Going back to IIM A - Part 2

The informal gatherings meanwhile had picked up steam on the 26^th. Emails and WhatsApp messages beamed in the playful banter and the cheerful faces. Camaraderie was the mood of the moment. 

As I stepped into Pride on 27^th morning, and old chums rushed in to greet me with a gust of affection I did not anticipate, I recognised that all this emotion was for the identity I had worked tirelessly to disown. Maybe, just maybe, there were parts to my old self that evoked this fondness? That others saw in me what I failed to acknowledge?  That maybe my mind had chosen only the worst part of my IIMA experience, in a viciously lopsided way, to trick me into a cycle of self-loathing? That what I had chosen to store, was only one half of a more holistic picture? (Aye Aye Saiki) Or could it be that time was a kind companion, and that life and experience had made us all more forgiving, less judgemental?  Or maybe it was just the reunion vibe. Whatever the cause, I decided to cherish the love. And build new memories over the old ones. Replace the distasteful with the pleasant. The past with the present.

After a round of hugs and greetings, came the visit  to the new campus. Like a favourite recipe meddled with, so that it no longer tasted just so, this new campus felt all wrong.  Alien. Unfamiliar. But the classrooms, built to resemble the old ones, evoked nostalgia.  As eager balding middle agers rushed to reclaim their old places in the classroom, behaving for a while, like thrilled school children, the excitement in the air was palpable.

The U shaped multi-level IIMA classroom where Gods ruled, while us lesser humans barely survived, where class divisions formed early and stayed unchallenged.  Sometimes for years to come.  Reputations sometimes built, other times annihilated. The towering CP Gods (and the occasional Goddess) whose every word was beheld with awe and worship, the Arbit CPers whose verbal diarrhoea gave the entire class headaches, the Silent Stars who spoke little but whose brilliance was never in doubt, the Sincere Plodders : who comprised the majority, working hard to establish themselves, and who maybe managed to shine brilliantly on occasion and finally the Lurkers – those who hung around in the classroom, mostly for attendance and did little else.  I was a lurker, always.

As the proceedings of the morning gained pace, and the Director’s speech to alumni replaced our usual case study discussions, I looked around the classroom, at many of the stalwarts of our batch, and I suddenly felt small again. Stupid again. I knew I had something useful to say, but somehow words just floated about, refusing to form cogent sentences inside my head. By the time I coaxed my mind into behaving itself, the session had ended.  The sense of awe returned during the afternoon discussion on giving back to IIMA. As established stars re-emerged and new ones joined in, the thought struck me that this was a gifted group like no other I had seen assembled in one place. Innate intellect married with ceaseless drive. A lethal combination. One that pushed so many of my peers to the very pinnacle of their chosen careers. If they had started out as stars in a galaxy, each had broken out and created their own solar ecosystems, where they were the best, the brightest. Inspiration is being the sapling next to a tall tree, seeing how much more there is to grow.  So many tall trees to be inspired by : corporate leaders, social entrepreneurs, cool start-up founders. So many paths to excellence. To the summits of success and happiness. And to think I count so many of these as my friends.  Inspiration does not get more personal than that.  

If individually these people were superstars, one had a glimpse of their collective heft shortly thereafter, as the batch pooled resources to give back.  Imagine if this group chose to direct their combined energy towards a common goal.  Individually sparkling, collectively unbeatable.

As we walked past the glorious LKP into the mess for lunch, I discovered once again, the power of memory to distort reality. LKP, seemed smaller somehow. And so did the surrounding environs. Cracks in the façade at many places. Less resplendent than in its prime – when it had cradled wide eyed youngsters like us. An aging parent: shrunken, shrivelled. Like the rest of IIM A itself, in many ways.

The path to the mess was different too: lots of tea and coffee stalls to choose from- even a dhaba imitation, with a charpoy. And yet, the original chaiwala to tens of IIM Batches –Rambhai, conspicuously absent. We found him later, his large roadside stall now reduced to a hole in the wall- literally. The legend of Rambhai- the savvy Gujju who knew enough about IIM to stock Nirdosh cigarettes each year during the first marketing case discussion – now reduced to a desperate man struggling to make ends meet. Forgotten by the hundreds whose lives his presence had embellished.

The mess, Sethu’s named after the man who was an institution himself. Did people still sit at their dorm tables to eat everyday, I wondered. Were tempo shouts still the norm? IIM A had been a place held together by its traditions. Dozens of them. Love them or hate them, they gave IIM A character. As one discovered that dorm juniors no longer craved the free meals from visiting seniors- a perk that we had considered our birth right, one wondered which other traditions had fallen by the wayside. The food, as legendary as Sethu himself. Synonymous with flinched noses, and credited with sustaining several restaurants in the IIM vicinity. With the exception of, -or lead by – (depending on who you spoke to) the insipidly named ‘Harvard Dinner’. Harvard would sue for sure if it out how its name was being tarnished to serve cold cutlets and worm infested Frooti juice.

