More than four years ago, I had arrived in Calcutta, a city that was very different from my cosmopolitan and easy-going hometown. Bosco educated, more confident with English than Bangla, carrying more or less a good boy image, there was obviously only one destination I wanted to be at: St. Xavier’s. I didn’t make it in. And was quite surprised to be accepted at Presidency, whose first and only impression had left me with a rare inferiority complex.
My first class made me realise that I was the only student who hailed from outside a 20 mile radius around 86/1, College Street. My little confidence with shudhho Bangla disappeared; people assumed me to be a Hindi speaker. That phase lasted a year and more; APG still makes fun of that.
Hostel admissions, I thought, were a matter of formalities, unaware that red and blue were more than colours here. Once I had overcome the awe at the faded Rajendra Prasad pIaque, I was met by two groups of people desperate to induct me into ‘their’ ward, with claims about the opposition so wide apart that I knew one, at least one of them had to be lying big time. Unfortunately for me, I had nothing to judge by. It was a stroke of luck that made me a paanch er chhele.
Political decisions were simple. I was asked if I wanted to be a stooge of the State and I said no. No senior spent hours at the quadri explaining ideological intricacies to me, nor were there different shades of independence available back then. Did I want to be an activist out to change the world? No. I had had enough of popularity back in school and had already realised it to be the two-faced bastard that it was. More importantly, I didn’t know anything about anything. My naivety and ignorance was exemplified in a question I once asked S____, “What is all the fuss about the rockstar with the stylised face on everyone’s Tshirts?” “Che Guevara!”, he replied, with a straight face. Continue reading
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