The Second Home That Raised Us: Shenanigans and Memories

The residential area of each house consisted of three rooms for a batch and a large corridor in front of them. Each room accommodated anywhere between seven and nine beds, depending on the strength of the house (the number of cadets assigned to it). The fewer the beds, the more space we had to indulge in our extracurricular activities.

Most of the time, that corridor became our second playground. And trust me—you wouldn't believe the amount of fun we had there.

We played all kinds of games, but cricket was, without a doubt, the undisputed king. Of course, it wasn't cricket as the rulebook intended. Our version had its own ever-changing, gloriously chaotic set of rules, depending entirely on who was playing.

For instance, in Krishna House, a batsman was declared out if the ball was caught after bouncing exactly once. In Penna House, however, that rule didn't exist. Every house had its own "official" version of cricket, and arguments over the rules were almost as entertaining as the matches themselves.

You might think having the freedom to invent our own rules made life easy.

It didn't.

Playing successfully required overcoming several obstacles.

Some of them were:

1. If a teacher or a ward boy caught us playing, the game was over immediately.

2. Our sports equipment was often confiscated to stop us from playing in the corridor and locked away in the sports room. Despite our unwavering determination to play, we were helpless without the equipment—or so the authorities believed. Somehow, we always managed to smuggle in a bat, a ball, or something that resembled them.

3. If someone accidentally broke one of the corridor tube lights, we could forget about playing for at least a week while the mattered settled. 

These were only the obvious obstacles.

Some of the challenges we faced couldn't have been imagined even in our worst nightmares. Those experiences simply can't be described—you had to live them.

Every room had its own personality, shaped by the cadets who lived in it.

And when it came to our room—Room No. 16 of Krishna House during Classes XI and XII—it had earned quite a reputation for its sheer eccentricity.

But I will always proclaim that our room was nothing short of a utopia.

Unlimited fun. No unnecessary rules. Full-on action every single day.

What more could anyone ask for?

Let me share one small anecdote.

I don't remember the exact date, mainly because the concept of time seemed to disappear inside our room. According to some mysterious axiom based on completely baseless logic, Rohit Babu (nickname: "Vechalapu"—simply his surname, which we somehow found hilarious) was unanimously appointed as the permanent Room Captain.

You might think he would have been thrilled.

Well... that's where you would be wrong.

Let me first explain the responsibilities of a Room Captain.

I can't speak for other rooms, but in ours, the Room Captain's primary duty was to count everyone's dirty clothes before they were sent to the laundry every week.

Sounds easy, doesn't it?

Not at all.

Every single piece of clothing had to be counted accurately. If even one item went missing after laundry, the Room Captain was expected to sort out the entire mess. It could become surprisingly stressful.

Still think it was an honour?

Coming back to Rohit Babu...

Or rather, our Permanent Room Captain.

To commemorate the occasion forever, Prabhaditya picked up a permanent marker and, with absolute confidence, wrote a collection of completely meaningless "axioms" on the back of our room's door, officially declaring Rohit Babu's eternal captaincy.

To his credit, Rohit actually performed his duties diligently for quite some time.

Years after we graduated, our juniors found the faded remains of those writings still lingering on the back of the door. They informed us, and the moment we heard it, we burst into laughter, reliving those wonderfully ridiculous memories.

Today, that's all we're left with.

The memories.

And somehow...

they're more than enough.

That's my cue.

Stay happy.

Bye-bye, guys.