<p>A small ceramic jug has long been among my treasured possessions, and I have Miss Vashisht, my high-school teacher, to thank for it. ‘Miss’, not ‘Ms’, was how I knew her at school, for that was how we referred to all our unmarried teachers. </p>.<p>Miss Vashisht was among the staff members who accompanied a group of senior students on an excursion to Agra and Gwalior. My friends and I were thrilled at the prospect of travelling together and staying at a hotel.</p>.<p>We had been on many interesting outings before, but only within our city. Now that we were in Class IX, we were finally considered old enough to go beyond Delhi.</p>.<p>Miss Vashisht was with me when we went shopping in Gwalior. Actually, the adults accompanying us were far more keener on shopping, than us youngsters. We had had our fill the previous evening when we visited the J B Mangharam factory, where we had stuffed ourselves with sweets and biscuits. The goodies were had been freely distributed because they were ‘defective’. We could see no fault in them, but the person explaining the production process informed us that even the slightest anomaly in a piece meant that it would be discarded. We didn’t mind the anomaly at all. We joyfully carried away hundreds of rejected goodies and feasted on them well past midnight. </p>.<p>Sickened with surfeit, we were not at our brightest the following morning and were in no mood to marvel at the historical wonders. We trudged listlessly behind our guide at Gwalior Fort, barely taking in his account of its glorious history. Unwearied by hours of sightseeing, our teachers were soon ready to embark on a hunt for handicrafts. They moved from one wayside stall to another with boundless energy, eagerly bargaining and making purchases.</p>.<p>“Gwalior is famous for its pottery,” said Miss Vashisht, who had just bought a beautiful bowl. Perhaps I would like to pick up something to take home, she wondered. An attractive item caught my eye, and the price seemed reasonable. But Miss Vashisht bargained briskly and got it for me at half the cost. </p>.<p>Mementoes from later trips to Nainital, Dehradun, Mussoorie, Hardwar and Rishikesh have not survived the test of time. This little purple jug from Gwalior, however, still adorns my showcase. Its colour has not faded, and neither has my recollection of how I acquired it. Miss Vashisht’s kindness shines in my remembrance: a cherished souvenir of my days at school.</p>
<p>A small ceramic jug has long been among my treasured possessions, and I have Miss Vashisht, my high-school teacher, to thank for it. ‘Miss’, not ‘Ms’, was how I knew her at school, for that was how we referred to all our unmarried teachers. </p>.<p>Miss Vashisht was among the staff members who accompanied a group of senior students on an excursion to Agra and Gwalior. My friends and I were thrilled at the prospect of travelling together and staying at a hotel.</p>.<p>We had been on many interesting outings before, but only within our city. Now that we were in Class IX, we were finally considered old enough to go beyond Delhi.</p>.<p>Miss Vashisht was with me when we went shopping in Gwalior. Actually, the adults accompanying us were far more keener on shopping, than us youngsters. We had had our fill the previous evening when we visited the J B Mangharam factory, where we had stuffed ourselves with sweets and biscuits. The goodies were had been freely distributed because they were ‘defective’. We could see no fault in them, but the person explaining the production process informed us that even the slightest anomaly in a piece meant that it would be discarded. We didn’t mind the anomaly at all. We joyfully carried away hundreds of rejected goodies and feasted on them well past midnight. </p>.<p>Sickened with surfeit, we were not at our brightest the following morning and were in no mood to marvel at the historical wonders. We trudged listlessly behind our guide at Gwalior Fort, barely taking in his account of its glorious history. Unwearied by hours of sightseeing, our teachers were soon ready to embark on a hunt for handicrafts. They moved from one wayside stall to another with boundless energy, eagerly bargaining and making purchases.</p>.<p>“Gwalior is famous for its pottery,” said Miss Vashisht, who had just bought a beautiful bowl. Perhaps I would like to pick up something to take home, she wondered. An attractive item caught my eye, and the price seemed reasonable. But Miss Vashisht bargained briskly and got it for me at half the cost. </p>.<p>Mementoes from later trips to Nainital, Dehradun, Mussoorie, Hardwar and Rishikesh have not survived the test of time. This little purple jug from Gwalior, however, still adorns my showcase. Its colour has not faded, and neither has my recollection of how I acquired it. Miss Vashisht’s kindness shines in my remembrance: a cherished souvenir of my days at school.</p>