Assorted Fun in Jamia School

During 80's

A Basket of Seasonal Joys

As an assortment of entertainment during school days, there were many inclusions to our basket. Although seasonal, they were an important part of student life, beside the curriculum. These were not lessons taught in classrooms. These were lessons taught by trees, by grounds, by the changing seasons, and by the simple act of being a boy with time on his hands and hunger in his belly.

Many types of trees were part of our school campus. Gul Mohar, Shehtoot, Bel Paththar, and Jungle Jalebi. I don't know their botanical or English names. I never needed to. I knew them by their fruit, by their taste, by the memories they gave me.

The Red and the Tangy

It was our favorite activity to enjoy the flower of Gul Mohar. We used to pelt stones to take those buds out from the tree to eat. They were simply delicious due to their tangy taste. I don't remember a year without eating these flowers during my stay in school.

It was a real beauty to see the flourished, colorful Gul Mohar tree with green branches and red flowers on them. Those trees were all over, but densely situated on the peripheral way to the Fine Arts department. We would walk that path slowly, eyes scanning the branches, hands searching for the perfect stone. The aim had to be precise. Too soft, and the bud would not fall. Too hard, and it would be crushed before it reached us.

Thok.

One falls. We scramble. We peel the petals back, bite into the base. That sharp, tangy burst on the tongue. Sour. Sweet. Alive. We never missed a year. Not one.

Jungle Jalebi

Jungle Jalebi. I don't have its English name, but those who know it by this name might have their mouth full of water.

Scorching and sizzling summer never was a hurdle for those who liked to enjoy this unique fruit. The back side of Baghbani in middle school, next to Bhopal ground, was the location to find Jungle Jalebi. Since the branches have thorns, it was damn difficult to climb and pluck the fruit. Ghulail or good aimers were always having an advantage to get more in less time.

I still remember collecting Jungle Jalebi along with Kamil Hasan, Mohammed Talib, Shakeel, Muqeed, and others in Bhopal ground. We were a gang of hungry marksmen. Summer heat? What summer heat? We were boys. We had fruit to bring down.

Bel Paththar

Bel Paththar. These trees were under secured mode and guarded properly due to their fruit and healing benefits. A few of them were situated in Baghbani of middle school, and in Baghbani of Faujdar Saheb, in between the school field and Jamia nursery.

In Baghbani, it was Baba Din who made it very difficult for us to steal this fruit, and it was next to impossible with Faujdar. A group of four to five people was always ideal to execute this mission. Lookouts. Climbers. Runners. One wrong move, and the stick found your back.

I think I have mentioned in one of my posts earlier about a Bel Paththar falling on one of my friends. Heavy. Merciless. We laughed later. Much later. Once we ditched Baba Din and got at least two pieces of fruit, it used to be a party time. But it was equally dangerous to climb the tree, as all the fruit-bearing branches were weak and there was always a risk of fall.

Kammu ka Khet

Kammu ka Khet. On the way to Jamia College from the store, just after Maktaba Jamia, where MCRC is situated now, there was a big piece of land. Very fertile and always green with seasonal vegetables and fruit trees. Barricaded by wired fence and Kammu's vigilant plus violent approach, it was very difficult to sneak through and try something that violated Kammu's commercial interests.

But as usual, we always broke through his fence to steal Amrood, mainly, and sometimes Gaanth Gobhi. By the time he traveled 20-25 meters almost running, we were already through with a few guavas on the road. The math was simple. He took time to reach us. We needed seconds to grab and run.

Sometimes the calculation proved wrong and a few got caught. And a few got the taste of his batten instead of guava. The impact of hitting with a stick, although bad and painful, was controllable. But being trapped with Kammu was very bad, because finally one had to bail out on parents' request or through a known person. That meant a lot of humiliation and firing.

Never mind. Kammu's Amrood were really good, and so were the Gaanth Gobhi, Gajar, and Mooli. Kammu used to sell fresh vegetables and fruit to Jamia employees and to the local market at reasonable rates. He was a businessman. We were thieves. But his Amrood were worth every risk.

Faujdar Saheb ki Baghbani

Faujdar Saheb ki Baghbani. It was very difficult to get access to his farmland for the purpose of stealing. All four sides were properly protected with barbed wire fencing, along with branches of Babool or Keekar. The only way possible to try was from the playground.

Mooli, Gaanth Gobhi, Gajar, Amrood, Jamun were big attractions of his orchard, and they were very tasty indeed. Another problem that made our mission more difficult was his two sons, Gulzar and Mukhtar. In fact, Mukhtar was with me, and his presence at all times made it very difficult to avail any fruit.

But I have never given up in my life, and so my friends were also hungry for those tasty fruits. We tried all means to find a passage. Finally, during hockey practice session, we found one. We properly inspected it for operation and then left it covered with tree branches for tomorrow.

The next day, I sneaked inside with Kamil to steal radish. We succeeded too. But at the time of returning, Faujdar Saheb noticed our unauthorized presence. He shouted and started running towards us, and we did the same. He recognized both of us. While escaping through barbed wire, I got my school shirt stuck and finally torn.

I enjoyed mooli with my friends, but worried about the shirt and what to say at home. My eyes blinked and I thought of an excuse, without knowing that Faujdar Saheb had already conveyed our activity to our parents. My mother asked me the reason. I lied to her. Knowing the facts, I got some nice imprints on my body and face.

I promised never to steal anything from anywhere in the near future. It was a promise based temporarily on emotions to find an escape route. I must admit that stealing Amrood, Mooli, Gajar, Gaanth Gobhi were really fun, and I never got the same taste since after leaving the school.

The Taste That Never Returned

I don't know whether Faujdar Saheb's plantation still exists, but Kammu's khet is now a part of our memories during our school days, to give way to MCRC.

As small Shehtoot were in abundance in Jamia, we found it easy to eat wherever and whenever required. However, the bigger version was available only at limited places.

While looking back, I wonder how people become very busy nowadays. We used to have plenty of time after school timings and used to sit in school for multiple activities. Maybe those days were more secure and parents had faith in the school.

