LONG years! in the campus. Many run away during the first month of their stay in Senior Houses and others adapt to that life in their own respective ways. Having three batches, to look down upon (VI – VIII), its irresistible to not exercise one’s seniority, esp. when the ones above them (X – XII) used them so often.

Its been almost half a year now, both the Debens were counting their days that would mark the end of that year and the end of ‘duties’ towards the seniors, like all their classmates. While one Deben was in Lohit, the other was in Udaygiri.

It was a leisurely moment after lunch, which lasts for almost 20 mins before the gong goes off marking the start of the unexplainably sleepy prep classes. It was leisurely as the quadrangle wore a deserted look, without any seniors eager to entertain their visual senses by punishing the IXth batch for some frivolous reasons. Some seniors were chit chatting with their respective junior ‘Bhaitis’.

A friend of Deben came to his room, passed greetings and said, ‘Deben, Pritom from Chilarai is calling you’.

Deben asked dismissively, 'Who Pritom?'

The friend said, ‘Pritom from Class XII. Did you do anything illegal today?’

Deben smiled in response, knowing not for which one, was he being called for.

Chilarai House: Pritom hit Deben across his face and asked him, ‘What did you do in the morning?’
Deben cried, ‘I haven’t done anything’.
The cycle of ‘hit and interrogate’ continued, occasionally joined by more of Pritom’s batch mates. The gong marked the beginning of the prep class, and for Deben, the end of another ‘meeting’. He went back to Udaygiri house, changed his uniforms and washed his face and went for the prep class. The Headmaster, donning his dark shades lay in wait for the late comers. Deben was one of them. He frog jumped for a good 50 metres, before getting hit by a cane and then eventually entered his class, sweaty and tired.

Deben occupied an empty last bench and started to think about his day’s activities, trying to figure out, which of his mistakes was it, that actually got detected by Pritom. A fellow classmate from Chilarai, came over to him and said,

‘I had gone to Pritom’s room and overheard him speaking to someone. He was coming to the school building in the morning and saw a VIth student trying to reach the pigeon hole of the letter box, in order to drop a letter. Pritom dropped it for him and asked who the letter was for. The VIth student replied, he dint know as it wasn’t his letter. Deben from class IX had asked him to drop it.’

After a momentary pause, he asked Deben, ‘So did you ask someone to drop your letter?’.

It dint take Deben more than a second to realize what was going on. The junior must have said Deben, without adding a last name to it, or for that matter the House where he belonged. He went up to the other Deben and said, ‘You owe me one’.

Note: names have been changed to protect identities in the story.