Three months into college, we had our first mid-semester break. It was Dussehra time, the sun had tempered down a little and some chill had started to settle in. The last three months had been one hell of a hectic time. A hundred stories still unfold before my eyes as I look back to contemplate how much things have changed since. In these three months, I had seen a suicide out of no apparent reason, realized the utter dismay that one calls engineering, attended room-calls where we were made objects of fun and had get-togethers (GTs, for the uninitiated) with seniors. And during this time, I had the pleasure of meeting a senior who was more of a fatherly figure away from home.
Suman Tamang was born and brought up in Darjeeling. Appearance wise, he was the typical Mongoloid. He was short and stout, a broad forehead and a flat nose. He sported a punk hairstyle that hardly changed no matter what he did to them. And he had the mark of his thumb in incense-ash on his forehead, a God-fearing devotee of Sai Baba. He had been an average student at Darjeeling Boys’ High School but had always won accolades for his simplicity and candidness. He had a dream to take the name of his family places and he persevered hard to this end. So much so, that when his friends who teased him in school failed to secure admission into any engineering college of repute, he landed himself in National Institute of Technology, Allahabad. It must have taken quite an effort going by the kind of education you get these days at Boys’ High School or at Darjeeling for that matter.
There was a time when Darjeeling stood synonymous to an epicenter of quality schooling. The British raj pioneered at promoting western education and opened thousands of boarding schools in Darjeeling, Kurseong and Kalimpong. Missionaries flocked these places to overshadow native populations. Students from all parts of the world enrolled in these institutions of international repute; Loreto Convent, North Point, St. Augustine’s School, St. Alphonsus School, St. Anthony’s School, Sacred Heart, La Martiniere, Rockvale Academy, Dr. Graham’s Homes, Himali Boarding School, Geothal’s Memorial Academy and St. Joseph’s School, just to name a few. If you travel to Kurseong, you would find nothing but schools and hostels for students. Darjeeling was the chosen destination to send one’s child to get the best education there could be and kings and queens would send their princes and princesses to these institutions. Those days are over now. Darjeeling has lost its shine in the rising spate of bandhs and lackluster support from the Center.
Back to the senior who had done extremely well to overcome economic, social as well as regional backlog to qualify the All India Engineering Entrance Examination, Suman Tamang was extremely naïve and modest, to say the least. And he was fearless. We were still locked up in Tagore, waiting for Swagat to relieve us of these checks when a friend announced on my door, “A senior from Bengal wants to meet you. Go to the gate.”
I shuddered in fear. The walls of Tagore spoke a lot of tales and an entire book of guidelines could be framed out of it about your demeanor and conduct to meet a senior. I changed immediately into formals and ran towards the gate. He was standing with the guards, enjoying a hearty laugh about how they had cooked mutton with the guards one night before the exams. His hearty laugh carried a very jovial environment with it. When he had finished, he turned around to see if I had arrived.
I bent my head to look over my third button and wished him Good Morning. He seemed embarrassed and told me to shed those formalities immediately. In fact, he extended his hand in friendship.
“I was so happy to know that somebody from Darjeeling had managed to secure admission here, so I thought of checking out myself. There are a couple of us in this place from Darjeeling. Gautam Tiwari is from North Point. Sinki Agarwal is from Siliguri. There is a senior in final year as well. His name is Prakhar Bajpai. You don’t need to feel alien in this place. And enjoy your stay at Tagore.”
Then, drawing me close, he shoveled in my ears, “But do remember, I am still your senior. You may be very candid with me but in the company of my friends, you must do what you have learned. Treat me like a brother if ever a problem arises. Keep out of trouble.”
Before parting, he gave me his phone number in case I should land myself in trouble. He noted down mine.
My room was ablaze with the new topic for the day, the intention of my senior to visit me. One fellow said, he wanted to intimidate me right from the beginning that there are forces above you watching. You should be careful with every move you make. Another one said that he would put me to some work soon. One argued that it was a bad idea to give my number. What I was bothered most was, would that be an impediment to my change.
These fears slowly receded. As it appears now, Suman sir had no bad intentions with that visit, he never had bad intentions ever. He always acted like elder brother, giving timely advice and providing the much needed company throughout his stay in college. We travelled together and I could allay all my fears in his company.
The first mid-semester break was the first time I was going home since I joined college and we travelled together. My room-mates warned me against travelling with seniors. We were around fifty of us travelling on the same day, students from the North East board the same train. As we were not allowed to get out of Tagore, Suman sir had helped me book my tickets and I must congratulate him for getting confirmed tickets on time. Getting a ticket to Bengal on the eve of Pujo isn’t any man’s cup of tea.
