One lazy Sunday morning, several months back, my pal Harish dropped by unannounced. After the usual pleasantries and Harish devouring half a dozen of my mother's beloved laddoos, we delved into reminiscing about our school days.

Both of us held our alma mater in high esteem, though our academic trajectories diverged. Harish, seemingly content with his studies, and I, well, I fancied myself adequate until reality struck. My forte, as it turned out, was impeccable attendance—barely a handful of absences in twelve years.

To the casual observer, our school, KHS, wouldn't have turned heads. It lacked the grandeur of posh establishments, devoid of expansive playing fields. Yet, what it lacked in physical splendor, it compensated for with boundless spirit. We had a jolly good time, far more enjoyable than any school with fancier facilities.

Our teachers, though few in number, were devoted souls bent on molding us into top-notch scholars. And those ordinary classmates of ours? They turned out to be splendid fellows, each carving their own niche, steadfast friends who stood by you through thick and thin.

Take Vikram, for instance, the unofficial leader of our class—a benevolent dictator, settling disputes and lunchtime negotiations with unwavering authority. His word was law, whether resolving conflicts among mates or orchestrating rebellions against the occasional tyrannical teacher.

"Speaking of lunchboxes," Harish interrupted, flipping through an American comic strip in the newspaper. "Do you recall the type I carried?" I promptly replied, "A rectangular steel box, six by four inches, with sturdy clips." Curious about others, Harish inquired about Tushar's and Deepa's, each evoking nostalgic recollections of oval steel and small plastic containers.

We reminisced about Nilesh's mom's delectable dahiwade and Ashok's mom's delightful idlis, treats shared among friends. Suddenly, amid our chat, Harish mused about the possibility of kissing booths, inspired by what he had just noticed in the American comic strip Archies.

"I hope not," I remarked. "The thought of any physical intimacy with a bhoot—Ashok's escapade in tenth standard, remember?" Harish chuckled, "Did Ashok really kiss a bhoot?" I waved off my hand, clarifying that it was mere gossip.

"Well, it would have been a simpler tale to tell," I grinned, "but let me recount the whole affair..."