Life Is What You Make It A Story Of Love, Hope And How Determination Can Overcome Even Destiny (2 page)

Take care

Ankita

1989

July 9th Delhi

Dearest Ankita,

We have to accept the things that we cannot change. I miss you a lot.

I got your letter just now and I am replying immediately.

My orientation is tomorrow. I am excited! I cannot believe I am an IITian now! I love the campus, the hostel and everything else.

I tried calling you. But your mother hung up on me. Looks like I will have to wait for your letters. It reaches me only on the 5th day of your posting it. Five days is so long! But it is better than nothing I guess.

Do tell me how you like your college. It must have started by the time my letter reaches you.

Luv

Vaibhav

B
efore the advent of the Internet or computers, we wrote letters by hand and waited eagerly for the postman to deliver one. Those were the days of epic television drama serials like
Buniyaad
and programmes like
Chitrahaar
, when television meant just one national channel and when video cassettes recorders were still in vogue.

Looking back I am surprised. Given how conservative, strict
and
Indian my parents were, they actually allowed me to write letters to a boy, considering the fact that I was not permitted to invite boys home or to visit any boy's house, even if I was with a group of girls. When my gang consisting of four boys and three girls, were going out for a movie and for ice-creams letter, after my class 12 Board Exams, I was the only one not permitted to go. Perhaps, they let me write letters as no one would
see
them whereas going out for a movie or ice creams meant that people would
see
and they would talk.

The first felling I had when I entered the college gates was that of breathlessness. I had hurried to make it in time for the first day at college. I could not believe that my school days were actually over and I was officially a college student.

No more school uniforms. No more strict rules. No more being treated as a kid. I would be 18 on my next birthday and officially an adult. I felt excited as legally it meant I was eligible to marry and vote. The flip side immediately struck me too. I would no longer be a juvenile and could be arrested too Of course, at that time I had no idea how dangerously close I'd come to it. It was an exhilarating felling — like a caterpillar emerging out of a cocoon. I could hardly wait.

It would take at least twenty pages of writing to describe my college to Vaibhav.

The buildings were smart, modern and pristinely clean. There was a solitary tree in the middle of the courtyard, standing proudly, on which hung a bell. A circular platform went around the tree and some students were sitting on it, some standing, and all chattering excitedly. The bell would be rung throughout the day to indicate the end of a period.

The campus area was about five acres and the building had expanded vertically. There were three wings— the old, the new and the hostels. The old wing had spellbinding architecture and I gazed at its beautiful arches. This wing also housed the very large, well equipped library spread over three floors, the administrative offices and the principal's office, apart from the various counters for collecting forms, paying fees and other things associated with an academic institution. Four spotless wooden showcases with crystal clear glass proudly displayed the gleaming, glittering trophies that Agnites had won over the past eighty years. The trophies spilled over to two deep brown rosewood antique tables too. It instilled in me a kind of awe and respect, something similar to what one feels when one enters a building that belongs to the Armed forces in the country. It was a very positive and vibrant feeling. I could even see my reflection in the polished wood.

The auditorium was large and easily accommodated all the students. The stage was done up with élan and there was the college logo, a huge crest which proclaimed the motto of the college with pride. The audio system, the speakers and the whole set up was very impressive. So was the Principal of the college, a nun named Sister Evangeline who welcomed us in perfect English, telling us about the college, its history, its achievement, its vision, its aim and the high standards expected of each Agnite. I began to feel pride slowly stirring in me.

Never in my life had I seen so many women or girls in one place. Throughout my life I had studied in co-educational schools where men were a part of my world. Suddenly being thrust into an atmosphere without any, had taken me completely by surprise Everywhere I turned, looked or went it was women, women and more women. The college must have had at least three thousand students and it seemed as if almost all of them had turned up at the college auditorium for the welcome and induction at the start of the new academic year. I remember staring in wonder and thinking that it meant 6000 breasts and 3000 vaginas were in the auditorium. I smiled to myself at my wicked thought.

I looked forward eagerly to the classes that would begin soon.

2

Nothings gonna stop us now

H
ow do groups get formed in colleges? Some say that you gravitate instinctively towards people you can relate to and then gradually over the months a bond develops.It was not like that with my class. It felt as though a snooker player had hit a single hard strike and we, like the snooker balls, had scattered in all directions, random balls coming together with no pre-determined plan. But of course, in reality, each shot is planned with precision and each strike is made with a purpose, and on deeper contemplation you realize that the balls came together for a reason after all.

Almost instantly we had gravitated towards a gang or a group. There were sixty of us but we had all fallen into our groups, with whom we hung out, exchanged notes and had fun with. Mine was a group of four. Apart from me, there was Suvi, Janie and Charu.

Suvi undoubtedly had the most dynamic personality in the group. She was short but what she lacked in height she made up in other areas. She was smart, stylish and enthusiastic with an attitude that was contagious. Most people warmed up to her. She was a bundle of energy, always ready for anything, a little impulsive and reckless too at times.

Charu, a Tam-brahm, was a personification of the generalizations that are made about them. She was studious, smart and intelligent. She even wore glasses. Her aim was to become a chartered accountant.

Janie was the gentle, quiet and the sensible one. Her ambition was either to become a nun or do her MSW and take up social work. We came together like a patchwork quilt and got along well despite our very different personalities.

But what I did not expect to learn so quickly at college was the ‘Great-Agnes-embarrass-a-guy-by-staring-at-his-crotch’ tradition. We were introduced, instructed and inducted into it by our seniors when we shared a lecture with them for Mercantile Law, which was the only subject in the whole college being taught by a male. The raging hormones plus the losing of all inhibitions that a woman's college does to you, was enough for everyone to co-operate on the single point agenda of this tradition. He was nick named Porukki-merki.
‘Porruki’
was a colloquial word in the local language. Loosely translated it stood for an oaf or a ‘good-for-nothing’ guy, implying he was a skirt chaser. Which was really ironic as it were the girls who were doing the pretend-chase here, not him.