I am sure many of you reading this have a similar past when it comes to the sweetness of an AMROOD. An Amrood stolen is never just an Amrood. It is a memory. It is a taste. It is a time that will never return.

Time out in campus-2 (1987-91)

The Curse of Being an Internal Some doors you enter with hope. Others, you enter with a noose already around your neck, only you don't know it yet. For many of us, entering the engineering faculty at Jamia Millia Islamia was that second kind of door. We didn't know it then, of course. We were young. We were eager. We had dreams in our eyes and fire in our bellies. We were ready to take on the challenges of life, ready to become engineers, ready to make our families proud. But dreams, I have learned, are fragile things. They can survive poverty. They can survive struggle. But they cannot survive the slow poison of prejudice. Those dreams were the first to evaporate. Not after the first semester. Not after the first few months. After just a few classes. It was not because of the course contents or any difficulty to understand them. The equations, the diagrams, the theorems, we could grasp them all. We were not stupid. We were not lazy. We were not unprepared. But there was something far more destructive than difficult subjects. It was the very bad behavior and biased attitude of many faculty lecturers who hailed from a particular institution. I will not name that institution. I don't need to. Those who know, know. Those who were there, remember. They were openly against all internals for reasons unknown, with the exception of a handful of lecturers who still remembered what it meant to be a teacher. Reasons that were never explained. Reasons that had nothing to do with our merit, our work, or our potential. They had decided who we were before we even opened our mouths. And no amount of proof, no amount of performance, could change their minds. This was the time when I experienced a totally new Jamia, although I was from the third batch after the commencement of B.Sc. Engineering course in 1984-85 by Prof. Ali Ashraf, the VC at that time. The Jamia I had known since childhood suddenly felt like a different place. It was still the same campus, the same buildings, the same corridors, but the people in power had changed. And they didn't want us there. I had grown up in this campus. I had played in its grounds, studied in its schools, breathed its air. Jamia was not just an institution to me. It was home. It was identity. It was the soil that had raised me. But suddenly, it felt alien. Cold. Unwelcoming. We were pioneers in a way, the first ones to walk a new path. But pioneers, I discovered, are often the ones who bleed first. It was a common practice of many lecturers to demoralize internals in the classroom, followed by an expulsion from the period. They would walk in, look at us with disdain, and before we could even open our notebooks, the taunting would begin. Let me paint you a picture. You walk into the classroom. You find your seat. You open your notebook. You wait. The lecturer enters. He doesn't look at the class. He looks at you. Specifically you. The internal. The one from Jamia School. The one who doesn't belong. And before you can even write the date on the top of the page, the taunting begins. "Some of you think you deserve to be here," he says, not looking at anyone in particular, but looking at all of us. "Some of you think because you studied in Jamia School, you have a right to this seat. Let me remind you. You don't." The words land like stones. You don't react. You can't. You just sit there, pen in hand, pretending to write, pretending it doesn't hurt. Then comes the expulsion. "You. Out. I don't want to see your face today." You gather your things. You walk out. The door closes behind you. And you stand in the corridor, alone, wondering what you did to deserve this. The answer is simple. Nothing. You did nothing. You were just born on the wrong side of their prejudice. There were exceptions though. Mr. Waqar, Mr. Masood Alam (Chemistry), Prof. Rafat (Physics), Mr. Afaq (English), and Mr. Idrees Qureshi (Maths) were really good. They acted like lecturers without any prejudice during my first year in 1987. They taught us, they guided us, they treated us like students. They were the reason some of us didn't give up. They were the reason some of us still believed that teaching was a noble profession. But they were few. The rest saw us as intruders. One person who stood out was Prof. Mubeen. He was the Dean of the Faculty of Engineering, and he was indeed a fair person. He could judge people for who they were, not for where they came from. He understood problems instead of creating them. That was the reason why he was considered a good Dean. In a faculty filled with bias, he remained neutral. In a storm of hatred, he was the calm eye. He gave us hope when hope was in short supply. But one man, no matter how fair, cannot fight an army. And the army was relentless. Whether it was Mr. Mehtab Alam, Mr. Shakeel, Mr. Gohar Mehmood, or anybody else, they were openly found discussing and disgracing JMI and the students coming from Jamia School. They would gather in the staff rooms, in the corridors, and talk about us as if we were a disease. "You know these Jamia School types," they would say. "They are all the same. Bad students. Political bugs. Miscreants. Disturbing elements." These were the labels they stuck on us. Without evidence. Without justification. Without even a single incident to back their claims. We were targeted. We were profiled. We were condemned. We were labeled as bad students, political bugs, miscreants, and disturbing elements by them, without even a single justification for their accusations. The day started with taunting and ended in disgrace. There was no escape. Every morning we would brace ourselves, and every afternoon we would carry the weight of their words back to our home or hostel. The whole first year we spent in real misery and the same attitude was thoroughly reflected in the sessional marks given by them. The numbers on the grade sheets were not a reflection of our ability, but of