Petrichor.
The first droplets of evening rain fell into the summer,
mitigating the Pilani heat, settling the dust and
griming it into the narrow jagged roads. Women pulled up
the pallus of their saris to wear hoods and ran
for shelter, their jolly shouts of feigned helplessness
punctuated with silent murmurs of prayer to the Rain God
for their children. And larger droplets of August rain
fell in the new semester providing respite from the
scourge of the Pilani heat. Washing away the present
into the past. Cleansing away some memories, leaving
behind some. Ushering the newer lot in a cordial yet
cooling welcome. Heralding a new season.
The rains fell.
The smell of the earth
that saddled the infant droplets of rain suffused in me
pangs of nostalgia, transporting me to the same place
four years ago, when I’d arrived in BITS as a freshman
escorted by my parents. Does life really come a full
circle or does one simply draw non-existent parallels to
satiate oneself with pleasant auguries (the sedative
tinge of pleasantness infused by retrospective thought),
I wondered. It had rained on the same date four years
back. Yes. I was pretty sure of it. My parents had left
for Chennai the next day, leaving me to embark on my
BITSian life. And now, four years later, it was raining.
Was this some kind of consummation of my tryst with
BITS? Or, was it a mere coincidence? I did not know.
2004C6PS272.
The latest addition to my
mailing list. The reason I was braving the heat and
rains of Pilani, though I had graduated a year ago. The
reason I withstood the four-day siege of my benumbed
limbs in trains that smelt like Auschwitz. My first
school-ju, who I never got to see during my BITSian
life. My brother. He was starting a new life,
apparently, away from the comforts of home. My mother
told me peremptorily and my father seconded, that it was
my responsibility too to help him get settled without
hitches. And hence I set my eyes on BITS, Pilani once
more. And my heart.
Changes. I expectantly
looked for changes.
The dilapidated looking
Bhawans; the dusty C-Lawns where junta played cricket
and more cricket; the Gym-G where weeding is always long
overdue when it is not BOSM; the Audi where everything
happened – from lectures to EDC plays to Music nights
(in short—where BITS happened!); the clock tower
standing like Atlas, fighting off his breasts, rolling
rain-clouds that often tried to cloak his towering self;
the chowki outside the Audi who, apart from
posing riddles to people sitting outside the Audi, was a
bit of a conundrum himself; the rediwallahs and
their redis which offered sam-chaat,
shikanji and more sam-chaat (to say nothing
of the yarns about BITS that they spun); the Goddess
Saraswati who played for years in a row, the same note
on her veena; ANC; C’not; insti; I surveyed all of them
through lenses tinted with nostalgia, evaluating a
mental contrast with the grey scaled images of the
flashback. These still remain the way I had left them.
Unaffected by change.
The new library is an
imposing magnificent edifice. The walls are tastefully
decorated with panels of oil
-paintings,
some of them depicting mythological scenes. Potted
plants and some topiary work garnish the centre of the
huge building. The books are also cataloged better, with
halls dedicated for every section. Aesthetically
wondrous. It gives me the excuse to remark
self-righteously: had this Library been during my time,
I would have virtually moved into it; and my CG would
have never plummeted the way it did!
BITS has been attacked by
the major players in cellular service providing. OASIS
has been bought by Airtel. And predictably, Hutch has
also ventured into the desert. Every freshman has a
mobile phone on him. SMSes fly every five minutes from
parent to ward and from fresher to fresher. The wing is
alerted if a senior is on the prowl. The seniors, being
the experienced campaigners that they are, have learnt
to use the mobile to their advantage too. When a senior
meets a fresher, he asks only for his mobile number, and
not his intro in the public. The mobile is then
effectively used to summon the juniors when the coast is
clear of wardens and authorities! Lifestyles have
digressed from the time when we juniors trudged to C’not
to make phone calls to home – the Bhawan phones were
perpetually out of order – and were promptly ambushed by
seniors.
Some things have changed.
