On a day like today, a long time ago

Half a lifetime ago, nearly to the exact day, a bespectacled 18-year old found himself staring up at a building of imposing proportions. It reminded him of the hushed reverence people associated with this particular institution. Of exhortations by his teachers to “build a strong base in physics.” Of counter-exhortations by his true friends not to bother. Of the anticipation of exams, of results, and subsequent elation. Of the usual spoiler alert at the back of his head — “I could have done better.” Of congratulations by the academicians, and condolences from the cricket club. Of a mixed bag, all said and done.

He remembers looking around and telling his dad: “I feel really out of place here.”

And Baba’s answer, reassuring in its simplicity and unspoken pride: “Son, a hundred thousand people tried to get here, and most could not. You made it. Give it time. You will belong.”

All this, and many more. But before he had a chance to absorb it, he was caught up in a whirlwind of new experiences. Of acquainting oneself with people from all over the country — sometimes without a common language but many shared experiences. Of new experiments, within and outside the cavernous engineering labs. Of tasteless food, and juvenile foolishness. So many aftertastes packed in that little time called college.

18 has always been a milestone number — of reaching adulthood, of getting a driving license, of the opportunity to relinquish the comforts of home, of succumbing to guilty pleasures, of getting a true measure of one’s mettle. Now, at two times 18, and a literal world away from that half-a-lifetime-ago, I cannot help but ponder on the awesomeness of it all. Of all the memories that I don’t, or cannot, make the effort to pry out and delight over.

This month , a friend of mine is back at our college campus, planning to paint some of these images that are firmly imprinted in our collective memories. The mere idea is too awesome not to jump on board immediately — so I ordered a print for myself, and sent my best regards. I hope it will remind me of that initial feeling of awe, of not exactly belonging but desperately wanting to. And it makes me want to go back and capture many more prints that can mirror the images in my head. Of Scholar’s Avenue, around which we jogged every morning, the dew not quite dry on the grass. And Harry’s, at the corner of the self-same avenue, where we gathered in the afternoon for a cup of tea and to share a cigarette between 3 or 4 people, each puffing as hard as possible to extract more than a fair share. And the inimitable Chedi’s, the backwater haunt for night owls in that little town. And the dorm rooms, and waking people up at 2 am for the sheer heck of it. And the sun-drenched summers that, in the blink of an eye, would morph into a monsoon deluge that had us scurrying for shelter, pedaling on our bicycles for all we were worth.

There’s a school of thought — no pun intended — that the school maketh the man. After all, you spend 10–12 years at that venerable institution, while several shapes and sizes of educationists try to mould some intellect and humanity in you. And, make no mistake, I absolutely loved those 10 years. Our school motto was “Nihil Ultra” — nothing beyond. And truly, I was privileged to have teachers who made us believe that nothing was beyond us. My friends were no less numerous or close. Inter-class quizzes and debates, inter-school cricket and football tournaments, mischief during and in between recess hour — many a memory, medal and scar are woven around the time spent in school.

But the emotional connect I have with school, strong as it may be, does not compare with the feeling of oneness I have with college. Part of it is because of the full immersion at the latter — I was staying in a dorm, away from home for the first time, with a group of uncivilized mutts (like myself) that I could either battle against, or go to battle for. Some were destined to be there, several had sacrificed and toiled years and years to get there, and a smaller minority including myself had merely lucked in. It was no coincidence that these groups identified each other quickly and bonded accordingly. Age, time and place all colluded to ensure that we came out, not necessarily better people, but definitely stronger. College, in my opinion, was the finishing school for our personalities. It took the lump of clay that we brought over from our respective states and walks of life, and shaped it into a firmer lump that would define us for a long time to come.

18 years later, and half a lifetime onward, all I can do is quote someone wiser: “Some days I wish I could go back in life. Not to change anything, but to feel a few things twice.”

Dreams with Details

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I think too much — most of it is daydreams, some of it is profound; or so I think!