A walk around the old campus brought back a flood of memories. Of the dorms we all owed allegiance to – our homes for 2 years, and for many of us, the place where we made our closest life-long relationships. Love discovered, soul mates found, lifelong friendships forged. Relationships built mostly, sometimes broken.  Of night outs and WAC Runs, the latter now made redundant due to technology, a tradition lost to modernity. Of group meetings, and assignments. Of tea shared in broken teacups outside the classrooms and cheese omelettes in the night mess, in between another all-nighter. Of surprise quizzes and open book tests. Of walks in the moonlight and long chats at Rambhai. Of birthday parties and birthday bumps. Of black books and R.G. giri. Of ramp parties and dorm dinners. Of Talent Nite and Combos.  Of Frisbee and football, and that big secret we all share, the big H four letter word ;)

As I walked past the dorms, to mine – dorm 11, then in the old days just one of two girls dorms, but now one amongst several apparently, Dorm 6 fell on the way, and inevitably, I thought about Piggy – a batchmate who had a been a large gentle presence. A friendly soul who was no longer with us. Prematurely taken away in what should have been his prime. A reminder of the fragility of existence. A reminder to cherish what we hold dear, while we still can. Did all of the other members of D6 avoid coming to the reunion because the idea of a reunion without Piggy seemed intolerable, I wondered. The male dorms in our time were a brotherhood most of the time. Sharing a relationship intensity somehow the girl dorms could never replicate. Sisterhood often losing out to romantic partnership. Inevitable, maybe, given the skewed gender gap, but a lost opportunity nonetheless.

Several elements of the return to campus evoked musing, but none more than the visit to one’s old room. Mine, at the corner, facing the big giant circle that is the trademark of Louis Kahn’s work, through which I could clearly see the Orion constellation on a clear night. D15 peeping in and the voices of the drunk difteeners now echoing in my ears singing ‘Money Money Money, it’s so funny’. My floor buddies – Ramya, Ms. Lal, Ambika – the songs of U2 wafting in from Ambika’s room, Ms.Lal’s booming voice as she called out to Richa for tea each morning.  Dorm seniors who indoctrinated us into IIMA and dorm juniors who carried on the traditions we passed on.  The three musketeers – Bama, Suchi and I – as we called ourselves. Thick friends till today. So much gained, so much learnt. So much to be erased. So much to be rewritten.

Memory is a funny thing. It gets tingled by a smell sometimes, sometimes by the taste buds. Often it is a familiar nook or cranny. Many times, it gets awakened by a tune. The song from ‘Satte pe Satta’ ‘Pyar humein’ – probably counts as a batch anthem. As Shagun, Dholu, DJ and Ramya showed the hired RJ how it is done, and the rest of us boogied to foot tapping music belted by these rockstars, my mind journeyed back to the musical nites on LKP – when seniors like Slash gave me perennial love for ‘Hotel California’ and where I had had my Eureka moment. Of recognition of the unbridled multifaceted talent that a primarily academic institution had managed to amass.

The post dinner session in one of the rooms where there was much laughter and tomfoolery set me thinking that we had never had the opportunity to connect in such an informal setting, while we had been on campus, across the artificial silos created by dorms and sections. Would life have been different back then, - if we had all somehow started out getting to know each other as people before the academic grind took hold ? Would we have built more relationships, reached out more to each other, had many of our first encounters not been in the intimidating IIM classroom? There were several I never had the opportunity to know through the two years on campus- people about whom I too fell prey to the broad campus brush that is used to create caricatures, or maybe was too intimidated to befriend, just as they probably fell prey to groupthink about me ? False barriers that cost us an opportunity to build a life-long friendship, maybe?  As old ties were renewed, chasms bridged, new bonds formed and promises made to sustain the refreshed attachments, it was also evident that everyone revelled in the opportunity to be themselves. Stripped of social masks, devoid of the pressure to perform to a role, comfortable in the knowledge that these relationships which had earned their stripes over a long stretch of time were a safe zone. To forget for just a while, that we were mature grown-ups, to be silly, to humour and to be humoured. To objectify your batchmate and be objectified in return. Objectification is wonderful for the ageing bruised vanity, I discovered.

As the revelry overflowed into the next day, onto the cricket match and frisbee game, and the time arrived to bid good bye, my internal journey felt complete. Ambivalence had been replaced by pride. Anxiety had made way for Inspiration. Old chapters closed. New ones opened. I will still keep running. Not to escape from myself anymore, but towards my large, impossible, distant, dreams. Stronger, Faster. And one day in the future, hopefully at the 20^th year reunion, I will allow myself to really, finally, belong.