Yesterday

This time, as I came back from McLeod, it was with a realization that it may be the last time for a long while before I’d return to Roorkee again. The milling crowd of rick-pullers at the station thronged the few passengers who had alighted in this undistinguished little town. And a myriad thoughts came rushing in with the question: “Kaun sa bhawan?”. Of how ‘Azad’ had jumped to my tongue so naturally and how this may be the last time ever anyone would unquestionably assume us to be students. Of how the next monsoons when the “Dehradun Jan Shatabdi” would return to Roorkee, running over with IITR folks, I wouldn’t be one of them.
It was 5 in the morning and the sky was overcast, with hues of sunrise. On the rick, while on my way to campus, the place never seemed more endearing or the weather more pleasant. It reminded me of the July here that I would sorely miss; the town that rushed to meet the hurtling train every new session. Inside an incessant chatter among scores of familiar faces. Outside the soft patter of the gently falling rain.

I remember from my childhood, the first time I returned to my hometown. It was 1994; two years after my family had shifted to this place near Delhi, where my father was working. Within this span of two years I had gained several inches and a degree of consciousness. This is when my earliest memories begin. I had the time of my life there in that place and the trip alone was enough to lose my heart to the countryside and its way of life. Games and harmless pranks with cousins, being chased around for a dose of playful licking, the restlessness of the lone soul unable to fall asleep on summer afternoons, the lanterns twinkling in the doorway as evening set in and the bedtime stories – they seem a part of a different life now. I remember vividly how upset I was on my way back home – the silent tears that were shed curled up on the upper berth of the train; its rhythmic shaking a slight comfort.

Between the two train journeys a world of difference grew. The years have been a series of journeys and escapades – some wilder than others, and with a fair share of joy and sorrow. Each experience was a lesson learnt and soon they were too many to remember. Growing up is tough. And probably because everyone gets their share of it, often underrated. Swamped under the task of all that growing up to do, moments became memories that faded or were carefully stowed away in those deep recesses of mind that are often unlocked only at moments when life stands still. Moments such as these. My countryside-dream melted away, as did others that dwelt in a mind untouched by the ‘wisdom’ that age is sure to bring. Back in those days, most of us longed to be so many things. Some of us still secretly do.

School days were like a long walk – from a bawling kid of which I have only a faint recollection to the awkward teenager – leaving a void in its wake. My college, on the other hand, was over in a heartbeat. And now lying down on the bed, whiling away my time, I wait for my job to start. There’s yet another vacancy to fill and expectations galore. I wonder what changes time will bring to my associations with the past – that old town and the people that came into my life in those four years I spent there; the shortest four years of my life…

In Azad, right next to our wing was a Jacaranda tree. And when the winter chill wore off, there it would stand bearing beautiful violet blossoms – the first traces of color after a spell of winter grey, even as the last remnants of mist hung about its branches. As spring gave way to summer, there they would remain – only a few now, clinging on hopefully, almost desperately; much like I was when the time to leave Roorkee drew nigh. They bloomed in spring and died with the summer heat like they always do; only the next time they blossom I won’t be around to cherish them anymore.

So Long…

Bye-bye RJB, most cherished! The lawns, the roll-call, gaming, bakar sessions and power outages.
Bye-bye Main Building. Bye-bye Senate Steps.
Bye-bye WONA, your wicked wits remain a part of me.
Bye-bye Sports Complex, Bye-bye baddy court. Thanks for all the memorable tourneys.
Bye-bye Electrical Dep; your vacant corridors, bare classrooms and rusty machines will forever haunt me.
Bye-bye back benches and all that you stood for – naps, novels, chalks, paper airplanes and all sorts of odd games.
Bye-bye Nesci. Bye-bye Alpahaar. If not for you my attendance in lectures would have been uncomfortably high.
Bye-bye Civil Lines. You saw to most of our needs esp. where the mess failed.
Bye-bye Ganga canteen, for the first chapo and other memorable ones that followed.
Bye-bye Solani – Admin’s nightmare, Students’ delight.
Bye-bye Thomson Marg and other shady boulevards. Ummm… let’s just keep it at that.
Bye-bye Azad – for the room, the CC, gaming, footi and the rooftop riots; At your every corner a memory unfolds.
And God knows how much I hate to say this: Goodbye Roorkee!
I’ll miss being around….

