I studied in Lawrence School of Sanawar in the Shimla hills. Sir Henry Lawrence founded it in 1847, and it had, in those days in the 70s, that old world charm. Especially in the winters when the sky was dark and the snow was up to your knees, when we looked at the sinister image of the classrooms of senior school, known as Birdwood every evening. Everything was so much more black and white and cold, and reminiscent of England.

There was more silence and formality that made the air more cruel and severe and that had a macabre allure. One of the significant images of the baleful charisma in retrospect though was caning. Caning, now banned, was part of the 70s, to the greyness of it all.

The graveyard was the scariest and the most thrilling experience. There were those exciting stories of the ghosts of the soldiers of World War I that were buried there. That hasn’t moved.

If I could revisit my childhood, I would challenge anybody to walk there at night. When I could challenge anybody to crack me up and make me cry, why was I scared of walking the graveyard in the night? I was famous for the former but the latter made me the nerd that I am. When I could light a fire in the dorms or dance on a bed, when I could follow my heart to poke an enormous needle in a friend’s bottom, why has my heart left to become lonely by fear.

The hospital was another place that was lonely. It had this feeling that ghosts were going to visit you at night. It struck me that this was the way I was going to rid myself of fear. That way by staying in the small pox ward that meandered into the mysterious wilderness. I will cease to be further isolated. Hey, we can scare others by talking of the difference between ghosts and spirits! That was the question in those days?

We were taken for walks with Gypsy the cocker spaniel by Mrs Kapila, the owner of the dog, and the headmistress on the long back, with the golden sun on our little beings, nostalgia comes back in close up like a wishful thing.

The views at night from behind the dormitory with one thousand and one bedazzling lights opened the heart to enjoy twinkling lights when night fell. The young fragile impressionable eggshell minds were like little stars in the galaxy of destiny.

On the rainbow note, there was the excitement of holidays, and the days building up to them, and the last day was like a spitfire crashing on the tarmac. All hell broke loose guys were looting and creating ruckus, like they do after riots or after Iraq was bombed. Blackening faces with polish was one such prank I recall. Then there was the cricket house matches. Sometimes, on a windy day, the batting team huddled together on that hill with the colour of your house strapped against your waist. It was the time to impress a girl, be a hero, action replay on chut (small) field. That was the place to crack a fifty, and walk back winning the game for your team.

Every year the new children who joined the school were invited to the headmaster’s charming baroque house like from a story book of Bergman Sweden, and they were treated to assorted wonderful goodies, like jam and custard tarts. There was a telescope in the back garden and a forest with a stone staircase. In fact, it could even be Italy even.

His home had little French windows and lots of dark wood and my mother and I stayed there when she came to visit me on weekend as parents did. There, in the first room we were, thirty four years ago, once in the inner main house, it was very quiet and the excessive dark wood made it very mysterious, like a Dickens story. That damn straight Sanawar then was like the England of Oliver Twist.

I preferred not to go anywhere out because we did not have transport, and it would be a hassle. Always haggling and angling for a lift back to school on Sunday evening from Kasuali or what’s worse, the anxiety of being seen taking a bus or walking back home.

My mother took me for the founders holiday to Shimla and by chance we were staying at the Chaps Lee — old home of the Rajas of Kapurthala maybe or maybe not. In any case that home was out of a fairytale. Mansion like from the evening of some book in east of England and the garden was reminiscent of the East of Eden. Those high stone walls with creepers clinging to them, It was reflective of a baroque museum with beauty within, harking with dark wood interiors and the lute of a violin, lots of old cut glass, antiquities. I am certain an old clock anointing time all night.

We were taken to Solan once to see a movie and it doubled up as an overnight trip. I had a chance to share all pocket money on popcorn and samosas, while I sat on the floor and she was sitting in that rickety wooden seat of the cinema.

My earliest recollection of the school was walking up to the school with my mother. Everyone else had come in luxuriant Ambassadors and Fiats, some Datsons, Impalas, Mercs, and Chevrolets. My mama and me her seven year old little horror, took the train to Kalka (a colonial crammed hill town with plenty for the imagination) from Old Delhi station then from there a bus perhaps to Garkhal (a shanty little village — still with that old world charm). From here we most certainly walked up a mile or two to the school.

I recollect the walk up. It was early February and there was this dilapidated school on the way up. Now they have souped it up, but it is serious point of nostalgia for me.

Night has always been exciting for me. That night there was a forest fire and we were all taken out of little beds to the classrooms, where we huddled for about an hour or two, but there was some sleep also. At times, we were engaged in putting them off, we were scuttled off to the pine forests. One time, we went to sunshine valley for a picnic, rolling of pine trees and having fun on a sea saw. I regret that we never repeated that time. Another place, I did not see much of in those years was lover’s pond, but you can visit it. And we can revisit it.

Mrs Addy becomes Mrs John and we are still on her little balcony in Trafford court, and she teaches us to sing, strumming her old fashioned guitar with wild fizzy hair.

“One day I went a sailing, a sailing on the sea. I sailed in a boat, I sailed in a ship, I sailed to zoololand.”