School life in Batala had an echo to it.
The same children crossed the same roads, teachers became part of local folklore, and small incidents stayed in circulation long after they should have expired.
That closeness made every school memory feel slightly public.
At the time that could feel annoying.
Later it reads as texture.
The city did not let childhood disappear anonymously.
Batala held onto the details in a way that now feels almost generous.
If one Batala school memory still arrives with full surroundings, tell it here.