Wednesday, February 20, 2008
The NIMC Times XII
And when that quarter was left to strike eleven, for some it was time to bid an adieu, for some a final run to the locker, some trying their best to speed up to just fall back in time from their night strolls, and well if you had gossips or the classified news to break, don’t just do it outside Bhatta Sir’s room, ‘cas he might well be awake putting an ear to those scandals, and why not to our made up rumors that went specially for him!
Days prior to elections for the council, you witnessed the stirring political moves that opinionated parties to form under-sized mergers, murmured others for backup and making your contender for the ultimate fight with the slight last minute changes! The best was when everything changed and went for a total toss after Diro’s last round, contrary and contradictory in nature and reality.
And now as alumni members take on their proactive step of uniting with their beloved, there sure are to be grandchildren around to pump in JOSH! An occasion of auspicious nature, an exciting opportunity for former students to meet up. You bet, it’s a mini-reunion for some and a lead time for others.
We could never have loved NIMC so much had we not spent our childhood in it. And if you’ve got a bad memory, I am not responsible for the good old days. And well if you’re still yearning for the NIMC Times, just turn off your air conditioning!
The NIMC Times XI
…Sliding away project reports that fortuned a free manuscript, the slippery pathway to the Mess premises during the hush rainy hours of serene substantiation, hit trying to let lose the empty locker backed with a fifty percent success rate, unwinding everywhere in just being critical to the point of understanding the better off shuttle raptors, the road less traveled along the rear of the Garage to the much talked about M block and thus escape from monster drunkards or the famished patrol parties. Ready with the cracker burst raptures just about anywhere, with gleaming binoculars over shelters that prospected a better view especially over tree tops, diverting the drizzling room leakage, evening times when only the media collection guy was for your lookout and all you could do was to postpone the payment even more. Morning observations from up above that involved parking the stimulated two wheeled image next to Eva's and wait with whoops of horse power for the lady to appear downstairs for the next move. And ever wondered who was still to arrive in the taxi coming in from the scene? And just before the lecture commencing, you would run to the dictator, Bhatta Sir and file your complaints, from bathroom fittings, electrical switches, shock in water pipes, non-functional geyser’s, water problems even though it overflowed that very morning, about mites in bed and weren’t you eligible for the discount voucher just when he realized that you were 25! There were something’s that you couldn’t buy, for everything else, there was Bhatta Sir!
And after hours of discussions and sipping mugs of tea reclining on the kitbags, little were we aware of our very own alumni, serving. Little did we then know about our enthusiastic JOSH and their one step up, fervor for duty? Gallant minds in close proximities, to where we then lay talking so leisurely, being critics to a thousand things. Dozens of us, who left for good, where they too cherished the times, now serve to their finest.
Ever wondered as how much NIMC can be of trance to people outside Calcutta who may be reveried to its daydreaming even during nights? They probably walk the talk alone now, gobble GP’s presence and are devoid of sleepless nights.
They came in to this transit, explored its' nook and cornered its sight seeing, discovered the unexplored, bunkers with foxholes, managed the grueling and praised the non-sense, surveyed to the upper limit and investigated the undefined, the NIMC way.
At the drop of an excitement, lingering in hoards in evening for the placement results, and thus jubilations became celebrations, rejoicing became partying and in true spirits of the NIMC Times, the happier became the merrier! Years may wrinkle our skin, but our enthusiasm shall never wrinkle our souls to revert back to the times gone by!
And after hours of discussions and sipping mugs of tea reclining on the kitbags, little were we aware of our very own alumni, serving. Little did we then know about our enthusiastic JOSH and their one step up, fervor for duty? Gallant minds in close proximities, to where we then lay talking so leisurely, being critics to a thousand things. Dozens of us, who left for good, where they too cherished the times, now serve to their finest.
Ever wondered as how much NIMC can be of trance to people outside Calcutta who may be reveried to its daydreaming even during nights? They probably walk the talk alone now, gobble GP’s presence and are devoid of sleepless nights.
They came in to this transit, explored its' nook and cornered its sight seeing, discovered the unexplored, bunkers with foxholes, managed the grueling and praised the non-sense, surveyed to the upper limit and investigated the undefined, the NIMC way.
