Daytime and nighttime in Sainik School Goalpara are very different and contrasting. The activities of the students die down as lights go out and the grumbling of the generator dies down by 10 pm. The only audible sound that rings are the howling of the jackals and the foxes that inhabits in the shrubs and forest that surrounded the campus. Many stories made rounds about ghosts being sighted here and sometimes there. I haven’t seen any, but let me tell you, have felt many.
Unlike the senior houses, where seniors took the illegal liberty to keep awake for several reasons, junior houses didn’t enjoy such liberties and hence were always eerily silent after 10 pm. It was my first year in school and I was in my VIth standard.
A warm summer night, and the whistle from outside the reading room (room number 5) went off, marking the lights-out time. We quickly tied our respective mosquito nets and lay there in darkness, silent, according to the ‘rules’. I don’t remember for how long did I lay there like that on my bed, until the sound of the creaking door brought me back to my senses. Those days, I dint have a mobile phone to inspect the sound and neither an indiglo watch to check the time. My flash light lay dead for want of battery replacements, which I couldn’t get done as the CSD canteen was always occupied, every time I went there on Sundays.
My bed was at a slight distance from the door and three beds stood between mine and the door. The darkness was absolute and not even a faint shade of light existed. All I could hear was the distinct sound of an unhurried dragging walk. It paused momentarily somewhere between the door and my bed. Scared I was and could never know if there was anyone else in the room, awake and listening to what I was. A sound of a match stick striking came from where it stood…and then a long drag…of what seemed like someone smoking a cigarette. But no lights emerged from it. The dragging of the feet resumed.
I could not gather the courage to scream, lest I attracted this invisible visitor’s attention without being able to wake my roommates. The sound crossed towards the other half of the room, away from the door. A sound of fluttering pages came out. I perspired and still I wished I had a blanket to cover myself and hide. The sound became indistinct and the next thing I saw was the morning light and the familiar sound of our matron…”Utha Utha” (get up, get up).
Many of my fellow friends experienced the same. Some say, it was a prank. Might be prank it was. But a lot many things happened during those seven years, to me and to many others. All of them couldn’t be prank.
Ghosts in Sainik School Goalpara
SSG Ticklionary: A short list of ticklish definitions
EPD: Exempted from PT and drill. Ever had the fortune to watch others do the job of running around? Well, there are certain basic criteria to obtain an EPD. You need to be actually unwell enough to not be able to run around or be a good actor. And secondly, after obtaining an EPD make sure that you watch the activities around you with a ‘sick’ face, or else you never know, anyone might drag you to run, from seniors to whimsical Army Ofiicers.
SDA: I still do not know the formal meaning of SDA. However, what I know is that it’s a group started in the year 2000 that took pride in stealing fruits from the backyard gardens of teachers and exploding the black boots by placing explosives inside them, apart from many others. Group members can be identified by their black scarves and determined eyes. They were our Robin Hoods, who would feed the hungry students for free. The full form of SDA happens to be School Destruction Activists.
Extra Drill: If you ever see Khaki Uniform clad students standing or more possibly running in the afternoon sun, immediately after lunch, make no mistake. They are not practicing to join the army or rehearsing for the upcoming inter house drill. They were probably caught while running to Goalpara or the nearby, but out-of-bound areas like the Western or the PWD canteens. Stories often came up, about sympathetic army subedars, and how they said… “start jumping when the principal or the headmaster arrives”. Though a serious form of punishment, it was lesser in degree when compared to punishments by genuinely angry seniors! And we know of many such friends, who spent more afternoons jumping around than anything else.
Dingi: A subject of awe, that took to legendary proportions. ‘Dingi’ in Assamese translates into ‘neck’. Mr. R.M.Verma was known to thrash students on the back of their neck. The pain is inexplicable in words, even by those who had the misfortune of undergoing it. Do read Kingshuk’s story to know more.
Regimental Dinner: A fancy imitation of an actual formal lavish dinner, to mark an important occasion in the school calendar. It often succeeded in imitating the atmosphere, while failing miserably in the food aspect. A pair of Bagpipers walks around the mess, followed by a grace, and then the food. Hint: If the mess has been serving extraordinarily bad food for a while, its an indication that its doing ‘cost cutting’ to be able to offer a regimental dinner. If you are particularly addicted to bread crumbs with watery chicken soup, check the school calendar!
Time Bomb: It doesn’t tick away to an explosion. It’s a crude time bomb, that seems to go off everywhere around Diwali time. An agarbatti (incense stick) is lighted and is attached to the coil of the bomb. Hidden under the bushes, the louder ones even place under the chairs of Hit List teachers in the mess. BANG!
Old Nine: He walks like a don and acts as if he is one. What sets him apart is that he is packed off to senior houses in VIIIth standard unlike others who reach senior houses in their IXth standard. So by the time their fellow classmates reach senior houses, they are old and hence the term, ‘Old Nine’. Understandably he often considers himself pseudo senior to his own classmates!
