I am writing an article to explore the qualities of outstanding teachers. After much thought and introspection, I decided to use my BCS student experience as a guide for analyzing the qualities of good teachers. Any thoughts you might have on what makes a good teacher would be most welcome—especially if you can draw on your personal experience from your school years.
The purpose of this note is to solicit your help in getting relevant information on the teachers and staff with whom I interacted during my years at BCS from October 1948 till August 1954. Any inputs on my request, including resources that might be able to help, would be much appreciated.
More specifically, the following information will help:
1. The full name of Mr. “Taffy” Jones. The years he worked at BCS—he may have been at BCS at two different times. The classes he taught—I know he was the class master for Upper II. Any biographical information—where he came from, his formal education, … —would be of great help.
2. The full name of Mrs. Nanavati, Matron (Linlithgow)
3. The full name of Miss. Hannah, Matron (Box Room)
4. The classes taught by Mr. and Mrs. Murray and their full names.
5. The classes taught by Mrs. Barker, her full name and that of Mr. Barker (Bursar?)
6. The classes taught by Mrs. Fisher, her full name and that of Mr. Fisher, Headmaster.
7. The classes taught by Mr. & Mrs. Knight (Senior Master) and their full names.
8. The classes taught by Mr. Cuzen (House Master, Lefroy) and his full name.
9. The classes taught by Mr. F.M. Brown (House Master, Ibbetson?) and his full name.
10. The full name of, and classes taught by, Mr. T.P. Paul.
11. The full name of, and classes taught by, Mr. Das Gupta (Art).
Looking forward to your inputs,
And with regards and best wishes,
Vijay K. Stokes
Rivaz House: 1948-1954
…Amigos, Familia y Hermanos de Bishop Cotton School, Simla y Nuestra Ecclesia…
There are friends,
who you befriend when the shyness overcomes; perhaps you encounter another person who too is shy and as you make that eye contact the vibrational link makes the connection. You slowly shuffle and slide, and approach one another. Standing side by side looking at Samson and Delilah at the National Gallery it is perhaps the best place to meet a shy person to befriend. It’s a quiet zone and all one needs is to appreciate the seductiveness of Delilah with her breast exposed leaving Samson in such a trance and stupor that wine and pleasures of the flesh make him buckle. All it took was for Delilah to shave his seven locks of hair and he was terribly weakened…the Philistines snared him… the powerfulness of the painting, the enormity of the room, the many visitors and yet there was a quiet stillness…Finally the two turned towards each other and stumbling with words, grammar and awkward movements acknowledged each other in whispers…the start of a Beautiful Friendship that never waned but constantly waxed.. Nos somos Amigos*
And there is family.
The young girl the only child in her family has enjoyed her kinder garden years and now steps into skirts, stockings, monk shoes. With her long pony tails she starts another journey of eleven years at a Boarding School. Her Father has chalked her life, her Mother more genteel but knowing there is no option after Oxford or Radcliffe and a MBA from Stockholm Business School she needs to work her way back to the country where the source of the Ganges, the confluence of many rivers, the Kumbh mela, a billion souls, the heat and the dust are part of the corporate world where she would start as an apprentice getting to know the ground reality before final lift off. She will at a certain point of time join as a Director on the Board of her father’s conglomerate, one day becoming the CEO. The relationship of Business may also mean a relationship of Business Matrimony to keep alive the name of her founding Great Great Grand Mother who started it all…from a small postal delivery service as back up to the Post Office, today the business is global and huge jets fly across the heavens their bellies packed with super expensive parcels that are guaranteed to arrive at Tierra Del Fuego, or Hammerfest or Cairn Island or Madagascar. Where at the end of the journey when the Jumbo Jet lands and the concrete runway ends, the lush tropical jungle emerges, her company has trained Chimpanzees to carry small packs on their backs swinging through trees and hopping over rocks in meandering brooks to reach Chieftain Zukalu Madunga; he has heard of Serrano ham from the Iberian Peninsula and is willing to pay by way of the rarest plants that are needed by the Chinese in Beijing. More than just aphrodisiacs but for a reversal of Alzheimer’s. The Young Girl now a Business Woman, a shrewd one at that controls the world of logistics. Alas, she has no real friends, mere acquaintances but sometimes it is family that sets the rules… You cannot breakaway when there is lineage to preserve…Mi familia sacrada**
And then there are You and I. Cottonians who lived, argued, competed, mugged, played, hiked, screamed and formed our cores at this greatest of institutions. Each a steadfast brick that dislodges itself from the main frame work of BCS (just as another younger brick lodges in to keep the institution erect and proud) and goes out into the world, sometimes as far as Quito in Ecuador. To face life’s challenges and duck against pelting rocks, analyzing, thinking intelligently and logically, finally striking back with our motto on our backs ‘Overcome Evil with Good’ knowing all along that a Cottonian will never ever forget his roots, his lineage, his teachers, his bearers and the sacred ground of Bishop Cotton School, up in the Greens of Simla. He will never forget those with him he spend over a decade of his life; how can he forget? It is the connection of souls at Bishop Cotton my true true friends that in many ways leaves everything else truly pedestrian. The Cedars around our school have seen all of us grow from young little men to big little men and men with courage and fortitude. Where ever a Cottonian may be on this planet of ours, he is protected by the School Chapel; wherever he may in the galaxy when departed his soul floats free over the Chapel, his dormitory, the First Flat, the Irwin Hall, The School Gate and then meanders down to Remove-Man does he enjoy the view from the top; his focus is on his School, its periphery, he glides like an albatross. Only we Cottonians can see him up there….
