BABU HOTA
Dhukmana Nai Ho!
If memory serves me right, and let’s be honest, it occasionally takes unscheduled tea breaks, the common thread that wove Babu and me together was our shared, noble pursuit of higher education and our even nobler mode of transport: the humble bicycle. Yes, while others zoomed past in scooters or arrived fashionably late in autos, Babu and I pedalled our way to graduation glory, fueled by optimism, sweat, and the occasional puncture.
Now, Babu wasn’t just your average two-wheeled commuter. No, sir. He was a cricket enthusiast of such rare zeal that Geoffrey Boycott himself would have asked him to tone it down. Every morning, as we cycled along the dusty roads to college, Babu would launch into a live commentary, complete with field placements, pitch reports, and imaginary replays, for the benefit of his cycling sidekick. Drives, defence, delicate leg glances, he narrated it all with the gusto of a man convinced the BBC was secretly tuning in.
Even back then, I was signally struck by this fellow’s boundless enthusiasm. While the rest of us were still waking up en route, Babu was already deep into the third over of a test match happening only in his head. The man had energy, passion, and possibly a hidden microphone in his handlebar.
I had the pleasure of visiting his home a couple of times—a warmly inviting place that felt like stepping into a Doordarshan family drama, but in the best way. His father was a learned gentleman with an aura of quiet wisdom, the kind who probably read the newspaper cover to cover—including the fine print in the classifieds. His mother, ever gracious and affectionate, would invariably greet us with tall glasses of Paana juice. Ah, Paana! That sweet, tangy elixir of summer—more effective than AC and far more delicious.
I vaguely remember a younger sister as well, though our entire interaction was limited to a quick “Hi!” followed by me retreating into that awkward silence only teenage boys can perfect. Still, the memory of those visits lingers, much like the taste of that glorious juice or the sound of Babu shouting “What a shot!” to an imaginary Gavaskar.
Looking back, those mornings weren’t just about getting to college—they were about friendship, passion, and the simple joy of finding someone who could turn even a routine bike ride into a full-blown sporting spectacle. In a world of serious grown-ups and relentless deadlines, may we all be a little more like Babu—riding through life with commentary, cheer, and a heart full of play.
NEE PANDA
Party Kharab Bhabna re!
My first brush with Nee happened in the hallowed halls of the Science Block at BJB College—a place where dreams, formulas, and the occasional paper plane soared equally high. The introduction came courtesy of my friend and senior, Tusi, who gave me a gentle but meaningful nudge, the kind that says, “Go forth, make history—or at least a new acquaintance.”
So, with all the confidence of a man asking directions in an unfamiliar town, I approached this mysterious figure and asked, “Have you taken Economics Honours? Are you from Bhubaneswar?”
Nee turned slowly, like a Bond villain sizing up an intruder—not threatening, but with a twinkle of amusement that made you nervous about your tie being too tight. He gave me what I can only describe as a leery smile—equal parts enigma and cheek—and strolled off casually, tossing over his shoulder, “I’m from Cuttack.” And just like that, he disappeared into the crowd, leaving me with more questions than answers and the strong suspicion that he had mentally filed me under ‘Clueless Freshers to be Tolerated’.
The next significant chapter in the Book of Nee came during the college elections—our own version of Game of Thrones, but with fewer dragons and more slogans. Nee, never one to shy away from drama, had picked a candidate and was championing him with the passion of a political speechwriter... and the subtlety of a foghorn. He was vociferous—loud enough to be heard three departments away—and merciless in his takedown of the rival candidate, whom he painted as a Machiavellian villain crossed with a failed magician.
On Nee’s unrelenting advice (read: pressure that could bend metal), I voted for his man—an error in judgment that haunts me to this day. His chosen hero turned out to be a certified Brown Sugar enthusiast who promptly snorted the student union funds into oblivion. Our leader didn’t organize a single event, but he definitely saw stars. Sometimes, democracy gives you Lincoln, and sometimes... well, it gives you a chemically enhanced disaster.
Despite that electoral hiccup, my opinion of Nee began to shift for the better when I discovered, a few months later, that he possessed a truly admirable quality—he was open-minded enough to indulge in a drink or two during college hours. And by "drink," I don't mean coconut water. This dazzling revelation was the cornerstone upon which a deep and enduring bond was forged. After all, nothing cements male friendship quite like mild daytime inebriation and skipping lectures together.
Evenings were often spent at the tuition classes of the legendary Shashi Mishra Sir, a man whose very presence could silence an auditorium. The room was meant to be a temple of learning, where mathematical theories floated in the air like incense smoke. But Nee? Nee turned it into a comedy club. At his raunchy best, he’d crack jokes that could melt chalk and leave Shashi Sir sighing into his lecture notes while we tried (and failed) to suppress giggles. He had that rare gift—of making Euclid’s group theory sound vaguely indecent.