2506 North East Express was already two hours late when we started from hostel. It had been a hot afternoon even though summer had died down. The railway station was full of life; I felt lost in a sea of people once again. We assembled our entire luggage in one place and waited for the train to arrive. At eight p.m. it hissed into the station with a loud din. We rushed towards our compartments. We had a few tickets in the upper class bogie, two tickets in one coach and the rest in the other. There was heavy inrush and a lot of pushing and pulling, and we took special care that we did not lose our wallets in such a hurry. I ran with Ashley Kuzzur of Bhutan to occupy the two seats in S-5. The coach was locked from both sides.
We pleaded to the passengers sitting inside to let us in but to no avail. We had confirmed seats and yet we were unable to board the train. We tried getting in through the other coach. That was locked as well. Finally, after showing our tickets to everybody travelling illegally in the train, an old man took some pity on our plight and put the luggage blocking the entrance on one side to let us in. No sooner did the gate open, a huge crowd appeared out of nowhere and pushed us to get in. We had heavy baggage and it was difficult to overcome the resistance being offered from within. The coach was already packed beyond capacity when its legal occupants were still struggling to get in.
The train started with a jerk. We ran helplessly behind it, cursing the billion strong population of India. We did not know what we would do if stranded in Allahabad for another ten days. When you travel home for the first time, you feel desperate to get there as soon as you can. Now, it did not matter how long it would take to go home; the only that really mattered was getting home. After a mile of good run and with the platform left far behind, the train stopped with a thunderous din. Some saintly person aboard had pulled the emergency chain to get his relatives in. The train came to a halt. We ran as fast as we could. With a heavy push, Ashley sir helped me get in. I had thought that once I got in, I would relieve the baggage off me and pull him in. Once inside the wagon, I understood that there wasn’t enough space to move in this train; people were decked in layers of three and nobody could wriggle a little without causing inconvenience to another dozen people on all sides. Getting to my seat was out of the question. I still tried to pull Ashley sir, more so with the weight on my back. By the time the train started again, he was hanging out of the train, moving himself closer whenever he saw an electric pole close to the tracks. This went until we reached Mughal Sarai at around 11 p.m. Then, I managed to reach my seat climbing the seats above two layers of people like Spiderman. Ashley sir could move inside the wagon. It was not until the train reached Patna at 2:30 p.m. that he could reach his seat. It was very relieving.
Introspecting now, it still comes as a surprise how we managed to board the train that day. It appears that a railway examination was scheduled that Sunday and the examination had just got over when the delayed express train reached Allahabad. Since there are no ticket examiners to probe candidates who may in future become ticket examiners themselves, a capacity crowd had registered on that particular day to take advantage of the situation. We Indians can never leave an opportunity to take an advantage, a phenomenon that caused havoc on the train that night. After finally managing to reach our seats, we called other friends to ascertain if they had found a way too. The adjoining bogie was locked from both sides as well, and they seem to have taken shelter in the a.c. coaches along with those travelling by upper class that night. Ujjwal had unusually reached the engine driver’s coach and got a seat there. In the morning, Suman sir came looking for me at Katihar station. He drew a sigh of relief to find that we had made such a memorable journey and made it successfully.
Getting down at NJP station next morning, I took an auto to Siliguri and got a vehicle to Mirik thereon. All my way, I kept thinking about the people of India. Countless and unmanageable. We should be thankful to people who make the laws for this country and the people who administer them; managing this populace without taking away their essential rights is one thing you can see only here, in India. The rest of the stay at home was usual. Durga Puja in Bengal is always special; I would go to the temple in the morning and help my father in the shop all day long. By the time it was dark, we would feel so awfully asleep that we would have dinner and go to bed straight. The same routine continued day after day until I came back to the hostel to take some much needed rest.
The return trip to Allahabad was with Suman sir as well, this time in Mahananda Express. Just that it wasn’t that crowded this time and we managed to get our seats comfortably. I spent all my time in the train sleeping as Suman sir kept talking to his latest best friend that he met for the first time waiting for the train at NJP. She was good-looking, girls from Darjeeling usually are; and as I said, he was always jocular and naïve and it did not take him a lot of time to make friends.
The train reached Allahabad on time next morning. (It was possibly one of the rare occasions when the train reached on time with me on-board.) As I unlocked my luggage and prepared to get down, I was startled by a face I could recognize in no time.
“Nabi,” I cried. Nabi was a friend from St. James’ and he was studying commerce in Delhi University. He was taken aback by surprise as well. The train came to a halt. In the quarter minute I talked to him after that, I came to know that he had been travelling from Birpara itself in the very next coach, and Sneha, Ankita and Rishabh had also been travelling together. I damned myself for sleeping all day and night. I gave my contact number and bid him goodbye. I was travelling with seniors that I did not know very well yet and I found it no good to keep them waiting to meet my friends. If only I had taken a minute then, would it make a difference today?