their prejudice. A student who answered every question correctly would still get a passing mark at best. A student who showed up every day would still be marked absent in their hearts. We were being graded not on our knowledge, but on our identity. It was in the second year when we started to sustain their accusations. Something shifted inside us. We learned that the problem was never us. It was them. We stopped breaking. We started surviving. And we never faced this kind of problem with external students. With them, we were just colleagues, just classmates, just part of the engineering faculty. The bias came only from those who had made it their mission to break us. Mechanical, Civil, and Electrical were the only trades available during our times, with priority to Mechanical, then Civil, and then Electrical. Initially, I was allotted Mechanical, but I changed my discipline to Civil and registered as the first student rolled back to Civil from Mechanical. It was a small decision, but it felt significant. I was choosing my own path. I was refusing to be defined by their expectations. There were many who adopted a policy to degrade internals in the classroom as their hidden agenda, but it was Mehtab Alam who came openly against us. He didn't hide his bias. He wore it like a badge. Mr. Shakeel from Hydraulics was no different. I still remember when he literally abused one of my classmates. We were sitting in the classroom. The lecture was going on. And then, for no reason at all, Mehtab Alam turned on one of us. His words were not criticism. They were not correction. They were abuse. Pure, unfiltered abuse. My classmate sat there, silent and dejected. The pain on his face was unbearable. You could see it in his eyes. You could feel it in the air. The humiliation was so thick you could touch it. And I couldn't resist. Something inside me snapped. The pain inside me grew until it had to come out. I voiced against Mehtab Alam. "Sir," I said, my voice shaking but my words steady. "You have no right to abuse anyone. You have no right to go personal." He was surprised because it was the first time when he was opposed by someone. A student and particularly an internal. He stared at me. The room went silent. You could hear a pin drop. He then emphasized on holding all of us for another six years in engineering. It was a threat. A promise of prolonged suffering. He wanted to break us. He wanted to make an example out of us. I took his challenge and told him to go for it. And he did. He targeted most of the internals and me in sessional marks. The grades were cruel, but we had no choice except to wait and pray. Finally, the long-awaited results came out. While taking the mark sheet from the office, he caught me along with his colleagues. Satirically, he asked me about my results. His smile was sharp. His eyes were mocking. He expected to see failure. He expected to see defeat. I looked at him. I looked at his colleagues. And I bluntly told him that I got passed and he failed. He didn't understand. Confusion replaced his arrogance. I elaborated further. "Mr. Mehtab, you have tried with your associates to hold me in the second year by giving very bad grades in sessional. But it is Allah's grace that I performed well and the exam grades are far better than yours. Therefore, never try to abuse anybody with or without reason. You will lose the respect of a teacher." The words hung in the air like a verdict. I walked away. But I didn't forget. Despite all kinds of abuse heaped by those people, there were few who always acted like a teacher. One of them was Mr. Rasheed Ahmed in Environment. In the fresher's party arranged by second year students, he was the only one who openly spoke a few words in favor of Jamia internal students. He mentioned, and I remember every word. "Please do not degrade internals in any specific way. They are no way inferior to any external in any regards. If we extend our trust on them, then we will find them performing better than anybody else in the college, not only in education but in other fields too." This statement took all others by surprise, the ones who belonged to a particular institution and formed a sort of mafia in JMI. They didn't expect one of their own to break ranks. They didn't expect a voice of reason in their chorus of hatred. But there were others who were not surprised. Mr. Khalid Moin, Mr. Nusrat Ullah Khan, Dr. Rafar, Mr. Waqar, Mr. Masood Alam, Dr. Idrees Qureshi, and Dr. Mubeen. They were the ones who had always been fair in their treatment to all students. They had always been teachers first. Mr. Rasheed's statement was a cold breeze in the midst of a desert. After years of scorching heat, after years of parched souls, we felt a sigh of relief. We felt seen. We felt valued. We felt human. And we committed ourselves to perform better. Not for them. For ourselves. For Jamia. For the ones who believed in us. It was one of the reasons that Engineering final year's results faded the faces of the mafia indulged in abusing internals. The toppers of Civil and Electrical in 1991 were from Jamia Senior Secondary School. The very internals they had tried so hard to break had risen to the top. It was poetic justice. It was sweet revenge. But more than that, it was proof. Proof that we were never inferior. Proof that we only needed trust, not criticism. Proof that Jamia's own could shine brighter than anyone else. It might be possible that all those names I mentioned above have become big bosses now. It might be possible that they have transformed themselves into unbiased entities now. People change. Or at least, they learn to hide their biases better. But they should not forget that JMI is the only institution which enabled them to attain high positions in academics and in society. It gave them everything. A platform. A name. A future. They must feel sorry for their behavior. Not for us. We survived. We thrived. We went on to build our own lives, our own careers, our own families. They must feel sorry for themselves. For the teacher they could have been. For the respect they lost. For the legacy they tarnished. As a person. And as a teacher.

