My School Days – Titbits
My elder sister and I joined
Ramakrishna Mission High School, Cherrapunji (known as Sohra now), Meghalaya, India, in 1965. She was admitted to Class V,
and I to Class III. The school building had cemented floors, but its walls and
roof were made of corrugated galvanized iron (CGI) sheets—though there was a
proper ceiling. The school had two sections: the Khasi Section and the Bengali
Section. I belonged to the Bengali Section.
Each morning began with a prayer
in the Khasi Section. After that, the Bengali students would proceed to their
designated classrooms. One interesting thing I remember is that our class had
just two benches—one for Class III and the other for Class IV. The second
period was English, taught in a different classroom. I clearly remember
refusing to move for the English class because I liked the teacher who took the
first period!
That day, when I returned home, my first comment was: “Mom,
all the students in the school (I meant the Bengali Section) are Sylhetis — only
my sister and I are Bengalis!”
From Class VII onwards, we began
to have combined classes. However, Bengali students wrote their answers in
Bengali and used Bengali textbooks. Since the classes were now taught in
English, we were clearly at a disadvantage. I particularly remember struggling
during lessons on the Indus Valley Civilisation and the Aryan
Civilisation. I couldn’t locate the chapters in my textbook, only to
realise they were listed as Sindhu Sobhyota and Aarjyo Sobhyota!
Thankfully, my sister came to my rescue.
One day in Class VII, our history
teacher was absent. Swami Gokulanandaji, the Secretary Maharaj, entered our
classroom. When he learned it was supposed to be a history period, he asked for
a textbook. Since I was seated in the front bench, he asked me. Gathering some
courage, I told him I had a Bengali textbook. He looked surprised. “You’re
good at English. Why are you studying in Bengali medium?”
That marked a turning point. From then on, I started writing my answers in
English.
Until my board exams, I often
heard: “A Bengali student is not allowed to write answers in English.”
But in the following batch, all Bengali students wrote in Bengali. Then, in the
batch after that, just one Bengali student wrote in English — and after that,
it became the norm. I owe that turning point to Swami Gokulanandaji Maharaj.
I recall another incident from
Class VII. We were having a class in the Science Laboratory, located in the
Technical Building, when the Inspector of Schools arrived, accompanied by Swami
Gokulanandaji Maharaj. The inspector asked, “Why does Cherrapunji receive so
much rainfall?”
I knew the answer, but I didn’t know the English term monsoon
air. In Bengali, we called it moushumi baiu — baiu, meaning air,
and moushumi meaning monsoon. Swami Gokulanandaji turned to me and asked
me to respond. I began hesitantly: “Sir, the moushum air…” Bengalis
normally pronounce ‘s’ as ‘sh’, so it must have sounded like ‘mousum’, very close to
monsoon.
He nodded and said, “Yes, the monsoon air…”
That gave me the confidence to complete the answer. The School Inspector and
Swamiji left the classroom smiling, and I was overjoyed.
Years later, I did marry a Mousumi!!!
These may seem like small
incidents, but they shaped my journey—moments of hesitation turned into steps
of confidence.
I also recall an incident from Class VI that, even today, brings a mix of disbelief and laughter. One particularly mischievous student managed to climb through an opening in the ceiling above our classroom. From there, he made his way up to the section above Class III. What followed was both shocking and absurd—he relieved himself right above the teacher’s table!
Needless to say, the chaos that
ensued was unforgettable. The poor teacher was stunned, the students erupted in
confusion and whispers, and the incident quickly became part of the school’s
unofficial folklore. Though utterly inappropriate, it was one of those bizarre
moments that stays etched in memory—not because of its humour alone, but
because of how unusual school life could be in those days.
In 1952, when the Foundation
Stone of the Technical Section building was to be laid, a momentous occasion
was at hand — the Prime Minister of India, Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru himself, was
scheduled to perform the ceremony. On the 20th of October, students were lined
up in anticipation of welcoming the distinguished guest. Known for his
punctuality, Pt Nehru typically arrived at least fifteen minutes ahead of time.
But on this particular day, he was delayed. Swami Shddhobodhanandaji Maharaj,
the then Secretary of the institution, was not the type to tolerate unpunctuality.
With firm authority, he declared, “Students, get back to your classes!” The
students dispersed, returning obediently to their classrooms.
When Pt Nehru finally arrived, he
found no students lined up to receive him. Visibly apologetic, he met Swami
Shddhobodhanandaji Maharaj, quietly laid the Foundation Stone, and departed
without addressing the students. Swami Shddhobodhanandaji Maharaj’s remark
echoed with resolve: “Students cannot be kept waiting.”
On one memorable occasion, a friendly football match was organized between the teachers and the students. The headmaster took up the position of goalkeeper for the teachers’ team. It was obvious from the outset that the students were the stronger side. However, none of them dared to score—held back by a mix of respect and fear for the headmaster. The teachers, too, failed to find the net. Then came the unexpected twist: the headmaster Maharaj, in a burst of mischief, tucked the ball under his lungi, walked straight into the goal, and calmly “scored.” Not a single student dared to challenge him! And just like that, the teachers’ team claimed victory.
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