Having ignored my alma mater’s reunions over the years, I wasn’t planning to attend an event to mark the residential school’s fiftieth anniversary. The prospect of revisiting our former lives, formative yet far removed from the present, held little appeal—and I felt, I’m not embarrassed to say, that meeting strangers would be easier than meeting schoolmates.   

Nevertheless, when my wife and I find ourselves in the native land for her niece’s wedding, and I get another invitation to what the organisers call the grandest celebration in the school’s history, I overcome my reluctance. We’re already in the country, after all. While my wife is busy and unable to accompany me, she encourages me to go, pointing out that I’d be able to attend the function and return to her niece’s hometown in time for the nuptials.   

From the regional airport, on the day before the school’s main event, I share a cab with a couple of other travellers for the two-hour drive on a winding road that slithers up the mountain slope like a black serpent. The journey is comfortable and fast. All the same, I miss the blue narrow-gauge train, which would have taken twice as long, with its heaving engine belching plumes of smoke that would merge with a swirling canopy of mist. There’s no rumble when our cab enters a tunnel, but the views from numerous other spots, except when obscured by ugly high-rise buildings, are still gorgeous—and the heady scent of eucalyptus and pine trees is still the same, bringing back an avalanche of memories.  

The town, when we arrive, is more congested than I remember, with haphazard growth that has made it less attractive. That doesn’t dampen my spirits. Finding the cold mountain air bracing, I’m ready to explore old haunts after checking in at the elegantly built, if faded, landmark hotel I chose for my stay. What I forget—as I walk through the clubby lobby—is that other old-timers also remember this place. The dim interior, with antique furniture and a gaudy orange carpet that has seen better days, doesn’t seem to have dissuaded some attendees, though more comfortable and up-to-date hotels have sprung up in recent years.   

“Hello . . . Beet? Glad to see that you made it!”

I freeze, just a few feet from the check-in desk. Hearing that nickname has startled me, but when I turn around and see the greeter’s face, I’m relieved. I was thinking of another student—Pump—who had used my nickname regularly. Is he here as well?

The food at our school had been far from memorable, and we were especially turned off by the bland, overcooked vegetables they served every day. Once, while complaining about a soggy spinach dish, we took turns to name a vegetable that should be permanently banned from the dining hall. I picked beetroot, and promptly became Beet Root. Cauli Flower and Pump Kin, along with a few other nicknames, were also widely adopted. To protect the privacy of the individuals mentioned here, I won’t use their real names.    

“Wow . . . hello!” I say, shaking his outstretched hand. “Mr. Flower, I presume?”

“Of course!” he says, laughing. “Call me Cauli, and I won’t call you Mr. Root.”

“It’s been so long. I guess we haven’t forgotten our nicknames.” 

He appears different now—his thick dark hair is now a scraggly grey patch, like a long-neglected lawn, and he’s much heavier. But his animated manner, punctuated by smiles and frequent hand gestures, hasn’t changed.

“Why would we forget? Let’s catch up, Beet. A lot to talk about. I’m heading to the coffee shop next door. Why don’t you come?”

“Well, I have to check in, you know, and put my bag in the room.”

“Of course. What I mean is, why don’t you join us when you’re ready?”

“Us?” Looking around the lobby, I say, “Is there somebody with you?”

“No, Beet, not here. Pump is in the coffee shop. Next door. We’ll chat for a bit before he goes to his cousin’s house. He’s staying there tonight. He texted me a short while ago.”

I’m at a loss for words. Recovering quickly, I say, “Cauli, I have to call my wife after I check in. Perhaps we can meet later this evening if you’re free?”

A moment of silence. “Of course, Beet. I’ll be back in about thirty minutes. We can talk then. Room number 42. Are you going to Shangri-La for dinner? A bunch of folks—”

“Absolutely!” I grinned. “Can’t miss it . . . I have such wonderful memories. Isn’t it great that the restaurant is still in business? Not surprising, I guess.”

“Sounds good,” Cauli says. “Seven-ish? We can have a drink before heading out.” 

 

Just before seven, I walk over to Cauli’s room on the same floor and knock on the door.

Opening it promptly, he says, “All right . . . see you shortly. Bye.” He’s on the phone. Hanging up, he greets me and says, “That was Pump. He’s coming to Shangri-La.”