Suman Tamang was born and brought up in Darjeeling. Appearance wise, he was the typical Mongoloid. He was short and stout, a broad forehead and a flat nose. He sported a punk hairstyle that hardly changed no matter what he did to them. And he had the mark of his thumb in incense-ash on his forehead, a God-fearing devotee of Sai Baba. He had been an average student at Darjeeling Boys’ High School but had always won accolades for his simplicity and candidness. He had a dream to take the name of his family places and he persevered hard to this end. So much so, that when his friends who teased him in school failed to secure admission into any engineering college of repute, he landed himself in National Institute of Technology, Allahabad. It must have taken quite an effort going by the kind of education you get these days at Boys’ High School or at Darjeeling for that matter.
There was a time when Darjeeling stood synonymous to an epicenter of quality schooling. The British raj pioneered at promoting western education and opened thousands of boarding schools in Darjeeling, Kurseong and Kalimpong. Missionaries flocked these places to overshadow native populations. Students from all parts of the world enrolled in these institutions of international repute; Loreto Convent, North Point, St. Augustine’s School, St. Alphonsus School, St. Anthony’s School, Sacred Heart, La Martiniere, Rockvale Academy, Dr. Graham’s Homes, Himali Boarding School, Geothal’s Memorial Academy and St. Joseph’s School, just to name a few. If you travel to Kurseong, you would find nothing but schools and hostels for students. Darjeeling was the chosen destination to send one’s child to get the best education there could be and kings and queens would send their princes and princesses to these institutions. Those days are over now. Darjeeling has lost its shine in the rising spate of bandhs and lackluster support from the Center.
Back to the senior who had done extremely well to overcome economic, social as well as regional backlog to qualify the All India Engineering Entrance Examination, Suman Tamang was extremely naïve and modest, to say the least. And he was fearless. We were still locked up in Tagore, waiting for Swagat to relieve us of these checks when a friend announced on my door, “A senior from Bengal wants to meet you. Go to the gate.”
I shuddered in fear. The walls of Tagore spoke a lot of tales and an entire book of guidelines could be framed out of it about your demeanor and conduct to meet a senior. I changed immediately into formals and ran towards the gate. He was standing with the guards, enjoying a hearty laugh about how they had cooked mutton with the guards one night before the exams. His hearty laugh carried a very jovial environment with it. When he had finished, he turned around to see if I had arrived.
I bent my head to look over my third button and wished him Good Morning. He seemed embarrassed and told me to shed those formalities immediately. In fact, he extended his hand in friendship.
“I was so happy to know that somebody from Darjeeling had managed to secure admission here, so I thought of checking out myself. There are a couple of us in this place from Darjeeling. Gautam Tiwari is from North Point. Sinki Agarwal is from Siliguri. There is a senior in final year as well. His name is Prakhar Bajpai. You don’t need to feel alien in this place. And enjoy your stay at Tagore.”
Then, drawing me close, he shoveled in my ears, “But do remember, I am still your senior. You may be very candid with me but in the company of my friends, you must do what you have learned. Treat me like a brother if ever a problem arises. Keep out of trouble.”
Before parting, he gave me his phone number in case I should land myself in trouble. He noted down mine.
My room was ablaze with the new topic for the day, the intention of my senior to visit me. One fellow said, he wanted to intimidate me right from the beginning that there are forces above you watching. You should be careful with every move you make. Another one said that he would put me to some work soon. One argued that it was a bad idea to give my number. What I was bothered most was, would that be an impediment to my change.
These fears slowly receded. As it appears now, Suman sir had no bad intentions with that visit, he never had bad intentions ever. He always acted like elder brother, giving timely advice and providing the much needed company throughout his stay in college. We travelled together and I could allay all my fears in his company.
The first mid-semester break was the first time I was going home since I joined college and we travelled together. My room-mates warned me against travelling with seniors. We were around fifty of us travelling on the same day, students from the North East board the same train. As we were not allowed to get out of Tagore, Suman sir had helped me book my tickets and I must congratulate him for getting confirmed tickets on time. Getting a ticket to Bengal on the eve of Pujo isn’t any man’s cup of tea.