Memory lane...JMI, Ansari Health Centre

The Doctor Who Thought She Was Indira Gandhi Some places you avoid because they are dangerous. Some you avoid because they are unpleasant. And some you avoid because they make you feel small, powerless, invisible. For many of us at Jamia Millia Islamia during the 1980s, that place was the Ansari Health Centre, and the person who made it feel that way was Dr. Asma. Ansari Health Centre is of course very established and advanced nowadays, but it was small with limited people during our days. The main people at the dispensary were Jafar Bhai (late), Sadaqat Bhai, and Dr. Asma. The worse part of the dispensary was Dr. Asma. The best was Jafar Bhai and Sadaqat Bhai. Two men who healed with their hands and their hearts. One woman who wounded with her indifference. Looking at the perspective of just a student with no great reference will put more light to my comment about Dr. Asma. She never considered herself lesser than Indira Gandhi, PM of India. In her mind, she was not a doctor serving a university. She was a queen ruling a kingdom. And we, the students, were merely subjects who had to wait for her grace. Whenever you go to her, for cough, fever, cold, or pain, she always keeps you waiting for a long time. The chairs outside her cabin were not seats of comfort. They were seats of humiliation. She gives preference to top grade people of JMI, like professors, readers, and then teachers. No matter how long the queue is, they always get instant entry upon arrival. You could be sitting there for an hour, fever burning your forehead, cough tearing your chest, and then a professor would walk in, and the door would open for him like magic. Sometimes, even other employees of Jamia get frustrated by this, but what to do? She was the only doctor available. Therefore, live or leave, it is all up to you. During checkup, she seldom put stethoscope and rarely touches you to examine anything. Your checkup is over without even looking at you and your prescription always remains self-explanatory of the discrimination in AHC by Dr. Asma. You always end up with diluted syrup from one gallon bottle with loose tablets of Vitamin C, yellow color B Complex, aspirin or paracetamol, and sometimes phenyl butazone. Those loose tablets in paper folds were not medicine. They were reminders. Reminders that you were not important. In contrary, any professor and top-grade employee or even acquaintance of Dr. Asma goes with fresh packed bottle and strips of tablets. The same dispensary. The same medicines. But two different worlds. Those were the issues, really annoyed many of us during those days. That's how I never got well even a single time by her prescription. Maybe the medicine was fine. Maybe it was the diagnosis that was missing. Or maybe, it was the dignity that was never prescribed. However, if you go to the dressing lab, the whole dispensary looks totally different. It was a different world altogether. A world where Jafar Bhai and Sadaqat Bhai ruled, and where even pain was treated with care. Jafar Bhai. He was an old man with black and white moustaches and an old fashion vision glasses. His smile was very bad and students always afraid to go to him. He always has either red or blue lotion for your injury and belladonna tape for boils. The problem was not with lotion or tape. The actual problem was his talking and handling your injury. The way he talks made you half-finished and balance after you come out of lab. You would walk in with a small cut and walk out feeling like you survived a battle. Despite all, nobody hated him ever. Yet, we don't like him but always respected him because he knows parents of every day scholar and warden of each hosteler. He knew us not as files or numbers, but as sons and daughters of people he knew. He is no more in this world now, but whenever I think of dispensary, I can't forget his eyes and smile. Sadaqat Bhai, an opposite equal of Jafar Bhai. Sadaqat Bhai was hot favorite. He was young compared to Jafar Bhai and was very quiet and calm person. Always listen and try to understand your problem. He also uses the same medicine but with a difference. People get little pain while handled by him rather than Jafar Bhai. His practical jokes of Jamia staff were also liked by many. With Sadaqat Bhai, you felt like a patient. With Jafar Bhai, you felt like a case. But both of them, in their own ways, cared. Once after facing a lot of frustration by Dr. Asma, I have decided to write my own prescription on card. I did it and pharmacist caught me and referred to Dr. Asma. It was the time when another fellow has joined AHC, Dr. Khalid. She summoned me and as usual threatened me of reporting the matter to school principal and consequences of getting expelled from the school. I was little afraid by this because, it was for sure that I did a big mistake and it will be difficult to get rid of this lady. Dr. Khalid asked me why you did this. I told him that, it was a long queue and I was getting late to class. She was attending to those not in line and also, I wanted to avail good medicines as we all are paying equal fee whether student or professor. She became defiant after listening to this and I had remained with no alternate to throw a "SORRY". Dr. Khalid came to my rescue and advised me to leave after saying sorry. I felt relaxed while coming out from dispensary and promised myself to never repeat mistake and never consult Dr. Asma. That was my last encounter with her and I never visited her due to available alternative. Stories keep coming to me during college days that she remained unchanged.

Jamia Middle School...Art Teacher (hafizuddin Sahib)

Some teachers teach you mathematics. Some teach you science and some teach you the art of keeping quiet. Hafizuddin Sahib belonged to the third category. He was our art teacher in Jamia Middle School, and while most of us never learned to draw, we all learned to fear one phrase. "Ek, Do, Teen (One, two, three), Khamosh!! (Quiet)" This was a normal hearing during art class conducted by Hafeezuddin Sahib to keep the students quiet during Art period in Jamia Middle School. It was not a request. It was not a suggestion. It was a warning. The countdown before the storm! Very tall, thin and slightly dark complexion man with conical shape beard, white skull cap (topi) and wasket of Khadi Gram Udyog. With this attire and a different attitude, Hafiz Sahib was altogether carrying a different persona in school. He looked like a man who had walked out of a different era, a different world, where art was serious business and students were meant to be seen and not heard. I don't remember exactly, but in nutshell he tried his level best to teach us art and many of us turned to be a big zero in arts including myself. The funniest thing we learned was his style to make the class quiet. Ek, Do, Teen was always an alarm to sealed the lips. But it was not an alarm that worked immediately. It was an alarm that had to be repeated. Again and again. Until the noise died. Until the chatter stopped. Until the class finally understood that playtime was over. As a steroid, he used to keep one stick always with him. In first attempt nobody cares to listen Ek, Do, Teen, until he repeat it three to four times before punishing the rest with the stick. Once he succeeds in keeping the pupil of first rows he moves to last rows allowing the first rows to start chatting again. Therefore, stick was always an effective and last resort. The stick was not just a tool. It was his third hand. His constant companion. His only ally in a classroom full of boys who would rather talk than draw. "Keep your drawing notebook, HB, HB1, B1 pencil, eraser, sharpener, water paints on the desk!" None of students ever has all the accessories available with them. After all these repeated frustrating non-cooperation from students, Hafizuddin Sahib used to remain determined towards his teaching. He would look at the empty desks, the missing pencils, the forgotten notebooks, and still, he would teach. Still, he would try. Still, he would believe. He then used to move on black board with chalk and a duster in hands. I never witnessed that he ever progressed more than three to four themes during my entire art classes. Every grade we move, he updates the same models and asked us to generate the same with a clear-cut understanding that we will never going to make up. He was right. I never generated more than three themes! Two cubes! Two cubes with a utensil! Human face outline! Scenery, Now the last option always comes when he left the choice on students with a topic to draw "Man pasand" (your choice). It was the best option for many of us. We never hesitate to draw a mountain, setting sun, a river coming down having a hut on the bank of it, a boat, and lot of grass, a palm tree and outline of many birds returning home. It was the same drawing every time. The same mountain. The same sun. The same hut. The same boat. The same birds. Maybe 100 times we drew it. And maybe 100 times, Hafiz Sahib checked it without complaint. Hafizuddin Sahib was patient enough to check all those repeated drawings with his remarks. During teaching and practicing, he taught us to adjudge the things in real and transform them on paper proportionately. Unfortunately, I never understood this funda despite of his grave efforts. I could see the mountain. I could see the sun. But I could never see what he wanted me to see. The proportion! The perspective! The art! Sometimes he beats the arrogant and dumb art students like me with duster, which in fact was painful. The duster would land on our heads, on our shoulders, on our palms. It was not violence. It was frustration. The frustration of a teacher who knew his subject but could not make his students see it. Girls were little sensible in their approach. Although they all were not very good in drawing but their works were neat, tidy and clean all the times that fetched them high marks. They understood something we boys never did. Art was not about talent. It was about effort. About neatness. About respecting the paper you were given. Hafiz Sahib was having a nick name given by Unknown but inherited to us by our seniors. "Chuggi Balla." I never understand the full meaning of it. However, it was really funny at that age to repeat this nick among friends. Maybe due to his height and type of beard someone has given this name. We would whisper it in corridors, laugh in corners, and feel like rebels for saying two words that meant nothing and everything. Although I know this is bad to give nicks to teachers but during school days, it was a normal practice and the one among few entertainments. If I regret at this age of that kind of attitude, then I will be denying a full student life. However, it can always be forgiven on the basis of childhood. We were not cruel. We were just children. Children who did not know better. Children who laughed at things they did not understand. Hafiz Sahib was the most wanted and busiest person during one day's school and Talimi Mela later. All the artworks, cutouts were under his supervision and students took benefits by working under his guidance. But there were few who slipped to his camp during those days just to grab a token in favor of canteen to grab tea and samosas. They would volunteer to help with the decorations, hold the scissors, paste the paper, and then disappear towards the canteen with their reward. According to Hafiz Sahib everything was an art. Therefore, few consider cheating him for the sake of samosa and tea as an ART! I was among those who believe in Samosa and tea at that time back in 1980's. I was not an artist then. I was not a painter. But I was a boy who loved samosas and understood that art could be found in many forms. Even in the art of getting a free snack.

