The Summers of Childhood

Have you ever felt this way before? When you are rushing through your daily chores, when you have forgotten what day of the week it is, when you are running to just get into that over-crowded train, have you, just once in the middle of this routine; felt a sudden whiff of reverie?

A hustling and bustling city has very few options to offer if one is looking for solitude. But somewhere, in the midst of those unending crowds, it lies there, waiting for you to return. Sitting by my favourite spot in the city-the Marine Drive, I look on at the vast expanse of the sea; I look on at the horizon where the skies meet the sea, the waves lash against those rocks, a number of people walk by the lanes-some for a jog, some taking a stroll, and some, simply facing the sea, looking away from the crowds, enjoying the solitude. Slowly and steadily, the sky changes its colour-from the azure blue, to a bright crimson, to a dull grey and finally black. One by one, the jewels of the Queen’s Necklace light up, giving the night the beauty that it deserves. One after another, the stars show up in the peaceful skies, the waves sing a silent song; the water-relatively still awaits the night…and suddenly the wind blows, and that whiff of reverie hits me.

It is the month of March- the scorching heat, the sultry weather giving the signs of the onset of summer.  Since the last couple of years, March is the month of financial year endings, of filing returns, of completing appraisal cycles, of pending promotions and of professional transitions. Almost a decade ago, March was still the month of year endings, of last minute jitters, of promotions and of transitions-academic year ends, last minute examination jitters, promotions to a new grade and transitions from primary school to high school. March was the month when we waited, sometimes patiently, often impatient for that last exam, for that last day of school and for the beginning of the summer breaks. It was not the dry, tropical, torrid weather that reminded us of the summer-it was the countdown to the holidays, the dry gust of the winds of relief that blew as the days neared our favourite time of the year.       

“Home for the holidays, here we come!”, we shouted in sync as the school bus dropped us back home on our last day. We had 2 months to look forward to-no school, no exams, and no worries! It was the best time of the year, when no alarms were set, when the uniforms neatly ironed, were put away and the books, neatly stacked, waited in a small corner till June.

Summers meant a time to develop our hobbies- a weekly visit to the library to pick our treasured stories, the thrill to finish a book before the due date, and the urge to read a new book every fortnight. 

Summers also meant learning new sports-being pushed into the waters, yet learning to stay afloat, “Run faster!”, a coach would yell at a morning summer camp, and the happy, tired faces at the end of the morning session. Sometimes, vacations also meant learning arts and crafts, painting and music; but on some other days, vacations simply meant lazing around and laughing to our hearts’ content watching Cartoon Network. Holidays signified unlimited play time. They symbolized the long, calm evenings that were spent playing with friends, petty fights and momentary hard feelings, long hours of cycling and cricket, going to the nearest house on for a water-break, running, shouting and in the end slurping the tangy-sweet gola, together.   

This lasted for a few weeks and then came the next best phase of the vacation-a visit to Nana-Nani’s home. Summer meant a visit to our maternal homes, where we would be showered with lots of love, pampering and of course, gorge on our favourite dishes. Those days when we could sleep till our hearts’ content, eat till we were stuffed to the brim and watch TV till we fell asleep. It was that time of the year when Nana would ask me to make a list of places I wanted to visit, savouries I wanted savour, movies I wanted to watch and books I wanted to read; while Namina would ensure that I learnt to be disciplined, learnt a few household chores to help Mummy when we went back home, learnt origami, become more proficient in reading and writing Gujarati, become a little more religious, and learn a few new games to teach my friends back in school.

The onset of May marked the smell of fresh mangoes, a visit to Mama’s garden to pluck the ripe mangoes and gorge on the raw, tangy ones, with a pinch of salt till our teeth got the tang. The countless bowls of fresh aam ras, the tower glasses of mango milkshake, the post-lunch and post-dinner sessions of sucking the ripe mangoes till the yellow stains got all over our clothes-it was the best season. Summer was the season of pickles-The varieties of fresh pickles, pickles to be stored for the rest of the year, and pickles which were made by placing the huge utensil on the terrace in the scorching heat (it only got better in the heat of the sun). Summers alluded to ice-creams of all types and flavours, of long drives in the pleasant nights and of fun and frolic with cousins.

As I watch the stars in the cloudless sky, I am reminded of those nights in the terrace, as we slept off, in a mattress laid out in a line; counting the stars, watching the moon, locating the North Star, the cool summer winds singing a lullaby; only to be woken up in the morning by the first rays of the sun. As I sit by the sea this quiet evening, a distant petrichor takes me back to those first rains after a long summer, when we ran out to dance and play in the rain, unaware, undeterred by what lies ahead of us.

