On A Mundane Fresher Year Circa 2009

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.

I didn’t attend my departmental freshers. Missing out on all the manufactured glamour didn’t seem such a bad idea back then. Doesn’t even today. At my hostel freshers, I danced to a number from a popular Saif Ali Khan movie of that year. As the night progressed, there were dances that are better off not mentioned here.

Unconsciously, I was becoming more of a Hindu Hostel guy than a Presidency guy. Yes, there used to be a difference. I hope there still is. SMS balances were quickly exhausted, the night began at sunrise after climbing over the gate to go eat bread toast at CMC at 3 o’clock. The day began with the canteen opening at 3.30 in the afternoon. My favourite departmental senior, D___da (obviously from the hostel) was more into political theory and philosophy than economics (read, a lot of Greek). Classroom attendance became a joke. “War is Peace. Freedom is Slavery. Ignorance is Strength” was etched into the door of 68/9. It still is there, a bit faded.

Fests were more of an entry into college than my studentship ever was. The ‘hostel crowd’ was easy to spot in Derozio or on the Presi Greens. We were the ones with the biggest group, having smuggled in all the Goenka and Maulana Azad guys who desperately wanted to listen to Indian Ocean at Milieu or dance to the Jal covers at ICON Toranz. ‘Fresh Face’ meant free Tshirts for a few of us. There were no Math-er-chhad or Tank moments, no drunk taxi rides. Just a vague, distant sense of belonging.

Presidency might be home today. It wasn’t always. Yet, I’ve never been angry at that lost year. My experiences were far from special. Instead, they were mostly mundane. I love to listen to my batchmates’ crazy stories of their heady first year days. I didn’t live that. I lived in a corner of Hindu Hostel instead. But it was one happy corner, or it appears so in retrospect. It makes me stupidly proud to have survived the intros (read ragging circa 2013), overcome the linguistic and cultural differences and having called both Hindu Hostel and Presidency home eventually. A guy more confident than I was then would have done a much better job of it, even internalized the differences and worked them to his advantage. I’ve seen many do that over the years. I envy them. Given a choice, today, I can live my first year differently. But I don’t want to. Because 2009 will always be my coming-of-age year. To first years, sad as well as heady. To Presidency. To Hindu Hostel. To Hindu Hostel.