The first thing that comes to the mind is the school building itself : a rectangular, mud-walled, thatched structure in the College Compound, looking like a poor and neglected cousin of the G.M. College. Every year the rains came and drilled holes in the thatched roof; sometimes the wind blew off big patches of straw, leaving the bamboo skeletons exposed to the public gaze. The walls got damp and sagged out. In my 10th Class, there was, in addition to all this, a sagging roof, bravely propped up by a solitary, termite-eaten log of wood in the middle of the class-room. If anything was needed to remind one that life was brief, it was the classroom of Class 10 in 1953. However, no one seemed to mind. In fact the sun and the rain, filtering through the roof, kept us in constant communion with nature. Besides, the lawn in the rectangle proved to be a haven for cattle and other stray animals, and it was quite a relief, when say, after a taxing mathematical problem on monkeys constantly climbing slippery poles--- to look out of the door and see a group of amiable cows clattering past on the corridors. It was rather difficult when it rained too hard, but then we had the "rainy day" which meant a holiday declared by the headmaster, and we had the excuse of going home drenched in the rain because the school was closed.

The school building, however, was a shame and those with slightly long memories reminded us that the College building which stood proudly by was really where the school originally was. So discontent was whipped up and it was decided that there should be a strike. One morning, the leaders of the back-benches went swiftly to action with little knives and razor-blades, cutting off the coir strings that tied the bamboo structure together. Soon the school was in shambles. Of course the news went out that the C.S. Zila School had been badly damaged due to excessive rain, and a high-powered delegation of local V.I.P.’s came to inspect the ruins. It seemed genuine enough and telegrams were fired off to Cuttack for urgent Government attention. Things moved fast, and very soon there was a magnificent new building for the school at the foot of the Brooks Hills.

Most of the teachers under whom I had the privilege of studying were highly competent and sincere---and some of them highly individualistic. There was, for example, Shri Satyanarayan Bohidar, who used to teach us M.I.L. (Oriya). He was a great admirer of my father’s poems and could recite whole poems from memory. I was the embarrassed object of his affection on account of this. It was embarrassing because I had just been transferred from an English language school and I was struggling with the spelling of the Oriya words. Satyanarayan Babu used to insist on our writing essays in elegant, ornate Oriya, replete with quotations from the master poets. We were also required to maintain a fair copy in which all the essays, after correction (which was really an overhauling) would be written down in painstakingly good handwriting. These notebooks were proudly presented to the Inspector every year as samples of his pupils. The Inspector happened to be my father--- and I shudder to think what his reaction would have been if he had inspected my essays. Luckily we had another class on when he came---and the visit passed off without incident.

Then there was Shri Siba Prasad Dash, the history teacher, already well known as the author of the prescribed book on Indian history. He had the facts and the dates of Indian history on the tip of his tongue and he had little patience for pupils who failed to grasp these exciting details of history. Unfortunately for me, I was one of these and for me, the succession of similar kings was quite bewildering. On one occasion I was ordered out of the class because I attributed something to Jehangir which was really done by Shah Jehan, or probably it was the other way round. Siba Babu of course was very loving later on; he shook his head and sadly reflected that I could never do well in History. He was a good historian, but a bad prophet---and I wonder what his reaction would have been had he learnt that I had secured the 1st Class Honours in History in my B.A. Examination.

There was Kunja Babu, the Physical Training Instructor. His day of triumph was Saturday morning, when all students had to undergo the torture of his weekly drill. "One, two, three, four..." his shouts would ring out and woe to the man who did not bend properly or who tried to put a peanut in his mouth when he was supposed to raise his hands upwards.

I mention Shri Manmohan Pattnaik last because he was in a class by himself. Dapper in his dazzling suits, he was the idol of the school. His sense of humour was fatal---and the collective roars of laughter that emerged from his classes shook the school. His popularity redoubled in the period prior to the Matriculation examinations because of the legend that he could foretell the questions. The school is fortunate in having him as the Headmaster at the moment.

There were teachers like Shri Bhagirathi Nayak, Shri Chakradhar Mohapatra, Shri Jiffun Chandra Behera and others, who were very talented and for whom I had, and still have tremendous respect. The school was fortunate too, in having Headmasters like shri Baikunthanath Pattnaik and Shri Baidyanath Rath who, with their eminence and their long experience in teaching, infused a sense of discipline and decorum into school life.

The school hostel was a unique institution. Situated only a few yards from the school building, its boarders were mostly poor students who came from the interior of Sambalpur district. The Headmaster, the Superintendent and a few other teachers had their quarters nearby and a happy feature of school life was that one had free access to all the teachers at any time of the day. It was good for the hostel too---being in the close proximity of the teachers, the boys had very little opportunity for mischief. When evening came, the prayers would be sung, and the boarders would light their lanterns and settle down to study. Around nine o’clock the Superintendent would come on his rounds. The clip-clop of his wooden sandals acted as the warning signal, and soon the buzz of conversation would cease, and boys who had dozed off would grab the nearest book and struggle bravely to scan the lines, often holding it upside down.

In the morning, the most important ceremony used to be bathing at the well. Students and teachers would troop to the well near our house, carrying their buckets and ‘lotas.’ Being one of the two wells in the entire College compound, it catered to a wide clientele. From the window in my room, I could observe the daily drama at the well. It was always the dispute as to who had priority at the well. Of course by common consent, the water carrier of the Principal was never hindered in his duties. But the real showdown used to occur between the hostel students and the women who used to come in their colourful saris, carrying big brass pots on their heads. A Sambalpuri woman, to say the least, is a very spirited person, and when it comes to asserting her rights, very forward. When she is angered, she is formidable. Indeed she is lethal, when she shakes her hand, covered from wrist to elbow with the heavy spiky silver bangles. It is not difficult to guess who had the ultimate victory in the battle of the well.

Among the pleasures of school life, I recollect the frequent raids on the mango-groves with classmates who were experts in hit and run tactics, which explains why one was never caught by the irate owners of the mango-trees. There wre also excursions to the Brooks Hills in season for a tasty berries that one found in the tangled undergrowth. It was a great delight too, to escape to the outskirts of the town, where the rice-fields stretched out in their varying shades of green, and, in springtime, the air was sweet with the perfume of the mango-blossoms and the hillside was on fire with the flower of the ‘palasa’-tree.