Harish and I found ourselves flipping through an ancient copy of Readers Digest, its pages yellowed. Our attention was drawn to an article detailing the infamous Ugandan despot, Idi Amin, and his rather unsavory reputation involving cannibalism.
Harish old chap, whats your take on this fellow Amin? I queried. Harish pondered for a moment, squinting at the page as if it might provide answers to lifes deeper mysteries. Well”. That was all he said.
Quite so, I nodded sagely. But if you had witnessed Rahuls lunchtime exploits, you might have maintained this silence about him instead.
Rahul? Our classmate Rahul? Harish’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.
Yes, indeed, I continued, warming to the topic. Not that Rahul is a cannibal, mind you. But Colonel Sam Trautmans words about Rambo came to mind He could eat things that would make a billy goat puke. Rahul had a way with ham cutlets that could rival the appetite of a lumberjack after a day in the forest.
Harish chuckled, his laughter echoing through the hall. Ham cutlets? At school?
Absolutely, I confirmed with a grin. Vikram christened him Hamlet for this . Harish said, “He was a pioneer, that Rahul. While we guys cycled to school on old boneshakers, Rahul skated down F.C. Road like a dashing cavalier on wheels.”
Skated to school? mys eyes widened with amusement. He really was ahead of his time.
Before Rahul, girls and boys were like ships passing in the night. He broke the ice by waltzing up to the ladies with a charm that could rival Casanovas. Single-handedly, he transformed our class into a unified force. I still remember when he went to the young ladies and inrtoduced himself and we were like … agast. He was the original school diplomat.
Harish chuckled again, leaning back in his chair. Youre right. Rahul had a knack for making friends. I remember how he nicknamed Tushar as Tosh , and it stuck like glue forever.
But Rahul wasnt just a gastronomic guru. He could checkmate you in chess, out-debate a barrister, and still find time to discuss martial arts with me for hours on Prabhat Road.
And he never stopped talking? Harish said raising an eyebrow, amused.
That is the misconception people have. He doesn’t like to talk. He likes to bring interesting thing on the table. If you can’t he will. But then don’t complain he talks much.
Sounds like quite the character, Harish remarked fondly. Late bloomer, you say?
Indeed, I nodded, reminiscing. Like a fine wine, he and Kapil who joined us later added a splash of color to our school days. They were fashionably late to the party, but boy, did they bring the fireworks.
Harish chuckled, closing the aged magazine with a sense of nostalgia. Some classmates are unforgettable, arent they?
“And what about Kapil?” asked Harish.
Harish, who had just folded his arms and was preparing to deliver a verdict of national importance, looked solemn.
“If Rahul was the original John Rambo of our class,” I began, “then Kapil was definitely Tom Cruise.”
A pause. I raised an eyebrow. “What?”
Harish looked momentarily stunned, like a man who has found out that someone else also claimed to have walked on the moon. “I… I thought I was Tom Cruise,” he said, eyes wide with the pain of betrayal.
“Relax,” I said, patting his shoulder in a gesture worthy of a Raj Kapoor melodrama. “You were Tom Cruise. No one can take that from you. You even flew a glider.”
Harish brightened. “And one-handed too,” he added, demonstrating with one hand on an imaginary glider’s joystick and the other casually dangling in the breeze. “I have thousands of flying miles to my credit.”
“Of course,” I nodded gravely and said softly “All logged in as a passenger”.
“But seriously,” I continued, “Kapil became popular within months. He was the cool guy, the Tom Cruise of Pune. I remember the time a theft occurred near Kohinoor Mangal Karyalaya. The thief darted into Ashutosh’s lane and, realizing he was being chased, lobbed the stolen chain into some bushes near the canal—probably planning to retrieve it later. Clever chap, really.”
Harish leaned forward, interested. “And then?”
“Kapil, en route to his Hindi tuition, saw it happen. Did he scream? Did he panic? No. He simply made a mental note, cycled ahead like a postman on a schedule, and shortly saw the thief being nabbed. Now, the crowd was about to release the fellow since no stolen goods were found on him. Just as they were dusting him off and preparing an apology, in swooped Kapil—pointed silently at the bush, and sure enough, out came the chain.” And Kapil pedalled away.
“He didn’t wait for thanks?” Harish asked.
“Didn’t even slow his cycle,” I said. “That, my friend, was Niswarth Seva Bhav in motion.”
“Beautiful,” Harish whispered. “Like a scene from a Rajshri film.”
“He was soft-spoken too,” I added. “He taught me how to speak with people—not just in public, but inside the house too. Courtesy, grace, restraint—he showed it all. I’m not exaggerating when I say he was my first real teacher. The one who made me a better person.”
Harish whistled low. “That’s deep.”
I nodded. “It is.”
He stood up, stretching. “Right then, see you next Saturday and Sunday.”
Absolutely, I said, settling back in the chair.