Next time you walk the sacred grounds of Bishop Cotton School, pause on the First Flat and look up towards the Heavens..You will see him! I have…a flutter and a cool rush of mountain air as he glides past and banking heavily stoops low to Salute You.
TRUE COTTONIANS. Mis hermanos de BCS y Nuestra Ecclesia***
*We are friends.
**My sacred family.
***My Brothers’ at BCS and our Chapel.
31 August 2016
I have now become a published author, though I have taken the route of self-publishing on Amazon Kindle (less hassles than with publishers). My novel can be purchased for a paltry Rs. 200 in India or for USD 2.99 in the US. It is also available in most countries of the world at equivalent local currency.
The book is titled, “Retribution by Proxy,” and can be searched by my name, Surinder S. Ahluwalia or by title. The cover you will see on the web page, is an artist’s version of a group photo that plays a pivotal role in the story. It has an interesting storyline, an idea about which, can be had by reading the synopsis on the web page. There is no fancy language – in fact it has been written in everyday language. It is a story of two school time friends in their early twenties, an engineer and an aspiring private detective, who are confronted and affected by the consequences of a crime that was committed more than 25 years earlier, when the British still ruled India.
Here’s the link:
Do give it a read, and if you find it interesting, please give your rating and comments via Kindle. Needless to say, I am a first time author, and will need a lot of encouragement accompanied by good and positive publicity to attract buyers.
Surinder S. Ahluwalia
Humayun Khan was born in 1932 to a Pashto-Hindko speaking family in Abbottabad, Hazara Division in the North West Frontier Province (NWFP, now Khyber Pakhtunkhwa). His father was a District and Sessions Judge at the judicial commissioner’s court in NWFP, which is now known as the Peshawar High Court, and his mother was a homemaker. Mr. Khan’s paternal family is from the Yousafzai Clan, hailing from the village of Amazogray in Mardan. They were landlords with ownership of over two hundred acres of lands in the village that depended on wells and rainwater irrigation systems for harvesting wheat. Mr. Khan’s maternal ancestors hail from Dera Ismail Khan and Peshawar. They were traders engaged in businesses with merchants from Uzbekistan and Turkmenistan.
Mr. Khan spent his early years of upbringing in Peshawar with two elder brothers and two younger sisters, and at age seven, he was sent to boarding school at Murree where he studied for two years. In 1941, he was enrolled at the Bishop Cotton School in Shimla where he studied until Partition. Recalling life at the boarding school, Mr. Khan says that there were about two hundred boys from all faiths and backgrounds. “It was considered one of the best public schools. There was a great emphasis on teachings of morals and ethics like fair-play, being truthful, and self-sufficiency. I was always a good student and used to be first in the class,” recounts Mr. Khan. He was also an avid cricket player and competed on the school’s team. “We’d study in school for nine months out of the year and then be with our families. There was no such thing as discrimination in our school. We were never looked upon each other as anything but fellow classmates,” Mr. Khan recalls.
Speaking of his experiences at home during the holidays, Mr. Khan mentions that he enjoyed the traditional Peshawari way of life, including the food bazaars and the hujra (courtyard). “It used to be a romantic life. We would dine at my grandmother’s house, where she used to have these stoves on the ground. She would sit on a low stool all day and cook for the entire family. We never used knives or forks on the table,” he says. Mr. Khan spoke Pashto and Hindko at home.
