When I was seven years old, I attended Holy Child School, a convent school in Jalpaiguri. It was the only decent school in the area. We had nuns there. Sister Agnes was the Principal.
Our school uniforms were as classic as they come: white shirts, red skirts, red ties, white socks, and black shoes. We looked like little Christmas ornaments, all lined up in neat rows.
Even though I was officially enrolled at the school, I spent more time out of school than in, off on adventurous trips and treks. School for me was a temporary pit stop between grand adventures. My education came from climbing rocks, crossing streams, and learning which plants not to touch, rather than from textbooks and homework assignments. While the other children were worrying about homework and tests, I was out there having the time of my life. I guess you could say I was getting an education in the art of living, one trek at a time.
Whenever I did spend time in school it was never without incident.
One such incident still haunts my lunch dreams. It was a sunny lunchtime, and I was standing in the school’s vast field, happily munching on my sandwich. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a massive eagle (bigger in size than I was at that time) —I’m talking wings the size of a small airplane—swooped down like it was auditioning for a National Geographic special and yanked my sandwich right out of my hand.
I froze, mouth half-open, half piece of bread hanging out, staring up at this epic bird as it flew off with my lunch. It was like the eagle had its own picnic planned, and my sandwich was the main course. I could hardly believe it! As the shock set in, I stood there, unable to move, thinking, “Did that really just happen? Did my sandwich really just get stolen by an eagle?”
After a few minutes, I realized I was not going to get that sandwich back. It was long gone, probably being enjoyed atop a tree by the bird. My stomach growled, my heart sank, and I slowly trudged back to the classroom, still in disbelief. No lunch, no sandwich, just a wild tale to tell. I guess if you’re going to lose your lunch, you might as well do it in a way that becomes legendary.
The school bus was my morning savior. It would roll up to our bungalow gate every morning like clockwork, its engine growling and exhaust puffing.
Once, on the way home from school, the bus made its usual stop at the bustling market, and one of the girl students got off. No idea what she had planned, but the next thing I knew, she fainted right there in the middle of the road, collapsing like a rag doll. The bus conductor, like Milkha Singh, dashed over and scooped her up, carrying her back to the bus like a sack of potatoes. A splash of water to the face brought her back to consciousness, and she seemed none the worse for wear. It’s funny how some memories stick with you. This one was definitely a “what just happened?” kind of moment.
If you’re looking for a school bus story with a twist, I’ve got just the one. When I was in Hyderabad, our school bus parked outside Grammar School, but I went to Rosary Convent, which meant a daily 10-15 minute walk to get to the bus. Sister Thelma was the Principal by the way, and she was the sweetest nun ever. So anyway, I was around 12 or 13 years old at the time, and this walk became something of a routine—until it didn’t.
My friends and I would make our daily trek through the streets, passing by Karachi Bakery and Cherma’s, but something was off—there were these boys who’d follow us, tailing us like we were celebrities, or worse, like they were up to no good.
After a while, it got pretty creepy, so I told Patel Ji, our bus driver, who also happened to be a police constable. Patel Ji nodded, and the very next day, he was ready to handle business. As we walked back to the bus, I saw him hiding behind a wall near Cherma’s, with only his face poking out. He was as usual in his uniform and holding a massive danda—a big police stick. He gave me a nod, like, “Where are those troublemakers?” I pointed out the boys who’d been following us, and that’s when the show started.
The moment those boys got near the wall, Patel Ji burst out like a storm, swinging his danda with the force of a thousand hammers. He beat them black and blue, literally. The boys ran for their lives, but Patel Ji chased them down the street. It was like watching a police action film, except this was real life. Those boys probably still have nightmares about the day they crossed paths with Patel Ji and his danda. Let’s just say they found other safer hobbies.
I wonder if boys kept a respectful distance from me all through school and college because they were too scared of the police danda!
