Gangapuri memories

Our assistant headmaster, Ashok sir, is tall, gentle, and always greets you with a friendly smile — the kind that makes you think he’s your best ally.

And he is… unless you’re a commerce student. To them, he’s the ultimate exam villain, a human CCTV camera who can sense cheating attempts before you’ve even unfolded the chit. His long strides across the exam hall feel like the Grim Reaper’s shadow, and his eagle eyes have ended more “group study” plans than the syllabus itself. According to many whispered tales, Ashok sir is, in fact, a swine also.

Hitler PoddarVisit Hitler on YouTube — the Iron Man of some strange parallel universe where the arc reactor is missing and the helmet’s just for show.

He walks with the air of someone who knows secrets the rest of us mortals can’t possibly understand… even if we’re not entirely sure he understands them either. His eyes sparkle with the kind of ambition you usually see in TED Talk thumbnails.

He considers himself a genius — a revolutionary thinker who could change the entire course of humanity if only the world would “listen to his vision.” Unfortunately, that vision usually ends somewhere between the staff room and the tea stall. His plans for global change are often derailed by the fact that, well, he’s a bit “lulu” — and no, that’s not a scientific term.

It’s almost poetic, really. Science seems to have done to him what it once did to Max Planck — taken a perfectly fine mind and turned it into an eccentric anomaly. He’s the kind of man who’ll give you a lecture about quantum theory, climate change, and the importance of tiffin breaks all in one breath… usually by hijacking your tiffin break for an extra class, making sure no one eats while he speaks. And somehow, you still leave wondering which topic he’s more passionate about.

Koushik Pramanik — the living embodiment of calm in the wild chaos of Gangapuri Siksha Sadan. In a school where noise levels rival a railway station, he somehow moves like a quiet breeze, untouched by the madness.

No one has ever heard him talk loudly to a student, and if he ever did, the shock would probably make the headlines.

He’s so kind-hearted that he tolerates every shade of student mischief — from casual back-bench gossip to full-scale classroom revolutions. While other teachers would be chasing you with a stick, Koushik Sir would just smile, shake his head, and let you carry on, as if silently betting on how far your nonsense will go.

Anyone who meets him once will remember him for life, not because he’s strict or scary, but because he’s living proof that patience can be a superpower. Even when chaos erupts around him, he stays unshaken — like a monk who somehow ended up teaching in a school instead of meditating in the Himalayas.

And of course, there’s his signature dialogue: “Kochu hoyeche.” No matter the situation — exam stress, noisy class, or total disaster — those two words come out like a mantra. Over time, it’s earned him the affectionate nickname “Kochu Sir,” a title we use with equal parts love and playful teasing.

Bimal Sir — officially Bimal Kumar PalVisit Bimal Kumar Pal on Facebook, unofficially the Sigma male of Gangapuri Siksha Sadan. He walks into class with that “I don’t care” energy and runs it like his personal podcast. No hesitation, no filter — he’ll slang his own family members right in front of the entire class like it’s open mic night, and we’ll just sit there wondering whether to laugh, clap, or take notes.

What makes him scarier (and funnier) is his sixth sense. He can dive straight into a student’s mind and instantly detect every ounce of mischief brewing there. The problem? He can also out-mischief us when he wants. Imagine a teacher who knows your prank before you even attempt it — that’s Bimal Sir, the ultimate troll master in disguise, and probably the only one who can make us feel outsmarted at our own game.

And then, of course, there’s the smoking saga. Yes, the rumors are true — we caught him. The man’s as unapologetic about lighting up as he is about roasting his own relatives mid-class. If there were ever an Olympic category for “smoking with confidence,” Bimal Sir would bring the gold straight home to Gangapuri.

In short, he’s more than just a teacher — he’s a performer, a mind-reader, and a certified sigma legend. Among ourselves, we toss around nicknames like “Smoke Guru” and “Sigma Pal,” but deep down we know he’s carved a place in school lore that no one else could match.