Past tense....Jamia Senior secondary (half yearly exams)

One of my school friend came to see Dubai recently.
He called me on my mobile from a familiar number; I replied & heard his voice.
Was happy to hear & know that he will be here for few days, further elaboration, I heard many voices from background & understood that he was with many people around.
Suddenly he skip on subject “Friendship” & reminded me of something happened during 1986-87.
He claimed his generosity of being my friend despite I complained about him to examination branch 20 years back!
I yelled & reminded him that, it is not his generosity; it is my truth fullness that I accept openly to what I did & pointed to think about those cheaters, who was with me to make a complaint & immediately switched over like today’s politicians & told him the same under my name!
I called them cheaters & they are still pretended his well-wishers.
Any how, our telecon concluded in a healthy atmosphere.
What actually happened 20 years back was really interesting to key down.
Actually, our friend “X” father was in examination branch, holding responsible position.
After half yearly results, we came to know about his position in the class, which on actual academic grounds he never deserves.
All knew that X is not very intelligent or laborious to get such high marks, then how comes he secured such marks was indeed the question to every body.
BAM, HZS & I sat together & reach to a conclusion that X can’t do this without help of his father.
Jinn of honesty enveloped our mind.
We decided to protest against injustice & brought to the notice of controller of Exams.
Finally, agreed & we sat together in Noor Nagar to write a complaint.
They asked me to write down matter on paper after composing the whole matter.
Upon finishing, we sealed it in envelope, stick postage & dropped in one of Red post box.
As normal, one of the fellow double crossed & immediately went o X & told that Zubair has written a complaint about you about securing good marks & accusing you of getting help from your father.
Days, weeks, months gone by, nothing has happened.
We remain together as friends with growing discomfort.
Finally X revealed the secret after two years during one of heated discussion.
I was shocked at first instance not because of news but due to accusation that I was made sole responsible for that epic.
I made him very clear that yes I was the one who wrote the letter, but there were more behind the whole scenario.
The one was BAM, who once again shifted his loyalty.
Never mind, he has repeated many things years after & may be who knows, he has matured with the same frame of mind.
The core reason when he taunted at me about that particular happening of 1986-87 in 2007, I replied to him,
More dangerous is the one who has cheated you, not the one who did & accepted.
He did his BUMS instead of engineering & now a successful doctor.
He was in Dubai for a week, enjoyed a lot & we went many times in past to dig out things & events.
This time while going back to India, he understand many things for the first time in his life because his new friends bypassed & ignored him once again & he remained limited with me, bel paththar & Gheyas.
I will try to key down many other events with X in coming days.

Past tense....Jamia Middle School (Picnic)

