Never Too Late to Say Sorry:
Two Unusual Apologies
An Unusual Ragging
Dear Rama,
Please
forgive me for the liberties I took with you years ago when I was young,
mischievous and insensitive.
My
unconditional apology comes after many years—fifty-two, to be specific—but it’s
better late than never. I hope you will be as gracious in forgiving me as you
were in putting up with my misdemeanours.
Had you been
a typical senior at college, and a little less indulgent or kind, you would
have brusquely put me in my place, asked me to mind my manners, learn some
basic lessons in civility, and perhaps dumped me as persona non grata. But you
didn’t.
You didn’t
allow my antics and impudence to come in the way of our lifelong friendship.
Years later, you even established contact with my lonely father at Sambalpur
and spent time talking with him. That came naturally to you, for you also
sometimes walked up to Gopalmal to sit in silence with Shrimat Sahu—our dear Professor who had taught us during undergraduate years and had retired long ago.
He was very sad. He could no longer go for a walk, his failing vision prevented
him from reading, and he was weighed down by anxiety regarding the uncertain
future of his only son, who was mentally challenged. Yet, he stoically suffered
the indignities of old age and utter loneliness. Your visits perhaps brought a
little respite from his depression.
Why am I
telling you all this now? Because tomorrow, you and I may be gone, and I do not
wish my apology to remain unsaid. Also, I truly treasure you as a friend.
Ragging was
a customary rite of initiation during the 1970s in the engineering and medical
colleges at Burla in Odisha. But it was unheard of at Jyoti Vihar, perhaps
because the students had their turbulent teens behind them, and the uncertainty
of job prospects after the PG degree ahead of them. For the two-year PG course,
the seniors graciously welcomed and mentored the freshers.
P and one or
more of his classmates sometimes walked past the Central Library and along the
gravel track between paddy fields to the Men's Hostel, which had twin-sharing
rooms for juniors and single-occupancy rooms for seniors.
Each room
was a small cubicle with a bed of rough-hewn wooden planks, a wooden table and
chair, a small almirah and a slender book rack carved into the wall. There was
a window without grills to cool the room as best it could. Burla, surrounded by
bald hills, was hot for most of the year, and the ceiling fan did little to
cool the room. So, the students mostly read at night, though inside the
mosquito curtain on the bed.
P doesn't
recall why he was friendlier with two seniors—Rama Chandra and Rohini Kanta—than
with his own classmates. Maybe they were gentlemen, kind and soft-spoken. Both
were among the brightest students in their class. P visited them occasionally
at their hostel.
They
generally discussed academic matters, research for an upcoming seminar, or
books they were studying, such as The Waste Land and Death of a
Salesman. Seldom did they discuss family, friends or girls.
Rama
Chandra's peculiar sensitivity to tickling was perhaps discovered
inadvertently. Most people are averse to tickling, but none quite as much as
RC. He didn't even need to be touched. If P simply called him by his name with
an intonation conveying the mischief in his mind, RC would run for safety.
If tickled
for a second, he'd giggle for several minutes; if tickled longer, he'd roll on
the bed or the floor. He was totally at the mercy of his assailant—the tickler.
RC had an
electric heater in his room. He boiled tea dust for a long time to make strong
tea and added several spoons of sugar to make it drinkable. A cup kept him
awake for several hours.
P and his
friends would sometimes barge in unannounced, interrupting his studies, and
demand that tea be served. RC, like most other hostel residents, was on a tight
budget. Tea and sugar were expensive, and whatever he bought had to last a
month or more, till the next money order arrived from home. But he had no
choice. The guests didn't really request tea; they demanded it. Would you serve
us tea or else... They said without saying.
RC made tea
and also brought out a few biscuits and a little namkeen mixture—without doubt,
a bribe to prevent future ragging by the unwelcome guests.
Once, after
enjoying the tea and snacks, P's friend guarded the exit door while P made a
move towards RC. Sensing the imminent danger, RC, though attired in just a
loincloth wrapped around his waist, moved swiftly like a panther, jumped out of
the ground-floor window and vanished into the adjoining fields. He remained in
hiding until he was sure that his tormentors had left.
RC was most
generous. He didn't hold a grudge against his troublesome juniors. He remained
a friend for life.
He retired
as a Professor of English and now lives in Sambalpur. P calls him once in a
while for a chat.
Now, it's
time for an unconditional apology.
Sorry, Dear
Rama, for tormenting you and causing unbearable physical distress for our 'fun'
at your expense.
Some debts
of gratitude remain unpaid for decades. We remember them, occasionally feel a
twinge of remorse, and promise ourselves that we shall make amends someday.
Sometimes, that someday takes a lifetime.
For me, that
time has arrived now.
The Friend I Was Ashamed Of
Dear H,
I'm more
than a little embarrassed to remember you after ages. Please forgive my
negligence, callousness and ingratitude, and my failure to say 'Thank you' to a
friend who stood by me for years, in rain and thunder, scorching summer and
chilly winter.
You truly
helped me move ahead in life. I am what I am, and where I am, only because of
you.
Decades ago,
you stayed beside me like my own shadow, always ready to help despite your
failing health and creaking bones.
Did I ever
say a heartfelt thank you to you? No, never. Rather, I was embarrassed about
you, as though you were a poor relative with whom I was reluctant to be seen in
public.
How very
ungrateful I was! How sad you must have felt when I abandoned you at a distance
from the gate of the Ladies' Hostel, where I went to chat with my girlfriends.
I didn't want them to notice that you were my companion. What would they think
of me? Wouldn't they unfriend me instantly? I feared.
I'm truly
ashamed of myself. I should have introduced you to my friends, including my
girlfriends. I should have sung your praises for your muscular strength and
sturdiness despite your advanced age. I should have praised your dependable
service. I was remiss. I was petty-minded, insecure and disloyal to a loyal
friend.
I tender an
unqualified apology for my insensitive and inappropriate behaviour. I apologise
for not finding out what happened to you once I took a job and went far away
from home. I never even asked whether you were simply abandoned to die in a
dusty corner or were otherwise shabbily treated.
You deserved
a more respectful farewell.
Now, I write
this letter, an elegy for a dear friend.
Once again,
seeking your forgiveness, Dear Hercules Bicycle of 1935 vintage, which took me
to college and elsewhere during 1974–1980.
Note:
In the
mid-1930s, Hercules cycles sold in India were fully imported British models
manufactured by The Hercules Cycle and Motor Co. Ltd., Birmingham. Being a
premium, durable import, a Hercules bicycle, including accessories like a bell,
carrier or lamp, would generally cost about ₹30—which was then the price of a
tola of gold.
***
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