“Oh!” I’m nonplussed. “With us?”

“Yes. He’ll text me from downstairs. Are you okay with that?”

“I guess. I’ll be meeting him at some point. I didn’t come here to hide from anybody.”

“Of course,” he says, putting his phone down on the desk before picking up a tall bottle of chilled beer. “So much time has passed. I could barely recognize him. Please take the chair. I’ll sit on the bed.” The condensation on the bottle glistens when Cauli pops it open to pour the sparkling amber liquid into two glasses on the same tray. He must have called room service. 

 

NAP Day, as it was unofficially known, stood for No Adults Present Day. But our parents, if they had paid attention to the school’s calendar, would have seen it listed as Sports Day, the official name. It was a small, quirky boarding school back then, proud to be seen as innovative, and its unconventional founders and staff members—though hardly hippies, as some seemed to think—did things that would be less acceptable in our more cautious era of standardized schooling. NAP Day was one such initiative. Given the absence of adults, napping wasn’t on anybody’s mind, making the name a misnomer. But that was also its appeal, I’m sure. What we students mostly did was play sports without adult supervision. 

That morning, after the teachers and support staff left for a day trip, the graduating class—seniors—took charge of the school’s activities. Besides outdoor sports, which took up the entire morning, we played indoor games later in the day, though that was preceded by some quiet time in our classrooms in the afternoon for reading or creative pursuits like drawing, crafts, and writing. The seniors gave orders, and we obeyed. 

At lunch time, they picked some of the younger students for cleaning up, but only the seniors served the food. There was no cooking. Our meals were mostly sandwiches and wraps that had already been prepared or purchased. Everything—including drinks, fruit, dessert, and cutlery—was handed out before we went with our trays to the assigned dining table. 

The absence of adults didn’t lead to a meltdown, as might have been expected. In any case, we were on our own for no more than ten hours. Once the adults returned, just after sundown, they took over and things were back to normal—or as normal as they could be. But, yes, there was enough time for some things to go wrong. While there was no breakdown that year, we did have an incident, raising questions about NAP Day. The following year, when a handful of teachers stayed behind to supervise us, we just called it Sports Day.  

On that last NAP Day, after lunch, nobody in our class seemed interested in creative activities. Instead of writing or drawing or even reading, most of us were chatting, emboldened by the absence of a senior to keep an eye on things. Somebody had dropped the ball, leaving us unsupervised, at least for the time being. We resorted to our usual clownish behaviour—flying paper planes, catapulting pellets with rubber bands, etc.—although we made sure it didn’t get too raucous. The abrupt appearance of a patrolling senior couldn’t be ruled out. 

It was Pump who first noticed the sealed cardboard box, which lay on a chair that had been pushed under the teacher’s desk. With a whoop, he picked up the box and, using a letter opener like a dagger, repeatedly stabbed the packing tape. 

The chortling over Pump’s antics stopped when he opened the box. Tall and imposing, Pump, a ferocious batsman on the cricket field, had numerous admirers—but he inspired fear as well. While he could be charming, he had a mean streak that surfaced unexpectedly.  

“Wow, we have some cool stuff here!” he said. “They seem to be for a play.”

There was a flurry of excitement as Pump, with a flourish, pulled out a shimmery red dress, a tube of glossy lipstick, a silken black wig, a beige sports coat, a matching clip-on tie, a pair of glasses, two laminated menus, and a sign that read “The Dinner Club.” That was the title of our play, not to mention the name of the restaurant featured in it. 

Only the cast members, which included me and another boy in our class, knew that the drama teacher had ordered these costumes and props. Until now, we’d been memorizing our lines and rehearsing in regular clothes, but as the school’s preparations for Founder’s Day celebrations picked up speed, that was going to change. 

Why was the box here? Probably because our drama teacher, who was obviously not in the building now, had her office on the same floor. Since it was locked, the delivery person had apparently decided to leave it in our classroom. 

“Hey, Pump, why did you open it?” Cauli said. “We could get into trouble.”

“What’s the big deal? Aren’t you in this play, by the way? I’m sure at least one thespian from our class has a role—” 

“No, not me. Beet has a role . . . don’t you?”

“Yes,” I said tersely, even as I silently cursed him for outing me. I wanted to be no part of whatever Pump had in mind for his afternoon entertainment.