At the drop of an excitement, lingering in hoards in evening for the placement results, and thus jubilations became celebrations, rejoicing became partying and in true spirits of the NIMC Times, the happier became the merrier! Years may wrinkle our skin, but our enthusiasm shall never wrinkle our souls to revert back to the times gone by!
The NIMC Times IX
Hope this finds you still speculating over the W questions, still wondering over yester years.
Well I still miss the Thursday night fever when Jimmy discussed on AIR and with his husky melody got you prompted of being in the same boat, or rather trying to perceive yourself in their shoes. Do those days still haunt you, days of love and detestably loving, days of amity and of collaboration, of one time happenings and of a life time association, days of one night stand for studies, days of liking one and avoiding none, days of acknowledging a few and treasuring the awesome! Nights of friendly bouts and of friendly fire, of crusades and of patches, amassing others for pooling mints of coins from the three acre land or simple running after those who still owe you.
In the good times, when the newsworthy Statesman, the 8th day colorful, and the rest all dirty fellows, when the talk shop trainers bowled over from inside and before juniors said ‘totally’ and ‘like’ just to say something more, ones laughter that imbued the gravity of a two-tone world, and when the Tollygunge Club snippets featuring us appeared in Kolkata Times, when pups went down on knees for their share of continuous and solo affection, and when brands on sale for a west side story, lunging for Pants at Pantaloons and others that made us tremble for discounted rates fashioned fantasies of lyrical love in both nature and wear, the gleaming Metro that whizz past and removed the chaos that reigned above. Series of mines that bubbled out Counter Strike, jazz bands that made you sway at Sangam and at the teenage dance parties at AOI, and water channels that became rancid giving rise to the lowly and midget serpents, and to the adult counterparts during their season, the lovable roadside Mominpur maize, the egg rolls, momo’s and as good as appetizers for the later on GP shift. In those times it often seemed that things would always be that way. Shoplifting at Krishnas, craving for the BSNL card, awaiting the No 29 tram, getting top-ups of rupees ten, sipping on Nescafe at the Kothari Medical centre, the night stroll for the luscious Paan, treating the young ones at Garden Café, running about for an account at SBI, trying your best not to fall less of the minimum balance, spending quality time next to the grill whole night, group study in the earlier dubbed CR3, tapping sit-ups in front of Wardy after a detailed hide-n-seek to get back the high intensity woofers.
Now I do, and, in truth, reviewing the good times, setting out their many facets, I am not sure why they were so good. After all, we live longer now; and celebrate our very own batch mates getting hitched for a lifetime. You can either be married or be happy!
2-3 years of unimaginable monkey business or the considered and calibrated studies, an insatiable lust for mischief or the life-affirming addiction to joy. Perhaps I never thought the attractions of the past, and of the NIMC Times!
The NIMC Times VIII
“Neath the Elms upon the campus, glorious to view,
Stands Eureka Alma Mater; faithful, tried and true.
When we leave thy halls forever, never to return,
Still within our hearts fond memories, steadily will burn.”
Those were good times, before nurturing replaced poking, before our volleyball was an Olympic sport, before the relentless pursuit of the cool breeze made us go for yet another trip. Return to innocence and you see your alumni, with the living years of the eternal flame. ‘Cas it’s a moment of pride getting conferred with degrees, by a top brass. And in real spirits when night inspections by CMP fellows who knew no bounds of this place! Good times were of the meet, when a meal seemed exotic and cholesterol a curiosity, when the ingrained “Hosh aur JOSH” had them perform for the alumni. Rather, its good gracious to associate anyone from this place. As for alumni, they’ve been adjunctly supportive, genuinely encouraging and fourth-year helpful as ever.