A Brain Teaser
So these are few questions which I want SSGians to answer.
- What are the names of the assistants of Amiya (except foni)?
- What was the name of the official photographer of our school (not S.Narayan)?
- What was the name of our Tailor?
- What was the name of our cobbler?
- What was the name of our movie projector operator?
- What was the name of our mess manager and his assistant?
- What was the name of the K.G school inside our campus?
- What were the names of our school bus drivers?
- What is the name of our stationary store in charge?
- What is the name of our accountant?
The Story of a Painter
A week before the event, the smell of the burning candle and the ‘shoe polish’ pervades every House, and every room and spills over into the corridors. And a day before the event the smell of Brasso adds to the spice as we start polishing the metal parts of our uniform – the belt locks, the shoulder badges, the cap badge and the innumerable badges, some earned and mostly for the glitter.
And a month before the event, we hear the familiar noise of the commander, ‘Left right…Left right…Heel Dig, Shoulder tight, Left Right..Left Right…’ The digging of the hard heel of our boots would soften the dry earth beneath and bring out the water to the surface. Every house cherished for the ‘Drill Trophy’ and it was pretty natural to hear the familiar commands erupting from each house, and at times, even at odd hours of the night.
The point system in the Drill competition ensured that everything was looked into, starting from the turnout to the marching and from our haircut to the crispness of our uniforms. Udaygiri House had won it for several years in succession, until it was snatched away the previous year. Legend has it that ‘ghosts’ or ‘spirits’ used to come and guide the Udaygiri house team during the practice sessions. It seems funny to realize that we actually were ready to buy such ideas.
The previous year, Lachit House shocked us all by coming up with this unique surprise. On the day of the event, as we faced each other, their shining boots made our boots look pale, in spite of going through all the strict traditional process of smearing them with candle, and then with shoe polish, and then the adequate strokes from the hard brush and the soft brush. After the drill was over, news came that, Lachitians had painted their shoes with wood paints. I envied their boots, as the shine remained even days after the event. And then a time came, when the paint started to crack, and no shoe polish could fill those cracks and they started to look ridiculously old. The black paint nonetheless did its job, as Lachitians at least gave a stiff competition (I don’t remember if they won the trophy that year).
It so happens that we always practice for the drill in a different pair of shoe and keep a fresh one for the D-Day. Alongside the drill practice, I was also occupied with some paper works as I was the office bearer during that particular year. So, I finally took out my fresh pair on the night before the D-Day and tried them on and a sense of horror struck me! It was too small for my feet.
I summoned a junior and asked him to find a ‘fresh pair’ of boots for me. After a tense hour or so, he came back with an unused pair. Now anyone who knows leather understands how difficult it is polish an unused and never polished piece of leather and more so, if one had to wear it in the drill. I raced my mind and was struck with an idea. I managed to find a half filled container of black paint and splashed it generously on the boots and left it to dry over night. I kept checking its dryness, sometimes merely looking at it, or at times pressing my finger on it. So by the dawn of the morning, there were several finger prints on the shoes to my horror! And it was yet to dry. As I left for classes, the bright sun suddenly turned gloomy and ominous dark clouds came up from nowhere. After a tensed day of classes, I had a quick lunch and came running to check my boots only to put yet another impression of my finger on it. The mess bell went off marking the time to leave for the Drill competition. I slipped my feet carefully without bothering the half dried paint and joined my team outside the house, as some of us chanted house Slogans, and get countered by slogans from other houses. We started to move towards the ground.
Half way through towards the ground, I felt a sense of sponginess on my feet and I looked down and Oh my God, the half dried paint had befriended some dried twigs, loose grasses and pounds of dust clung around it.
I felt like screaming, ‘Lachitians you dint warn me about this!!!’
Selection for Camp: The Last 20
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
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!!!
I am going to narrate how I managed to join that elite club...
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.
Kabaddi
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.
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.
Dramatics...losing in style
By the time one reaches XIIth standard in Sainik School, one has already gone through most of the experiences that life in SSG can possibly offer, barring the experience of leaving this life during the final farewell; pampered with a regimental dinner, a school memento and some in-house events. I felt the same, only to be proved wrong in a grand way.
Any SSGian would vow for it, how loyal each cadet was to his respective houses. Inter house competitions were especially charged with conflicting loyalties: of loyalty towards one’s house and towards one’s batch.
Inter house dramatics was one such event, which aroused loyalties and the desire to win into unthinkable fervor. Senior master, Mr. V.N. Pandey along side Mrs. K. Sharma were discussing some issue with frowned foreheads as they lay in wait for the principal outside the noisy auditorium. It was the third day of inter house dramatics, and only the four senior houses were allowed to participate. An itchy moustache pasted under my nose, made me sneeze, as I lay holding the over head projector, for the name casting.
