Reunion reflections

I just came back from my 25-year college reunion. I did not expect anything at all from the reunion. I just thought of it as another event. I thought I would attend and move on to other things. But the reunion turned out to be a cathartic experience in ways I would not have foreseen. The conversations invariably started with "What are you doing now?" and "How many kids, Work” etc. The hi-tea resembled a corporate networking event. One thing I took particular pride in was noticing my classmates’ receding hairlines—while mine remained relatively intact (More or less). We spent no time admiring careers or wealth, but I couldn’t help quietly gloating about my hairline.

By the time the hi-tea and the speed dating were over, we had warmed up and went straight for the juggernaut- unlocking old memories.

It has been a week since I came back from the reunion. The memories refuse to fade away. It seems difficult to shrug off the deluge of emotions and get back to the routine. The four years (not three) that I spent at this college were the most formative years of my life. While I ostensibly went to IHM to learn new crafts, education and learning didn't rank at the top of my memory. I would remember IHM more for falling in love, making new friendships, riding a bike, and wasting away precious hours at the beach.  The memory of being in love is still so vivid, even after all these years. That heady mix of anticipation, vulnerability, and hope colored every corridor and late-night conversation. I also lived through painful memories of dropping out a year, struggling through the industrial trainee period, and surviving the disastrous campus recruitment phase. It is hard to imagine how social media could have shaped or tarnished this innocent phase. Perhaps not recording them on social media is what made those years feel so innocent. We lived them once and only once, without performing our lives for an audience.

The video montage on day 1  had this epic line on food production results in Rishu’s hoarse voice: “a few of you opened the marksheet and looked at the numbers and made peace with God.” That profound line opened the floodgates in a way an armchair psychiatrist could not have. The brief conversations on the dance floor, half-shouted over the music, unlocked memories stored on shelves I did not know still existed. Stories of competing for female attention, splurging on coffee at Taj Kanagham only to discover we didn't have any cash, and asking spectacularly foolish questions in AKD's class resurfaced as if they had happened yesterday.

Hareesh’s presentation at the college was profound in ways he may never fully realize. The slideshow transported us back to 1999: AB Vajpayee was Prime Minister, Azharuddin captained the Indian cricket team, and the country was at war. That alone vividly set the time and place. His reflections on how many of us moved away from the industry and on the lasting impact our teachers had were evocatively delivered. Naturally, he couldn’t resist reminding me about the food production results yet again—rekindling memories I had hoped would stay buried in the “do not recycle bin”!

The trouble with memories is that once they awaken, they refuse to obey instructions. You cannot decide when to summon them, and you certainly cannot decide when to dismiss them. In that sense, memories are a lot like time itself. We cannot slow them down, speed them up, or hold on to them. They linger for a while, and then quietly slip away on their own terms. Until they do, they circle endlessly through the mind, returning from different angles and asking uncomfortable questions.  - Did this really happen? Should I have done that? The most devious side effects of walking down the memory lane are the counterfactuals: “ Had I only studied the anatomy of the egg,” “ if only I had known the different ways of fish fillets,” “Had I only given a different answer at the OCLD GD.” It is a bit of a whack-a-mole; you try to shut down one voice, and another springs up.

Perhaps that was the real gift of the reunion. Not the event itself, but the reminder that beneath the layers of careers, responsibilities, receding hairlines, expanding waistlines, and aging parents, the eighteen-year-old version of ourselves is still very much alive. All it takes is the right voice (Rishu and Ghislaine), Hareesh’s epic slide show, or the right group of friends to bring it all back for an evening.

Old photos and tales set us free,
Some memories sting, most bring glee.
We laugh, and we groan,
At hairlines now shown—
It’s life’s greatest mix, we agree!