646 NJ Ravi Chander It was in the sixties, as a young boy, that I had my first feel of a picnic. Our teacher announced a trip to a familiar park on Bengaluru’s outskirts. My younger sibling and classmate Prasanna Kumar and I dashed home after school, delighted at the thought of embarking on our maiden outdoor adventure. But first, it was mandatory to get the nod of parents, besides contributing the picnic fee. Unfortunately, our dreams lay shattered when the family elders refused permission to let us go, citing safety concerns. Luck, however, smiled on us. As seldom happens, the elders had a curious case of brain fade, and the trip got erased from their memory. So, on D-day, we trudged off to school, lugging our cargo of books as usual. A red bus stood near the school gates, and there were many eager beavers around it.