There were days we dreaded going to school and then there were days we could not sleep because we were going to school. Picnic was that second kind of day. The announcement would come weeks in advance. A teacher would walk into the classroom, and before he could even finish the sentence, the room would erupt. Desks would bang. Hands would shoot up. Voices would overlap. Sir, I want to go!" "Sir, please include my name!" "Sir, my mother will pack samosas!" The teacher would try to restore order, but it was useless because once the word picnic entered the room, discipline walked out. That night, sleep became impossible. You would lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, going over the same thoughts again and again. Which tiffin will Ammi pack? Will she give me extra rupees? Who will I sit with in the lorry? What if Zaman Bhai leaves without me? What if I oversleep? The clock on the wall ticked slowly, cruelly, as if it was enjoying your restlessness. The whole night mind bubbles with Jamia ki lorry, different locations and a colorful day. Two days before the picnic, you were already useless. One day before, you were unbearable. On the morning itself, you were the first one awake, even before the azaan, even before the birds, even before the sun had decided to rise. Nice breakfast and Tiffin packed with something special by Ammi. The tiffin would be wrapped in a cloth, tied carefully, and handed over with instructions. "Don't lose it. Don't fight. Share with your friends." You would nod, not really listening, already halfway out the door. Few rupees to spend and a water bottle to carry was a sign that excitement has begun. It was mode of HURRY that attracts every single student to school on the day. Nobody walked. Everyone ran. The corridor/open space were full of boys and girls clutching tiffins and water bottles, comparing notes on what was packed inside. "What did you bring?" "Biryani. You?" "Parathas and omelette." "Can we share?" "Only if you give me your samosa." Deals were struck. Alliances were formed. And the classroom is full of chatting with smell of different food. The wait for the lorry was the longest wait of the year! We would rush to the windows, pressing our faces against the glass/grill, scanning the school road for the first glimpse. "Is it coming?" "No, that's a truck." "Wait... wait... yes! It's coming!" And there it was. Jamia ki lorry. The Chevrolet bus. Green and white. The inscription of Jamia Millia Islamia on the side and at the wheel, the man we all knew. Zaman Bhai. I remember, we used to wait and look outside from the window to see arrival of Jamia ki lorry, always driven by Zaman Bhai. That bus had carried generations of Jamia students before us. It had carried our seniors. It had carried our seniors' seniors and now it was carrying us. The paint was old. The seats were worn. The engine made noises that sounded like complaints. But none of that mattered. Because that bus was ours. Around 9-9.30 we used to get permission to board. The line would form, but it was not a line! It was a crowd! Everyone wanted to be first. Everyone wanted the back seat. Everyone wanted to sit next to their best friend. The teachers would try to bring order. "No pushing! No running! Everyone will get a seat!" But nobody listened. Because the back seat was the prize. The back seat was where the mischief happened. The back seat was where the laughter was loudest. Once seated in the bus with desired partner, we discuss about what food other has brought. The tiffin boxes would open even before the bus started moving. The smell of biryani, parathas, samosas, and sweets would fill the air. Hands would reach across seats. Fingers would grab. Mouths would chew and the sharing would begin. Lorry starts moving and big shouting by all. "Jamia ki lorry zindabad!" "Zaman Bhai zindabad!" The slogans were not planned. They were not rehearsed. They just happened. Because when you are young and happy and free, you shout. You shout because you can. You shout because it feels good. You shout because the day is yours. The first destination used to be Shankar's Doll Museum or Rail Museum, followed by Tughlaq Fort or Humayun Tomb. I personally like Rail Museum as I never had any interest for dolls. Dolls were for girls and few boys too Trains were for boys and the Rail Museum had trains. Big trains. Old trains. Trains that had carried people across the country before we were even born. We would walk through the museum in groups, our eyes wide, our necks craned. The steam locomotive that took tourists to Darjeeling was stationed there in our times. It was massive, black, and powerful, and we would stand before it, imagining what it must have been like to ride it through the mountains. There was also a locomotive with mono rail. I always wonder how it runs? How could a train balance on a single rail? We would ask the guide, but his answers never satisfied us. There were other displays too. Old signals. Old tickets. Old uniforms. But the toy train was the reward at the end. We would ride it around the museum grounds, laughing and shouting, and when it stopped, we knew the visit was over. After this, Lodhi Garden or Nehru Park was the next destination to play and have lunch. The gardens were our playgrounds. The lawns were our dining halls. The trees were our shade and by the time we arrived, we were hungry. Not just for food. Hungry for the grass under our feet. Hungry for the open sky above our heads. Hungry for the freedom that only a garden can give to a child. All the teachers and students sit together and open their Tiffin boxes to share among them. There were separate arrangements for hostlers from MATBAKH (Dining hall kitchen). The hostlers were the ones who lived in the hostel. They did not have Ammi packing their tiffin. They did not have home food. But they had the matbakh. And somehow, their food was always the most sought after. Maybe because it was different. Maybe because it was shared more freely. Maybe because they knew what it meant to miss home. Once properly seated, food distributed among all and enjoyed. The parathas were passed around. The samosas were traded. The sweets were saved for last. The teachers would sit with the students, not as authority figures, but as companions. They would eat from the same tiffins. They would laugh at the same jokes. They would become children again, just for a day. The trouble always started the same way. A girl would open her tiffin, ready to eat, and find nothing inside. Just an empty box. Just crumbs. She would look at it, confused at first, then shocked, and then the tears would come. "Someone stole my food!" The cry would go up. The teachers would rush. The boys would look innocent. Too innocent. Because we knew. We always knew. The theft had happened long before lunchtime. During the walk from the bus to the garden. During the settling down on the grass. During the moment when everyone was busy finding their spot and nobody was watching their tiffin. That was the moment we struck. Quick hands. Quiet movements and the food was gone before the owner even knew it was missing. The girls were the easiest targets. Not because they were careless. Because they trusted. They trusted that nobody would steal from them. They trusted that everyone would wait for lunch. They trusted that boys would behave. They were wrong and when the tears came, the teachers would intervene. Questions would be asked, denials were common and then, slowly, the sharing would begin. The crying girl would wipe her tears and accept. Not because she had forgiven us. Because she was hungry. Because that was the only way. The best part was that food always remained surplus and everybody got a chance to enjoy the variety because sharing was not just encouraged. It was expected and It was the Jamia way, a concept deep rooted within "Jamia Biradari". After food and Zuhr prayers, starts the field activities like tug-o-war, ping pong etc where staff and students took part and enjoy every bit of it. Few elder (adult) students used to walk through the park to see other attraction at those times. The teachers became players and the students became competitors. For a few hours, the line between them disappeared! Afterwards lorry heads for Tin Murti, Nehru Planetarium, BAL Bhawan etc. Visiting Planetarium and Bal Bhawan was always informative and attractive. The planetarium was a journey into the stars. We would sit in the dark, our heads tilted back, watching the dome above us fill with constellations and planets and galaxies. The voice of the narrator would guide us through the universe, and for those few minutes, we forgot where we were. We were not in Delhi anymore. We were somewhere far away. Somewhere infinite. Somewhere magical. By the time clock hits 5 or 6, every one of us looks extremely tired. The tiredness was not just physical. It was the tiredness of happiness. The tiredness that comes from excessive laughing, running and eating. That was the time when Zaman Bhai put Jamia ki lorry on the way back to school. Very few students chatting, looking at each other fully satisfied. Few students sitting at back, calculating their mischief. The back seats were always reserved for the mischief makers! The ones who had stolen food. The ones who had played pranks. The ones who had done something they would laugh about tomorrow and deny forever. The moment Lorry enters on Mohammed Ali Johar Marg and after Holy Family Hospital, students recollect their energy and starts again with "Jamia Ki Lorry Zindabad" and Zaman Bhai zindabad till we reach the "D" of Jamia Middle School. The slogans and energy returned because the journey is just over for a while. Many parents were waiting there for their wards. Ammi and abba and the moment one stepped out of the lorry, the questions would begin. "Did you eat?" "Did you share?" "Did you behave?" You would nod, too tired to speak, too happy to explain and then students like me used to walk home from there to conclude one of the best days in school but out, on a picnic. Walking home, you would replay the day in your mind because you knew. You knew that this was not just a picnic. This was a memory being made. In higher classes picnic remains but way of enjoyment transformed from one form to another with a difference. We grew older. The destinations changed. The games changed. But the feeling remained the same. The feeling of being free. The feeling of being young. The feeling of being part of Jamia.