Debashish Mondal(commonly known as Deba) — the school’s self-declared thug life representative. You’ll almost never catch him walking alone; he’s always spotted chatting with some female, grinning like he just cracked the Da Vinci Code. His confidence is so unshakable it feels less like a teacher’s and more like a full-time Bollywood hero’s.

At exactly 12:30, when the girls’ school disperses, you’ll often see Debashish gazing toward the gate with a mysterious smile, as if he’s waiting for destiny (or maybe just collecting gossip fuel). Students joke that he has a PhD in “window observation techniques” and could probably write a thesis on “The Movement Patterns of Schoolgirls at Noon.”

In short, Debashish Sir is equal parts teacher, entertainer, and local don, making school life feel like a mix of classroom and street drama.

Aashish Kumar Santra — the science teacher who could turn Einstein into a dropout. His classes are like bouncing on bouncer balls: ten minutes of random nonsense, ten minutes of incomprehensible “science,” and then he leaves ten minutes early, leaving us with nothing but confusion and regret. It’s less of a lecture, more of a time-pass experiment.

First thing he does after entering class? Whip out his mobile. Nope, not to take attendance — to check ChatGPT and figure out what he’s supposed to teach. Basically, he’s crowdsourcing our education from an AI, and we’re the guinea pigs in this live experiment.

But beware — complain about him to the headmaster and you’re signing your own transfer certificate. His favorite threat? “I’ll throw you all into commerce.” And trust me, he means it. Add to that his villainous superpower of giving rock-bottom marks in practicals, and suddenly he feels less like a teacher and more like a school-level Thanos.

To cover his tracks, he organizes excursions, as if a bus ride and some sightseeing can wash away the trauma of his classes. Spoiler: it doesn’t. But at least we get a day off.

Among ourselves, we call him “Saotaal” and “Murgi Chor.” Why? Let’s just say his reputation is like his classes — hard to explain, impossible to forget.

Chittaranjan Mondal — one of the rare gems in Gangapuri Siksha Sadan who actually knows how to teach. Respected, calm, and helpful… but with enough quirks to keep the class entertained without him even trying. He comes straight from the Sundarbans, and his accent is the stuff of legend. When math hits “whole square,” he proudly delivers it as “whholo square” — and just like that, the name sticks forever.

His teaching comes with a bonus feature: live casino betting. Picture this — he’s writing on the board, suddenly freezes mid-equation, and then turns back dramatically to look at us, like he just unlocked a secret of the universe. The students? Already betting money, chocolates, and pens on “Will he turn now?” It’s suspense at its finest, and that’s exactly why we call him “Suspence Sir.”

But credit where credit’s due: when exams loom like doomsday, he’s the one who slips us the golden cheat code — suggestions. While others just torture us with syllabus, Suspence Sir hands us a survival guide. It’s not just help, it’s salvation.

So between “Whholo Square” chants and suspenseful mid-turns, he’s earned two eternal nicknames: “Suspence” and “Whholo Square.” Both equally iconic, both equally him.

Samarjit Mondal — chemistry teacher, zero filter. One moment he’s explaining bonds, the next he’s warning: “Be safe, too many gays and lesbians around us.”

Students don’t know whether to laugh, cry, or check if this is still a chemistry class. For him, bonding seems to exist only in the “straight” version.

Result? He teaches reactions on paper, but triggers way bigger ones in real life.

Soumo Chakrabarty — the man walks like he owns the corridors, attitude thick enough to cut with a knife. His trademark? That clenched fist. One wave of it and half the class starts praying to every god they know. Rumor has it, more students have “pee stories” linked to him than to the school washroom itself.

But here’s the twist — behind the gangsta glare, there might be a soft side. Science students whisper he speaks politely with them, almost like he’s two different people. Arts and commerce kids, though? They get the raw version: “Chup kor na vai, ki problem tor?” — straight out of a gully gang mixtape.

Legends say he once silenced a whole class with just a stare and a slow fist raise. No words, no threats, just pure intimidation energy. If he wasn’t a teacher, Netflix would cast him as the villain in a school drama.