Life

Today is my last night to be spent at ISM. Last night of the great BC session which started four year ago when I was immature, young, ignorant and above all sober and which is ending now when I am mature enough, experienced enough and drunk enough to write all these.

Satwik Pattanyak was writing a blog called “when do men cry?” I liked the title instantaneously. But I could not get the feeling. Now I am getting everything, Pattu, after seeing off Neha at the railway station and saying good bye to Lala and Budhanshu. It is 11: 59 pm now, Vikash will be going at 03:00 in the morning. I will be going to see him off too. Then it will be my turn, which will come a little 12 hrs later. But the moral of the story is that I will have to go.
There were many questions which are left unanswered. Why we have to live ISM? Why were we fortunate enough to get into this place, and why the lesser mortals could not get through? And above all- when do men cry?

The answer to the last question I got now.
Men cry, when they are leaving a place like ISM? Men cry when they leave a friend like Neha. Men cry when they become alumnus of a branch called Min mach.
There are some phone calls left unanswered. There are some stories which end at a blunt unexpected place. There are some ‘Important’ Mannats, to Viashno Devi, which are fulfilled in lieu of some unfulfilled lesser important ones.
But do these things matter?
No!
Absolutely NO!
Life has to go on, at its own pace, tracing its own predetermined path. This is the main moral of the story- the story of life. For every one. Be it a Petro Engg or a Min Mach engg like me.
Just a few minutes back, when I was drinking the Portuguese wine brought by Mohit Bhatnagar, one year back, from Germany, and kept for the occasion, Gaurav (GG) asked me to address him by the name Chirkut. His reasoning was that he will never get a person who will tell him ‘Chirkut Chamar’, after passing out from here.

Yes it is true. There will be no one to call me Dumka instead of Deepak Tiwary. There will be no one to say it in my face that I am a ganwar from a small town in Jharkhand. There will be no one to criticize my face expression while I am laughing.

Today after returning from station, I was returning back the things which I had lent from my friends. Lent is a formal word, I will use ‘taken’ instead, which shows more possessiveness.
So I was return things which I had taken from my friends. There was a book on handwriting analysis which was on my table, for six months. It was of Siddhant Dey and Koushik had given it to me. An ISM Track suit, taken from Koushik again, some time during winters and which I had not returned till now. Suddenly it came in my mind that I had given something to Venugopal Rao. I went to his room to collect these things. It was nothing but just a shirt taken from Nitin and a pant taken from Koushik and both lent to him by me.
This is the magic of this place. Here everything is yours. You have the same right over these things as that of the ‘real owner’.

There have been some bitter moments also, but why to recall them? I know that you people will understand. Mohit will not you?
Bitter moments should be recollected only to take a lesson, in order not to repeat it. That is the only purpose to keep these things in our memory space. This is the fundamental of life, and everybody should know it.

There are some persons who should be addressed here better than all those addressed above, but may be I don’t have the courage to address them.
There are some persons who deserve a phone call rather than an SMS, but may be they are reluctant enough to receive it.
There are some persons who can have my whole life rather than my humble friendship, but may be they are fortunate enough to get something better.

This is life.
A whole detail of phone calls, received or unrecieved. Of names addressed or unaddressed. Of mannats fulfilled or unfulfilled. Of dreams seen or unseen. Of stories finished or unfinished- at an unexpected blunt ending.
Yes. This is life.
Not only mine, not only an ISMite’s but everyone’s.