Sands of Time

A long time ago, when the world was young, me and Babe (pronounced: baa-bay), after going through a certain blog of an IIT-B guy, wished we could write a piece with similar opening lines: “Sipping away at this heart-warming coffee, surrounded by an aroma that tingles…”. And then, Lo and behold! the news of a CCD in Roorkee, crept up to our ears. Soon that wish transformed from a doubtful myth to a tangible structure on the highway, not too far off from the insti. I remember that session of Watch Out editing/formatting; me and Babe caught hold of the first opportunity that came our way, and made a beeline towards the CCD on the pretext of easing our hunger. Trudging our way, taking turns in dragging along Babe’s behemoth 17” laptop (which surprisingly enough was used for every purpose except gaming), we found our way in, masking our delight beneath a pretence of cool indifference.
Right in front of us was seated the elven-eyed beauty, who was soon joined by the inseparable Ebony and Ivory – the awesome threesome! They were accompanied by their male friends too, but henceforth, we shall pretend we never saw them! Babe, unfortunately for him, had been facing along a totally wrong orientation (strictly directional in the sense). That was all the better for me, as I could happily chat away with him, keeping an eye (two was more like it) on the trio. I consistently filled up Babe on the details, he was missing sorely, not out of a sense of sympathy for the fellow, but to revel in his misery. Needless to say, the blog that we were supposed to write for the mag never started as the laptop never left the secure confines of the bag!

This tale is now a memory of my past: just another stoppage down the memory lane. And between then and now, my world has changed – carved afresh in shifting sands over what seems like eons. I look back sometimes at the footprints in my wake – mine and of those that walked with me – fading away fast amidst a storm of myriad emotions….

Why this story?
Coz this incident is intricately connected to my life in col: it has a good friend, a sponti plan and a good setting with a couple of good-looking girls thrown in for extra measure. It is about WONA and the joy found in the seemingly less exciting jobs it meant. Plus this was an unfinished draft that I thought was the time now to finish off. A closure of sorts.

Of colors and their lack thereof

Somethings go hand in hand. Like childhood and that special friend; college and your group/gang, your favourite haunts. Like Diwali and sparkling nights, Holi and colors – these festivals have always been a delight. As I think about my activities nearing such times, I perceive a glimpse of my 10-12 year old self with a mind in overdrive – irrational, mostly dysfunctional (in any useful way). Yet always full of thoughts.

Holi was a time of meticulous planning – vengeance unleashed on our neighborhood rivals, and a sordid affair of water balloons and other such arsenals. After a few painfully slow sunsets, the sun would rise a little too bright one morning, for the benefit of the poor passer-by for whom awaited a bucket of cold water poured out of nowhere. How we loved those grown-ups, cavorting in dry-colors, fresh meat for our water balloons! Holi isn’t all color, there’s lot of water mixed with it.
Times changed and my world expanded beyond the neighborhood. Soon there was the whole township, pools in the fountain park and the muddy patches that were only slightly better than pigpen once you were through dragging your victims’ faces and rear, in no certain order, through the mire. Poor poor souls… things were growing violent, infinitely dirtier and consequently a lot more fun.

As I dig through my earliest memories of childhood and growing up, these festivals have proved to be more of a punctuation in the continuity of my life – end of a phase, beginning of something fresh and unexplored. This time around, my holi was spent away from the home; the first of many for some time to come now. No home made delicacy off my mom’s hands awaited a famished and exhausted me. There was no scrubbing to do. Nor does a red tint linger over my countenance. And in spite of a million yearnings that escalate with the sight of multi-hued faces and colors spread over the roads, an inadvertent rangoli – equally beautiful to my eyes; it has turned out quite alright. Holi, I understand, isn’t all about colors, not even the water or the mud pools, but the people who wallow in it, willingly or otherwise and most importantly the memories that have been.

Happy Holi!

Much ado about nothing

This time when I left Roorkee, it hadn’t been all about going back home. Unfortunately though, that’s all there was to it. Summers are like summers are meant to be – all the time in the world to do nothing. And that should have been perfectly okay albeit the fact that the rest of the people I hang out with were making a real good use of their time – and I mean everybody – in one way or another. IITs and esp. the grading system here, if nothing else, have at least instilled within us a stiff sense of relativism. So there I was, discontented with the gift of time and whatever measly intern I had managed to grab on to.

Uselessness gives rise to a lot of random thoughts in one’s head, which people often do mistake for thoughtfulness. Consequently, I had prepared a list of ‘Things-to-do’, hoping that they would give me a spirit of purpose and a joy of learning that I have lost somewhere on my way to the fourth year. As is with plans though, some were fulfilled, others partly so while the rest remained just that – plans. The vacations are over now and I will soon get down to making newer ones. It is amusing – this resilience and shameless optimism.

