University Memories | Central Library

Parija Library, Utkal University (1994)

1996

“Bhai, treat! ”, Jagan quipped in excitement as the news of Kittu’s nomination being confirmed spread through the campus like fire in the woods. If you took out of the picture - elections, rallies, et al; stuff that formalize University politics, Kittu was the next President of the student council. It was a landslide, clearly.

An average class had 12 students. A department had 10 classes with 3 batches. The schools had 5 departments each, give and take. The University had 10 schools of excellence. And not to forget the Undergraduate junta. And all of these people would vote for Kittu. Why would they do that?

Because Kittu wasn't the guy who ran away when the police was busy beating up university students. Because he didn't succumb to the Vice-Chancellor’s vile threats, academic and non-academic. Because he never forgave enemies, and never forgot where he came from.

Because no one else in the university had the ping-pongs to stand up against a man who could make and break academic careers at the snap of his finger. But Kittu did stand up, selflessly when he and his friends sized up the chutiya librarian because he wasn't allowing freshers to borrow books. 

"Bastard, is this your father's library?", the VC thundered when he heard about it! 

And all of this did cost him his dissertation, a teaching assistant’s job at an American university apart from so many other things that are not important at the moment.

Despite all that, such was his popularity that even the Chaiwallah Mausa at the Central Canteen wanted to enroll his teenage son in the University, so that he could pay back a favor and vote for him.

“I’ll be the Chief Minister, one day. Oh, I will... ”, he would look into the mirror every time he was drunk and proclaim to himself.

The sycophants in the academic council hated him. The juniors respected him. His peers had his back and so did the alumni, who wrote him generous checks to fund his campaigns.

But there was this one woman who loved him. Truly, madly, deeply.

And he loved her back. Unconditionally. Such was Madhu.

But Madhu was the VC’s younger daughter.

Yet, they made it happen. They just had to.

2014

Back in the days, Kittu and friends use to chase cars and kites. Now his friends were chasing their dreams, their KPIs, their EMIs. 

But Kittu stopped chasing his dreams when he became Keshav Mishra.

Because, Keshav Mishra was the youngest home minister, Odisha has ever seen. The most dynamic as well.

And now he was back in the same place where it all began, to inaugurate the public library of the University. With him were two beautiful ladies; his better half Madhu and their daughter.

While Kittu in his speech was joking about active he was on social media compared to the other ministers, Madhu smiled, and  giggled. She smiled because it was Kittu. She giggled because the library was named after her father.

From Delhi, With Love.

Dear Mysore,

What do I want from you?

Nothing, really. I just want to seep in to your life again, albeit the distance. For I want to cut to the chase, hold you tight and whisper in your ears, all those things that you've been longing to hear. 

You are the kind of a person who'd choose a Chai Tapri over candle-light dinners, a long walk in the midnight over long drives on the highway, a guy like me over Ryan. And you did all of that. And I loved you for all of that you did.

And I will always do so, no matter what.

Delhi.

And She was a Hurricane

Dear You-know-who-you-are,

Something I read last night reminded me of you. So, here I go...

There was something about that evening when we met for the first time. The very first time I saw you, I knew we were meant to move mountains for each other. And shortly thereafter, we fucked up.
I'm generally a very disconnected, aloof individual who only on the constant coaxing of a person who's not my best friend anymore, left my Play-station for the good and tagged along to meet you.
There was loud music, too much chaos, then there was you and everything around me fell silent.
Just like it happens in a slow-mo sequence, I could hear a faint sound of a guitar riff. It felt soft. But your lips were softer. I vividly remember that dhaba in the middle of nowhere, besides the highway, under the heavy rains. I can recall that very second when our lips locked, and the next thirty seconds just seemed like eternity. Till that chotu passed by, giggled and served us Chai-Samosa. Best cup of tea I've ever had!
Coming back to the first time when we met, there was loud music and louder people all around. Gaudy, made-up, lots of color in what they wore and all that jazz. And there you were, an antithesis to all of that - Sporting a Kurti, demure, brutally gorgeous. That was it for me, I could tell. And we did connect. We read the same books, listened to the same kind of music, feared education together, hated profs together, laughed them off over the countless cigarettes we shared together. You were my biggest inspiration. When I was crunching numbers at my Dad's office, you pushed me to write often and I pushed you to code often. Girls who code are respectfully hot, something I realised after we met.
You always wished us to be in the same college. Nevertheless, we bunked classes, holed up in our respective rooms, scrapbooking each other on Orkut, talking sweet-nothings on the phone. I still remember how you found Gtalk to be creepy and how the queer scent of a book used to turn you on.

