Eventful month

 

Things were unfolding rapidly for us—it was hard for many to even comprehend what was happening. Rishi and I were planning to apply for an education loan, so we requested the necessary documents from the college. To our surprise, the approval came within a day. To avail the facility, we had to visit our respective hometown's branches of the Banks who will give us the loan. We decided to travel together on the Purushottam Express, Rishi got down at Chandrapura Station and i deboarded the train at Gomoh Junction. After completing all the formalities in few day's, we returned to campus—only to be greeted with shocking news.

Two nights earlier, the seniors had rounded up all the first-year students and taken them to the terrace. One of our batchmates had half his moustache shaved off by a third-year student, a few others were made to dance for half an hour, and hostelites were terrorized in every possible way. Rishi and I felt lucky to have escaped the episode, but deep down, we knew our turn would come sooner or later.

One night around 2 a.m., we suddenly woke up to loud chants echoing and coming through our room's window—“Jai Jai Marine! Jai Jai Marine!” It sounded as though the new recruits—, the freshers ( Marine cadets)—were being indoctrinated into some secret cult. The days weren’t any easier either. Fear hung heavy in the air.

In the Mechanical block, a student who wore a stylish sliding belt had it snatched away and tied around his neck by seniors. Those without pleated pants found long, thick chalk lines drawn across their trousers as punishment. In panic, when classes got over for the day ,we all rushed to the tailor behind the back gate, who, while obediently adding pleats, couldn’t help laughing at our plight. The salon was another war zone—first-year marine engineering boys were being getting near-military haircuts, while the rest of us dodged seniors like prey on Discovery Channel. Suddenly our faith in god has increased.

Every batch in the college carried its own identity through its dress code, and ours was marked by sky-blue shirts and navy-blue trousers—a combination so distinct that blending into the crowd was impossible. One glance at the uniform, and anyone could tell your year and course without asking a single question.

Yet, in its own quiet way, the uniform did something beautiful.
It unified us.

In a place where students came from every corner of the state—some with packed suitcases, some with just one or two sets of clothes—the dress code erased the differences that attire could create. It spared many from the silent pressure of comparison and gave all of us a shared identity.

That sky-blue shirt became more than just fabric.
It became a symbol of belonging.

One morning, while Rishi, me and dealing were wandering near the Electrical building, a fourth-year senior suddenly shouted while coming at us, “Bags down! Bags down!” We froze, unsure of what he meant. He stormed toward us and yelled again, forcing us to carry our bags in our hands instead of on our shoulders, and we were informed in very harsh words that first years are  not allowed to carry backpacks on their back. 

There were endless rules made for first-year juniors and were being faithfully followed by every batch: look at your third shirt button while talking to a senior, keep cufflinks closed, wear pants with pleats, shoes with laces, and belts with punched holes, small hairs, and whatnot. We had to bow at a ninety-degree angle while greeting seniors. Even the way we were instructed to ask the name of seniors was scripted—

“I have got single opportunity, double double satisfaction, and triple triple triple pleasure to ask your sweet name.”

Girls weren’t spared either. They, too, faced their share of ragging in their hostel and on the college campus. But in a strange way, the shared misery made everyone feel equal.

One afternoon, as I was returning from lunch, I was caught off guard by a group of fourth-year Mariners—broad, muscular, and intimidating—near TS Ranjita. “Hey, first year! Come here!” one of them shouted. My heart pounded. I froze in place, but when they called again, I slowly walked towards them.

They were sitting on the stairs, staring at me like hunters. My mind went blank. Out of sheer panic, I gestured that I couldn’t speak and was mute. Their expressions softened instantly—guilt flashed across their faces. One of them stepped forward, gently said, “Sorry, brother,” and waved me off. I was stunned but kept a straight face and quietly walked away. Those who came after me were spared, too, maybe out of the same guilt. Back in the hostel, I narrated the incident to everyone—it became one of those stories that spread like wildfire across the batch. I just hoped in my heart it would never reach them.

On 3rd September, a few seniors from the Chemical branch—both third and fourth years—came to our classroom in the RD block to collect contributions for Teachers’ Day celebrations. One of them, in a commanding tone, asked, “Who’s the CR of this class?”

There was complete silence. Someone informed that no one had been appointed yet by any teacher.

He asked then, louder this time, “Who wants to become the CR? Are you all cowards?”

That last line hit me harder than I expected.
Almost on reflex—maybe to prove I wasn’t a coward—I raised my hand. It was surreal: some of the brightest minds and the most confident speakers stood frozen, as if the entire room had suddenly turned to stone. From the girls’ side, Manisha raised her hand too.

And just like that—without any ceremony, without even a moment to breathe—by the casual blessing of our seniors, we two (both from Chemical Engineering) were declared the CRs of the combined batch. Along with the title came our first responsibility: collecting the funds and submitting them the very next day.

We didn’t argue, didn’t question, didn’t hesitate.
We followed the instructions to the last letter.

Back in the hostel, reactions were mixed. Some said, “Big mistake, now you’ll be dragged into everything unnecessarily.” You'll not get time to study, your grades will be affected. I just shrugged and said, “We’ll see what happens.”

Every Sunday, we were allowed an outing after lunch to the Forum Mall near Ram Mandir. It was the go-to place for us to buy essentials and stationery and get a whiff of the outside world.

There, I noticed a boy named Narang dressed in a strikingly stylish outfit—almost European. I couldn’t help thinking that the fashion IQ of some people here was far ahead of others.

While exploring the mall, Rishi nudged me and whispered, “That girl over there is from your branch—and my hometown! Why don’t you introduce me?”

“I don’t know her,” I replied, but he kept pushing. Finally, I called out to the girls. They froze, visibly scared—tears almost welled up in their eyes. I quickly asked which branch they were from and where they belonged. When I turned back to introduce Rishi, he had vanished—running away like lightning. I was dumbfounded. “You guys carry on,” I said awkwardly and stormed off to find Rishi, ready to give him an earful.

Later that evening, we returned to the hostel—shouting, laughing, creating chaos in the bus. Some senior girls were also on their way back after shopping. In a fit of overexcitement, a few boys whistled and made loud comments. The girls were offended, and one of our third-year seniors, who was also on the bus, noticed but couldn’t identify the offender. Later, during inquiries, Purushottam blurted out Apurv’s name.

The senior wanted to confront Apurv. Dealing, another batchmate, promised the senior, “Don’t worry, I’ll call him out—you won’t have to raise your hand.” Dealing called Apurv to the back gate, but as soon as he arrived, the senior pounced on him. Dealing intervened and separated them, but Apurv was shaken, shocked, and furious. He felt betrayed.

Later, Dealing called me to explain the situation and asked me to talk to Apurv. I went out to meet him. He vented his anger, his words sharp and hurt. I just listened, trying to calm him down.

It felt as though the group was beginning to fall apart even before it had truly formed. That night, our wing went to bed quietly—each of us lost in thought, uncertain about what the next day would bring.