BENGALURU: I was turning thirteen in May that year. My best friends were Azhar Khan, who was my age; Brian Adams, who was a year younger; and Cyrus Satralkar, who was the youngest. We called ourselves the ‘Fearsome Four’, although there was nothing very fierce about us.
Since the death of my father two years previously, I’d been going through a different period, adjusting to my stepfather’s home in Dehra and learning to cope with the world at large. Although a shy boy, I needed friends, and I was quick to respond to those who offered me friendship.
Azhar was a quiet, soft-spoken boy. He came from the North-West Frontier Province, but there was nothing unruly or rough about him, as many might have imagined. Satralkar was the smallest boy in his class. I think he was Iranian. Brian’s home was in Bangalore. We were not in the least interested in each other’s religions or regional backgrounds. Adults seemed to think it important; but at thirteen, friendship and loyalty seemed to matter more.
The catalyst for our bonding was that early -morning rouser for PT. For some reason— or different reasons—the four of us overslept one morning and failed to turn up on the first flat for our exercises. Our absence was duly reported by a senior prefect, and we were summoned to the headmaster’s study for the usual punishment. At least three strokes of the cane were to be expected.
Poor Satralkar had never been caned before. Adams had received several floggings. He was something of a hero in this respect. The more often you were punished, the higher your prestige in the corridors of our ancient school. Azhar and I were not often in trouble, but in the course of our long academic careers (five years in junior school and one in senior!) we had felt the flat of the hairbrush and the sting of the Malacca cane a few times.
‘Now, take my advice,’ said Brian, from his vast background of experience. ‘Slip a couple of books down the seat of your pants. Old Fishy won’t notice. They’ll absorb some of the sting!’ We took his advice, but Satralkar wanted further insurance and rushed up to the dormitory to put on an extra pair of woollen underpants. At least that was allowed.
We trooped off to the headmaster’s study. Mr Fisher stared at us through his thick-lensed spectacles.
Even when he had his back to us, he could see us in the reflection from his lenses. Old Fishy never missed anything
‘Bend over, Adams.’
Brian Adams bent over—whack! The cane descended, giving off a rather hollow sound.
‘Something tucked away in your trousers’ seat? Out with it, Adams.’ Pulling a face, Brian removed two exercise books from the seat of his trousers. Whack! Whack!
‘Ow, sir!’ The third stroke was applied with a little more energy than the first two.
‘Next!’
Azhar prepared for the punishment. Fisher tapped him on the seat of his pants. ‘Out with it, boy!’
Reluctantly, Azhar fished out a textbook— Shakespeare’s As You Like It, with notes by Prof. Agarwal.
‘I see you’re taking an interest in literature,’ said Fisher. ‘Well, see if you like this too,’ and Azhar manfully received three strokes of the cane.
‘Your turn, Bond. But first let’s have a look at what you’re reading these days.’
Excerpted from Coming Round the Mountain by Ruskin Bond, with permission from Penguin Random House.