The fear of results never crept into us, the beginning of the new academic year brought new anticipation-of new friends to be made, new books to be brought, new uniforms, new school-bags, the list was endless. But it seldom brought worry; it rarely resulted in anxiety, and never into fear. But that was more than a decade ago. We were kids back then. We didn’t know what the future has in store for us-or maybe we didn’t care. We took life as it came, without fretting over the distant, unknown future.  

Tomorrow is another routine day. The same old morning rush, the same old over-crowded streets. But among the mundane, you might suddenly remember the summers of your childhood, the unseasonal rains might make you a bit nostalgic and you will smile to yourself and maybe ask someone- Have you ever felt this way before?

Kabuliwala

I sit by the window, reminiscing the past-the month of June; it marked the beginning-the beginning of a new year at school and the excitement that it brought along, the onset of the monsoon-of the zephyr it brought after the scorching month of summer, and the frivolous dance welcoming the first rain. And as I look outside, I suddenly see a very familiar sight-of little kids on their way back home stopping by near a small, make-shift stall by the roadside. It was him-I had last seen him when I was 10. He sold roasted peanuts at the same place by the roadside and I was one of his favourite customers-a regular. The kid in me couldn’t resist the temptation to savour those roasted peanuts once again from my Kabuliwala.

Kabuliwala-one of my favourite childhood stories, Rabindranath Tagore’s classic tale of friendship between a little girl, Mini and Rahmun, (fondly addressed as Kabuliwala) an Afghani Pathan who comes to India to sell dry fruits and earn a living. For years, this story has always been presented as a tale of human relationships and the effect of time on human emotions. But back then, as a kid, and even today, I have always felt that Tagore’s tale has some unanswered questions, some unspoken words and some unexpressed emotions.

Well, Tagore’s story goes of the budding friendship between Mini and Rahmun, her worried parents at her growing closeness with a stranger, his being accused of murder and taken to jail, the toll time takes on their friendship while he is away, the withered human relationships, and the new beginnings that they both look forward to in their own respective lives when he is finally released years later. But, how is it possible that Mini, who regularly waits for the Kabuliwala, not once, asks about him as she sees him being taken away? How can it be that she never remembers him after that day? True, time takes its course and we eventually leave the past behind us-but what happens when the past resurfaces once again? What happens when, years later, we run into someone who was very dear to us? Does time take its course in such a harsh manner, that we simply fail to recognize them years later, just as Tagore explains how Mini failed to recognize her favourite Kabuliwala? It is here, that my version of this story slightly varies. It takes a slightly different route from the time Mini sees the Kabuliwala being arrested, bloodstains on his clothes and one of the policemen holding a knife, as the Kabuliwala tried to wriggle his way out of their tight clutch….

“Maa! Why are they taking him away?”, 5 year old Mini cried as she saw him leave. They did not answer her. They simply looked on. “Oh Kabuliwala! Wait! When will you come back?” He smiled and said, “Maybe when you would be ready to go to your father-in-law’s house”. This was one among the many jokes that only they had shared, they had laughed together; often leaving the others clueless. Little Mini could not control her tears and there was no way we could help her out. I asked my wife to take her inside, to feed her some of her favourite dry fruits that the Kabuliwala had given her earlier and to put her to bed. But that day, she did not eat them.  And since that day, she never did.

I used to believe that time is the biggest healer; that as the years passed, Mini would gradually forget him. She would get busy in her life, find new companions, and the time would move on-as the waves of the sea that crush the shore and never return, her memories of the Kabuliwala would soon wither away. I was partly right. As the years passed, she did find new friends. She spent so much time with them that she came no more as she used to do, to my room. I was scarcely on speaking terms with her. But her memory of the free-spirited, old, mountaineer, of the pleasantries that she shared with him, of the dry fruits that he always left for her, never really left her. For a few years, till she reached her teens, she occasionally asked us when he would return, if he would ever return at all. We, as usual, had no answers to her innocent conjectures. Whether she eventually understood the meaning of our silence, I do not know. But as she grew up, she never asked us about him again. Although, I could see the pain in her eyes as she occasionally sat by the window, waiting for him to return, I refrained from mentioning even the slightest reference of him.

Years had passed, and finally today was the day-the day when my Mini would finally get married. The hustle and bustle involved in the preparations kept us busy, they did not give us much spare time to think of the loneliness that would befall our little home from tomorrow. The preparations were in full swing- the decorators running around checking the last few minute details, the cooks making sure the savouries were just right, and my wife welcoming the endless guests in our own traditional, Bengali way. I was in my study, looking through the accounts when I heard a familiar, rustic call-“Mini beta, come here. I am back. Look what I have brought you”. It was Rahmun. At first I did not recognize him. He had no bag, nor the long hair, nor the vigour that he earlier had. But the love with which he addressed my daughter was all it took for me to recognize him. We exchanged a few formal salutations. I was happy to see him back, but deep within, I dreaded this day. I had never wanted to see him again-never wanted to meet someone who had been accused and imprisoned for murder, and definitely never wanted him to ever meet Mini again. I tried to avoid him from meeting her. “We are all very busy. There are ceremonies going on. Please come some other day.” He persisted, “Just let me see the little one, one last time, Sir. I have brought a few bangles for her. She had asked me to get them. But before I could, they took me away.”  “Did I not tell you earlier? She can’t come to see you. She is busy”.