One reckless afternoon, Nee and I decided a movie at Ravi Talkies would be vastly improved by a pre-show cocktail of whiskey, beer, and wine—basically a liquid suicide note. By the time we sat down, my stomach had declared war. Five minutes in, I wasn’t watching the patriotic drama—I was the drama.
Nee, ever the crisis expert, dragged my woozy self out and to BJB College Field, now our emergency detox zone. There, under neem trees and judgmental crows, I violently redecorated the lawn. A kind hostelite joined in the rescue, and together they cradled me like a dying poet.
With my head in Nee’s lap and my dignity in the gutter, I knew—I’d found a friend for life. Nothing bonds two souls like shared passion and public disgrace.
Though I only shared two years of graduation with Nee, our friendship endured like an old 90s music cassette—occasionally dusty, slightly off-key, but still playing strong when you need it most.
SANTOSH PANDA
Don’t get Ansty!
Santosh, during our graduation days, was nothing short of a walking, talking, limited-edition blend of charm, mischief, and the occasional well-measured peg (or two… or four). He carried himself like he’d been born with a slow-motion wind machine trained permanently on him. Women noticed him. Men noticed women noticing him. He was the unofficial brand ambassador of “college cool” before branding was even a thing.
When I mentioned his name to my sister, her face lit up with recognition. “Oh him? His elder sister is my classmate!” she declared. Apparently, Santosh came with references—he was already a household name in select circles, with a backstory that suggested both lineage and legend.
Our own bonding, however, happened not over tea or textbooks but blood—mine, or rather someone else’s. Early on in college, in a moment that can only be described as "pre-meditated spontaneity," I lashed out at one of our classmates just outside the classroom. It wasn’t just a slap or a shove—no, I went full cinema-style, and there was blood. Real blood. The kind that soaks into reputation like red ink into a term paper. Overnight, I achieved notoriety—or as we call it in college, instant legend status.
While the others looked at me with a mixture of awe and fear, Santosh looked at me with new respect, like a man discovering a hidden feature on his favourite gadget. That moment sealed it—our friendship was forged in blood, booze, and bravado.
Like Nee, Santosh wasn’t one to shy away from a little tipple during college hours. Our chosen watering hole? None other than Ona Jena’s legendary outhouse—a place that smelled faintly of rebellion and heavily of cheap liquor. There, between rounds of rum and philosophical tangents, deeper bonds were formed and IQ points occasionally misplaced.
But Santosh was different from Nee and Babu. While they had a healthy mix of academics and antics, Santosh had one irresistible distraction—romance. Ah yes, the man was smitten, and we often saw him disappear like a magician’s assistant, only to reappear hours later looking like he’d just returned from a soft-focus music video. Nee and I would needle him: “What do you even talk about for so long with your girlfriend?” And Santosh, ever the master of mystery, would shrug and reply with a casual, “This and that,” as if revealing more would violate some sacred romantic code.
Ever the helpful Cupid, he once took it upon himself to usher me into the world of courtship. He tried introducing me to a few girls, hoping I’d strike gold—or at least a mildly interested conversation. But alas, every attempt ended with me awkwardly mumbling “Hello” and promptly turning into a human pylon. Romance, it turned out, had a restraining order against me.
Still, we had our moments. Santosh accompanied me to Bhubaneswar Club, where my father was a member. We roamed the town on my bike—the mighty Rajdoot, a beast that roared like a lion but handled like a water buffalo on roller skates. We clocked serious mileage, both in distance and memories.
I spent countless hours with Santosh—at his home and mine—talking about everything and nothing. But one memory sits head and shoulders above the rest.
It was a trip to Puri—me, Santosh, and Nee. After a few enthusiastic “drinkies,” we decided it was a good idea to embrace the sea. Well, the sea embraced back—with such ferocity that it ripped my pants clean off. One moment I was laughing in the waves, the next I was the lead in an unplanned nudist documentary. Santosh and Nee, true comrades, did their best to shield my modesty as we made our retreat. Towels, shirts, half a lungi—anything that could be fashioned into dignity was used. I’ve never been more exposed… or more grateful.
On another trip to Puri—this one with Santosh and a few "snakes" (the less said about them, the better), I found myself violently hungover and horizontal on the beach. While the snakes slithered off, possibly in search of cooler company, Santosh gently cradled my head in his lap, shielding me from the sun, the shame, and the sea breeze. It was less “Hangover” the movie, more “Kabir Singh meets Mother Teresa.”
That moment, strange and beautiful, made something absolutely clear: on that sand-swept, alcohol-soaked, snake-abandoned day, I found a true friend.
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