Chandigarh: Being an Assistant Master in my early twenties at Mayo College, Ajmer, was both a privilege and an adventure.Few institutions could rival Mayo’s peculiar blend of grandeur, history and eccentricity: a sprawling campus of magnificent buildings, sweeping avenues, intriguing traditions and enough accumulated lore to keep generations of masters and students equally riveted. But the challenge, at least for a young bachelor like myself, overflowing with the exuberance, optimism and overconfidence of youth, was of a rather different nature.The College was then very much a male universe and, for all its grandeur, history and companionship, it had one unavoidable limitation: there was almost no female company. This was the conservative India of the Seventies and any unattached master seeking to broaden his social horizons had little option but to look beyond the school’s imposing red sandstone and marble walls.Fortunately, I was not destined to confront this deficiency alone after a first term of enforced social austerity. At the beginning of my second term, Howard Solverson – or Howie, as he soon became known – arrived from Canada. At the time, Mayo had an arrangement with Canadian Crossroads International, a volunteer organisation that sent young Canadians overseas to participate in educational and community projects as part of a broader cultural exchange programme.Howie was unlike anyone Mayo had previously encountered. Tall, lanky and permanently dishevelled, with a drooping moustache, he had the unmistakable appearance of a hippie who had somehow taken a wrong turn and ended up in Rajasthan. Back in Canada, he travelled the country with little more than his guitar, earning his living by singing folk and country songs wherever audiences listened.Within days of arriving in Ajmer – and after his first impromptu guitar session in Rajasthan House, where he was billeted – he had, quite understandably, become a minor celebrity among the College boys. And, despite our diverse backgrounds, Howie and I shared a remarkably similar outlook and became friends almost immediately. It soon also became equally obvious that we shared the same predicament: Mayo offered distinguished company, a splendidly accoutred campus and stimulation in many respects, but it was not especially conducive to the social and romantic ambitions of two unattached young men.The problem was further compounded by the times. This was an India where finding the companionship of women outside the familiar boundaries of family and established social circles was neither simple nor straightforward, particularly for two young bachelors stationed in an almost entirely male world in a traditionalist town like Ajmer.There were no dating apps, no social media platforms, no algorithms promising to locate one’s soulmate within a five-kilometre radius and certainly no possibility of swiping one’s way out of loneliness. Opportunities to broaden one’s social horizons were neither plentiful nor straightforward and often demanded a level of planning more commonly associated with military campaigns, involving reconnaissance, strategy, timing, contingency planning and a readiness to endure occasional reverses.It was precisely this spirit of strategic thinking – applied, perhaps, with rather more enthusiasm than wisdom – that soon led Howie and me towards Sophia College, an undergraduate girls’ institution then situated on the outskirts of Ajmer, along the highway to Jaipur. Being respectable and upright Mayo schoolmasters, we naturally concluded that any interaction with Sophia’s senior undergraduates would have to be pursued under the most impeccable principles of education, culture and institutional cooperation.Thus began what we regarded, at the time, as a carefully planned diplomatic initiative.In our minds, this combined the finest traditions of educational exchange, cultural enrichment and, though never formally acknowledged in any official document, certain additional benefits that two unattached young masters might reasonably hope to discover, en route. To both of us it possessed all the hallmarks of a sound plan: noble intent, respectable justification and just enough plausibility to conceal its more personal ambitions.In retrospect, after almost half a century, it also possessed all the characteristics of an enterprise destined to fail. But at the time Howie and I considered our scheme little short of brilliant and infallible.The opening gambit involved paying a formal call on the French nuns who ran Sophia College. Thus, on a winter afternoon in early 1976, fortified by the unquestioned respectability of our Mayo College credentials, Howie and I bicycled over and presented ourselves at the Mother Superior’s office as earnest educators devoted to academic exchange, cultural engagement and a range of other equally worthy- and lofty- pursuits.Illustration: Pariplab Chakraborty.The Mother Superior received us graciously and personally conducted us around the campus.The walkabout was comprehensive, taking in classrooms, common areas and, somewhat unexpectedly, even the girls’ hostel. Throughout, we maintained the demeanour of serious educators engaged in professional