At the time of Partition, Mr. Khan was at school in Shimla. “On June 3, 1947, all the senior boys were invited to the house of the senior master to listen to the broadcast on the radio, where Jinnah, Nehru and Baldev Singh spoke. We were so out of touch with reality there — we really didn’t take much interest in it. When the trouble started we remained unaware of it. We heard about riots in Shimla and Punjab but our political knowledge was heavily limited inside the school,” Mr. Khan remembers.
In early October of 1947, Mountbatten visited Shimla and spent one day at the Bishop Cotton School, as Mr. Khan remembers. “At lunch, the headmaster told him that he had 40 ‘odd’ boys who ought to be in Pakistan. Mountbatten advised to let those boys stay until they complete their studies. However, our parents in Pakistan were extremely worried. Some of them, including mine, were in powerful positions. They approached the then-acting governor of NWFP and urged them to get their children back from Shimla,” Mr. Khan says. In late October, the governor arranged a special convoy comprising of trucks under the supervision of Gurkhas to pick up the boys from Shimla. “We were loaded onto the trucks and taken to the Ambala Cantonment where we spent the night in barracks. The next day, a Dakota airplane was arranged by the governor to pick us from Ambala from where we flew to Lahore, and then Karachi. Some of the boys had families in Lahore and they were reunited with them. Some of them were flown to Karachi. There were seven of us from Peshawar, and we were dropped off at the Lahore airport and picked up by Mr. Leghari, the Commissioner for Refugees.”
Mr. Khan and the other boys stayed at the commissioner’s home for two days and slowly started to understand what was happening. “We didn’t initially realize the danger we faced because everything had always gone so smoothly for us, in our state of isolation. Two of Mr. Leghari’s sisters, who were students at the Auckland Girls High School in Shimla, had also travelled to Lahore, but by car. They had told him in our presence what they had seen on the road — the refugees and the violence. That was my very first impression of what was going on outside the walls of our school,” Mr. Khan recalls.
From Lahore, Mr. Khan and the other boys boarded on a train procured by the commissioner for refugees, and Mr. Khan was eventually reunited with his family at the Peshawar railway station.
“The clashes in Peshawar had died down by the time we arrived. My mother had very close relations with Hindu families. We used to virtually live at each other’s houses. My mother’s best friend was a Hindu lady. When I returned to Peshawar, I found out that they were all gone but had left their valuables — cars, furniture and carpets — with us,” Mr Khan recalls. “Some of the families managed to send representatives to Peshawar from India after Partition, so we were able to give them the belongings. Unfortunately, we’d later heard that these folks were looted at the border,” he says.
Sharing his observations on post-Partition life in Peshawar, Mr. Khan says that behavior patterns of the middle class remained very “English” for several years after their departure. “Even though there were very few Englishman left, the clubs and the cinemas kept going for several years after Partition and so did the civil structures — only now they were managed by Pakistani posts. We didn’t really find much of a difference in life. The roads and neighborhoods were safe. As boys, we used to go to the cinemas on bicycles at night. We did not live in any fear of being harmed,” Mr. Khan says.
Mr. Khan continued studying for his bachelor’s degree at Lawrence College, and then at the Edwardes College in Peshawar for one year. In 1950, Mr. Khan went on to study economics and law in the Trinity College in Cambridge, graduating with honors in 1953. His degree was later converted into a master’s degree, and in 1954, Mr. Khan joined the Lincoln’s Inn and became a barrister of law. “I had dreams of being a successful lawyer but my complete lack of knowledge of reading legal documents in Urdu held me back,” he says. “At the Bishop Cotton School, we were only taught lower Urdu [basic alphabets and conversational phrases].”
In 1955, Mr. Khan became an officer with the Central Superior Services of Pakistan for the Frontier Cadre and offered his services for seventeen years in the Federally Administered Tribal Areas [Waziristan and Malakand]. After 1971, Mr. Khan, secretary for the North West Frontier Provinces government at the time, was transferred to the foreign services office where he served for another eighteen years, beginning from his posting in Soviet Russia. In 1984, Mr. Khan was sent to India as the Pakistani High Commissioner. “Apart from Shimla, I’d never known India. This was my first chance to discover the country,” he says. He recounts his tenure in India to be the most difficult in the midst of Indira Gandhi’s assassination, and the resulting violence.
In 1961, Mr. Khan married Munawar Humayun Khan. (Read her story here: http://on.fb.me/21p1DGn They have three daughters. Sharing his thoughts, Mr. Khan offers, “We should…focus on the politics of reconciliation, instead of confrontation.”
This interview was conducted by Story Scholar Fakhra Hassan. The summary above provides a brief glimpse into the full interview. The complete video interview is expected to be public in 2017. Browse more stories on the STORY MAP: http://www.1947partitionarchive.org/browse
Hamayun Khan was at BCS Simla from 1941 to 1947 in Rivaz House.
