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That Monday morning the school resounded
with strange, wild, unfamiliar cries. On
investigation it turned out to be fierce
warfare with seniors trying dexterously
to extract water-bottles from unwilling
and loudly protesting juniors.
'Golfy' looked lovely that day. Lush,
cool and cared-for with its commanding
view of the cliffs and the stream down,
down down below. Khurpatal, once
Sherwood's home, tucked far away in the
valley lay quiet and smiling in the
morning sun. Nearer by the resounding
laughter of happy school free boys and
'pop music' blaring forth a portable
record player dispelled any illusion of
peace.
We made our way down to where a
traditional game of 'Kabaddi' was on and
joined in the game. After an hour of the
monotonous sound of tearing vests or some
other vital garment, we abandoned the
game in favour of a long, cold drink of
water at Government House.
On our return we found that lunch was on.
Without wasting a minute, we joined the
'Q' but with some apprehension because,
you under-stand, a single push from your
successor is fraught with dire
consequences for you are liable to be
sent, lunch and all, rolling down one of
'Golfy's' many, slopes.
Therefore, it was with a sigh of relief
that I sat down to lunch.
Suddenly a great clamour rose near the
orange squash 'degchi'. A million,
dehydrated boys were 'piling on' the
orange squash. There was an occasional
splash as some poor unfortunate fell into
the squash. Grabbing my mug, I flew
towards this mecca and after squeezing
and pulling and pushing and thumping, I
finally made it. After renewing my
spirits on this nectar of the gods, I
turned to go, but found I could not back
out of the melee and so, philosophically,
I dipped my mug in again and again and
again. Now that supplies were exhausted
and the crowd had thinned, I staggered,
gorged, like some vampire, to recover
under the shade of a tree, but hardly had
I closed my eyes in bliss when an
inconsiderate voice bellowed, 'Okay,
clear up the mess'.
Groaning and stooping like old men, we
bent to pick up every bit of rubbish.
A shout of 'Tambola !' 'Tambola !'
produced some surprising revival of
flagging energies. There was a stampede
for tickets and soon a veritable typhoon
of 'bogey's' and 'Boos' swept over those
lucky fellows who claimed the lucky
number.
And thus ended another Easter Monday
picnic in Sherwood's history.
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