His face fell. As he turned to leave, he heard a voice, “Kabuliwala!” It was Mini-dressed beautifully in a red saree as she awaited the arrival of her groom. Rahmun did not recognize her for a while. She was no longer the little girl he once brought dry-fruits for. He had forgotten that she would have grown up into a young woman now. He had forgotten that those little red bangles that he had bought would not fit her any more. “Are these the red bangles you promised to bring me? They are beautiful! Thank you. This is the best wedding present.” Rahmun’s eyes filled with tears-tears of happiness that Mini had not forgotten him even after all these years, tears of sorrow, of realization that his own daughter in Afghanistan would have grown up too. He wished time would stand still-that he could be with this daughter as she grew up. He was afraid she wouldn’t recognize him. Mini and Rahmun shared a little laugh, remembered some of their old, exclusive jokes and spoke for a while-they did not laugh aloud like they had earlier, but neither could one sense the expected distance that time would create. Over the years, she somehow knew he was arrested and accused of murder- but today, it did not matter to her at all. It did not hurt her that her dear friend had been a criminal. All that mattered to her was that he had returned. He had returned the day Mini would go to her father-in-law’s house-just as he had promised. Time had tested their friendship, and it was somehow able to withstand the test of time.

I remember I was sad when Mini had first met him. I was envious of the bond that they shared; but today, as Rahmun turned to leave for Afghanistan, to reunite with his family, with his daughter, I only hoped that the bond with his daughter had not withered away like mine had with Mini. 

Just for Today

She waits outside the ICU. The nauseating smell of the medicines, the sole shade of white all around, the countless emotions-some of sorrow, some of joy, some of hope, some of grief, while some of acceptance- the unperturbed emotion when you have lost all hope but are waiting for that silver lining. Hers is the latter. I give her a reassuring smile. She tries not to be rude, immerses herself back into her diary and continues to write. I assume it is the list of medicines, diet charts and all the other formalities that come with a hospitalization. There are kites flying outside, I try to remember the date. They call out her name. She moves inside, like a daily routine, without a spark in her eyes, without a smile on her face. As she hands me over her diary, it doesn’t have any lists or charts. Instead, it reads:

14^th Jan, 2017: I was 5 then. It was Makar Sankranti. I ran up the spiraling staircase, up to the highest point in my Nana’s terrace- balloons in one hand, doctor tapes bandaged on my fingers-lest the manjha cut through them and gazed at the bright sun-naked eyed, feeling its warmth on a chilly winter morning. I was the 1^st one up there, the entire terrace to myself. I ran around in excitement; a big, red kite in one hand, flying a little above me as I ran and the balloons in another. Suddenly, I left the balloons-intentionally or accidentally, I didn’t know. And as I saw them fly up in the sky, higher than any of the kites, trickled down a tear- a realization that those balloons were never to come back to me. They were gone forever. I don’t know what forever meant for me back then-an hour…or 2…or maybe 4…maybe 1 day.

20 years have passed since then. Colourful helium balloons still remind me of that 14^th of January when I first learnt to let go-to cherish happiness till it lasts, to deal with anger, denial and sadness; when I learnt to accept the circumstances.

Circumstances-face them, they say. They only make you stronger. But somehow, today, I don’t want to face them. Today I want to be free. Just for today, I want to be free. Like my kite soaring high up in the sky-I want to be free. I want to free myself from the shackles of responsibilities, expectations and duties and fly free-reach the clouds, shout out loud-whether in mirth or in grief, I don’t know; laugh without any worries that bind me; I want to cry out even louder to lighten the burden off my shoulders. Today I want to be free. Is this escapism? Am I shirking away from my duty? Maybe I am, maybe I’m not. But today I wish I don’t have to think about it. Today, I only wish to be free. Today I don’t want to pass a smile because I must, I don’t want to forgive because I am obliged to, I don’t want to talk because I have to and I don’t want to listen because I don’t have a choice. ‘Be brave’, ‘Be strong’, they tell me in times of despair. ‘This too shall pass’, ‘Take care of yourself. Don’t worry’, they console. But today, I don’t want to be strong. I don’t want to hold back my tears and I don’t want anybody to say ‘it will be all right’. The uncertainty frightens me-it holds me down, it ties my feet and forces me to wait. It is like the winds gushing, pushing my kite in all directions as it tries to rise higher, they refrain it from flying higher. But I hold on…I don’t want to let go…the manjha cuts through my fingers, I don’t want to use those doctor tapes today, the pain doesn’t bother me anymore-I just want to reach the sun. Today, I just want to be free.      

