We Were Boys Again: A Himachal Homecoming

As my car meandered through the pothole-ridden stretch between Kalka and Parwanoo, the driver glanced back and said, “GPS shows this road,” pointing towards a narrow side lane.
I nodded, “Wahi chaliye. Follow the directives.”

Mini, my wife, leaned in and whispered in Bangla, “Theek rasta to?”

As the car turned into the narrow lane, I suddenly saw a man standing by the roadside, waving his hands like a traffic cop. “Idhar aao… idhar aao,” he called out.

I looked once… then again—Was it really him? A bespectacled man in a loose pair of trousers and a checked shirt, his radiant smile made even brighter by a meticulously styled wig.

John Tu.

It took me a moment to register that this was indeed my dear old friend, Manoj Jain—known to all of us simply as John. He looked ten years younger, almost untouched by time.

Behind him stood a familiar group—my elder brother Biswaranjan Banerjee (Mejda), my nephews Bonney and Ronnie, and Pankaj Bhaiya, John’s elder brother.
“The whole reception party is here to welcome you, Billoo,” said Pankaj Bhaiya, as I hugged him tight—one of those long, affectionate hugs that need no words.

When we reached Pankaj Bhaiya’s house, a bearded man walked in with a plate of fresh fruits and said, “Yeh kha.”
At first, I could not recognize him. A relative of Manoj or Pankaj bhaiya, perhaps? I stared… skipped a heartbeat—Suman Bhaiya.
That familiar, gentle smile had not changed at all.
“Ji,” he responded and I instinctively bowed down trying to touch his feet.
He pulled me in instead and said, “Aa gale mil,” giving me a warm, brotherly hug.

My recent trip to Shimla and Solan was not just about escaping the plains—it was a pilgrimage of sorts, a journey back in time. It was a chance to reconnect with the friends who made my youth unforgettable.

College days… what a carefree, beautiful chapter of life. Wandering aimlessly along Mall Road, discussing everyone’s love stories and heartbreaks—real or imagined. I was always friendly with girls, and every time I mentioned, “Yeh ladki achchi hai,” Bittoo—Sudhir Sharma—would cut me short with his trademark nonchalance: “Yeh toh mujhpe line maarti hai.”

Perhaps that is why I never had a proper affair in Solan. For that, Bittoo must take the blame!

Before I left for Himachal, I had called up my old gang—John, Bittoo, and Bhola. “I am coming. Make all the arrangements!”

Their reply was immediate and full of excitement:
“Sab ho jaayega. Tu aa to sahi!”

In Solan, Bittoo became the heart of our reunion. He now lives near Jwan Halwai’s shop and took us straight to his house. He brought out samosas and chutney, and we devoured them like kids recounting our college days.
My brother, after his second samosa, sipped the chutney as if it were a soft drink and said, “Kamaal to chutney mein hai!”

Bhola hosted us at the Himani Restaurant with a spread fit for kings—single malt, hariyali kebabs (imagine a Lucknowi boy eating vegetarian kebabs in Himachal!), and a variety of delights.
But honestly, the food and drinks were incidental. What truly nourished us were the stories—our college tales, the love sagas, the heartbreaks, the bunked lectures, the pranks. We talked at length as how on every Tuesday we three used to visit a Hanuman Temple. Two went inside to have darshan while I used to sit outside waiting for them.

Tu Mandir kyun hani aata, used to be their frequent question as they gave prasad to me. I did not know the answer myself. This time too, Bittoo and Bhola talked about our visits to Mandir every Tuesday. This time too, the asked: Ab to bata tu mandir kyon nahi aata tha, before I could answer Bittoo said: “Yeh sala bahar baith kar ladkiya dekhta tha.

We three laughed – breaking the silence of the restaurant. “Billoo babu, tu aaj bhi sun le, tujis ka wait karta tha, wo mujh pe line maarti thi,” Bitoo said and we three laughed again.

 Koi lauta de mare beete hue din, Bhola said as we were ready to depart. Money and wealth does not matter, what matters is the FRIENDS

He is right.

It did not matter what we were doing now. For those few hours, time folded upon itself. We were not adults with responsibilities—we were once again those carefree boys of Solan, laughing over the same old jokes as if we had never been apart.

Distance and years had melted in the warmth of our reunion. Some trips take you to places.
This one took me back to myself.

As I came back to Lucknow, I carried with me more than just photographs and WhatsApp group updates—I carried fragments of my youth, polished by nostalgia, softened by time.