The Great Equaliser….. and a jog down the oceans of memory-a Cottonian hits specific lines of his Blog-Bloggers and all.. Confused .com ( Truthful Lies)
Someone’s loss is the other one’s gain…Someone’s death is someone’s bread.
As Heady said, it doesn’t mean if you do not hurt the lion and smile at him, he will hug you…It means in this Big Mean Selfish World, that Lion will get to you and eat you…even if you shake hands with him.
..and the Great Mahatma said, an eye for an eye makes you both blind. Or gently you can shake the world.
Everyone is lighting his own demons-even at Yoga Class or on the banks of the Ganga….everything is a fad from those artificial nails that are filed down to perfection or procuring a fake ass to look like an Afro-Bro-Ho! And some tinkle they do a whole firkin week of work just lying in bed…and then preach as if….yes they earned their MBA sleeping..Horse manure I say old chap. Tally Ho and Pip-Pip.
The genre of Rock is one where I cannot kid myself when I tell you and myself that this stuff does really enter into my veins and Rocks my chickens…from Jethro Tull, to Deep Purple, to Van Halen, Rage against the Machine, Alter Bridge, Black Stone Cherry and the Guru’s of Rock….Plant and Page and Jones and Bonham.
..Hamilton Bermuda-the Lady Guard at the gate eating shark meat and inviting me in to coozy woozy, I said no…she said yes. After all at the Forty Thieves , Mike Jackon was singing ‘don’t stop till you get enuf’.
…or was it to the two Red Indian Pilots taking my vessel the ‘HIBISCUS’ up Rio Plata from Buenos Aires drinking mate….a local herb tea laced with strains of Cocoa..or was it Coc followed with a-i-n-e?
–that stow away from Cartagena Colombia trying his damnest to get back on my boat and smuggle out at Jacksonville; the guy was lean, muscular and mean. We needed 5 filipino sailors to pin that mother down and splice that bugger on the monkey island, manacle him and bring him back to the land of La Escollera…I requested him never to find me again, ever..find another Boat dude…leave me to do my boring stuff-like romancing flying fish.
…or that Pilot at Valencia who docked the ‘Lontue’ and discreetly passed me an envelope!! Mullah? Plata? Money? Shit three dollars to make a phone call..( those days we had no mobiles no..)
..or on that thick foggy night as we approached Ambrose Light and Sandy Hook Pilots on the ‘Copiapo’ ..I saw a loom…a bright bright loom coming down on my port bow…my Radar showed a blob- a huge bugger…and then the loom crystalised into sparks and shards and a thousand twinklers…it was Cunard’s ‘QE-2’ the world’s biggest at that time….sailing out of New York. As I exchanged pleasantries with the Master. The Rockefellers had chartered the Big Boat for a wedding and yes we passed so close I saw the lovely ladies in ballroom dresses and their amours in black tail coats gliding with ‘the River flows in you’ ( or in today’s world…’the one that got away’and yes again..Champagne ‘Gout de diamants’..Taste of Diamonds at American Three Thousand Dollars a Pop! I swear I could even get the whiff of Clive Christian’s Imperial Majesty the most expensive parfum in the world. This was luxury, opulence, sophisticated indulgence in the rarest. ( Yet as we continued after Red Hook Brooklyn and negotiated the bend of the East River you past Riker’s Island, one of the hardest core prisons for the naughty boys in America. ( I wondered what these poor souls were having for Dinner…..)
..and that Captain who knew I was from Bishop Cotton School always tried to tone me down and stop my shore leave at Port Louis Mauritius or Bombay or Calcutta where my parents lived ( all forgiven)… and the other…..Capt. Hosang Boatwall…A Gentleman and a Navigator, a Mentor…RESPECT Sir.
Or eating Amadillo Meat one evening at Adriana Montenegro’s pit stop at Miraflores Lima.
Driving with Juan Manuel Carvacho from Los Andes through the Cordillera towards Mendoza, part of the Ruto del Vino..( The Argentine Wine Route) with ice grapes being harvested in snow.
..Yes Nights in white satin, never meaning to end, letters are written , never meaning to send…( The Moody Blues)
Young and Old Cottonian,
Maintain a fertile mind
Go into the world with honour
Help as many,
But laugh and rejoice
As the World is still beautiful
and where ever you may be…
Bishop Cotton School, is always there.
Feliz Navidad! Merry Christmas and May the World be more Beautiful in 2016.