"Do you remember our 9th std class?" Harish asked suddenly.

"Yes, yes," I replied eagerly. "It was the only class in the school with stairs."

And do you remember the great white bench debacle?" said Harish, eyes twinkling with nostalgia.

"Who would forget that?" I replied, shaking my head at the sheer folly of youth.

"You remember the day when there was an inspection of class benches," Harish prompted, "and we were planning to swap our bench with Smruti's?"

Ah, those were the days!

Ah, the joys (and occasional perils) of being a last-bencher! Harish and I, perched at the very back of the class, were practically invisible to the teacher's eye. This, of course, gave us ample opportunity to indulge in our hobbies. I, a devoted comic book aficionado, devoured tales of superheroes and talking animals. Harish, ever the artistic soul, wielded his trusty pen – and sometimes a more, shall we say, interesting geometry instrument. This instrument, known as a compass, was originally intended for the noble pursuits of drawing circles and comparing line lengths. But Harish, a Picasso in the making (though perhaps not yet reaching the heights of the master), saw its potential for something grander. The pointed end of the compass became his artistic tool, transforming our humble bench into a canvas for a menagerie of comic book characters – Mandrake, the Phantom, Mickey and Minnie, Donald Duck, the whole gang! One fine day, our artistic endeavors were rudely interrupted. The vice principal, a stern woman with a perpetually disapproving air, swept into the classroom. Apparently, whispers of "graffiti" had reached her ears, tales of benches in other classes being defaced. "Tomorrow," she declared, her voice dripping with suspicion, "a team and I will be conducting a thorough inspection of every bench in this school." Harish and I were in a right pickle. Our good friend, Prashant Mahajan, a resourceful chap known for his ability to solve any classroom crisis, came to our rescue. "Don't fret," he declared reassuringly. "Tomorrow, I'll bring sandpaper. You just scrub off those drawings before anyone arrives."

Early birds that we were, Harish and I arrived at school the next day, well ahead of schedule. Prashant, ever the loyal friend, joined us shortly after, brandishing a piece of sandpaper for each of us. With newfound determination, channeling our inner Daniel-sans learning karate from Mr. Miyagi (though perhaps not the wisest choice for removing graffiti), we began to scrub. Half an hour of dedicated (and slightly misguided) effort later, we surveyed our handiwork with horror. The drawings were gone, certainly, but so was the original color of the bench! We'd scrubbed it so diligently that it was now a glaring white monstrosity, standing out like a sore thumb amongst its brown brethren.

The laughter that erupted from our classmates was enough to mortify us. Thankfully, the vice principal and her team never materialized. But the next few days were spent under a constant state of anxiety. We tried washing the white away, switching benches with unsuspecting classmates – even the fairer sex offered us nothing but withering looks of disapproval. Our once-beloved bench had become a white elephant, a constant reminder of our artistic overreach.

Luckily, time, that great healer, eventually came to our rescue. Slowly, subtly, the white bench began to blend in with the others. The laughter died down, and life returned to normal. But the memory of our Great White Bench Debacle remains etched in our minds, a cautionary tale for all aspiring classroom artists.