BATCHMATES

By Ajit Kumar Jha

This is the story of a group of boys in a Sainik School and their interaction with teachers and authorities. They join the school in class fifth from where their process of learning and unlearning begins they are wayward, rude, and defy rules at times the arrival of

• Language: English
• Publisher: Blue Rose Publishers
• Release date: Apr 20, 2024
• ISBN: 9789362611512

Book preview

1

10th July

"No matter What’s

Going on In Your

Life right Now

School Memories Always

Make you Happy"

So…… what’s so special about this date?

It may have significance for some people all over the world for their own personal reasons. Millions of people are born on each day of the year and millions of events occur on each day.

The Tenth of July is not about any historical event. It is neither the birthday of any famous person. Yet, it is special to a group of class V students then, and now, nearly five decades later.

Ask Arbindam what you think of 10th July.

Ask Akhil, the same question.

Ask Suraj.

Ask Navin.

Ask Jayant.

Ask Sunil

Ask the same question to the rest of the 40 boys.

They all know the answer whether they are sleeping, dreaming, or whatever shit they are doing.

They have the answer but their answer may not be convincing to you unless you know their history.

I am one of these boys. I know the answer. Surprisingly, this day is so important to me and a bunch of others, is not something anyone else would think about.

Not my parents.

Not my siblings.

Not my wife.

Not my kids.

I am not in the mood to reveal the secret of this date now.

On this day something happened that changed my destiny along with the destiny of all my friends, who call themselves GEMs, a collective name post-WhatsApp.

We never had a collective name in school. All of us had strange-sounding nicknames.

Few did not like being addressed by these strange-sounding nicknames.

Very few would like it. But then we had to live with it. And even today we are living with it.

Who would like to be called a Bakri (Goat)?

Who would like to be called Toto, and Binaca?

Who would like to be called Mangru?

Who would like to be called Bantha?

But mind you these names became more real than the actual names.

Imagine a conversation .....

Hi, Bakri!

Hi, Toto!

How's life, Toto?

Haven't heard of Budhiya (the old lady) for a long. Any idea, where he is, or what he's doing?

He must be dying somewhere. Why don't you ask Mangru? He must know

You see, the real names are no longer important, whether you like them or not.

What's even funnier, you know what?

There were some teachers too who would begin addressing us with these names. Like T.K.B. Sinha once struck Aloka with a piece of chalk hard on his head, (Abe Bakri, class mein sota hai) Hey, you bakri, sleeping in the class?

When a teacher calls you by a name, other than your real name, it is like a stamp of approval from the Government of India. The name lives on so long as you live.

Class V is too early to recognize the phenomena of fictitious names that become more real than real names. This is especially so when you live in a country called India, where it is not uncommon to see the true caller identifying unknown callers as Mother ..cker sales man, Fu.. you loan guy, Fu..er Creditcard."

Most of us from 789 to 833 came from the Hindi medium background. We didn't know there is a word for a class of unreal names. We learned the term Nick Name actually in class eighth in General Knowledge class.

The General Knowledge class was handled by Z. Sayeed Sir.

He made us all remember the country-capital, country-coin, states of India, state-capital, the Seven wonders of the world, Full forms of abbreviations, and Sobriquets.

What is a sobriquet Sir? someone asked.

Nicknames, Mr. Sayeed promptly responded

"What's a nickname, Sir? It was Mangru this time, the most inquisitive among all.

What's your name? Mr. Z. Sayeed asked.

Mangru the class shouted in chorus.

That's the nickname, what's your real name? Z. Sayeed asked.

Sunil Kumar, Sir Sunil responded

That's your real name and Mangru is your nickname, Z Sayeed clarified.

It is a different matter that in the course of time the real and the unreal merged and the unreal became prominent. While Mangru lives, Sunil is forgotten just as no one now actually knows the real name of Langoor (Baboon), the school photographer.

Where was I?

Pardon me, I completely forgot about the 10th of July.

I said the day is the most important day for a bunch of boys.

