As I sit here nearing the end of my penultimate year on campus, it seems high time to write this article that my JC seniors urged me to write in my 1-1. If you’re unaware, it is a JC compulsion to write at least one standalone article in your time. The singularity and publicness of it forces you to think long and hard about it.
When I came to campus in Nov ‘22, having spent the last 2 years in the gruelling isolation of JEE preparation and the goddamn virus I wish now not to name, I expected a lot of things, as one does. As I’m sure you – the reader – did, and as people come after you who walk past the philosopher’s stone, hoping to leave their handprints there, will too. It is the natural hope, anxiety, and prickly fear of new things that come with standing at the cusp of adulthood.
You expect so much. So. Much. For most of us, coming onto campus was supposed to be the end of a journey. The last time we think about marks as the threshold of your abilities, successes, and occasionally failures. The rest, well, I can’t speak of them because I’m not one of them. It was supposed to feel like the bell jar finally lifting. Revelling, for once, in the simple joy of breathing in and out the post-thunderstorm clean air.
But then you arrive, and so does the summer, and you’re encapsulated in the suffering that is Hyderabad heat; better than at some other places, but still not the best. You wait eagerly for the monsoon, and it arrives. Then, you hate the puddles, and the frogs, and the mosquitoes that invoke an annoyance not unlike some of the people around you do as well.
And then one day, as you’re nearing the end of it, and thinking about placements, and friends who are leaving, and your relationship (or lack thereof), maybe you’ll think to yourself that you ought to go on a walk. It’ll be spring or the closest thing we have to it. If it’s a clear night, you might even look up and see the stars through the skeletons of the trees left after the fall. You might have been to a stargazing night or two in your many ATMOS’ on campus. You might’ve learnt to spot Orion’s belt, but even if you haven’t, you’ll feel tiny and insignificant, and it’ll be freeing.
You probably had a hobby or two that have since escaped you in pursuit of people who might stick to them better. After two-ish years of being a JEE mazdoor, you forget to think about yourself in ways that are not numbers, be they ranks, IDs, or scores. Do not replace them with letter grades and that dreaded figure out of 10 that marks the success you achieved on campus. Or out of 60. Depending on what kind of boring office you want to spend your days in later.
But anyway, if one of those hobbies was birdwatching – if it wasn’t, what’re you doing? – you’ll notice the migratory birds that greet you when you come back for even sems (because that’s how time is measured now, in evens and odds, and pre- ‘s and post- ’s, and fests, and so on and on and on…).
It’s hard to remember, but there are things even on campus that don’t follow these arbitrary timelines. Look for the sunbirds. Sometimes, they seem to glimmer when the sun hits them just right. There are kingfishers and happiness and everything you want if only you’re willing to keep an eye out.
When the trees that are so thoughtfully planted bow with the weight of the flowers, you’ll see nests and things that are out of your reach and are beautiful in spite – or maybe, because – of it. When the migratory birds start to leave us, the PS allotments start rolling in.
People you know are going places, and you’ll post about the revelation of them starting another new passage, perhaps once again measured in figures – bonuses, CTCs, take-homes. So and so is going such and such and doing this or that, and you’ll feel the kind of second-hand happiness that stems from witnessing someone’s hard work come to fruition. But, in the middle of all this talk, you’ll maybe – just maybe – want to stop and talk about the toad that almost jumped on your shoe and scared you today.
On your way to paper collections, and prof meets, and lectures, and club meets, you’ll step on leaves of varying crunch and colour. Some bougainvillaeas, some of those yellow flowers that you’ll never learn the name of even though they litter the walk home from CP. You’ll realise you’ve been calling the hostel room you don’t quite like ‘home’ for a while now. That’s a big word. But you hate this place, right?
What else do you call it but home when so far you’ve returned to the warm embrace of its comfort, never to be disappointed? If not the flowers, the birds, the trees, the stars, or the moon (oh God, the moon), you’ll appreciate the symmetry of it all. You might stand in awe of the construction of these buildings, which you have spent the last two years of your life in, and how they hug the contour of the earth, in basements and terraces, never to disappoint you in their maze.
You’ll remember how you used to get confused about which side of the building was which, how you got lost on your first several times on your way to labs and obscure tutorials that seem irrelevant now. You still get lost sometimes now, but it’s not as baffling. You don’t care that much about being late anymore, either. So, you chuckle a little and wonder how something so simple still escapes you.
Speaking of escaping, as things get better, you might try to start remembering who you were before you were a mass of numbers. Did you like reading? Writing? Pokémon Go? Nothing will stop you now from doing these things, where the only numbers involved are page count, word count, or level. Numbers that, for once, feel insignificant except for the simple joy of watching them grow.
That’s the thing about numbers, you’ll think – being an engineer, or almost – that most of them only matter when they’re increasing. Or decreasing. Or doing something. Sometimes, you might stop and admire how the stillness of a number can stand before you like a monolith, all-encompassing and utterly powerful. Even as an atheist, you might be able to appreciate that something can indeed govern how you live your life. Or, at least how much you live it.
In all of this, pause for a second and count on your ten fingers how many things you love that have no numbers. It might be people, or books, or songs, or other art you may not know about as much as you’d like. Maybe even a course or two. Show me how much you have loved and I’ll tell you how much you have lived. Can you count on two hands these things? Or is one enough?
I was told to write about something campus-relevant if I could, and for years now, I have wondered what I could write about. How Mess 1 juice shop bhaiya remembers that I don’t take cheeni in my juice? That some profs smile when you see them in the halls, brightening your day just a little bit? Or how, when Amul runs out of your favourite ice cream, your world suddenly feels a little bleaker?
Seniors who have come before me – on whose shoulders this article stands and exists because of – have now left campus. As absurd as it feels to write, I am a senior now. When they were leaving, they talked about how much they’d miss campus and how nervous they were to leave their nest, their homes, all with a smile on their face. I remember inwardly wondering what it was that I was missing. What have I not yet noticed that brings that sentimental mist to their eyes and that crack in their voice? This place is miserable, and I can’t fucking wait to leave.
But now, I know. And after two and some change years of thinking, this took only 46 minutes to write.
The Journal Club 
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