The kites have a tough fight up there, the strings are entangled like our thoughts- each trying to prove himself, each trying to win. My mind travels back to the ICU room. She lies there, stable, unresponsive, in a deep sleep. It’s been 5 days since we came here. How many more? It was almost 3 years ago. It was a class debate- ‘The Agony of Aruna & the Law of Euthanasia’. Imageries of that day flash before my eyes. ‘Who decides?’ I had questioned. ‘Who decides whether a person has a right to live or to die? Who decides whether a person is leading a life worth living?’ My stance was firm. In a poised, unperturbed manner, practical manner, they retorted. That day, emotions won over practicality. That day we won. But today, as I see her lying there, still, motionless, the numerous devices chiding her, I ask them, ‘What if we withdrew them all? What if we decide to leave her here? What if we simply stop the treatment? What are we achieving by dragging this longer?’ As I fight the battle between the head and the heart, dreading to say that word, they ridicule, ‘Euthanasia is still a crime. Let nature take its course.’ With tears in my eyes, I pray, ‘Put an end to this forever.’ This time, however, forever does not mean 1 day. Today, I don’t want to win. Today, I wish her life was like one of those gas balloons that I could let go of. Today I wish they tell me what I don’t want to hear.

It’s been a long time since I’ve had a peaceful sleep. It’s been days since I have fallen asleep staring at the starred sky and dreamt of the fairies. I wish to sleep that way again. I wish to be free again. I will do all my duties tomorrow. I will fulfill all my responsibilities tomorrow. But just for today, I wish to be free. Just for today, I wish to sleep beside her, holding her hand tight, like I did when I was a kid. I had woken up from a bad dream, I was scared. She caressed my forehead, told me that it would be morning soon, that the darkness would soon go away, and that as long as she held my hand, I had nothing to fear. Today, I am scared. I want to hold her hand. I want her to speak to me. Just for today, I want to run with my kite flying high, without the fear of it getting entangled. Just for today, I want to be free again.      

As she stepped outside the ICU, her face was still unperturbed. Words were too meager to give her comfort. As I handed over her diary, I couldn’t help but notice a small note that she had written 5 days ago. It read:

10^th Jan, 2017:

‘It may be unfair, but what happens in a few days, sometimes even a single day, can change the course of a whole lifetime’
-The Kite Runner 

I didn’t ask her anything; neither did I want to know anything more. I couldn’t reassure her anymore.

The boys yelled loudly in victory, their kite had won the battle. But hers was still entangled in that little room of the ICU. 

The Performance

The little girl in red. She climbed up the bamboo poles, one step at a time. She looked down, behind her as she climbed higher, her feet trembled, her body clutched tightly to the poles. To the crowd looking at the act, it seemed just a few minutes before she was standing there, ready to walk on the tight rope that connected the 2 poles. But with every step that she climbed, she mumbled a small prayer. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath-her feet had not given way. She had reached the top of the pole. She looked down- her mother wondering, ‘Would this act earn us enough for 2 meals?’, her younger sister running around, exited- little did she know that the same fate awaits her a few years later.

Acts like these don’t entice us anymore. We give a mere glance at them and run along to our menial routine. But there was something in that little girl that day that made us wait and watch her act till the end. Was it her determined face that reminded us how somewhere, in our daily drudgery we had lost that determination that had brought us this far? Or was it the faith that she had in herself that took us back to those days when we had the hope that kept us going? Or was it simply, the anger that she had within her- to be the bread-earner, to support a family when the only responsibility kids her age had was to complete their homework? Did we have the same anger within us that made it so relatable? The anger to obey, the anger to behave exactly how society expected us to;  The anger to accede to unreasonable demands, the anger to accept the future rather than paint it ourselves.

The sound of the drums got louder, bringing me back to the scene- the girl now walking on the tight rope- her feet holding it firm, a bamboo stick in her hand, a tower of steel glasses balanced on her head and a zillion thoughts running in her mind- what if I fall? What if I don’t earn enough? What if my mother beats me today for not giving my best? What if my sister sleeps hungry again today? An infinite series of ‘what if’s’ and the bamboo pole to reach at the far end. She walked- body firm, head held high, and a staring crowd. ‘You could have paid her instead of having a cigarette today’, I overheard a discussion and a chuckle that followed later. ‘Oh this is India, Sir. You find this pretty often. Nothing to worry about’, a secretary reassured her worried American boss.  ‘Would you like to take a video to show your family back home?’, asked a man to his British colleague. They all looked in awe, but not one applauded her, not one came forward to pay her for the act. She reached the end, sat for a while, relieved that she made it through, and looked around- nobody came forward. She sighed, stood up and walked again, back to the start.