Back home again as I wonder. Poems, prayers and promises will make me go fonder. Why was FOSLA not so close by? Why were Eden Gardens down below the Jail? Why were rooms whitewashed just prior to exams? Why did thunder struck when computers sang the wind song? Who had reserves of Sutta? Who were the initial recipients of Pepsi? Did trees race to catch up the heights of the Cellular Jail? Why did doggies styled up for your extra love? Who constructed the Puliya? Who started T-TT? What happened in NIMC during Kargil war? Why were Sutta wala creditable or were they credible enough? Why wasn’t entry and exit the same in LH2? Why didn’t the Buggi get ready for NIMC? Why did the morning tea taste like a sad song? Who all scaled up the Cellular Jail? Why did rhymes and reasons fly away? Who started the Bhojpuri introduction? When did those tears go by? Who rolled in when you rolled out? Which Ruby Tuesday was in Mominpur? Who scripted the Howrah Bridge? Why did the race condition in normal affairs made out of the Scarborough fairs made you fall in scarcity? Why did homeward bound trains have a waiting list? Who used up the fire extinguisher from the WPL? But how come tickets were available for this meet till the last moment? Why was everyone blessed when the book ended? Why was the house of the rising sun never seen? Who induced JOSH in this institute? Who was evergreen and who was brain damaged? Who pumped up when others exhorted battle cry? Who was a one man’s woman? Who ruled? Who had a master key for lockers? When did liquor poured like never before? Why did sympathy ruled when you a mere 100 miles away? Why were nights in white satin always for Saturday night blues? Who started the smile wash? Who took your breadth away? Who stayed awake when you snored? Who wrote the anthem? Who spied and who messaged? Who locked and who scribbled? Who checked and who shot?
I wonder.
While their guitars gently wept in octopus gardens beneath savoy truffles. When jokes cracked in became a melody fair, happy only yesterday. Mr. Postman would remind us of them gone. For all we knew a song for you. And perhaps we’ve left a home for new kids in town. Take it to the limit, let tequila sunrise pour in for you to shoot sheriffs. We’ll ever blow in the wind this way. I’ll be missing you.
“People who saw the things happening, people who looked into how they happened, and people who made them happen, were all from NIMC”
Stands Eureka Alma Mater; faithful, tried and true.
When we leave thy halls forever, never to return,
Still within our hearts fond memories, steadily will burn.”
Those were good times, before nurturing replaced poking, before our volleyball was an Olympic sport, before the relentless pursuit of the cool breeze made us go for yet another trip. Return to innocence and you see your alumni, with the living years of the eternal flame. ‘Cas it’s a moment of pride getting conferred with degrees, by a top brass. And in real spirits when night inspections by CMP fellows who knew no bounds of this place! Good times were of the meet, when a meal seemed exotic and cholesterol a curiosity, when the ingrained “Hosh aur JOSH” had them perform for the alumni. Rather, its good gracious to associate anyone from this place. As for alumni, they’ve been adjunctly supportive, genuinely encouraging and fourth-year helpful as ever.
Back home again as I wonder. Poems, prayers and promises will make me go fonder. Why was FOSLA not so close by? Why were Eden Gardens down below the Jail? Why were rooms whitewashed just prior to exams? Why did thunder struck when computers sang the wind song? Who had reserves of Sutta? Who were the initial recipients of Pepsi? Did trees race to catch up the heights of the Cellular Jail? Why did doggies styled up for your extra love? Who constructed the Puliya? Who started T-TT? What happened in NIMC during Kargil war? Why were Sutta wala creditable or were they credible enough? Why wasn’t entry and exit the same in LH2? Why didn’t the Buggi get ready for NIMC? Why did the morning tea taste like a sad song? Who all scaled up the Cellular Jail? Why did rhymes and reasons fly away? Who started the Bhojpuri introduction? When did those tears go by? Who rolled in when you rolled out? Which Ruby Tuesday was in Mominpur? Who scripted the Howrah Bridge? Why did the race condition in normal affairs made out of the Scarborough fairs made you fall in scarcity? Why did homeward bound trains have a waiting list? Who used up the fire extinguisher from the WPL? But how come tickets were available for this meet till the last moment? Why was everyone blessed when the book ended? Why was the house of the rising sun never seen? Who induced JOSH in this institute? Who was evergreen and who was brain damaged? Who pumped up when others exhorted battle cry? Who was a one man’s woman? Who ruled? Who had a master key for lockers? When did liquor poured like never before? Why did sympathy ruled when you a mere 100 miles away? Why were nights in white satin always for Saturday night blues? Who started the smile wash? Who took your breadth away? Who stayed awake when you snored? Who wrote the anthem? Who spied and who messaged? Who locked and who scribbled? Who checked and who shot?
I wonder.
While their guitars gently wept in octopus gardens beneath savoy truffles. When jokes cracked in became a melody fair, happy only yesterday. Mr. Postman would remind us of them gone. For all we knew a song for you. And perhaps we’ve left a home for new kids in town. Take it to the limit, let tequila sunrise pour in for you to shoot sheriffs. We’ll ever blow in the wind this way. I’ll be missing you.