Coming back to Roorkee was different somehow. With an overcast sky and rain-fed, lush green fields, the world through which the train weaved was both dark and bright. A confluence so similar to my mood every time I have wondered what fate has in store for me in the coming year. Leaning out of the compartment gateway, the wind swept hair accompanied by an ever so slight drizzle against the face offered a delightful reception… and an explanation to why dogs love doing this in the car. I even contemplated hanging my tongue out. Just for the heck of it! However, I was certain it wouldn’t have gone down well with a middle-aged guy standing next to me who had been consistently inquiring about the kind of college IITs were; esp. after I had related to him the usual bull about them being the best of the lot.

Here in insti, much more than just the weather has changed. A certain set of familiar faces are now gone; their rooms, once a regular haunt, are crossed more out of habit than purpose. There are new landscapes, new folks, heck even the registration processes have been revised! This was sure to have spread smiles across many a faces until the good ol’ insti wi-fi plainly refused to be a part of such an atrocious crime… almost nostalgic. And for once, the whole lot of professors could be found cribbing about their inability to log in. Clearly such advancements in technology aren’t meant for everyone. Although such connectivity issues did a great job at making us old timers feel at home.

———

There is a class at 10. Actually, that was a few minutes ago. And I find writing this post or for that matter practically anything else more appealing than the prospects of attending one. Some others I called, looking for motivation, are still snuggled up in their beds, enjoying the pleasant weather outside or resting from yesterday’s toils of having attended a lecture way at the opposite end of the campus – which is more or less round. Relativism takes its toll: There is a whole session left to learn regularity and punctuality. I, at least, had got up on time….

The Times They Are A-Changin’

Reluctant to add any productivity to my hours, I browse through the pics on my lappy – More than 11 GB of memories frozen in time, and many yet to come; sorting them and adding suitable captions so that I don’t have any trouble placing them in the jigsaw of my life eons from now.  Life, of late, has been a hazy, swirling motley of rushing moments – almost a blur. And, I have been trying, with little success, to make heads or tails of it. Too many things to do, and too little a time. I am already past my halftime in the game that has been my life in the col.

Pre-final year is neither here nor there. It lacks the uninhibited enthusiasm and optimism of the freshers; the settled complacence of the sophomores; and despite the overhanging doom of placements, a desire to move the world – that is the hope of the final year. Third year offers ceaseless panic and unrest. It bodes the arrival of a time when even the most complacent, ambition-less among us need to stop basking in the warmth of our success in JEE. Already, there have been sightings of various firms at our doorstep, seeking apprentices. They disappear almost just as secretly as they arrive and with every departure, there are rumors adrift of more and more batch mates being twisted to the Dark side. Rest others are choosing sides – making one of those crucial, life-transforming decisions of their lives: GRE, CAT, GMAT, IAS…, prepared even to sell their souls to the Devil (read: sacrifice the bliss of carefree weekends) in order to gain an edge over those lesser mortals who remain clouded by uncertainties. People are changing and so are the priorities, or probably it’s just my perception that has changed. World around seems clearer, if not better. The insecurities of adolescence are giving way to concerns of entirely different kinds and a graveness of sorts has crept in, where existed until only a while  ago, an innocuous indifference.

The usual night-long bakar sessions are a thing of past. Though still fondly remembered, they have given way to random Google Group activities and certain other awful, inexcusable acts like taking shots of the whole batch’s course grades and then tenaciously compiling them before posting it for everyone’s benefit on the aforementioned groups (The icing on the cake was really the mails that followed, with everyone desperate to garner accolades for the dastardly act.).
Bhawan CCs are no longer home to the wildly, almost grotesquely, colorful games. The cheers, jeers, whoops and those long un-punctuated strings of profanities have been replaced by dull, morbid faces lit up with a fell hunger for foreign internships. Of course, the admin had their own plans. Nothing less than prayers would convince the ubiquitous Gmail to open. It was almost bitter-sweet to see Gmail loading in Basic mode; meant for slow connections, even that seemed too much for our poor wi-fi.

That apart, the insti is changing. High-rises are shooting up everywhere, as if by consuming the greenery that existed at those places a while ago. A Student Activity Centre (SAC) is intended to come up, somewhere in the gaon, which may very well be on its way for a makeover. The all-too-familiar Nesci, that has been witness to truancy and romance for over ages may soon then perish, surviving solely in the memories of its famished frequenters. An unfortunate fallout of development, so similar to those of growing up…
Ever so often, the thoughts linger on those innumerous, wonderful dreams that were conceived of a mind unrestrained; of strangled dreams, abandoned on the path of adulthood just so that each one of us could confirm to the norms of this world. We all wish to be different, and yet are scared to take the risk of following the path less travelled, hugging close to the comforts offered by a crowd. They say everyone is special… but then that’s just a way of saying that no one really is.