School was many splendoured. And D. H. nestling on the hillside, a constant companion. They made it together, through long months and sometimes, even during the three months of absence.

No anxious parents at Sealdah as the school party leaves, they know better as children have told them about the home away from home. Resplendent in traveling khaki supervised by school masters in every bogie, the North Bengal Express steamed off with us. There was a plane party once but that was before my time. Even before the train reaches Dakshineswar the boys scale from one compartment to another. For the senior boys it is a cigarette but the juniors simply wait. Growing up is painful. It is a familiar journey but the excitement never abates. It is a straight run to the two ghats. Shakrigali and Monahari. Except for grub at Burdwan. At Shakrigali there is a breathless run over loose sands to the waiting steamer. A hot chicken curry, I remember Blaquiere telling young Blaquiere, 'You must not waste food, you have paid for it, and after grub was over, we used to watch the steamer spotlight, a long white finger picking up the tops of trees in what we realised was a submerged countryside.

We disembark at Monihari and this time the boys run even faster to "baggsie" compartments, the youngsters simply following through the night and I remember a forlorn Naxalbari station, in the morning where one couldn't even buy cigarettes. At Siliguri we have left the 'meter gauge' behind and after breakfast at Sorabjee's where there was an abysmal wait, we are on the toy train.

Darjeeling District and up the hill. Himalayas really. The train really chugs along and it's getting colder. All too familiar, except to the new comers. Sweaters over the khaki traveling outfit. It's conversation all throughout the longish train journey till we hop on to the Landover at Kurseong. Just the boys . the baggage follows. We used to yell vociferously till modes, Nageshwar, alas, has passed away but Seeta ?

Further down memory lane 'baggsie' my bed by putting my umby over it. 'Baggsie' the shower and there I see a young Buddhist monk in an unfamiliar brown woolen robe. It's K. S. Roy from Rangamati with his crew crop. It's just the first party and along with Kanchan Rana we go down to Goldie's house, where a tot of Rakshi, my first drink, except for medicinal Brandy at home, warms me up,

Within living memory Mr. Bloud's is the longest. It has never snowed in school. May be at Chimney and with winter rain as it did that morning, the nearby visible hill tops are snow covered. But not at school, I still remember just below 'Commerce' at the Churchyard hail, larger than I have ever seen, carpeting the ground.

At the bottom flat, the Calcutta Vs upcountry match is on. This after both parties have arrived. Did the Dow Hill dames ever watch ? My first cricket match and I gave away 21 bye runs at the wicket. No one was dismayed.

March and Goodman, King Solomon's, Mines, Kim and even Pillar to Post, I have just jumbled it up to revive my memory, are issued and the names of the past scholars on the flap and it's before 1960

Classes begin and it's nine long months of mugging. Sometimes, when it gets too dreamy, we open the window and let a passing cloud in. Moisture on the blackboard and when the master attending throws away his chalk in disgust, we troop out.

House picking is over and the house matches start in earnest. This time, it's Zulu at the wicket and my memory fails; was he always on the grass plot? Cricket and cricket the games bearer with his everlasting monkey cap and a ready stock of new cricket bats and football and later hockey. Hockey I remember no one ever challenged Victoria School in hockey.

Prefects beg the Boss for a social. And even for " Sunshine Holidays." For the juniors the dancing classes begin. Anglo Indian boys and specially the seniors teach. It's a wound gramophone and a stock of records, what we learnt on, were 78's. Sometimes brothers who visited their sisters at Dow Hill informed their sisters of the impending dance even before the official invitation was sent. We really do not know to this day of how the Boss really invited the Dow Hill dames. The senior boys planned the refreshments and then in the late afternoon with paniwala stoking the boilers, everyone had a nice, clean hot water bath (shower johnf?). Even as we bathe we see the Dow Hill girls arriving in fancy dresses through the window panes at the shower stalls. It's a pity the St. Helen's did not always attend the socials but then that would mean Goethal's attending.

How many members "sail along the silvery moon" and the slow fox- trot. The first dance was usually a snowball begun by the Headboy and the Headgirl. Foxtrot, quickstep, waltz, and jive and the cha cha cha. In case one thinks that virtuosity was the in thing, one is sadly mistaken. In the home away from home it was companionship.

Which is what school was all about.