In the annals of teenage misadventures, the tale of the “CAMAJALAZU” gang’s great escape from March Past practice is one for the ages. It all began when I was a tenth-grader at Good Shepherd Convent, a school where we were expected to be on our best behaviour at all times, especially during the dreaded march past rehearsals.

You see, I never quite understood the appeal of those march past practices. The idea of walking in formation under the scorching sun didn’t sit well with me or my gang, which we cleverly named “CAMAJALAZU.” It was a portmanteau of our first two letters from our names – Camilla, Marie, Jayanthi, Lakshmi, and Zulaiha, who happened to be the rich kid financing our canteen escapades. In short, Zu was our snack saviour.

One fateful day, the thought of yet another monotonous march past practice proved too much for us. We decided it was high time for a sweet rebellion and what better way to revolt than by treating ourselves to some canteen goodies?

As we savoured ice creams far away from the prying eyes of the marching teacher, our gluttonous celebration was abruptly interrupted by the sight of the formidable Games Teacher whom we called “Gamesee” making her way towards us. Panic set in as we desperately searched for a hiding spot. That’s when I spotted it – a half-demolished building near the ice cream vendor. Without a second thought, I dashed towards it, hoping my friends would follow.

In the dimly lit, debris-strewn building, I huddled in a corner, closed my eyes, and curled up like a snail, hoping against hope that we’d escaped detection. But alas, hope was a cruel friend that day.

Suddenly, I felt a tap on my shoulder, and slowly, I turned around to find Gamesee towering over me, her expression a cocktail of anger and disbelief. I couldn’t help but wonder where my friends had vanished to, only to discover that they were standing right beside her, like a guilty chorus line.

With a heavy sigh, I got to my feet, the weight of impending doom pressing upon my shoulders. I stammered out an apology, but Gamesee was seeing red. She couldn’t resist the opportunity to mock me, asking why I was taking a nap in this crumbling, decrepit structure.

To make matters worse, she decided to escalate the situation by decreeing that all of us must meet the school Principal, Sister Cabrini. Sister Cabrini, however, was no stranger to me; she was a good friend of my father. As I stood trembling in front of her, she instantly recognised me and asked me to bring my father the next day.

Tears welled up in my eyes, and I shivered with fear at the prospect of disappointing my father. So, with a quivering voice, I mustered the courage to negotiate. I offered to accept any punishment she deemed fit for my transgression if she would spare me the ordeal of involving my father.

Sister Cabrini thought for a moment and then said, “Very well, you shall march in front of the parlour tomorrow morning for one hour. Is that acceptable?” I nodded vigorously, accepting my fate with gratitude.

The next morning, there we were, CAMAJALAZU marching in front of the parlour. I led the line of five with a sense of duty befitting a seasoned drill sergeant. It was the first Friday, and as we marched, Catholic students on their way to chapel for mass stared in puzzled amazement. A few of my peers couldn’t help but ask why we were marching. I quickly responded, “We’re just practicing for the upcoming sports meet.”

Then, something miraculous happened. Sister Cabrini, who had been silently observing us, cracked a gentle smile. It was as if she had seen something redeemable in our misguided rebellion. Alas, we were forgiven, and the weight of impending doom lifted.

From that day forward, we CAMAJALAZU vowed never to bunk games class again and, most importantly, to never seek refuge in a half-demolished building in the campus. We had learned our lesson, albeit through a comedy of errors, and life at Good Shepherd Convent carried on with its usual blend of humour and unpredictability.