"I don’t know whether my age authorises me to write these reminiscent pieces, but yet the world and especially the city (Kanpur) has undergone such an enormous changes in front of my young eyes, that I feel that I have aged centuries.

This column is not a memoir but a chronicle of life from a pair of curious eyes. I remember I used to go to my school, Methodist High School in Kanpur , in the poash locality of Cantoment. A cocky youngster, dressed in a white half-shirt and indigo blue pants, with a faded blue tie with white stripes. The hair dishevelled, the shoes unpolished and the sock week old.

 Taking the short route to the school, listening to anthem being sung by the selected few students on the terrace of the school, administered by a batch of teachers, the sturdy Paul teacher and the fatty Mrs. Roga madam (a french lady). Get into the congregation of the boys trying to avoid the eyes of the principal Father C.V Innues and seldom successful, the calendar out and another late remark inspite of numerous pleas.

The classes start and the teacher towering with a wooden ruler in her hand, trying to shove the lessons down our brains. The hum of laughter from the adjoining classes and we smiling at the jokes being cracked there without knowing them at all.

The fans and a cooler which made more noise and circulated little of air. Peeping out of the windows and seeing the Army personals going for pared or whatever (I never understood), waiting for the teacher to relent. Thank you teacher and the period ends a minute of liberty to celebrate before Mrs. Meneezes starts blabbering about morals and community living.

The class jester Zuzar asking a silly question, the teacher frowns and we all snigger. The bell tolls and off we rush, first to the water cooler, the only of its kinds in the vicinity of our section and the pride of the junior section, a long line and finally a glass of rationed water.

Rush back to the canteen where Deepak not so old man with silvery grey hair selling our lunch (mainly noodels and puri sabji), for five rupee. Sometimes Dosa's some times Idli, always on a square piece of paper, then use to tear out due to the wet chatni. The jostling and the cajoling of friends to share their delicacies. The bell rings again and we rush to our classes back.

The boring lectures start, the pathetic maths and the sillier science (though I loved physics --> curtsy Mr. Abrahem). Finally our knight in shining armour Tiwari sir appears and takes the whole bunch onto the terrace, for a round of PT exercises or Physical training. 15 minutes of 1,2,3 and 4 and then 45 minutes to play Basketball in teams or either we settle for Criket.

Tired and famished, another long wait for the bell to ring and Ashok the old peon clangs the cymbals and we rush only to be chastised by the grouchy Roga mam to fall into a line. While going down I frisk some chalk and gloat over my luck. Still have some rupees left, 5 rupees for the Bhel and 2 rupees for churan and I saunter down home, sniggering and relieved of the torture for the day.

Homework :-( , then what are the remark columns in the calendar meant for, I preferred Phantom and Mandrake anytime to Pluto and Mahatma"