Thoughts raced my mind once again. While on one hand, I was grateful for leading a life much better than hers; on the other I found it no different- just like her, we have forgotten to laugh. There were times when just a word left everybody around in splits, when mere exchange of a glance would suffice for days of laughter. Just like her, we have got accustomed to moving with the flow, letting time take its course that there is not much left to laugh over, to talk about, to discuss, to contemplate, to ponder. We have got so accustomed to the life that we lead that somewhere, deep within us, we have lost that little spark- the spark that ignited our creativity, the spark that spread cheer all around, the spark that made our presence felt. Have we ceased to ignite that spark? Have we forgotten to dream? She longed for some company to play with her, to laugh with her, to talk to her; we long for it too. We plan, go on outings to bring back those memories, try to remember the old days and our old friends, long to talk to them, try to remember our carefree childhood days, try to show the world how happy we are. But somewhere, deep within, we know this is just a façade. And no matter how hard we try, no matter how much we long to be the way we were, it can never be the same. Would we want to go back? Maybe we do- to those carefree school days, to the college days where we moulded ourselves to what we are today, to the beginning of our career when we always planned for a brighter future. Would we want to go back? To those tensed days when we were uncertain about our career, to those late nights when we crammed for an exam, to those sleepless nights when we didn’t know what lay ahead. Maybe we don’t want to go back. We want to move ahead, to let time take its course- but is time always to be blamed? For the family we don’t spend as much time with anymore, for the friends that have lost touch, for the promises we failed to keep, for the mask that we wear - is time to be blamed?

Another loud beat of the drums. The girl was now walking on the rope with her chappals, tougher than before, more determined than before, and probably, a little more scared than her earlier round. She completed this round just as the one before-very easy for a passerby to see, but not so for the girl up there. As she crossed and reached the other side, she threw down her chappals. The way back seemed so easy now-for her, for us as well. It only reminded me of the saying, ‘ It is not because things are difficult that we do not dare, it is because we do not dare that they are difficult.’ We thought the act was over. And as we turned to go back to our routine, she started another round- this time standing on a plate. Much slower than before, much tougher than before but the only thought in her mind was to reach the other end- it might just fetch me some extra money, it might just help my mother a little. Her sister ran from one person to another begging for money. This act might just replace the begging bowl in my sister’s hand with a beautiful doll. Don’t we do this all the time? Work an extra hour for a faster promotion? Spend lesser time with family and friends to earn an extra bonus? Talk less, work more and then complain about the drudgery that life has become? Can we change ourselves? Can we be the way we were before? I’m not sure if we can. I’m not sure of we would want to.

She reached the other end, ran back to the start and climbed down. She jumped into her mother’s arms, clutched her tight for a while, ‘Don’t send me up there again, Maa. Let me run and play. Don’t let my sister beg, Maa. Don’t take her childhood away.’

I didn’t have money to give her that day. It would be so meager. All I had was a proud applause, an admiration, an inspiration, a blog post after 6 months and a prayer: ‘I ask not for a lighter burden. But for broader shoulders.’

The Times that Change

If I may reiterate Vincent Van Gogh, ‘I dream of writing and write my dreams’. Nearly a year ago from now, penning down my thoughts was never this hard. Was it because life at K was a new experience every day - A story that we would reminisce for the months to come? Or is it because, now, life has become the same old drudgery that we have been forced to get accustomed to?

But then again, what can be a better time to re-enkindle my nostalgia, my passion, my love for writing than the same old zephyr, the same old mountains and the same old winding road uphill that welcomed us back; that made us feel as if we had never left.

The 2 days spent on campus were pretty different this time. With us finding every opportunity to revisit the most memorable 2 years in 2 days, once again seeing those faces that we had last seen when we bid goodbye, meeting our favourite professors, those smiles and hugs that gave us back the warmth we had missed so much. And then again came those goodbyes, those teary-eyed farewells when we realized that it would be another couple of years before we’ll meet again, at this time, at the same place.

However, leaving campus this time was not that tough. Was it because we were more prepared for it than we were the last time we left? Was it because we knew that we were going back to the same old drudgery that we had left behind us just 2 days ago? Or was it because we knew each other better that we knew what to expect from them and what not to?

I have come to realize that most of my posts in the last 2 years have been about life at K and I was quite sure this one would be the same. ‘You always write about your time at K. What will you write about once you leave?’, they kept asking. I really didn’t know how to answer them then. I would, without any doubt, come up with a topic; there are so many. But today, as I write, I can’t help but feel the void; that something is missing, that the ink from my pen doesn’t flow as it used to back then.