I tagged along with my
brother for a jaunt on the familiar roads that cut each
other at right angles, much like those of Mohenjodaro
and Harappa, and other early civilizations whose salient
features the third standard History book scrupulously
detailed. Naagarji waved at me and told me that I had
put on a little weight; I told him I missed his
sam-chaats for the past six months. Munnaji said in
his unique reticently solicitous manner, “Jaate waqt
milke jaana.” I nodded, resolving to myself for
those three seconds that, unlike the last time, I would
see him before I left. The inimitable dosa-maker in ANC
(who, I must say, dealt out truly inimitable elliptical
dosas!) indulged in some rather expressive bonhomie
after which he complained that he had not received last
year’s BOSM t-shirt yet. I told him I will see to it
that he gets it this time! After which I proceeded to
tell him I graduated this June. He bit his tongue and
instantly assured me that he knew it all the while and
was merely engaging himself in friendly banter. The
rickshawallahs enquired concernedly whether I will
be playing this BOSM as well; I told them I had passed
out. They then exhorted me to come to BITS representing
some Outsti team and participate in this year’s BOSM. I
assured them I would try my best. They all – each one of
them – avowed, like they do to every parent year after
year, that they would take good care of my brother. “Aap
fikr mat kijiye; hum iska achcha khayal rakhenge.”
The glib words of customary assurance were heartening
relief at the moment.
The first-yearites slunk
away after stealing a surreptitious glance at my
brother; they later came back to me and asked me to
which discipline I had been admitted. I told them that I
had been admitted to Infosys! Upon which they proceeded
to ask me if he was my own brother. I clarified that, in
India, it is not yet custom to lease out brothers; it
will take some more time for us Indians to embrace the
custom. When your kid brother stands towering half a
foot over you at six foot two, it’s sometimes prudent
for both of you to remain seated. I regretted not having
taken one of those detestable ill-fitting ‘BITS, Pilani’
T-shirts of mine.
One last time, I gamboled
along the road to Gym-G on which I paraded during BOSM;
I saw sportsmen—arrayed in their college colors—who were
all-importantly striding to the grounds, feeling
summoned by the spirit of their respective institutions.
And I plodded on the road from the insti to Budh where I
trudged back, despondent, after screwing up my CDC
tests; people were walking to the mess, animatedly
discussing solutions and engrossed in the calculation of
their marks and prospective grades. And I strolled on
the road to C’not at night; girls were cycling in groups
ringing their bells wildly and yelling at boys who had
ganged up blocking the road, and were boisterously
parading along. Saraswati still smiled at me the same
smile she had four years back when I sat in the steps of
the temple, staring into the gloaming. And I saw, once
again, the hallowed Gandhi Bhawan, which stood witness
to its grandest Bhawan’s night, Nihil Ultra 2k++, which,
I had thought then, was the grandest celebration of
human camaraderie – an overflowing goblet of adrenaline
and human spirit; there they were dancing away to night
fame and the lilting music was reverberating in every
Gandhiite’s ear long after.
I wanted to leave.
The place had been etched
to remain a part of me. I sojourned in my brother’s room
the H-wing for one night; my brother’s roomie hadn’t
arrived.
The night seemed to be
echoing Thoppul’s baritone bellows of four years ago,
from room number 316 – he was the ten-pointer, the stud
of the wing. In 318, Bul and Chaps – new roomies – were
breaking ice, parleying in English like a caring boy and
bashful dame trying to court each other and trying, at
the same time, not to drop the slightest hint of their
intentions. Gomes was raucously signing his class notes,
before a test, to the tune of the latest Bollywood hit
song. His roomie, Sucha, was fuming under his breath. We
were the Godfathers of the H-wing. I had felt glad to be
in the wing that I was as a first-yearite; my wing.
But, why did I want to
leave?
Suddenly there was none
to share my memories with. I walked in reality, alone.
And memories remained, well, memories. I felt speared
with the ignominy of having to play witness to the
memories of a fraternity. Alone…
"Guys, when is the
registration?” the new first-yearites quavered in
excitement.
I woke up, in my
brother’s room.
“Tomorrow!”
A new morrow was ushering
itself in.
¨