inquiry. Though our interest appeared measured and scholarly, I distinctly recall that our powers of observation were operating at maximum efficiency and overlooking very little around us.Even the occasional gaggle of attractive young women who appeared during this tour was treated by both of us with studied nonchalance. We barely glanced in their direction – at least not often enough to attract suspicion and blow the mission prematurely – and, after tea, biscuits and an exchange of mutual courtesies, departed feeling quietly encouraged that we were well embarked upon what appeared to be a most promising enterprise. In our naïve minds, the first manoeuvre had been executed with complete success, and the operation was unfolding exactly according to plan.Little did we know that we had already committed the classic error of amateur strategists everywhere: we had begun to believe our own plan and, far more dangerously, had underestimated the opposition’s ingenuity.A few days later, phase two of the operation was launched.A carefully worded note was dispatched to the Mother Superior explaining that Mayo regularly staged theatrical productions, but faced one significant limitation: all female roles were invariably played by boys dressed as girls. And, though generations of Mayo students had endured this arrangement with admirable fortitude – and, on occasion, considerable amusement and ribbing – Howie and I elaborately and cautiously explained that we had come to the view that the presence of actual women might significantly enhance both the artistic quality of these productions and the broader cultural development of those responsible for staging them.We therefore subtly proposed a joint Sophia-Mayo theatrical production.To demonstrate our seriousness, we even suggested a suitable play: Charley’s Aunt, the celebrated Victorian farce in which a young undergraduate disguises himself as an elderly aunt from Brazil while various young men pursue romantic ambitions under the vigilant gaze of their elders. In our minds, it was an entirely respectable choice for a collaborative educational venture – amusing, light-hearted and guaranteed to entertain.Foolishly, however, neither Howie nor I paused to consider that the title itself may have revealed rather more about the mildly mischievous designs of two otherwise respectable Mayo masters than our carefully worded proposal had intended. In retrospect, as subsequent events were to demonstrate, the selection of Charley’s Aunt may well have constituted our first serious tactical error.Naturally, Howie and I both volunteered to direct the proposed production ourselves.Copies of the play were duly dispatched to Sophia, accompanied by whatever carefully worded explanations were necessary to reinforce the educational and cultural virtues of the proposal. When, a few days later, the Mother Superior replied that the idea was acceptable in principle, subject to further discussion, we were delighted. To us, this appeared to confirm both the genius of our strategy and the inevitability of its success.Little did we realise that we were celebrating a victory that existed largely in our own imagination and had already fallen into a trap familiar to overconfident young men in similar circumstances: underestimating the opposition.The French nuns of Sophia had almost certainly spent decades observing, decoding and effortlessly neutralising mischievous schemes far more sophisticated than anything Howie and I could ever devise. We fancied ourselves master strategists but in reality, we were already being hopelessly outmanoeuvred: we simply didn’t yet know it.Then came the moment we had been waiting for. A letter arrived from Sophia in which the Mother Superior invited Mr Solverson – and, mercifully, me too – to spend an evening at the college entertaining the students with a programme of uplifting songs. The proposed joint production of Charley’s Aunt was not mentioned even once, but we regarded this merely as a minor administrative detail, a temporary omission that would no doubt be resolved in due course.Looking back, over half a century later, this should perhaps have caused alarm. At the time, however, neither Howie nor I possessed the slightest instinct for danger, and we treated the invitation as a breakthrough, congratulating ourselves accordingly.Convinced that events were unfolding precisely as we had hoped, we began preparing for the occasion with considerably more enthusiasm than prudence. Together, we drew up a repertoire for Howie’s performance at Sophia, that balanced respectable material with what we considered a carefully calibrated selection of more “interesting” songs. A few hymns were included, naturally, as diplomatic cover, but the programme also contained several folk and country favourites intended to introduce the students to the broader – and, in our view, far more entertaining – range of Seventies Canadian culture. We believed we had achieved the perfect balance: enough solemnity to satisfy the nuns, enough charm to impress the students and just enough mischief to make the evening memorable.On the appointed evening, with cravats neatly fluffed and shoes polished to a