Harish suddenly said, "I saw a movie a few days ago in which a scientist turned his colleague’s friends into frogs, one by one. The colleague complained to the boss, and the scientist was sacked."

I raised an eyebrow. "Why on earth would someone do that?"

Harish shrugged. "Simple. No boss in his right mind would want his juniors turned into frogs."

"Point taken," I said. "But my question was—why did the scientist turn his colleague’s friends into frogs in the first place?"

"Ah, because the colleague had already turned the scientist’s friends into chickens."

I pondered this for a moment. "Seems fair enough," I admitted. "But then, my friend, you clearly haven’t heard of the Great Drama between Moushimi and Vikram."

Harish narrowed his eyes. "You mean Vikram had turned Moushimi’s friends into frogs? I don’t believe it. Vikram, for all his faults, wasn’t capable of that sort of thing. Prashant, maybe. But not Vikram."

I sighed. "No, no. It would have been perfectly easy for me to say that Vikram had indeed transformed a few of Moushimi’s friends into animals. And between you and me, I did once hear Deepa say ‘Meow’ instead of ‘Yes, Madam’ during roll call. Might have been a genuine mistake, but still..."

Harish looked at me suspiciously. "Get to the point."

"Ah, but where’s the fun in that?" I said, settling in to tell the tale.

One of the most heated debates in human history, ranking just below the Treaty of Versailles and just above the eternal "Who left the light on?" argument, took place in Class 10A of our beloved KHS.

The protagonists of this epic saga? None other than Moushimi, the upright and diligent class monitor, and Vikram, the ever-resourceful leader of the usual suspects.

It all began when Moushimi, fulfilling her solemn duty as a guardian of classroom discipline, scrawled a name on the blackboard. A member of Vikram’s gang had dared to indulge in the ancient and highly illicit art of whispering during class. Naturally, justice had to be served.

Vikram, a man of principle (his own principles, mind you), found this completely unacceptable. A swift countermove was required. Without missing a beat, he grabbed the chalk and inscribed a name of his own—Payal’s.

At this point, battle lines were drawn. On one side, Moushimi, standing for law, order, and general righteous indignation. On the other, Vikram, the Robin Hood of KHS, fighting for the freedom of his comrade. The tension was palpable.

A fierce debate ensued. Words flew, fingers were pointed, and in all likelihood, a few innocent bystanders got dragged into the crossfire. Vikram, ever the negotiator, made an offer: strike his friend’s name from the board, and he would graciously erase Payal’s.

Moushimi, however, was not one to bow to blackmail. The whole affair snowballed into an argument so grand in scale that for a brief moment, one could almost hear the theme of a courtroom drama playing in the background.

What was the resolution, you ask? Well, like all great historical conflicts, it eventually fizzled out—most likely when the teacher walked in, glared at the blackboard, and erased the entire thing with a sigh of long-suffering patience.

Petty? Perhaps. Foolish? Certainly. But in the grand chronicles of school life, these were the moments that truly mattered.