Jamia Millia Islamia....Faiz Sahib JHSS

Some teachers you remember because they were kind. Some you remember because they were wise and some you remember because they were giants.

Faiz Sahib was that third kind.

He was not just a teacher.

He was a presence.

A force of nature.

A man who could silence a classroom with a single step and make grown boys tremble with a single glance.

Faiz Sahib. Teacher of Mathematics in Jamia Higher Secondary School during 1980's.

It is difficult to forget him, because of his personality.

More than 6 feet high, well built, white moustache and commanding voice made him distinct person of Jamia Higher Secondary School. He taught us mathematics in class IX and X in 1983-85.

But to be honest, he did not just teach us mathematics.

He taught us fear.

He taught us respect and sometimes, when we were lucky, he taught us something in between.

I don't have much of him in my memories as he was very senior teacher and I never had much interaction with him except for few incidences that I witnessed.

But those few incidences were enough to last a lifetime.

IX C was situated next to IX A below Hostel No. 2 and adjacent to Sadar Darwaza of Higher Secondary.

Those days Faiz Sahib was living back side of Hostel 2/3 and he also in-charge of dining hall, that means he was always around.

Always watching.

Always walking.

His path crossed ours more often than we would have liked.

The doors of classroom were of old style and very high.

One day, someone purposely closed them from inside.

Girls tried to open all three doors, but to no result.

They start making noise and we all were happy inside.

The noise was our music.

The frustration of the girls was our entertainment.

We sat there, grinning, watching them struggle with the heavy wooden doors that refused to budge.

After few minutes somebody knocked the third door situated near to Sadar Darwaza. Nobody opened, thinking girls are there.

Knocking becomes louder and then Fakhre Mateen, our class fellow tried to become smart and went there to open.

Fakhre Mateen was from Bihar and resides in hostel.

He was also well built boy, almost taller than everyone in IX C.

He was not the smartest boy in class, but he was the tallest and in his mind, that was enough.

He stood up, straightened his shirt and walked towards the door with a swagger that said,

"Watch this. I will handle it."

He opened the door in anticipation to get appreciation from girls.

A smile was already forming on his face. A clever comment was already forming on his lips.

He was ready to be the hero and he found Faiz Sahib standing just above his head!

Faiz Sahib was very angry since he was knocking it since long time.

His face was red.

His moustache was twitching.

His eyes were burning and without asking a single question or a word. A hand like hammer went up, attains 8.5 feet height from ground, dropped down and hit Fakhre Mateen!

The sound echoed through the corridor. Through the classroom. Through our bones. Since Faiz Sahib took him by surprise and everything happened all of a sudden, it shocked and shacked Fakhre Mateen.

His legs wobbled.

His eyes went wide.

His mouth opened but no sound came out.

He was so scared that we saw him pissed in his pants!

The boy who had walked to the door like a hero was now standing there like a statue, frozen in terror, his pants slowly darkening.

Faiz Sahib asked him why he closed the door.

Before he would have unfolded the name of culprit, Faiz Sahib told him to go immediately and change his pants.

That was the mercy of Faiz Sahib. He did not ask for explanations.

He did not ask for names.

He just saw a boy who had been punished enough and sent him away to preserve whatever dignity he had left.

This was an episode that will remain in my memory forever. Those were the days nobody dared to look at Faiz Sahib, forget about making any noise in his class.

I never saw him using book while explaining theorems in the class. 

Everything to him was by heart. 

He comes, start delivering lecture, same as illustrated in book, word by word and number by number. 

We used to sit back, take notes and try to listen him. 

There was no need to open the textbook!

Faiz Sahib was the textbook!

Every formula, every theorem,every proof! It was all there, stored in his memory, waiting to be delivered.

He would stand at the blackboard, chalk in hand and the numbers would flow. 

His voice was deep and commanding and when he explained something, you listened. 

Not because you were afraid. 

Well, partly because you were afraid! 

But also, because he made sense. Mathematics was not a mystery to him. It was a language and he spoke it fluently.

Once he punished Waheed from Delhi-6, resident of Hostel-3 by holding his ears and lifting him up from the ground. 

Faiz Sahib was so big, Waheed's feet dangled in the air. 

His face twisted in pain. 

His hands reached for Faiz Sahib's wrist, but there was no escape. 

The whole class watched in silence. Nobody moved and breathed and then, just as suddenly, Waheed was back on the ground, his ears red, his eyes watery, his lesson learned.

Waheed was a jolly person, dark in complexion and won many prizes in mono acting in many events. He could make anyone laugh. 

He could imitate any teacher. 

He could bring the house down with his performances. 

But in front of Faiz Sahib, he was just another boy. Just another student. 

Just another victim of the giant's hand.

This was my little experience of Faiz Sahib during my stay in Higher Secondary School.

He was not a man who sought friendship with his students. 

He was not a man who tried to be liked. 

He was a man who commanded respect, and whether we liked it or not, whether we admitted it or not, we gave him that respect. 

Because he earned it.

Every single day.

Jamia Millia Islamia...Jamia Sr.Sec.School

Chemistry was not a subject we looked forward to. 

It was a subject we endured. 

But it was also a subject that came with its own world. 

A separate laboratory, peculiar style of teaching and a teacher who, whether we liked it or not, left an impression on all of us.