military shine, we cycled down to Sophia. The Mother Superior welcomed us warmly; soup and bread followed, and everything appeared to be proceeding precisely according to plan. As Howie and I exchanged discreetly triumphant glances across the table, silently celebrating the elegance of our manoeuvre, it seemed that events were finally about to deliver their long-awaited reward.Shortly afterwards, we were escorted to the hostel common room, and the students were summoned. At last, we thought, the decisive moment had arrived. The girls then began filing in, but our triumph lasted approximately 30 seconds, as they were all seated five rows behind us, with a generous ‘no-man’s-land’ of empty chairs stretching between them and the front of the hall.Howie was dispatched to a small stage at the far end of the hall, guitar in hand, while I was placed in the front row – not beside the girls, not even within conversational range, but securely positioned between two formidable ranks of nuns. The Mother Superior occupied a commanding position nearby, surveying the entire operation with the quiet confidence of a seasoned field commander anticipating every possible contingency.It was at this point that the full brilliance of the nuns’ counter-operation dawned on me.The women were present. We were present. Yet the distance between the two parties might as well have been measured in kilometres rather than rows of chairs. Every conceivable avenue of casual conversation, accidental introduction, meaningful eye contact or even mildly encouraging glances had been effectively sealed off with breath-taking efficiency. Even Clausewitz would have admired the precision of such a defensive arrangement.To further compound matters, Howie had already been gently – but firmly – informed by the nuns, unknown to me, that certain items from his repertoire would be inappropriate for the occasion. The carefully curated programme of folk favourites, romantic ballads and other strategically selected compositions was quietly abandoned. In its place emerged a collection of songs so earnest, wholesome and pious that they extinguished whatever hopes we still entertained of the evening taking an unexpectedly sociable, or even mildly riotous, turn.Illustration: Pariplab Chakraborty.As the performance unfolded, the full reality of the situation began to dawn. The entire campaign, which only hours earlier had, in our immature eyes, seemed destined for triumph, was rapidly transforming into an exquisitely organised humiliation. For the next hour or so, Howie sang with admirable professionalism while I sat among the nuns, applauding dutifully and occasionally stealing furtive, albeit futile, glances over my shoulder at the audience we had cycled 25 minutes to encounter.The Sofia girls, for their part, behaved with impeccable decorum and, if any of them were remotely aware of the elaborate chain of events that had brought us all together that evening, they gave no indication whatsoever. Eventually, they were dismissed and, shortly afterwards, so were we – departing, as we had arrived, amid warm pleasantries and impeccable courtesy from the nuns.There was no mention of the proposed play, no discussion of Charley’s Aunt, no awkward refusal and certainly no acknowledgement that our grand educational initiative, while entirely respectable on the surface, carried a few undeclared objectives beneath the official paperwork.The nuns had executed their defensive manoeuvre with such elegance that there was, quite literally, no contest. We had been disarmed without a shot being fired – in the finest Sun Tzu tradition.They had neither rejected nor embarrassed us; they had simply allowed the operation to run its course until its limitations became obvious, and then quietly brought the curtain down and the two humbled masters returned to Mayo considerably wiser than when they had arrived, carrying a valuable lesson in the dangers of underestimating experienced adversaries.Thereafter, neither Howie nor I ever disclosed the details of our carefully crafted Op Sofia to anyone at Mayo. This is, in fact, the first time that the full story of that ill-fated but imaginatively conceived operation is being revealed. Not long afterwards, Howie returned to Canada with his guitar, his folk songs and, presumably, memories of our brief but ambitious enterprise in Ajmer, while I too eventually departed the city in pursuit of journalism and other pursuits.Yet, even today, somewhere in the recesses of my memory, there lingers the suspicion that, for many years thereafter, a group of French nuns in Ajmer occasionally allowed themselves a private chuckle at the expense of two young Mayo schoolmasters who had greatly overestimated their own panache, their powers of persuasion and their ability to disguise mildly mischievous intentions behind a respectable façade of educational cooperation.The nuns, of course, had recognised the nature of our devious operation from the outset. They had allowed us to advance, observed our strategy unfold and then executed their counter-operation with a precision and skill that left two brash young tacticians with cravats and polished shoes, hopelessly outmanoeuvred.