FRIENDS SO LINK'D TOGETHER
[THIS PAGE HAS LONG BEEN UNDER CONSTRUCTION. BE PATIENT, PLEASE! IT IS STILL IN THE MAKING!]
The idea has been floating around for long.The motive is just to keep track of each other. Who is doing what? and where? and how and the rest.Not an unusual desire, this. This desire to stop in one's track and look back in time, at happy times spent together, at shared moments that mark a milestone in one’s history.
Going back in history – The year was 1972, the month July. What date? Can’t remember. In any case, it hardly matters, it was sometime in the first half of July. A drizzly, rainy, squelchy day in July when we all lined up in the corridors of Arts Block I of Panjab University, Chandigarh, seeking admission in the Department of English. Prof Raj Kumar (may his soul rest in peace!) was then Chair – a formidable looking Chair with a bristly haircut and a look that saw through all the lame – and not even lame – excuse that latecomers made.
Mr Raja, the Office Superintendent, gave out the roll numbers. Odd ones go to Section A, Even to Section B, so we were told. Raja was one of those types who always chuckled, no matter what the time of the day. Fat and balding, the joke went around that his when he entered a room his pot belly went first, the rest of him followed. Mean one, huh? But that’s how he was referred to, despite his toothy grin and friendly ways.
Then the first day in the Dept. Another rainy, squelchy day. Class after class, with introductions, each student getting up for a minute or so to introduce him/herself, heart pounding with nervousness, the tongue faltering as everyone else listened attentively.
In most cases it was the first experience of co-ed class, so the inevitable hesitation, the sizing up of the opposite gender, the measured initial talk.
Then there were the big turbans – generally blue or pink – HR who sat in the third row and kept nodding his head up and down in agreement as the teacher talked. And the tall Baljit who sat in the last row. And then Sawani who had no turban but a French beard (he looks like a contemporary of Chaucer, someone remarked, and the name stuck to him for the rest of his stay in the Dept – he was called Chaucer for the next two years! Then the fair and pink Dickey who sported a black shirt and was caught humming “Black Magic Woman”. Alas for him, he was called “Black Magic Woman” then on! The tall Sandy became Gentle Giant and a long-nosed, curly-haired wiry boy was – so we were told – appropriately called Brownie. Ranbir Rai Malhotra, the teacher called and he replied, “Yesh Shir.” (Why do you say “yesh shir” and not “yes sir?” someone was to ask him much later and he, uncomprehending, would reply: “I don’t say ‘yesh shir” I say “yesh shir!” much to the amusement of his friends.) There were some shared names, so we had a Mandy the Boy and a Mandy the Girl. And some unusual names which did not give away the gender at all. Fatty, for instance (yes, she was actually called that) was formally called Hitpreet.
These were some of the new faces (or turbans or beards) that marked the first day.
As for the girls, most of them already knew each other, having studied together in the local Govt. College. Jo Pandit, Gurminder, Ravinder, Kitty Grewal, Mandy the Girl.
And then came the Student Elections. Watch out for them, the seniors had told us. That’s the most interesting time of the year. And take care you don’t become too involved – or else you may be kidnapped on election day! O, wow, that sounded interesting indeed – let’s see who gets kidnapped! We waited.
Candidates were fielded, some lost, some one, Pradip Mehra stood for election from our section – and lost. Unfazed, he said, “It’s all in the game,” and shrugged it off. He was one of those guys who walked with his eyes on the ground, humming to himself all the while. “Jaani, ho, jaani….” Who did he sing for? Nobody knew.
Other faces got noticed as time went by. Diwakar became DR. He, HR and some others organized some events for the Freshers’ Night. Sudhir played brilliantly in the Inter-Class Hockey match and came to be called Pataudi. (No, it wasn’t cricket but his nose that was like Pat’s. So…)
Oh, yes, I forget Rana, the Muscle Man as we called him. He wore tinted specs and generally a tight-fitting T-Shirt that flattered his sinews. Hence the name. And Ranjit Sohal, small and frail, biting his nails in one corner of the class before he ganged up with the bigger boys.