Flashback: Finally I made it to XIIth standard after scraping through the XIth exams. Roll numbers mean a lot in SSG. Mine was 3295 and there was Nurul with 3294. Slightly taller and slightly fairer, we shared almost everything else by virtue of being neighbours vis-à-vis roll numbers…3294 & 3295. Examination sitting plans was one such ‘shared’ fields. (Will narrate a story about it at a different time.) So Nurul and me, we both were in Lohit house and when we reached class XIIth, we decided to win the dramatics trophy- the apt way of winding up our last year in school.
We started in the right earnest. Occupying the last benches in the wooden galleries, we started writing our own play, The Vengeance. After painstaking months of writing, and shorter tea breaks, we came up with the story.
The Story: A person is convicted wrongly and is been killed by the King. The dead man’s sister vows to take revenge and manages to marry the King. In the climax, the queen (the sister) appears wearing a mask and brandishing a sword to kill the king. A minister to the king confronts and captures the queen after a sword fight without knowing her identity. The king takes off the mask, and a grand conspiracy is unearthed. Fabulous! Ha!
(Note: The question still haunts me as well as Nurul, as to why our English teachers never introduced us to Shakespeare’s plays and other Classics.)
The principal finally arrived, and the noise died down. I announced the title ‘The Vengenace’ in an artificial, husky voice and started the name casting on the screen of the stage. The play was turning out to be a grand success. Nurul was the king, Aroonabh was the queen (may I mention it here, that Arronabh as any other SSGian had cropped hair, and we managed to find a wig for him) and I was the minister. There were several other characters, but I’d refrain from naming all.
The play speedily progressed and the sword fight with the queen was perfectly choreographed with ‘techy’ moves and dodging. Now it was the King’s turn to take the mask off. The auditorium wore pin drop silence – the perfect climax!
As Nurul tried started pulling off the mask, Aroonabh whispered, (da wig khuli poribo)‘my wig might come off’. So on one side, I saw the audience waiting with anxiety, for the climax to get over, and on the other I had my own share of anxiety. I poked Nurul with my sword indistinctly, urging him to be careful. I perhaps prayed too, but I don’t remember now.
Another minute of climax and Nurul flung the wig and with it went rolling, the black mass of wig too! I looked at Aroonabh (the queen) with horror. And then my gaze went to a soldier (Dupthup, a junior student from Bhutan) and somehow he stared back at me questioningly, What next? I smiled and then laughed riotously, Dupthup laughed, Nurul laughed, the queen laughed and the audience laughed too.
Results: Lachit house somehow managed to stage a worse performance and Lohit (my house) stood third out of the four competitors. I still, and I am sure, so does Nurul believe, that had the wig not come off, that would have been ‘The Play’ in the history of Sainik School Goalpara. Nonetheless, it was the most embarrassing moment in SSG and now my fondest memory.
OBA, Ex SSGians Reunion
The Ex students of Sainik School Goalpara had their reunion in Delhi, in Dwarka on 14th February, 2009. With commendable efforts from our super senior (Indranil Roy, 1934 and some more), the dream of hoisting such a get together eventually materialized.
Willing to contribute in whatever little ways, I decided to pick as many of my batchmates on my way to the venue, while forcing others to reach there. By the time we reached there, the hall was partially full with old students, their wives and children running around. The sight of our chemistry teacher, Mr. R.A. Khan was indeed a great surprise. Sitting beside him was Mr. R.P. Yadav, about whom I cannot write much, as he retired the same year when I joined school (1994). His farewell dinner was the first regimental dinner that I witnessed in school and the last being the farewell that my batch got in 2001.
Mr. Indranil Roy
Highlights of the evening included the signing of the school song, ‘Oxom Oxom’ graced by Mr. Indranil Roy, followed by introduction rounds and some cultural extravaganza. Mr Jyotin Sarkar, a senior bureaucrat also delivered a memorable speech highlighting the challenges of developing Assam.
The event offered a great atmosphere, bonded by common experiences from school. With liquor being served, the formal chit chats gave way to memories from older days, as a classmate of mine performed push ups and drills, in a fit of SSG spirit. The conclusion of the evening was marked by a sumptuous buffet and a small speech by Mr. Indranil Roy, where he urged us (the still student looking ex SSGians) to take initiatives and conduct the next get together sometime in October this year.
As we departed, a group of my ex classmates, thanked me for bringing them to the event. Perhaps those thanks need to re directed to Mr. Indranil Roy and others, who made it come true. Or just to wind it up in an SSGian's way,
“I would like to offer my vote of thanks, to Mr R.P. Yadav, Mr. R.A. Khan and all the seniors for having found time in spite of their busy schedule, and making the event a grand success”.