Usha was the first person I met on campus. Like the rest of the new arrivals, I was hanging around the mess hall, trying to figure out what I was supposed to do in the absence of multiple choice questions and group discussions. Time seemed to stand still without having 7 other people sitting around me discussing and trying to conclude, once and for all, ‘Globalization – Is it a boon or a bane for the 3rd World’ or ‘Abortion – Is India Pro-Choice?’ in 15 minutes.

Someone tapped me on my shoulder and politely asked me if I smoked; Usha was grinning at me for no apparent reason, and offering me a cigarette. I accepted and lit up; I didn’t feel like smoking, but it was becoming increasingly challenging to appear thoughtful and purposeful while chewing the rim of my empty coffee cup.

The first thing one noticed about Usha was his short stature – he looked like a miniature, stouter, fairer version of a fuller, leaner person that possibly existed in some alternate reality. He had the kindest eyes, comically enlarged through thick glasses over a soft round face. His childlike smile, squishing his red, round cheeks against the rim of his spectacles, was at complete contrast with the line-up of grim faces that had been intimidating me from the time I’d arrived, and forcing me to check if my fly was undone every couple of minutes. Something about him reminded me of all the kids I’d bullied and stolen Tiffin from in school; it made me feel very guilty, and made me instantly feel at home.

‘The next two years are going to be so much fun, aren’t they?’ exclaimed Usha with the optimism and naiveté that I would learn to hate and love equally. Fun wasn’t one of the words that my mind was offering up to describe my current situation. Despite having gone through the offer letter through lenses of different magnifying power under all possible colors of light, a part of me still expected to walk into class and be told, ‘selected for the program? Aha! That was the final test. What we meant was that you are inversely selected – everyone but you is in!’ But Usha, as I was to find out later, was beyond such petty doubts. He was a person who took everything on face value. He was either deliriously happy, or manically depressed, depending on what others willed him to be. This prevented him from appreciating the finer shades of life, somewhat. The glass empty metaphor, for instance, was kind of redundant for him. Given the right stimuli, he seemed equally capable of being happy with a completely empty glass, as he’d thrust it out of the window and excitedly exclaim, ‘I bet it’s going to rain soon.’ And, with the right suggestion from others, even a full glass might be insufficient at times. Suffice to say that he was akin to a giant gaping chasm that echoed everything one spoke into it – interesting at first, but the novelty of listening to ‘Hello, hello, hello…’ depleted exponentially.

We were next joined by Karthik. Although I was unaware of it at that time, I was going to spend a significant part of the next two years struggling to average out both my new friends’ outlooks of life to arrive at something more realistic and plausible. For unlike Usha, Karthik was a staunch adherent of the school of thought that believed that the entire world was ‘totally fucked up, and everyone’s out to fuck up my life, and I’m fucking tired of trying to figure out what the fuck I should do about it.’ And to physically manifest this radical brand of philosophy, he had carefully cultivated a stubble that seemed to be threateningly close to claiming the few remaining open spaces around his cheeks. A mop of unruly hair on top perfectly complemented the JNU-student-leader look.

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Photograph Courtesy: © Nevery Lorakeet

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