Two years went by. And, just as we had begun to feel settled in our various relationships, came the time to bid adieu.
What directions did we take? North, South, East, West. Lost track, met up by chance once in a while, then lost touch again.
And everytime we chanced to meet we would say – yes, we’ll get together, we must stay in touch. But did nothing about it.
Until now.
Here is a blog dedicated to the Batch of ’74, so that we can keep track of each other, stay in touch, and generally keep informed of who is doing what and when and how! Where did we all go? How have we fared? How has the world treated us?
The focus is the Dept of English, but then we had friends from other Depts too. Kelly, for instance, from Psychology, Raghav from Eco, Shivi and Dadu from History, Flatty from Laws, and so many others. All ‘friends so linked together’ as the poet said.
If you have something to share from your memories of the two precious years (1972 to 1974) spent at the Panjab University, just drop a line and – you never know – you might just form another link in this chain of friends so link’d together.
This is a beginning. Forming – rather, re-forming a network. And then we will, at the opportunity available, get together, raise a glass or two, and talk about the good times gone by and look forward to renewed good times in the future, too.
Adios, Amigos, for now.
----------------------------
On January 19, 2008, almost twenty-four years after we went our different ways, we had the first of our reunions in the Students Centre. Pictures of the even are yet to come in. Ranjit Sohal’s niece, Gretel, was the photographer. The camera was Babie Grewal’s. As soon as the pictures arrive, they will be place here:
Given below is a poem written especially for the occasion.
FOR WE HAVE WALKED A MILE TOGETHER!
A shared time
In a shared space
Nudging and jostling
Side by side or face to face
We walked in step through two brief miles
Before we went our ways
To the North, to the SouthOr East or west.
The sandstone buildings stood where they were
The sky was blue
The palm trees swished silently
The Gandhi Bhavan
The Students Centre stood firm
Nothing changed.
They all waited for those who had left.
For them to take
A backward look.
The Sukhna dried up
And filled and dried
Many a time – year after year.
The Madhya Marg aged too,
Grew wider, more crowded and noisy.
Sector 17 got focused around a Pedestrian Plaza
The triumvirate – Jagat, Kiran, Neelam – added to their tribe
And spread to the suburbs a Fun Republic.
Typewriters gave way to computers
Photocopiers to internet
Love-letters and roses
To emails and s-m-s-es.
The palm trees stood muteWitnessed it all – and waited.
For one day they would come back.
They all do, sooner or later.
A decade passed
And it was the Blue Star in Orwell's year.
Another decade, and another.
Time rolled by.
1974 became history,
Hazy and misty, a fading memory.
So the batch of 74
–Some stayed put
And some went away
Only to return.
One of them trained in Pinkerton's Academy and came back as the Big Boss, flourishing a feathery cane.
Another gentle one went West but, bored with the Longhorns, came back like the tide, again and again, when the seasons changed.
One went down under, teaching literature to the Joeys, but got back again, for an annual pilgrimage home,
Mandy the Boy settled in the "Paris of India" where no one needlessly would remind him of his gender.
Sudhir, our Pataudi, gave up cricket and retired to his counting house dreaming of England all the while.
Dewey took on the role of Santa and resolved to spread the word of Love in the City Beautiful.
Some, like the two sisters, withdrew to the margins and began new lives.
Meera buried her nose deep in correspondence, Ranjana in books.
Sanjiv stayed put, bowing and smiling, honing his public relations.
Time rolled by.
[THIS PAGE HAS LONG BEEN UNDER CONSTRUCTION. BE PATIENT, PLEASE! IT IS STILL IN THE MAKING!]
The idea has been floating around for long.The motive is just to keep track of each other. Who is doing what? and where? and how and the rest.Not an unusual desire, this. This desire to stop in one's track and look back in time, at happy times spent together, at shared moments that mark a milestone in one’s history.
