“All of our classmates were special,” I said, pausing with appropriate dramatic effect. “Special, really.”

Harish raised an eyebrow. “Special? What was special about them? Forget the others for a moment and tell me what was special about me.”

Ah, the modesty of the man. Like a peacock asking for confirmation that it has feathers.

“You,” I said, “were the best friend I could ever have. Always by my side through thick and thin. Never demanding, never clingy. You dispensed advice like a good pharmacist—always in gentle doses, never forced down the throat.”

Harish, clearly moved, placed a hand on my shoulder. “You mean that?”

“Go on then,” he said, pleased as a cat with a bowl of cream. “Tell me about the others.”

“Well, Ashutosh,” I began, “is special because he has a rare and refined sense of humour. Like vintage Darjeeling—goes unnoticed by those used to tapri chai. He’s also a voracious reader. The sort who casually quotes Bertrand Russell while everyone else is still trying to remember what day it is.”

Harish nodded. “True, true. And Nilesh?”

“Nilesh was our class’s version of the Swiss Army Knife. Studies, sports, swimming, scholarship class, Hindi class—he did it all. And I suspect he’s also remarkably kind-hearted. Once, during a reunion, I was waiting patiently for my hot chocolate. It never came. Everyone forgot about it—except Nilesh, who noticed and asked me if I got it. That, my dear Harry, is rare.”

Harish looked reflective.

“Now Amol,” I said, “well, he didn’t need a politician to tell him to be proud of being a Maratha. He had that pride built in since school days—came standard.”

“And Ramnath?” Harish asked.

“Ramnath was a friend’s friend. The kind who’d show up in the rain with an umbrella. He never took money from me when I landed up at Niranjan with friends or students, made me feel special by giving the best table."

“Shreyas?” Harish ventured. “A true team player,” I said. “Quiet, steady, and thoughtful—the sort of chap who, in a sinking boat, would probably offer you the last lifejacket and apologize for the inconvenience.” Harish smiled.

“Do you remember,” I continued, “we once called him Stump Chor? It was during a game of cricket, when, in a moment of heroic absent-mindedness, he forgot to pick up the stumps after the match. The name stuck for a bit, as cruel nicknames often do in school. Now, for a person of his, shall we say, impressive financial standing, this might have been mortifying. But Shreyas never let it come in the way of camaraderie. He laughed it off like a true gentleman—gracious, composed, and unbothered.”

I turned to Harish with a slight pause. “That, my dear Harry, is the hallmark of a truly refined individual.” Harish nodded gravely. “Aye. A chap of substance, that one.”

Niket, now he was the best friend anyone could ask for—kind, reliable, and patient enough to qualify for sainthood. Do you remember how we shouted ‘Lombar ki jai!’ every single day for years?”

Harish chuckled.

“In Niket’s place, anyone else would have either started a war or taken voluntary exile. But not Niket. He joined in the chorus every day—never once did his good humour falter.”

“And Shilpak?” Harish asked.

“One of the most cultured fellows I’ve ever met. Always respectful, especially to elders."

"Tushar, some people called him vain, but I think he’s one of the most humble chaps we had. A very good friend to have,on whom you can always count on being there for you, no excuses.”

I paused, then added: “Among the girls, Smruti, Yugandhara, Manasi, Manjiri (the one who had the same last name as me) and Madhura were like mother hens—gentle, protective, and morally incapable of doing anything wrong. If you got into trouble, they wouldn’t squeal to the teachers. If you needed help, they were there—even if you barely knew them.”

Harish nodded approvingly. “And Preeti?” he asked. “Preeti was good at studies, a fine singer, a talented artist, and a swimmer to boot. Despite this impressive resume, she never carried even an ounce of arrogance.”

Harish leaned back, hands behind his head. “That,” he said, “was quite an earful.”

“Yes,” I smiled.

Harish opened his mouth, quite possibly to ask me whether I had any similarly glowing things to say about someone. But I held up a weary hand, like a statesman at the end of a long parliamentary session.

“Hold it, Harry,” I said. “The rest will come later. I’m too tired to think now. These memories, you know—they weigh a bit on the soul when unpacked all at once.”

Harish, wise fellow that he is, simply nodded and reached for the laddoo box.