2506 North East Express was already two hours late when we started from hostel. It had been a hot afternoon even though summer had died down. The railway station was full of life; I felt lost in a sea of people once again. We assembled our entire luggage in one place and waited for the train to arrive. At eight p.m. it hissed into the station with a loud din. We rushed towards our compartments. We had a few tickets in the upper class bogie, two tickets in one coach and the rest in the other. There was heavy inrush and a lot of pushing and pulling, and we took special care that we did not lose our wallets in such a hurry. I ran with Ashley Kuzzur of Bhutan to occupy the two seats in S-5. The coach was locked from both sides.
We pleaded to the passengers sitting inside to let us in but to no avail. We had confirmed seats and yet we were unable to board the train. We tried getting in through the other coach. That was locked as well. Finally, after showing our tickets to everybody travelling illegally in the train, an old man took some pity on our plight and put the luggage blocking the entrance on one side to let us in. No sooner did the gate open, a huge crowd appeared out of nowhere and pushed us to get in. We had heavy baggage and it was difficult to overcome the resistance being offered from within. The coach was already packed beyond capacity when its legal occupants were still struggling to get in.
The train started with a jerk. We ran helplessly behind it, cursing the billion strong population of India. We did not know what we would do if stranded in Allahabad for another ten days. When you travel home for the first time, you feel desperate to get there as soon as you can. Now, it did not matter how long it would take to go home; the only that really mattered was getting home. After a mile of good run and with the platform left far behind, the train stopped with a thunderous din. Some saintly person aboard had pulled the emergency chain to get his relatives in. The train came to a halt. We ran as fast as we could. With a heavy push, Ashley sir helped me get in. I had thought that once I got in, I would relieve the baggage off me and pull him in. Once inside the wagon, I understood that there wasn’t enough space to move in this train; people were decked in layers of three and nobody could wriggle a little without causing inconvenience to another dozen people on all sides. Getting to my seat was out of the question. I still tried to pull Ashley sir, more so with the weight on my back. By the time the train started again, he was hanging out of the train, moving himself closer whenever he saw an electric pole close to the tracks. This went until we reached Mughal Sarai at around 11 p.m. Then, I managed to reach my seat climbing the seats above two layers of people like Spiderman. Ashley sir could move inside the wagon. It was not until the train reached Patna at 2:30 p.m. that he could reach his seat. It was very relieving.
Introspecting now, it still comes as a surprise how we managed to board the train that day. It appears that a railway examination was scheduled that Sunday and the examination had just got over when the delayed express train reached Allahabad. Since there are no ticket examiners to probe candidates who may in future become ticket examiners themselves, a capacity crowd had registered on that particular day to take advantage of the situation. We Indians can never leave an opportunity to take an advantage, a phenomenon that caused havoc on the train that night. After finally managing to reach our seats, we called other friends to ascertain if they had found a way too. The adjoining bogie was locked from both sides as well, and they seem to have taken shelter in the a.c. coaches along with those travelling by upper class that night. Ujjwal had unusually reached the engine driver’s coach and got a seat there. In the morning, Suman sir came looking for me at Katihar station. He drew a sigh of relief to find that we had made such a memorable journey and made it successfully.
Getting down at NJP station next morning, I took an auto to Siliguri and got a vehicle to Mirik thereon. All my way, I kept thinking about the people of India. Countless and unmanageable. We should be thankful to people who make the laws for this country and the people who administer them; managing this populace without taking away their essential rights is one thing you can see only here, in India. The rest of the stay at home was usual. Durga Puja in Bengal is always special; I would go to the temple in the morning and help my father in the shop all day long. By the time it was dark, we would feel so awfully asleep that we would have dinner and go to bed straight. The same routine continued day after day until I came back to the hostel to take some much needed rest.
The return trip to Allahabad was with Suman sir as well, this time in Mahananda Express. Just that it wasn’t that crowded this time and we managed to get our seats comfortably. I spent all my time in the train sleeping as Suman sir kept talking to his latest best friend that he met for the first time waiting for the train at NJP. She was good-looking, girls from Darjeeling usually are; and as I said, he was always jocular and naïve and it did not take him a lot of time to make friends.
The train reached Allahabad on time next morning. (It was possibly one of the rare occasions when the train reached on time with me on-board.) As I unlocked my luggage and prepared to get down, I was startled by a face I could recognize in no time.
“Nabi,” I cried. Nabi was a friend from St. James’ and he was studying commerce in Delhi University. He was taken aback by surprise as well. The train came to a halt. In the quarter minute I talked to him after that, I came to know that he had been travelling from Birpara itself in the very next coach, and Sneha, Ankita and Rishabh had also been travelling together. I damned myself for sleeping all day and night. I gave my contact number and bid him goodbye. I was travelling with seniors that I did not know very well yet and I found it no good to keep them waiting to meet my friends. If only I had taken a minute then, would it make a difference today?