“Who else?” Pump asked, his voice tinged with impatience as he stood near the teacher’s desk and looked at the boys gazing back at him. 

Nervous about revealing the other cast member’s identity, I remained silent. 

Here, parenthetically, I should note that our school back then wasn’t co-educational, which meant that, often, boys who hadn’t hit puberty played the female roles in our theatrical productions, whether they were contemporary dramas or adaptations of classics. The school has girls now, although boys are still the majority. 

It didn’t take long for Pump to discover that A—as I’ll call him—was also in the play. Gentle and rather shy, the slightly built A, who didn’t talk a lot, was smart—and he shone in the arts, particularly on the stage, where he used his large dark eyes very expressively. 

In the play, A and I had to enter The Dinner Club as a married couple, but it didn’t take long for the audience to catch on that we were impersonating another couple. So it wasn’t just the actors who were pretending; the characters were also pretending to be a married couple. Anyway, the plot is irrelevant at this point. Suffice it to say, while the red dress, wig, and lipstick were for A, the sports coat, clip-on tie, and spectacles were for me. A padded bra—which our drama teacher sometimes included for female characters—wasn’t in the box. Luckily.     

“Come on, wear your costumes . . . let’s have some fun,” Pump said, his eyes glinting as he summoned us to the front of the classroom. 

A and I protested, but to no avail. Pump and a few other boys, getting a little boisterous, persuaded us to dress for our roles. Reluctantly, we donned the costumes over our clothes. 

“Wow, what an amazing transformation!” Pump said, gasping, as a glum-faced A adjusted his wig. “Lovely hair. And look at that skirt . . . so short! Don’t forget the lipstick.” He giggled deliriously.

“No, no,” A said tearfully, and fearfully, stepping back. “I don’t want to do this—”

“Come on, come on . . . nothing wrong with it,” Pump said. “You can’t stop now. Beet also looks smashing in his coat and tie. And look at those glasses! Priceless.”

Blinking, I adjusted my spectacles as the class, fascinated by this spectacle, watched silently, as if we were staging an improvised play for them. 

“You’re a married couple, aren’t you?” somebody said.

“No, we only pretend to be married,” I said morosely, though I wasn’t supposed to reveal anything about the play. A, dismayed or frightened, stared at the wall without speaking. His cheeks were reddish, as if he’d dabbed them with his tube of lipstick.

Giggling broke out, and another boy asked, “So what do you say to each other?”

“Never mind that,” Pump said brusquely. “We can wait for the performance on Founder’s Day. Do you kiss?”

“No, of course, not!” I said, flushing. 

Laughter.

“Well, you can do it now,” Pump said with a smirk. “A bonus . . . an extra scene that only we get to see. Be a sport. Don’t be scared . . . you won’t get bitten.” 

There was more grating laughter, as if I was being mocked. Even after all these years—or especially after all these years—I can’t say what came over me that day. Turning towards A, almost like a zombie, I put my hands on his back and, pulling him closer, kissed him. Although it was fleeting, I could taste the lipstick and a pleasant sensation coursed through my body. Struck by the warmth and softness of his lips, I shivered. 

A furious sob, sounding more like a shriek, sliced through the air, ending the cheers that broke out. “Stop it,” A cried, pushing me away. “What are you doing? You are crazy!”  

I stumbled backwards. Steadying myself, I watched A turn around and, without another word, run out of the classroom. Unimpeded by what he was wearing, A was agile—and I wondered where he was heading. A senior walking outside, or sitting near a window, is bound to see him. Mortified and paralyzed, I struggled to say something. Nobody spoke.

Pump had a strange look in his eyes, as if he was trying to understand something or someone. Himself, perhaps?

“Where did he go . . . dressed like that?” Cauli said, breaking the silence. “What if a senior sees him? We’ll be in trouble.”

“No worries,” Pump said calmly. “They seem to be goofing off. I’ll find him. He’s just upset. I’m sure he went to the dorm. Nobody leave . . . and don’t say anything about this if a senior shows up. I’ll be back.”

Some seniors, as we later learned, had indeed taken it easy after lunch and neglected their duties. After Pump left and somebody shut the door, the subdued students took out their books or drawing materials. I’m sure everybody was thinking about what just happened. My head spun in confusion as I put the items for the play back in the box. 