10th July might not have happened had India won the war with China. It is a different matter that most of us were not even born when China attacked India. But the China war changed the course of India and everyone born or unborn in India.

The generation after the Indo-China war was the generation having to live under the shame of having been defeated by someone not highly esteemed. Isn't it strange that we Indians don't feel a pinch of guilt or shame at having been subdued by the white-coloured Britishers?

But when it comes to China and Pakistan, we take sadistic pleasure in humiliating them. India not only took China's revenge in 1967 but went on to humiliate Pakistan multiple times.

The Indians were most distressed when China overran Indian territories. Nehru was probably the most distressed among us all. His peace policy had failed. His Panchasheel was laughing at his face. His not a blade of grass grows in Ladakh came back hauntingly to him. His popularity nosedived. He was in shock. He had managed to save India. But couldn't save his reputation.

It was at this time that Nehru knew he would not live long enough to face the wrath of the nation. He may have secretly wished he should die if it salvaged India and his reputation. Nothing could give back India, its glory.

It was then at this critical juncture, Nehru made a decision that changed our fate. Yes, it changed our fate. It was a decision that changed the fate of young children and children not even born at that time.

*********

2

Never Commit This Sin Even In A Dark Room

Boys, never commit this sin even in a dark room, R.B. Jha, our art teacher said in a solemn priestly voice one day in the class.

The class was stunned. There was pin-drop silence. We looked at each other’s faces, trying to read the emotion.

R. B. Jha was an art teacher and sculptor.

He had left his stamp all over the school. The huge Buddha statue adorning the assembly hall, the portraits of past Principals that hung across the gallery in the ante-room, and the tree stumps, pillars, and poles adjoining the pathways coloured in green were all his works.

Unfortunately, art is the least appreciated subject in a military school where PT instructors hog the limelight.

We loved the art class, not because we aspired to be the future da Vincis or Michelangelo but because that was where each of us found our space.

The space to scribble, sketch and paint weird shapes that no one bothered to even look at except our art teacher who invariably acclaimed each of our pieces as masterpieces. R.B. Jha was generous with lavishing praises probably because art is the only subject where nothing can go wrong – no matter how poor your work is in the opinion of others.

A period or two in a week was hardly enough to fulfill our wildest desires, yet we immersed ourselves in that tiny space and time wholeheartedly as if in another world. The best part about the art class was that you were your own master.

The art class like the art teacher was nearly an outcaste. Our small-sized class shunted to a distant corner was claustrophobic with canvas, paintings, paints, brushes, colours, in a wild riot. Art is the only subject where the more mess you create, the more accomplished you are as an artist.

This solemn truth was taught to us right at the beginning of class five before we could outlive the art class up to class eight.

What do you see here boys? R.B. Jha asked us, showing a painting that in our estimate was utterly worthless. It represented a crazy collage of lines, colours, and mysterious images.

There was pin-drop silence followed by a competition to come out with the best answer.

Lines and figures

Sir, a man is looking horrified

Sir, why is the horse crying?

This is a very interesting painting Sir

There were as many answers as the boys.

R.B. Jha kept smiling enigmatically.

Kuch nahin hai ye yaar, sab time pass hai (all these are utter nonsense, just time pass) whispered Satyarthi behind my neck.

Satyarthi had the habit of making his comments unnecessarily. Habits are difficult to give up. He lives with this habit to this day.

Sir, kiska answer sahi hai (Sir, whose answer is correct)? Mangru was in no mood to hold the suspense for long.

Sabhi ka (everyone’s), R.B. Jha replied.

This was the greatest shock of our lives.

We had learned and imbibed that not everyone is equally intelligent. The answers have to be right or wrong.

How can everyone be correct? Suraj, the one already acknowledged as the most intelligent among all, asked in surprise and disbelief.

This is the beauty of art. There is nothing wrong here, R.B. Jha responded mysteriously which was still not convincing to us.

This is Guernica, R.B. Jha continued looking at our shockingly surprised faces.

Have you heard the name, Picasso? R.B. Jha asked scanning the class.

