Chronicles of KGP: Fragrance of Fraternity

It was a cloudy Saturday morning in July 1973 when I gazed at the elegantly crafted IIT gate and felt wonderful to be a part of the proud legacy of Dedicated to the service of the nation. With a feeling as if I’d landed at the top of the world I sprang off from the rickshaw. The accompanying luggage contained the bed roll, minimum utensils, new clothes, pain killers, two pictures of Goddess Kali & Radha- Krshna, all literally wrapped with love & care of an anxious middle educated, mother for her son going to live away from home, alone, for the first time. It was Azad Hall of Residence, where I’d dwell in a different world for the next five years. Out there right in the front lobby, were standing 3–4 guys. From among them one stoutly built, little short guy came forward. “Tui Bangali” he asked. “Han dada” I answered. “Dada? “Bullshit, haven’t you learnt any damn etiquette in your school” came the harsh comments within three minutes of landing at my dream seat of learning.

“Address me and all these seniors by ‘sir’. Any mistake and you had it. Anyway come with me. And listen you brat, other seniors will try to capture you. If you go with them, God only would know what’ll happen to you..Remember my name is Tapan Kar” — shouted the guy. I followed him, got my room no. B105 allotted to me. Upon unlatching and entering the room I got another jolt of life. It was littered with what not — torn drawing sheets to cigarette butts to torn magazines.It was perhaps a minute or two, before my bewilderment was shattered by Kar’s howl — “Who’ll clean up the room for you; your pop? Or mine. C’mon get a broom from any of your fellow freshers and start cleaning. No damn bugger is a Shehzada & nobody is pyada. You understand; you better understand that you have to do so many things yourself.”

“Right sir” I agreed. On engaging myself with the conversation with the guy, S. Ramesh two rooms away from mine, I came to know that he was the son of a stinking rich planter from Deep South of India. I borrowed the broom from that exasperated and almost broken down chap In the middle of the conversation, the new occupant of room no. B102, a naïve lookin’ son of a reputed physician, Kuntal just about to join us when Anuj Jain sir the then custodian of Kuntal, pounced on him and took him away to clean his room.

Couple of days later, we the freshers with swollen eyes from lost sleep & heads bombarded with Basic Engineering Couse(BEC) problems and the differential equations, the difficulty levels of which putting the baffled students and the stressed lecturers on the same boat, were allowed to have dinner after another session of ragging. And then happened that inconceivable scenario; there was a load shedding — a power outage the seniors were so thrilled. They instantly herded all of us- the Freshers, took us to the front foyer and ordered us to hurl abuses towards Nehru Hall, just on the opposite side. Within seconds Nehru Hall freshers reciprocated by screaming filthy words in Bengali, Hindi and English languages. Soon the future top techies behind iPhone to space telescopes, were at the top of their voices screaming dirty words. The buxom, innocent looking Sikdar, with the given name Dhumki, asked Probal (Porha) “Sir I’ve exhausted all the abuses words linked to father. Can I start the ones with mother?”

In C top west, in our hall, lived 4 guys — Jacob Harris, Noel Tharakan, Sampat Kumar, Ashis Gotbole, who always moved together. They were Westernized & Americanized, all in one mould and were highly irritated on the matter why Ratan of ET lab or Balaram of our mess and their likes wouldn’t speak English in the Indian Institute Of Technology. They were conversing amongst themselves, in the dining hall, about Mick Jagger’s latest album, about Michigan and Oregon and how soon they’d land in their cherished land, when Harris sir’s eyes fell on me and Ramu, the righteous boy from Ramshwaram, sporting white and saffron tilak on forehead. ”Hey rascals come here” ordered Sampat sir. “What’s your name” I was asked. “ Sir, Biswanath Majumder” I replied. “ Oh then you must be a nephew of Charu Majumdar, the Naxalite Leader” uttered Noel. “ And what’s this other monkey’s name” Harris sir quipped. “LVP Rammurthy” Ramu Replied.

“C’mon hog fast and come with us” said Ashis. In the double room at the corner of the C-top wing, I was flabbergasted seeing posters of celebrities, collages of women & exotic landscapes, famous quotes, art works and period articles in the room of a foul-mouthed guy, Tharakan.

