It was one of those Mondays, the sort that arrives with the grace of a tax notice and the charm of a bad omelette. Harish, perched upon the swingy-legged edge of his chair, peered over the rim of the newspaper and said gravely,
“Shantanu, did you read this? The police in some U.S. state have finally nabbed a teacher who used to thrash students.”

I, pausing mid-bite of a particularly dry khari biscuit, said, “If that sort of thing is a jailable offence, then Kolhe Sir would’ve got life imprisonment. Possibly with no parole.”

Now, for those unfamiliar with our beloved Marathi—let me just mention that in Marathi, Kolhe translates, with poetic precision, to wolf. And if ever a man embodied the spirit of the lone, dangerous predator of the steppes, it was our mathematics teacher.

The day had begun with the usual Monday blues, the kind that made one question the very purpose of attending school. But any hopes of a light English lecture were unceremoniously dashed—like a sandcastle under a rogue wave—when Kolhe Sir walked in and declared, with the gentle finality of a hangman, that he’d be taking the next three periods.

Now, when Kolhe Sir has three consecutive periods, one doesn't merely attend class—one enters survival mode.

Roughly halfway through, the carnage commenced. It was less a lecture and more a live demonstration of Newton’s laws, particularly the third. Gautam was the first casualty.
“I’m fainting,” he gasped dramatically, clutching his head. “I think I’m going to die.”
In another corner, Ankur was muttering a small eulogy for his bruised pride and scalp.
Ashutosh had taken one across the temple and was seeing geometry where there was none.

Suddenly, a sharp yelp rent the air—female. I leapt up, gallant as a knight errant, fearing for Deepa or Prachi. Alas, it was someone else. But in fairness to Kolhe Sir, he was a gentleman and used a ruler on the girls instead of his open palm—chivalry, after all, was not dead.

My own act of gallantry, however, drew his wolfish attention. Two resounding thwacks landed on my head before I could blink. But the crowning episode of the day belonged, without doubt, to Pranesh.

Now Pranesh was not your everyday troublemaker. Oh no. If rebellion were an Olympic event, Pranesh would’ve made the national team. Where most boys forgot homework out of laziness or distraction, Pranesh did it deliberately, with a philosophical detachment.

“Have you done the homework I gave last Monday?” Kolhe Sir asked, his voice the calm before a typhoon.

Pranesh, true to form, had not.

Kolhe: “Monday passed,” came Whack #1.
“Tuesday passed,” Whack #2.
“Wednesday,” Whack #3.

And so on, each day receiving its own ceremonial tap—with the precision of a Swiss clock and the ferocity of an angry tabla maestro.

By the time we got to Sunday, Pranesh looked like he had been gently rolled under a municipal road-roller.

And just when we thought the symphony was done, Kolhe Sir launched into a wild taka dhimi taa encore, delivering an extra batch of blows for reasons best known to the mystical realm of maths teachers.

The bell finally rang, merciful as a presidential pardon. Kolhe Sir departed, leaving behind stunned silence and one very flattened Pranesh. Nobody dared go near him. It was as if Kolhe had marked the boy with an invisible curse—anyone who approached might suffer the same fate.

Except Vikram. Good old Vikram, bold as brass, went over, patted him on the shoulder and offered silent solidarity.

Harish, dabbing at his eyes as if someone had just played a soulful ghazal, asked me, “Did Pranesh change?”

I replied, as philosophically as I could, “Nothing changes except change. Pranesh remained Pranesh. So did Gautam, Ankur, Alhad, and the rest of us.”

And somewhere in heaven, I’m certain, Kolhe Sir still exists—waiting in some staff room, ruler in hand, ready to ask the next unsuspecting soul about last Monday’s homework.