The world has changed so much now. People these days use something called WeChat to keep in touch. I assume you do too. They read their books on tablets. They listen to music that's electronic. Facebook is the new Orkut. Orkut is as dead as dead can be, of course. They don't call upon each other, when at work, eat their dinners quietly and yet, make love only on weekends. Too mechanical, I say. I'm sure you'll agree too.

You do, Don't you?

Mr. Lovely

Calcutta, Present Day.



"Ayi Shomo, where are you leaving for?", Enquired Mastermoni. Shome took out his gunnysack and easel and walked for the door as Mastermoni, his highly interesting teacher and psuedo-landord finished his cup of green tea. He didn't mind the often unwarranted queries by the old man since he not only got the good fortune to work under him, but also got to stay in his palatial house right in the middle of the city.

Little known by his original name of Diponkar Mukherji, Mastermoni during his heydays was a radical painter. Starting out as a petty graffiti boy for the communists when he was given free reign to paint the walls of Kolkata with propaganda art; he came to be one of the finest artists who was profusely patronised amongst the Tollygunge elite, and respected immensely among the junta at the India Coffee House. So much was his legacy that the street that passed through his house was known as Mukherji Para, the avenue of the Mukherji's.

As Shome put in his chappals at the door, he replied, "I'll go to the National Library, read for a while and then maybe finish the chobbi I'm working on."

"Even Picasso would have stayed home on a lovely day like this..", Mastermoni quipped as he lit his pipe and looked out of the french window to a rain drenched Kolkata on a lazy saturday.


A Couple of Minutes Later.

Amidst the shouts of market vendors, bells of the Kalighat temple and a surprisingly cool wind in the air, he walked up to the main road and then took the stairway to the metro station underneath. It is even cooler here, he thought as he passed the gates and boarded a train that was just about to leave.
As he stood with one arm clinging to the handrail, he noticed a very gorgeous and demure lady sitting right in front of him. In the next few minutes, their eyes met once or twice and she used to shy away. At least he thought so. From the top to bottom, he checked her out and he so was enamoured by her beauty, one could tell by the look on his face. Artists tend to fall in love easily.

A little later, a station came and the girl hurriedly got down. As he devoured the jasmine scent of her body when she passed by him to the door, he also felt a strange sensation around his hips. Somebody has just pinched him. Thanks to the crowd, he couldn't know who.

As he looked little further inside the compartment, he saw another man constantly staring at him. Shome looked at this stranger for a while and made a few points on his mind. He was being checked by a person who was not straight, Shome could tell. He noticed the Kajal in his eyes, the tight jeans, shaved underarms and all that. And the stranger was gradually taking steps towards the place he was standing. As he started feeling extremely uncomfortable, his station was about to arrive much to his relief.

"Poroborti Station Rabindra Sadan", the phony announcer quipped.

He used the crowd in the station to his advantage and made a dash towards the escalator, as the stranger was already hooting at him by now.

"Aiee Roxy, Tumi Aashbo na??", the stranger was shouting shamelessly with a effeminate touch to his voice.

As he touched the escalator, he looked back to confirm. He had lost Mr. not-straight. Relief.
He walked up and his eyes feel upon an inscription at the station's plaque that had a couplet from a poem of Tagore's. It read like this,

Through the silent night
I hear the knockings at my heart,
of the morning's vagrant hopes,
Sadly coming back.

Now he knew what the girl must have felt.