How long was Pump away? I lost track of time, even as the text of a book I was trying to read didn’t make sense. When Pump returned, looking dazed and a little dishevelled, the students looked up expectantly. My heart sank when I didn’t see A with him. Pump, sounding sombre, announced that A was, unfortunately, missing. He was breathing heavily.

“Missing? What happened?”

 “Did you not see him in the dorm?”

“What! You didn’t see him at all?”

The shouted questions and commotion stopped when a senior, appearing suddenly, demanded, “What’s going on?”

“I didn’t do anything,” Pump blubbered, astonishing us. A had removed his costume and was packing a small bag in the dorm, Pump said, when he confronted him. “I only asked him to return to the classroom. But he got angry. Ran away.” 

 

When the teachers returned and A still couldn’t be found, there was concern, but nobody seemed unduly alarmed at first. The principal quickly assembled a group of adults to fan out and look for him in the area surrounding the school. They had no luck, even after two hours of searching, and it became clear that the police would have to be involved. What happened next seemed unbelievable. The phone rang before the principal could make the call. 

It was A’s father.

Now I should mention that we didn’t see or talk to A again. I have no idea if the phone rang just as the principal was about to contact the police. I didn’t witness it, so I can only share what we heard. A’s father was calling because A had made a collect call from the railway station to tell him that he’d bought a ticket and was boarding the train for the overnight journey to his hometown. He didn’t explain why he’d left the school. After walking to the bus station, which wasn’t far from our campus, he’d boarded a bus bound for a city in the plains, where he got off at the train station. He had enough money for a rail ticket in an unreserved compartment.

It was no secret that boys at our boarding school were bullied. I was bullied—and sometimes, I’m not proud to admit, I became a bully. But there was also a darker secret, which didn’t come out until years later. Some boys had been sexually harassed.

Pump and I were questioned by the principal and a couple of teachers. Insisting that he’d done nothing improper in the dorm, Pump said there had been a scuffle when A refused to return to the classroom. Had A been assaulted in the dorm that day? We don’t know, for A refused to talk about what happened or respond to the principal’s queries.

A didn’t return to our school, and his father didn’t ask questions. Neither Pump nor I faced major repercussions, and I suspect it was because the principal, relieved that A’s parents didn’t demand an investigation, was glad to keep things quiet. Notwithstanding our school’s idiosyncratic bent, the administration was keen to prevent even a whiff of a scandal. The only punishment, if you could call it that, involved working in the community garden. I didn’t mind, and even liked the job, although I missed the weekend outings with my friends, who got to spend their pocket money on movies, shopping, and treats.  

 

Cauli’s phone pings, and even before he looks up to tell me, I know that Pump is waiting for us downstairs.

“I’m ready,” I say, bracing myself. Putting my glass down, I stand up and ask if I can use his bathroom before we leave. When I’m done, Cauli, who’s standing by the door with the room key in his hand, looks at me curiously.

“Are you okay, Beet?” he says. “You look a little tense.” 

I smile grimly. “Well, I’m wondering how Pump would react to my news that A will be at the event tomorrow.”

“What!” Cauli looks stunned or, more accurately, shocked. “Are you serious? Where did you hear this? I don’t know anybody who’s been in touch with A.”

“No, he’s not coming . . . as far as I know,” I say. “I’d be amazed if he did. But you know what will be most noticeable for me tomorrow? A’s absence.”

Closing the partially open door, Cauli says, “I want to tell you something before we leave. Just between us. Pump is going through some challenges. I heard that his wife left him.”

Before I can respond, he adds, “Did you know that he went to A’s house?”

“Wow! Sounds unbelievable. When did he go? What happened?”

“From what I know, he went during the break after A left the school. To apologize, I believe, and ask him to return the next term. A’s father answered the door, and when he found out who Pump was, he asked him to leave immediately—and threatened to call the police.”

Bold . . . and bizarre. Is this a true story? I don’t bother to ask Cauli where he heard it, knowing that Pump was capable of doing something like this. I have my own little story, which I don’t share with Cauli, even though it’s much less dramatic. During that same break, I wrote a letter in which I asked A to forgive me for my stupidity and bad behaviour.

I never heard back from him