Harish, in a moment of rare philosophical inquiry, asked if I remembered the nicknames we had bestowed upon our fellow students and teachers.

“Not just the nicknames, my dear friend,” I replied, “but also the various instruments of torture our beloved educators employed to keep us on the straight and narrow!”

The Faculty & Their Favored Artillery

Years of tradition (and some bruised backsides) ensured that every teacher had both a nickname and a preferred method of instilling discipline:

• Pittya (P.T. Sir Ogale) – This sporting gentleman believed in hands-on training. His weapon of choice? A rope tied to his whistle, which he wielded with the accuracy of a seasoned cowboy.
• Raodi (Rao Madam, both morning and afternoon versions) – The title may have originated from Rowdy, but the moniker was well-earned. Her expertise? A mean slap that could send even the toughest student into an existential crisis.
• GC (Geeta Chandran, the French teacher) – The school’s resident beauty, GC had a curious fondness for launching chalk dusters with sniper-like precision. If you dodged one, congratulations—you had reflexes worthy of the Indian cricket team.
• Akka (Usha Kulkarni Madam) – Her hands were weapons of mass destruction. A slap, a firm twist of the arm—she was a one-woman disciplinary committee.
• Hema Kulkarni, the school’s favorite – Universally adored, but heaven help you if she decided to pinch your wrist. Gender made no difference—the pain was democracy in action.
• Kolhe Sir, the undisputed champion – His bare hands delivered such thundering smacks that forensic experts might classify them as culpable homicide. A single whack could have made an excellent earthquake simulator.

The Students & Their Dubious Titles

But teachers were not the only ones with names of legend. The students, too, had their fair share of colorful epithets:

• The Famous Five – Now, Vikram claims he coined this title, but in the interests of historical accuracy, I must clarify that Harish and I were the true originators. We christened Deepa, Moushmi, Payal, Prachi, and Nimisha with this title in 7th grade. But I, with my superior foresight, had warned: “If another joins, you’ll need a new name!” Naturally, Vikram dismissed this wisdom. And sure enough, when Sonia joined in 8th, one of them had to be removed. Nimisha was removed because she had her bench a bit far from the others. The Secret Seven never materialized. A lesson in poor planning, if there ever was one.

Other Distinguished Personalities:

• Vikram – Dada, Vickybhai (he tried for “Don Vikram” but it never caught on).
• Abhijit – Khopdi
• Abhinandan – Nandan, Sarpati (because no school nickname list is complete without something vaguely reptilian).
• Nilesh – Chenu (origin story lost to history).
• Tushar – Tosh (possibly British influence, though he himself was unaware).
• Shreyas – Cheval (horse in French, and presumably, in personality).
• Ashok – Noy-Noy (meaning still unknown).
• Pranesh – Prantya (classic Marathi nickname evolution).
• Prashant – PM (rememebr this guy, he is going to come back again and again)

Wisdom from a New Generation

Recently, in a moment of nostalgia, I remarked to my niece:

“Moushmi, Deepa, Smruti, Trupti, Manjiri (of course, Kulkarni) were girls. You are all kids.”

To which she, with the clarity and brutal honesty of youth, replied:

“No, Mama. They were also kids. You just thought they were more mature because you were a kid yourself.”

I had no comeback.