What has changed? Is it me? Have I become too professional, too sophisticated, too mature that en route this voyage I let go of the juvenile, mischievous self that I was? Is it those around me? Have they changed? If I think of it, it’s just the time-the Times have changed.  

We have become so used to being in an environment where we are looked at with envy and jealousy that it has only made us tougher. We have become so accustomed to staying alone that it gives us solitude, sometimes boredom but never the sense of freedom. We have accepted with such ease the patriarchy in the society that we have learnt to live with those ogling eyes, those constant stares and those lewd remarks with our heads bent down in acceptance. They say, “When in Rome, be a Roman”. But, did they mean that we mould ourselves in a way such that people around us would begin to accept us; even at the cost of our own dreams, aspirations, lifestyle and behaviour? Did they mean that we accede to their unrealistic dictates without voicing our opinion just because, as they say, “Aaj toh ladki suna kar gayi!”? Why do they expect their female colleagues to behave in a way that they would never prefer a girl from their family to? Why are they not sensitive enough to understand what to talk and what to not, when to talk and to not, yet expect us to feel comfortable in their company? Situations like these only make one tougher, more aware and make us realize that life outside is very different from what we thought and that some learnings are best left within the Acad block-not because we are not adept enough to incorporate them; but because our society is not yet ready enough to accept them.      

Mitch Albom writes, “Man alone chimes the hour. And, because of this, man alone suffers a paralyzing fear that no other creature endures. A fear of time running out.” We have set stringent deadlines for our life - post-graduation by 23, marriage by 28, multiple promotions and a respectable position in the organization by 30, retirement by 60; but is life so predictable that the deadlines can be ‘sacrosanct’? College has made us adhere to timelines, has made us ecstatic, when, in trying situations, these deadlines were extended. But today, a miss in the deadline makes us anxious, makes us fret, makes us feel incompetent compared to our peers. We are so anxious about our future that we forget to live in the present, to enjoy all that we have earned, to give time to our family and friends, to live….

We all yearn for what we have lost. But sometimes, we forget what we have. We yearn to be a student back again, to be in campus for 1 more day, for 1 more year; to spend just 1 hour with the same people who we used to spend months with. We may not be in K anymore, but we have learnt a lot more from there, long enough to keep us going in this ruthless, lecherous world; long enough to endure the changes, the compromises and the adjustments that we are forced  to make everyday. We yearn to go back home, to go back to the coziness, the warmth and the comfort that we have taken for granted all these years; to enjoy the sumptuous meal at home, to pour out all our worries to our parents, to share a laugh with our siblings-to be ourselves, without worrying about being judged. But then again, they are the 1^st ones we go to in troubled times, we need them to tell us, “Don’t worry, you’ll be fine tomorrow.” And sometimes just smile when they say, “If you don’t like it there, come back home. You’ll fine 10 other jobs for yourself.” How we wish that was true! How we wish we could go back!

We all have awaited our ‘Dream come true’ moment. But once this moment passes, comes the slow, melting realization that this is not what we thought it would be like. This is not what we imagined our colleagues to be like. This is not what we imagined our managers to be like. This is not what we thought our friends would be like. And this is definitely not what we imagined our life to be like.

Life has changed in the past few months. There are a very few people with whom we are still as comfortable talking to as we were back then. It’s not about how often we meet them or talk to them, it’s more about how good we feel even in those little times that we talk. As they say, it is easy to talk to people, but hard to remember them. As the days pass, very few people would still remember you, very few would still be there to comfort you, very few would give you a shoulder to cry on. But as Rabindranath Tagore puts it,

If they answer not to your call walk alone

If they turn away, and desert you when crossing the wilderness

O thou unlucky one,

trample the thorns under thy tread,

and along the blood-lined track travel alone.

If they shut doors and do not hold up the light when the night is troubled with storm,

O thou unlucky one,

with the thunder flame of pain ignite your own heart,

and let it burn alone

The Transition

‘The day we fret about the future is the day we leave our childhood behind’

- Patrick Rothfuss, The Name of the Wind

It’s been 6 months. 6 months since I left IIM K. 6 months since the day reality struck that life still continues to be race- a race much tougher, much uglier than all races that I have been a part of till date. 6 months since I started my 1^st job. 6 months since my last post. 6 long, tiring, working months! And probably, 6 months since I left my childhood behind. 6 months since we all left our childhood behind.

These same 6 months, a year ago! When we thought that the only hurdles ahead of us were grades, B-school competitions and placements. When losing a competition was a failure that left us pondering for days. When we ran to a 9:15 class; often half asleep, more often without a bath and always with a cup of coffee. When nobody cared to find out how much we were being paid when we bagged a job offer. When we were never scoffed at for being from premier B-schools. When we never imagined spending an entire day all alone, with the phone and laptop being our only company. How we have grown!    