Malik Sarwar Khan Inami was our Chemistry teacher in XI and XII in the year 1985-87. 

He was a shorter height healthy person, with nice beard and bright face. 

A smart person altogether. 

He carried himself with a quiet dignity that set him apart from the other teachers. 

He did not need to raise his voice to command attention. 

He did not need to tell jokes to keep us awake. 

He simply taught, and he expected us to learn.

He used to come to take period before five minutes and wait in his lab before appears behind the curtain to classroom. 

The first thing he does is to pick chalk and write "Chemistry" with date on black board then holding chalk in his hand, he starts delivering the lecture in English, without a single word of Urdu. 

Sometime when he uses to call Wasi Sahib, his lab assistance in Urdu, he delivers Urdu in English accent. It was a small thing, but it made us smile. 

The only smile we would get in that class!

No joke, no smile, just flat teaching and in short, a boring 40-minute period.

Another specialty he used to say before ending his lecture was 

"Rest we shall take to the next turn." 

We would hear those words and know that the period was almost over. The bell would ring. He would leave. And we would breathe again.

Other than few girls and buttering boys in front row, we all were fed up with dryness & monotony in class. Sometime when we talk about him, we used to describe him in chemistry that 

"Malik Sahib is although an inert gas but pale yellow with pungent smell". 

It was a joke that made no scientific sense but made perfect sense to us. 

He was there. 

He was present. 

But he was unreachable.

There was not a single doubt about his teaching. 

He was very serious and sincere in the classroom, used to deliver and finish syllabus in time disregard if it has been understood by students or not. 

He did his job, did it well and on time!

What more could you ask for? 

Well, we could ask for a little warmth.

 A little humor. 

A little humanity. 

But Malik Sahib was not in the business of warmth. 

He was in the business of chemistry!

One funny thing was passed on to us by our seniors was his nick name 

"MATRU."

His nick was the only way of entertainment for us. I guess they termed him Matru due to his appearance and fast walking. It may be derived from "matar ka dana", (Chickpeas) which is round in shape and could roll easily. 

The name stuck & once it stuck, it became ours. 

We would whisper it in the corridors; write it on desks & say it under our breath when he walked past. 

It was our rebellion. 

Our secret. 

Our small victory over the boredom he represented.

One day while waiting for him in class, he gets little late. 

Students were sitting, chatting and laughing in class. 

Zia was standing next to window overlooking principal office, just to alarm in case he arrives. He was our early warning system!

Suddenly he starts shouting "Matru aa gaya", "Matru aa gaya" (Matru arrives).

He forgets that his voice can be heard outside easily but kept shouting till he remains 10-15 meters away and then everyone went quiet and took respective places. 

Books opened. 

Pens picked up. 

Faces straightened. 

By the time Malik Sahib entered, we were the picture of innocence.

As usual Malik Sahib went to lab washed his hands and appeared behind the curtain & instead going to black board where many of us tried to write "Chemistry" in his style and forget to wipe it, he asked only one question. 

"Who was saying Matru aa gaya"!!

Tell me, "Who was saying Matru aa gaya?"

Pin drop silent!

Nobody wants to utter a single word. 

Actually, nobody likes him, therefore he had no "chamchas" in class. 

The front row, usually so eager to please, looked down at their desks. 

The back row, usually so loud, became invisible. 

Nobody moved & breathed.

He waited before someone dares to accept, but to no avail.

He finally ordered "Wasi Sahib zara qamchi laayyega" (Mr. Wasi please bring the stick).

Wasi Sahib brought the stick. 

He then asked everyone to line up, and he stand on the exit door. 

One by one he punished everyone with stick and adjourned the class in anguish. 

He did not ask who did it. 

He did not care who did it. 

We were all guilty in Malik Sahib's class, therefore collective punishment was the only solution.

Everyone was happy to get additional 10-15 minutes of fun while expelled

We had lost the period, but we had gained the story, and in school, stories were worth more than lessons.

Once he took sessional test, I attempt it and person next to me Qyamuddin who copied the same wording and without a single thought the same line was copied as it is by the whole row of about seven students.

It was a rare incidence that we saw Malik Sahib smiling in a satirical way and questioned, how it is possible that everyone written same line with same wording?

He finally written off that question and none of us secured any marks on that. 

We had been caught. 

Not by evidence. 

Not by proof but by our own laziness. 

We copied the same mistake & Malik Sahib, for the first time, smiled!

We have noticed a drastic change towards ending of session of class XII. 

He became little polite, actually, he has started coaching for engineering entrance exams and invites many class XII students to join. 

During 1986-87, he charged handsome amount from students, therefore, majority of them couldn't afford & avail.

The same teacher who never smiled in class was now smiling at the door of his coaching center. 

The same man who never spoke a word of Urdu in class was now speaking the language of business.

While coming out from examination hall after attempting entrance for engineering, we found Malik Sahib standing out with few of his people approaching every single student of Jamia Senior Secondary School to retrieve the questions. 

His efforts didn't stop there. 

Once he caught me in front of Kewal Store and talked to me for the same business. 

He wanted the questions. 

He wanted to know what had been asked and he was not hesitant to ask. 

Finally, he succeeded in compiling list of model papers for entrance exams and for sure it brought nice return for him.

Looking back now from 2007 to 1987, I found that maybe we were right in our thinking, but Malik Sahib was not wrong as per the materialistic approach. 

He was doing exactly what a professional supposed to do. 

At least he was doing all his efforts to make money rather trying to drain Jamia, which in fact becomes the normal practice later. 

He was not corrupt or lazy. 

He was simply a man who understood the system and played by its rules and in a world where everyone was trying to survive, Malik Sahib was trying to thrive.

Many of the reader might think that how disrespectful a student could be by writing all these about a teacher!
Well,

Answer is simple, it's the incident(s) that happened right Infront and these are the accounts of what has already happened.

The students are human being and being mischievous is their right though as an adult at this time we might have some regrets of what we have done but at the end it pure STUDENT LIFE.