<p class="bodytext">I spent my childhood in two small, village-like towns in the late 1960s and early 1970s — first in Hassan <br />and later in Chikkamagaluru. Both places left a deep imprint on me, especially in refining the art of pranks -- some clever, some clumsy. The schools I attended were known for their strict discipline and devoted teachers, leaving little room for mischief. But that didn’t stop me from finding my own playgrounds. </p>.<p class="bodytext">Hassan was then a sleepy town that saw far more rain than it does now. My school was close by, but I always managed to take the longest route, taking a long time to reach. Sometimes, I crept through the iron fence like a snake, and sometimes I climbed a tree and jumped over. With time, my jumps became <br />perfect.</p>.<p class="bodytext">One of my favourite haunts was the cemetery on Salagame Road. The wooden gate was usually locked, but I would climb over it, land perfectly on the other side, and walk past ‘satisfied souls and disgusted spirits’ to the kere (water tank) behind before heading home. The cemetery, whcih was right next to our school fence, was my obstacle course. Just beyond it stood tamarind and other tall trees — perfect for our gultoria, a game that involved plucking small branches and leaves. </p>.Jimmy finds a home.<p class="bodytext">Chikkamagaluru, my next home, gave me more space, time, and freedom to perfect my pranks. By then, I had grown taller, and my parents had started doubting my mental ability. Atlas and Hercules cycles ruled the roads, and when I didn’t have one, I could hire one for a few small coins from a local shop on an hourly basis. With the lanes almost empty, the town was my empire. One day, I’d ride towards Aldur, another towards Joldal, and sometimes even to Ratnagiri Bore -- a vast, open plain with a single, giant tree in the middle. The rains only added to the thrill. </p>.<p class="bodytext">MG Road, IG Road and every bylane of Chikkamagaluru became the tracks I frequented. In the rainy season, particularly after heavy rains, I would inspect the Gauri Kaluve canal to see the force of water, which later drained to Dantaramakki kere (tank).</p>.<p class="bodytext">That kere and the nearby sawmills became my Sunday adda. One sawmill belonged to a friend’s father, where I had free rein. The kere area was a hotspot for my pranks. The adjoining horticultural farm, laden with chiku and guava trees, shared a fence with my school ground —flexible enough for an agile prankster to slip through. There I performed the pranks of my ancestors, meticulously and silently.</p>.<p class="bodytext">Those were pranks worth remembering -- from a simpler time before mischief changed its form.</p>
<p class="bodytext">I spent my childhood in two small, village-like towns in the late 1960s and early 1970s — first in Hassan <br />and later in Chikkamagaluru. Both places left a deep imprint on me, especially in refining the art of pranks -- some clever, some clumsy. The schools I attended were known for their strict discipline and devoted teachers, leaving little room for mischief. But that didn’t stop me from finding my own playgrounds. </p>.<p class="bodytext">Hassan was then a sleepy town that saw far more rain than it does now. My school was close by, but I always managed to take the longest route, taking a long time to reach. Sometimes, I crept through the iron fence like a snake, and sometimes I climbed a tree and jumped over. With time, my jumps became <br />perfect.</p>.<p class="bodytext">One of my favourite haunts was the cemetery on Salagame Road. The wooden gate was usually locked, but I would climb over it, land perfectly on the other side, and walk past ‘satisfied souls and disgusted spirits’ to the kere (water tank) behind before heading home. The cemetery, whcih was right next to our school fence, was my obstacle course. Just beyond it stood tamarind and other tall trees — perfect for our gultoria, a game that involved plucking small branches and leaves. </p>.Jimmy finds a home.<p class="bodytext">Chikkamagaluru, my next home, gave me more space, time, and freedom to perfect my pranks. By then, I had grown taller, and my parents had started doubting my mental ability. Atlas and Hercules cycles ruled the roads, and when I didn’t have one, I could hire one for a few small coins from a local shop on an hourly basis. With the lanes almost empty, the town was my empire. One day, I’d ride towards Aldur, another towards Joldal, and sometimes even to Ratnagiri Bore -- a vast, open plain with a single, giant tree in the middle. The rains only added to the thrill. </p>.<p class="bodytext">MG Road, IG Road and every bylane of Chikkamagaluru became the tracks I frequented. In the rainy season, particularly after heavy rains, I would inspect the Gauri Kaluve canal to see the force of water, which later drained to Dantaramakki kere (tank).</p>.<p class="bodytext">That kere and the nearby sawmills became my Sunday adda. One sawmill belonged to a friend’s father, where I had free rein. The kere area was a hotspot for my pranks. The adjoining horticultural farm, laden with chiku and guava trees, shared a fence with my school ground —flexible enough for an agile prankster to slip through. There I performed the pranks of my ancestors, meticulously and silently.</p>.<p class="bodytext">Those were pranks worth remembering -- from a simpler time before mischief changed its form.</p>