“People who saw the things happening, people who looked into how they happened, and people who made them happen, were all from NIMC”
The NIMC Times VII
Down the memory lane in times of yore, some may be peddling across the corporate threshold, but if you swim across the edge of professionalism and build your nest, you may soon groove out with it. Times when one hardly gets to think of past notions, of past explorations and of exploits, of past ambles and of scandals, the memory of which will make you go whimper of nothing but praying for the well being.
…And in the good times before everything began to look the same, in times before adventure became a night out, in times when the library smelled of jokers and barracks had not yet converted to amusement squares, in times before seat belts in lecture halls were not fastened, desks were not scribbled with emerald lines, quickie précis or olive excerpts, in times when soccer matches were not yet played inter college and spies really did come out from the Eden garden, times before speed digitals and LAN messengers with overheard missed call conversations were on the run, before stock options and answers tickled the Inferno, in the good times when cynics were not stateless, in times, long ago, I vowed never to leave my track and become a wet blanket waxing lyrical about the past and having let go.
Deep in sleep and reverie about it, deep in sleep it lies. The still lake of summer water and under the still skies; many a fathom below, the new fishes would now soon come. Blessed was the boundary within which you carved your foundry, as one exalted in its pride, and for the still lake, to lie afresh and gloom, and a lost place beside the lake, deep asleep till doom?
In times before mess became an overcrowded oasis and before the googling of everything and slides of paperwork, in times before branding of jargons and power breakfasts with crack of dawn break-out sessions and thinking out of the box, in times of ideological battles of just a minute and bruising debates over whatnot, times when every second person was not a hero and every third was not a victim of the forth who in turn was out for his next girl, in times before channel surfing and online everything, in times of the introductory hippie trails in the back porches and before the war on test series, in those times, way back when, I would not have thought there could be so many elegant jokers at one time in Calcutta.
They say its never safe to long for something until you're absolutely certain there's no chance of its coming back. But I’m sure the NIMC times would always reverie us back to the lovely place. NIMC was our grammar lesson. We found the present tense and the past perfect.
But if the good times were that illusory, if recalling them is no more than a tale of middle age, how come they feel so good? Give or take an interlude or a joyful passage, and things are always about the same jaunt along the side track. And with unbearable thoughts of limbic bursts, NIMC begins to glow.
…And in the good times before everything began to look the same, in times before adventure became a night out, in times when the library smelled of jokers and barracks had not yet converted to amusement squares, in times before seat belts in lecture halls were not fastened, desks were not scribbled with emerald lines, quickie précis or olive excerpts, in times when soccer matches were not yet played inter college and spies really did come out from the Eden garden, times before speed digitals and LAN messengers with overheard missed call conversations were on the run, before stock options and answers tickled the Inferno, in the good times when cynics were not stateless, in times, long ago, I vowed never to leave my track and become a wet blanket waxing lyrical about the past and having let go.
Deep in sleep and reverie about it, deep in sleep it lies. The still lake of summer water and under the still skies; many a fathom below, the new fishes would now soon come. Blessed was the boundary within which you carved your foundry, as one exalted in its pride, and for the still lake, to lie afresh and gloom, and a lost place beside the lake, deep asleep till doom?
In times before mess became an overcrowded oasis and before the googling of everything and slides of paperwork, in times before branding of jargons and power breakfasts with crack of dawn break-out sessions and thinking out of the box, in times of ideological battles of just a minute and bruising debates over whatnot, times when every second person was not a hero and every third was not a victim of the forth who in turn was out for his next girl, in times before channel surfing and online everything, in times of the introductory hippie trails in the back porches and before the war on test series, in those times, way back when, I would not have thought there could be so many elegant jokers at one time in Calcutta.
They say its never safe to long for something until you're absolutely certain there's no chance of its coming back. But I’m sure the NIMC times would always reverie us back to the lovely place. NIMC was our grammar lesson. We found the present tense and the past perfect.
But if the good times were that illusory, if recalling them is no more than a tale of middle age, how come they feel so good? Give or take an interlude or a joyful passage, and things are always about the same jaunt along the side track. And with unbearable thoughts of limbic bursts, NIMC begins to glow.