"Ye kaisa nam hai (What kind of name is this)? Aloka Prakash whispered.

Kya bol rhe hain, Sir, Vikas ko Vikaso to nahin bol rahe (What is he saying, isn’t he mispronouncing Vikas)? Nalin Bilochan responded in a whisper to Aloka’s incomprehension.

Soon everyone began murmuring and discussing even as there was one hand raised for almost several minutes that no one except R.B Jha cared to notice. This was Suraj.

Anyone else, except Suraj? R.B. Jha asked thumping the table to silence the class.

Everyone noticed a raised hand of Suraj.

Meanwhile, everyone forgot why Suraj had kept his hand raised.

Ye hath kyon khara kiya hai (Why has he raised his hand)? Satyarthi whispered to Arbindam.

Sunte nahi ho kya (Can’t you hear)? Sir, ek sawal puche the na (The teacher had asked a question)? Dinesh responded as Arbindam was too attentive to bother to notice what was going on behind his back.

Arre haan, hum to bhool he gaye, Kya puche the (Oh yes, I completely forgot. What had he asked)? Satyarthi whispered to Dinesh

Quiet please, and pay attention to the class, Arbindam said sternly craning his neck back.

Yes, Suraj? Tell the class who Picasso was.

He was a Spanish painter and the painting you have shown us was created by him.

Good, sit down. Do you know the title of this painting?

Yes Sir, Guernica, Suraj said politely adding as you yourself told us just now.

"Kya bola (What did he say)? Those sitting on the back benches began asking one another.

Can you repeat louder please? A voice from the middle bench was loud enough.

"What’s your name?’ R.B. Jha asked as he was still unfamiliar with the class that had just joined the school.

Amaresh, Sir the voice was more confident and louder this time.

"Guernica! Can you hear this time?

Yes, Sir.

Now repeat to the whole class what I have just said.

"Can you repeat it once more Sir?

There was dead silence for a few moments.

R. B. Jha felt a bit uncomfortable. He scanned the class smiling mysteriously.

He went out of the class thoughtfully without saying a word.

There was pin-drop silence for some time. No one knew or could guess what had happened.

After the initial minute or two when R.B. Jha didn’t return, and Amaresh was left standing, he shouted loudly GUEEEEERNICCKHAH

Everyone turned to him.

"What did you say? What nikah?

And then the silence was completely ruptured. The class turned into a high-decibel marketplace when Squadron Leader Rajindera Singh, the headmaster entered the class.

The class was again as silent as a Buddhist monastery.

Who is the teacher here? Rajindera Singh asked

Mr. R.B. Jha, Sir, Arbindam the defacto monitor responded.

Mr. R.B. Jha rushed into the class suddenly from nowhere.

Please come with me, Mr. Jha, Rajindera Singh almost commanded.

The two went out.

R.B Jha entered the class a few minutes later.

Scanning the class deeply, he said, Boys, never commit this sin even in a dark room

The bell rang. The class was over. While no one bothered about what Mr. R.B. Jha meant by his last statement, it was actually Suraj Jha who figured it out.

*********

3

Get Out, You Bloody Bastards

Get out you bloody bastards, the nosy mess manager nicknamed Naku (for his long upright nose) shouted at the top of his voice. The mess today presented a totally messy scene. Everything was in disorder.

Some senior boys of class XI had hounded the mess manager in an encircled trap. They were shouting at him. We, the junior most students of class V looked vacantly trying to understand the situation. We were forever in fear of our seniors and authorities.

Queuing up with our plates in hand in a long serpentine row for our turn of the precious morsel, we craned our necks looking at the far corner to comprehend the din.

All we could hear in the total chaos were diatribes, abuses, and filthy words spoken in full ballistic.

Whom did you call bloody bastard, you swine, this was Srinivasji at the top of his voice.

Mind your language, said another senior

Who does he think he is? said yet another

Hit the mother…er, shouted another senior, violence oozing out of his words.