Going back in history – The year was 1972, the month July. What date? Can’t remember. In any case, it hardly matters, it was sometime in the first half of July. A drizzly, rainy, squelchy day in July when we all lined up in the corridors of Arts Block I of Panjab University, Chandigarh, seeking admission in the Department of English. Prof Raj Kumar (may his soul rest in peace!) was then Chair – a formidable looking Chair with a bristly haircut and a look that saw through all the lame – and not even lame – excuse that latecomers made.
Mr Raja, the Office Superintendent, gave out the roll numbers. Odd ones go to Section A, Even to Section B, so we were told. Raja was one of those types who always chuckled, no matter what the time of the day. Fat and balding, the joke went around that his when he entered a room his pot belly went first, the rest of him followed. Mean one, huh? But that’s how he was referred to, despite his toothy grin and friendly ways.
Then the first day in the Dept. Another rainy, squelchy day. Class after class, with introductions, each student getting up for a minute or so to introduce him/herself, heart pounding with nervousness, the tongue faltering as everyone else listened attentively.
In most cases it was the first experience of co-ed class, so the inevitable hesitation, the sizing up of the opposite gender, the measured initial talk.
Then there were the big turbans – generally blue or pink – HR who sat in the third row and kept nodding his head up and down in agreement as the teacher talked. And the tall Baljit who sat in the last row. And then Sawani who had no turban but a French beard (he looks like a contemporary of Chaucer, someone remarked, and the name stuck to him for the rest of his stay in the Dept – he was called Chaucer for the next two years! Then the fair and pink Dickey who sported a black shirt and was caught humming “Black Magic Woman”. Alas for him, he was called “Black Magic Woman” then on! The tall Sandy became Gentle Giant and a long-nosed, curly-haired wiry boy was – so we were told – appropriately called Brownie. Ranbir Rai Malhotra, the teacher called and he replied, “Yesh Shir.” (Why do you say “yesh shir” and not “yes sir?” someone was to ask him much later and he, uncomprehending, would reply: “I don’t say ‘yesh shir” I say “yesh shir!” much to the amusement of his friends.) There were some shared names, so we had a Mandy the Boy and a Mandy the Girl. And some unusual names which did not give away the gender at all. Fatty, for instance (yes, she was actually called that) was formally called Hitpreet.
These were some of the new faces (or turbans or beards) that marked the first day.
As for the girls, most of them already knew each other, having studied together in the local Govt. College. Jo Pandit, Gurminder, Ravinder, Kitty Grewal, Mandy the Girl.
And then came the Student Elections. Watch out for them, the seniors had told us. That’s the most interesting time of the year. And take care you don’t become too involved – or else you may be kidnapped on election day! O, wow, that sounded interesting indeed – let’s see who gets kidnapped! We waited.
Candidates were fielded, some lost, some one, Pradip Mehra stood for election from our section – and lost. Unfazed, he said, “It’s all in the game,” and shrugged it off. He was one of those guys who walked with his eyes on the ground, humming to himself all the while. “Jaani, ho, jaani….” Who did he sing for? Nobody knew.
Other faces got noticed as time went by. Diwakar became DR. He, HR and some others organized some events for the Freshers’ Night. Sudhir played brilliantly in the Inter-Class Hockey match and came to be called Pataudi. (No, it wasn’t cricket but his nose that was like Pat’s. So…)
Oh, yes, I forget Rana, the Muscle Man as we called him. He wore tinted specs and generally a tight-fitting T-Shirt that flattered his sinews. Hence the name. And Ranjit Sohal, small and frail, biting his nails in one corner of the class before he ganged up with the bigger boys.
Two years went by. And, just as we had begun to feel settled in our various relationships, came the time to bid adieu.
What directions did we take? North, South, East, West. Lost track, met up by chance once in a while, then lost touch again.
And everytime we chanced to meet we would say – yes, we’ll get together, we must stay in touch. But did nothing about it.
Until now.
Here is a blog dedicated to the Batch of ’74, so that we can keep track of each other, stay in touch, and generally keep informed of who is doing what and when and how! Where did we all go? How have we fared? How has the world treated us?