Pink Floyd’s track Time was switched on. “ Hey you guys dance like a couple” ordered Jacob.

Poor Ramu coyly rejected me when I tried to hold his hands. Notwithstanding his reactions, I started swinging like a scarecrow wavering in the high winds. “This bugger dances pretty well” they said between themselves. “You will present a dance item in the Freshers’ intro”said Sampat. An unimaginable thing happened in a few days. I was taken to SN Hall, the only Girls’ Hostel, the residents of which were like impermeable nymphs from another planet to the guys, starved of female company. A graceful girl with glowing skin came down and a carry bag was handed over to Godbole. That bag had actually lingerie which I’d wear to practice dancing.

Came the much waited Freshers’ Intro. With face painted, bright ribbons on head, balloons inside that lingerie I went on sway hips and bosoms with Piya Tu Aab To Aaja cabaret track and hundreds of chaps, even from other halls, applauded. That day I felt so satisfied that I could bring some joy, out of the life’s banalities.

Ragging over, sir business gone– all are equal . Tapan Kar would take me to a movie in Bombay Talkies. Tharakan gave me French Curves and notes on Naval Arch subjects. Anuj Jain would lend money when the money order from home, came late. Hard days of exams were over. The innocent Bangladeshi, Bashir,Kao, me and others joined in the Poor jokes session in the RK Hall day where Murmu laughed without understanding. Then came Spring Fest.Time for fun & frolic. Chiku had to accompany many performers with tabla, AP got busy hanging the backdrop and cock-eyed Chandan would try hard to hook a visiting girl from Lorreto or Lady Brabourne. But Rosso ,with tools hanging from all his 16 pockets, concentrated only to fix the sound system

Oh! Whatta life! Diversities & disagreements, howling over room’s CG changing to catcalling to trying to get closer to the visiting sister, nothing could dig any hurt feeling among buddies. Anger over finishing off the homemade delicacies within minutes didn’t linger long; It was an amazing campus where the winning football team partied with the losers even after digesting choicest abusive rebukes. Whose father was a director of a MNC or whose father was a clerk or farmer never mattered; no delineation, no immodesty between pals — the one headed for a plush Corporate Internship and the other taking the supli exams in the summer. Somehow the line between what outside society would accept or reject, blurred and the folks transformed it into an enduring oneness. This stood the test of time and progressed with technology & connectivity.

Nilu, Nitotpal was singing ‘ Mere Mitwa, Mere Mit Re …’ in the corner of the !st floor balcony overlooking DVC transmission towers dotted with the Palash tree with bright red flower having the otherworldly backdrop canvas of the sky with setting sun spectacularly displaying colours that changed distinctly with seasons. Tribal folks walked over the strider pathway, winding to nowhere. But guys from amongst our mitwas(friends) who sipped country liquor or smoked pot, appreciating the serenade of nature from that verandah , set out later — beyond borders where they lived happily and loved and greeted other IITans whenever and wherever they found one.

“It was this Institute, our very dear one, which gave us wings to fly.”

It was Holi. We were feasting on freshly brewed Mohua and country egg fries being served by Sukhi di, a dark-skinned, shapely, rustic woman, drenched in the mystic moonlight in Sonamukhi, when Joardi asked “Charu, within a few months we’ll pass out and split. Who knows whether we’d see each other or not” In those days with no Internet & difficulty to connect, such a possibility really cast a gloom.

Years later, when I met one ’65 batch IITian in the then West Berlin who took me to his home and hosted me on that day and later; when Sahoo took all the risks to take me in East Germany; when Shankar took leave for days to take me and my wife around Houston; when Rosso hugged me in Minnesota and treated us with whisky and mutton, which he himself was avoiding; when Joardi religiously paid visits to Kolkata to meet old buddies, the soul from inside me whispered that the bonding of the IIT(Kgp) ians, would never die. The fraternity will thrive. And would remind me the words of Helen Keller “I would rather walk with a friend in the dark, than alone in the light”

~Biswanath Majumdar
Batch of ’78 | NA