This probably instigated someone, who rushed from behind like an angry missile, hurled at its target, jumped at the tall mess manager’s collars, and pulled him down shouting I will not leave you, mother f….r! while others were at their wit’s end in their efforts to extricate the two. Binay Chowdhary and Amitabh Deepak, two batches-juniors politely begged the seniors not to let the matter go too far.

What began as a polite complaint about the shoddy food, got magnified into vitriolic allegations and counter allegations, and blew into a free for all fisticuff before the crowd dispersed in silence. This was a regular feature of the mess.

The seniors had left

What followed next was the drone-like din. We, the juniors were murmuring and whispering.

Stop murmuring, finish your meal, and go back to your classes, Shouted Ajit, the junior house captain of Vikram house as loudly as he could.

Mess used to be the common meeting ground of seniors and juniors, some teachers, and the mess staff. It was the place of perfect order and disorder at the same time.

It was the place of camaraderie and bonhomie. It was the place where we fought for leg pieces of chicken, and we fought to jump the queue.

It would be another two years before the order could be restored in the mess. We had to wait for a couple of years before the medieval and hierarchical dining habits along with discrimination in food distribution were to be outlawed.

With the arrival of Col. Satsangi, a paradigm shift was to take place not just in the dining hall and in the table manners but in nearly all aspects of our lives. That’s another long story for a later time but the stamp that Col Satsangi, AVSM, PVSM, M.Ed, Silver Medallist, the tennis champion of his state, and the hockey team representative from the army saddled with endless other accolades and awards, a psychology university topper, and a psychologist par excellence, had left on us, on the school, and in the lives of thousands of others is truly historic.

I must be really a sentimental fool! How easily I am driven to Col. Satsangi right off the bat when there’s so much to tell about our dining hall before Satsangi.

That’s not the right way to hold the fork and spoon! Mr. Das, the tall, healthy and imposing head teacher who frequently visited to conduct the mess affairs reminded me politely leaning down towards me from behind while I was busy eating.

I immediately stood up.

That’s the first reflex any student in any Sainik School would have, seeing a teacher, no matter where they are.

No, please keep sitting, he instructed politely

Hold the spoon in your right hand like this, and the fork in your left hand like this, he demonstrated and I was quick to grasp.

And the knife, Sir? I thought I had nearly quizzed him.

Don’t worry about the knife. Use it with your right hand after dropping the spoon.

Mr. Das ensured everyone learned to eat properly during the first few weeks in school.

No one complained, but all class five students’ hands itched to switch back to eating with bare hands at the first opportunity.

Nearly half of us had stained our shirts with gravy as we struggled with forks and knives to cut the piece of meat and stubborn veggies.

The mess was probably the only place where scandals refused to die.

One event invariably led to the other.

But the first mess manager we encountered was Naku. He invariably ended up shouting and haggling. It was difficult to say, who was nastier, he or the boys.

Mr. Das could barely enforce a semblance of decorum in the mess. He left the school almost within a year of our joining the school to take over bigger responsibilities as the Principal of a central school. His exit gave Naku the freedom to indulge in his fascist ways in the most democratic space – the dining hall.

The situation turned from bad to worse in the dining hall after Mr. J. L. Das left. Col. Issar was the Principal when we were in class five. We knew nothing of him except his love for caged birds, hundreds of which adorned his mini palace. We never got an opportunity to hear him or speak to him. He also left within a year of our entry into the school.

Our world was chaotic at this time, which we were least aware of. Squadron leader Rajindera Singh was the defacto Principal of our school. Naku, the mess manager was like a bull in the China Shop within his jurisdiction, the dining hall.

Food in the dining hall was not only getting from bad to worse but even the intransigence of Naku, the mess manager was increasing by the day. Someone was needed at this time to control Naku.

Miracles do happen. Col. Satsangi entered the school at the right moment. Naku was not only shown his place but had to do sit-ups holding both his ears. But that is a different story for the next time.

*********

4

The Tallest And The Shortest

Namgyal popularly referred to as Namgey from Bhutan was the tallest boy in our class, and Sadanand, was the shortest. Sadanand swears and contests it (what he calls a malicious campaign) to this day.

It is a different matter