The girls mostly stared very pointedly at his crotch throughout the duration of the lecture. He would begin by pretending not to notice. But of course, he would notice. There was no way he could not see something as obvious and outrageous as that, but he couldn't do a thing. The unspoken rule was that in Mercantile Law Class, you were allowed only to look at Merki's crotch. There were about a hundred and twenty of us, women, all starved of male company and his looks did not deter us at all. Merki was a middle aged, short, slightly overweight professor, with pot belly and he always tucked his shirt in. He had a large mop of thick black, oily, curly hair and a moustache shaped like the head of a toilet cleaning brush. His eyes were tiny black slits on his chubby face and they darted quickly in all directions. He could have been a bad caricature of a hero of a Malayalam movie. He would begin by explaining some concept in Mercantile Law earnestly and then within ten minutes, beads of sweat would begin appearing on his forehead. He would then take out his spotless white handkerchief and mop his brow repeatedly. The girls were relentless. Even when he asked a question, the girl who stood up to answer would still not take her eyes away from his crotch. I really pitied the poor man. But secretly I wondered if he actually enjoyed it too. I doubted if he ever got any female attention outside the gates of the college.

My letters to Vaibhav described all this and more. Our letters to each other were getting longer and longer. We became experts in anticipating how much postage would be needed for each letter. As the weeks sped our letters to each other were our constant connection, our link and the happiness we derived from them kept both of us going.

During the day, in the middle of some activity I was busily involved in, I caught myself thinking of something he had written and I found myself smiling. I caught myself making mental notes to tell him about little things that had just occurred. He wrote that it was the same for him. He said he never remembered being so enthusiastic about life, before this. He said I gave him an anchor, a purpose and a meaning to his existence. I told him he was a sentimental fool and he should write poetry. Secretly of course, I loved it. He knew it too. I liked being adored. I liked the feeling of being so important to someone. I liked being the centre of someone's world.

A year flew by and I did not even feel it pass. Then when my 18
^th
birthday was approaching, he decided that letters were just not enough. He said he wanted to talk to me.

Getting to talk to Vaibhav on the phone involved putting together a complex combat mission much like U.S Airborne division of paratroopers in World War Two. There were no mobile phones those days. It required detailed, precise planning, a lot of forethought and co-ordination down to the last detail. He had once tried the direct approach and called up at a decent hour. My mother had answered the phone. He greeted her and she had said a curt ‘Yes?’ She did not return the greeting. She said “Ankita cannot come to the phone right now” and had hung up abruptly. I was in my room and had heard every word. My ears burnt with indignation and tears of anger were swelling in my eyes. But I hid them well. There was no way I could argue with her.

That did not stop us though. We both agreed that a phone call would be considered successful if we managed to speak to each other for at least four minutes. Vaibhav had outlined three parts for
‘Operation Mission Phone-call.’

Part one was
Pre mission planning considerations
which were

1. My brother had to be asleep.

2. My parents had to be out for their morning walk which they usually never missed.

Part two was
Support forces
which were

1. The telephone booth guy from where Vaibhav made those early morning phone calls should have woken up. (Vaibhav later told me that he had to shake him vigorously or yell real loudly into his ear. He always charged him ten rupees extra —early morning rates, he claimed)

2. I should have woken up well on time so I could grab the phone on the first ring—else there was a chance of my brother waking up.

Part three was
anticipated threats
which might lead to an
‘Abort Mission’
and these included

1. My parents returning earlier than usual.

2. My brother picking up the telephone extension and listening in.

My calling up Vaibhav was ruled out, as I could not possibly sneak out to a telephone booth at night. During the day I had tried twice to call his hostel phone. His batch mates would yell out for him. I'd hang up and call after five minutes. Both times I was told he was not in the room. I gave up after that, as it meant I had to sneak out of college between my breaks and hurry back in time for the next class. They marked attendance every hour, not just once in the morning like in school.

On my 18
^th
birthday, I pretended to be asleep and lay still in my bed, listening to my parents leaving for their walk. The metallic clang of the latch on the gate told me they had left. I tip toed quietly into the living room where the extension of the telephone was and unplugged it. Then I went back into my parents' room and lifted the phone and listened for a dial tone. It purred contentedly. Satisfied, I placed it back. Then I double checked to see if I had placed it correctly.

When you are waiting for a phone call, time seems to really drag. If you have ever waited for a phone call you know exactly what I am talking about. You do not know what to do. You just wish and hope and will the phone to ring. Yo u want time to fly. I sat next to the phone and waited. After a while, I slid down to the floor and continued waiting.

It rang exactly as planned and I grabbed it even before the first ring was completed.

“Hey,” I managed to whisper.

Silence.

“Hello?”

Silence again.

Then I could hear the music starting. For a few seconds I had no idea what was going on. Then the penny dropped.

Craig Chaquico's guitar solo blended perfectly with the voice of Grace Slick to make magic that day, as I listened hundreds of miles away over a phone line, at 5:45 a.m in the morning, huddled on the cold floor, the phone glued to my ear, in my parents' bedroom. It was a love song which had climbed the Billboard hot hundred charts when it had been released. At that time I could not identify the band or the artist, but later I would know that it was a song by the band Jefferson Starship. Later I would also write down the lyrics, memorize them and listen to them a hundred times over.

“Looking in your eyes I see a paradise