The focus is the Dept of English, but then we had friends from other Depts too. Kelly, for instance, from Psychology, Raghav from Eco, Shivi and Dadu from History, Flatty from Laws, and so many others. All ‘friends so linked together’ as the poet said.
If you have something to share from your memories of the two precious years (1972 to 1974) spent at the Panjab University, just drop a line and – you never know – you might just form another link in this chain of friends so link’d together.
This is a beginning. Forming – rather, re-forming a network. And then we will, at the opportunity available, get together, raise a glass or two, and talk about the good times gone by and look forward to renewed good times in the future, too.
Adios, Amigos, for now.
----------------------------
On January 19, 2008, almost twenty-four years after we went our different ways, we had the first of our reunions in the Students Centre. Pictures of the even are yet to come in. Ranjit Sohal’s niece, Gretel, was the photographer. The camera was Babie Grewal’s. As soon as the pictures arrive, they will be place here:
Given below is a poem written especially for the occasion.
FOR WE HAVE WALKED A MILE TOGETHER!
A shared time
In a shared space
Nudging and jostling
Side by side or face to face
We walked in step through two brief miles
Before we went our ways
To the North, to the SouthOr East or west.
The sandstone buildings stood where they were
The sky was blue
The palm trees swished silently
The Gandhi Bhavan
The Students Centre stood firm
Nothing changed.
They all waited for those who had left.
For them to take
A backward look.
The Sukhna dried up
And filled and dried
Many a time – year after year.
The Madhya Marg aged too,
Grew wider, more crowded and noisy.
Sector 17 got focused around a Pedestrian Plaza
The triumvirate – Jagat, Kiran, Neelam – added to their tribe
And spread to the suburbs a Fun Republic.
Typewriters gave way to computers
Photocopiers to internet
Love-letters and roses
To emails and s-m-s-es.
The palm trees stood muteWitnessed it all – and waited.
For one day they would come back.
They all do, sooner or later.
A decade passed
And it was the Blue Star in Orwell's year.
Another decade, and another.
Time rolled by.
1974 became history,
Hazy and misty, a fading memory.
So the batch of 74
–Some stayed put
And some went away
Only to return.
One of them trained in Pinkerton's Academy and came back as the Big Boss, flourishing a feathery cane.
Another gentle one went West but, bored with the Longhorns, came back like the tide, again and again, when the seasons changed.
One went down under, teaching literature to the Joeys, but got back again, for an annual pilgrimage home,
Mandy the Boy settled in the "Paris of India" where no one needlessly would remind him of his gender.
Sudhir, our Pataudi, gave up cricket and retired to his counting house dreaming of England all the while.
Dewey took on the role of Santa and resolved to spread the word of Love in the City Beautiful.
Some, like the two sisters, withdrew to the margins and began new lives.
Meera buried her nose deep in correspondence, Ranjana in books.
Sanjiv stayed put, bowing and smiling, honing his public relations.
Time rolled by.
Then, one day,
One cold, misty morning
One hazy, drizzly Spot of Time
They all awoke
Rubbed their eyes and looked up ---
The sky was a dull grey
The palm trees swished silently
The Stu C stood waiting
With the circular ramp snaking its midriff.
Nothing had changed.
The Coffee House was dingy
Its plastic chairs grimy
BUT the coffee smelt good
When raised in a toast
To the times that were
A sip, my friends, for the good times.
Another, and yet another.
For we have walked a while together
We will walk awhile together.
Let us walk another mile together.
--------------------------------------------
On the 6th of June, 2008, five of us got together again over a cup of coffee. Here are pics taken on the occasion -- Sanjeev, Diwakar, me, Babie and Pinka -- clockwise in this order.
Messages came in from HR, Brownie, Kitty, and Jo. When we dispersed we fixed a tentative date for the next meeting – First week of October, around Dassehra time. Stay free, everyone, stay tuned, and pass the good word around!
Ciao, ciao!