From Companionship to Solitude:

As I entered Kozhikode airport each time we had a term break, all I could see was a sea of IIM K sweatshirts, IIM K t-shirts and even more familiar faces as we moved towards the security check. As I ponder now, it no less resembled a bus-stand, with students queuing up, ensuring that friends got seats next to each other in the aircraft, whiling away time eating at the airport, and finally running around when the boarding was announced.  

When I travel today, or rather when we have our ‘business trips’, there are no companions, the seat adjacent remains empty or there is just another business traveller, there is no hustle and bustle to ensure that the luggage has not exceeded the specified limit because we do not have a bag full of snacks and ‘ghar ka khana’, for our friends and nobody takes turns to ensure that the auto has arrived, because a taxi awaits us outside.

From students to employees, from weekend trips to business trips, how we have grown!

From Celebrations to Formal wishes:

At the stroke of midnight hour, when it is your birthday, you are drenched with filthy water, beaten up, and covered with cake, toothpaste, conditioner and every other thing that your friends could get a hand at. And it’s not just you, even your best friends are not left out; because after all, best friends eat together, stay together and celebrate together.

A group of new people who always wonder why you studied as much, in a new location where you have nobody else for company, you spend your birthday working; with a few formal wishes, a formal ‘Happy Birthday’ email and a formal celebration with your colleagues.

From friends to colleagues, from late night treats to phone call wishes, how we have grown!

From Campus to Corporate:

The month of June meant the arrival of a new batch, those ‘interactions’, welcoming juniors and having the pride of being a senior!

When you 1^st enter the office, you are left all alone, the remaining employees wondering who you are, frequent glances from people around, occasional discussions about how much you are being paid and even more observations about your behavior- you are being judged at for what you speak, how you speak and whom you speak to.

From being carefree to conscious, from preparing our CVs the night before the deadline to regularly checking and updating our profiles on LinkedIn, how we have grown!

It seems just yesterday when we were still kids; when we sat there, at Arjuna Path looking at the stars till we nearly dozed off, when we needed no permission to barge into our neighbour’s room at any time, when we could laugh and play till dawn, when CCD had no reference to any tax saving plan, when comparisons were made not of the CTC but of the mess refund (followed by the usual, ‘How come your refund is more than mine?’), when case studies, competitions, and night-outs kept us awake till a time when we now are forced to wake up, when we divided 10 slides of a ppt among 4 members, when we listened to songs, cracked jokes and did everything else other than working on the ppt, when we could meet each other every day and not spend months only hearing their voices on the phone.   

As I write these lines, I wonder, ‘When did I grow up?’ Was it since I started to keep a constant track of time because a meeting was scheduled? Was it when I started thinking how to be crisp, polite, yet firm when I wanted to get things done? Was it when the content of the emails changed from: ‘PFA slide 1-4’ to ‘PFA last week’s target Vs achievement’? Was it since those days when I kept no track of the amount we owed each other to those when I understood that FM taught back in term 2 inherently meant managing your salary? Was it when I started paying my own utility bills? Was it when I grew up from being excited on receiving a mess refund to simply glancing at the salary message and continuing with my work? Was it when I preferred eating at home rather than eating alone in a hotel? Was it when I started understanding the power of hierarchy in an organization to simply ignoring it while studying OB?

When did I grow up? When did we grow up? When did our discussions change from laughter and jokes to mature discussions on our jobs and career prospects? When did we start fretting about our future? Oh, when did we leave our childhood behind!

4^th April, 2015: The day we bowed down on the stage to the Director as we accepted our degree, the day the curtains fell with a thunderous applause from our parents, professors and friends, the day we bid farewell; sad, excited, a bit scared, anxious and confident of what lies ahead of us!

This was the day, the day when we left campus, the day when we left our childhood behind!

The Bliss of Solitude

 “It is always the same with mountains. Once you have lived with them for any length of time, you belong to them.”

And no sooner had I read this quote by Ruskin Bond, I went into a nostalgic reverie. The scenic beauty of IIM K came like a flash before my eyes and I would reiterate Ruskin Bond, nevertheless with a tinge of difference: Once you have lived at IIM K, you belong there.

6^th April, 2015: 2 days after the convocation and the campus seemed deserted. Farewells are never easy and more so from that place which had been your home for the past 2 years, where you have seen your best and worst times, where you have made new friends and didn't realize when they became family.

As I bid adieu to the last few friends remaining on campus, I was left speechless. As the auto-rickshaw accelerated, I once again witnessed the zephyr, the misty mountains, the first rays of the sun that touched the Kampus-which I had taken for granted all along. And the same zephyr brought with it a lot of memories-of those rainy days when we just ‘gazed and gazed but little thought, what wealth the show to us had brought’, of those long, refreshing walks, or those little strolls, of the anxious days when we did not know what lay ahead of us and those relaxed times when we knew where we would be a month from now. Those words of wisdom of Socrates, Tagore and Swami Vivekananda gushed past me. All my favourite locations en route downhill went past me with a blink of the eye. With a lump in my throat and glistening eyes, I caught a last glimpse of them.

I was enthralled by the beauty of IIM K 2 years ago when I 1^st came here.  And now, as I left, I was jolted by reality- this was perhaps the last time that I go downhill towards the same gate that I could not take my eyes off when I 1^st entered.  It was a sense of déjà- vu. I could not take my eyes off the gate now either. And then as I left the gates of that sprawling campus, I turned. I turned back one last time to see those white words on the blue board, ‘Indian Institute of Management Kozhikode’. I could not withhold my tears any longer. They gave way. Yes. I cried. All of us cried. No matter how hard we would have tried to withhold our tears, no matter how strong we would have been in all those difficult times here, no matter how much we had promised ourselves that we would leave with a smile on our face; this moment was just meant to break down.     

It has been nearly 2 months since then. Some of us have entered the busy corporate life. Some others are on the brink of entering it. But even today, the people that we talk to almost every day are the ones from IIM K. If a phone call goes on for more than 1hr, it is bound to be with your friend from K. All those names, all those stories that our parents and friends back home hear from us are those about K. Even today, the rains remind you of the campus; the lush greenery, the distant hills, the misty walk-ways and of course, the Arjuna Path-where we found serenity and solace even amidst the mad rush and competitive pressure.

As I look out of my balcony today, I see nothing but a spread of concrete jungles. As I walk on the roads, I see nothing but a mad rush of people running for work. As I read a book to keep myself occupied, I hear nothing but screeching men and women, street fights and loud honking horns. All I can think of is, Oh those days of solace, where did thou go! Those days when we used to have a sip of coffee in the academic block looking over the breathtaking view of the valley, those days when we used to have a quick cup of noodles laughing over a CP done by a friend in the last lecture, those days when class breaks were spent discussing dinner plans, those days when happiness meant a pizza discount at Domino’s, those days when 5min was all we required to plan a movie outing- Oh those days of solace, where did thou go!  

Somewhere down the line, in these 2 years, we stopped fretting about placements, we sailed through sacrosanct deadlines, we aced the most difficult exams and we made the best of memories. Like those when it was a daily routine to stay up till 6 a.m. working on a case study competition, when late night case discussions witnessed every other discussion except that of the case, when the entire college would turn up for a batch-meet or a theatre performance or any other event albeit it being post midnight.

2 years just flew by, like a gush of fresh air. Looking back, it seems that these years were a transit from the care-free student life to the responsibilities of the corporate world. When we entered those gates, we were unaware of what we want to accomplish 2 years hence. While Term 1 was about rigorous academics, getting to know people through section-wars, committee tasks and group activities, it introduced us to a gamut of possibilities that lie ahead. Although we were still unsure of which specialization we would opt for, the summer placements made this a tad easier. It was the summer placements that brought out the best and the worst in us. It was at this time when we found our true friends and realized what seniors are meant for-to instill confidence in us, to guide us through. Academics did not seem that rigorous any more and Terms 2 and 3 were all about long night walks, night canteen, Milma and understanding how wonderful the next few months here are going to be. At the same time those dreaded Finance subjects made some of us realize why we were meant for Marketing and others that they did not have choice now that they have bagged a Fin internship. While the 2 months internship made us realize how much we miss being at K, the next 2 terms were about being the same for the juniors what our seniors were for us, about B-school competitions, and seeing success and failure together. The last term saw various facets of our personality. Learning through cinema and questioning every fact that was thrown at us, the anxiety and fear of Final Placements and the relief thereafter. But it was much easier this time with your friends to guide you at every step. And once it was all over there was rejoice, outings, long walks and even longer talks.

But in the middle of all this hustle-bustle, we participated in various activities, organized several others and started the countdown to the end of our journey at K. But it was only during the final good-bye, when we held back our tears did we realize how much we care for each other. How we miss those days when going to CCD at 2 a.m. in a t-shirt and shorts was no big deal, when walking around in business formals was a daily affair, when dessert meant water melon, when breakfast meant the ever-smiling chechi serving you hot dosas, when you could go anywhere without carrying a wallet because you had a mess account, when you could authoritatively ask a loan from your friend and not settle the account for days together, when you could eat a sumptuous dinner on your friend’s mess account and allow several others to drink coffee from your coffee card. How we wish we could go back!

And these few lines of Wordsworth sum up my stay at K

For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the daffodils.

Almost 10 years since I recited this poem do I understand that it was meant for occasions as these-where daffodils are simply a metaphor for the wonderful 2 years at IIM K.