[Dear BEC/BESU/IIEST friends: I deeply regret that we will not be able to attend this year’s picnic. I am presenting the following to let you know how I love even the memories of B.E. College.
Sincerely, Asitda]
Before you start protesting, I must tell you that I am well aware that B. E. College has recently transformed into IIEST (Indian Institute of Engineering Science and Technology), after being briefly known as BESU (Bengal Engineering and Science University). But to me, an old-timer, reminiscing over the nostalgic memories, the name “B. E. .College” somehow seems to be closer to my heart.
As a young boy I had heard of Shibpur Engineering College, that being the popular name of B. E. College and was in awe of the apparent exclusiveness of this seemingly unattainable institution. Only the rich and privileged ones could dare enter this bastion of high-tech education, with the sure knowledge of being posted in high positions after graduation. In the entire country there were only three other such exclusive colleges of engineering: one in Pune, one in Roorkee, and the other in Chennai.
Well, enough of history. In 1951, after I passed my Intermediate Science Examination, I was rather aimless about the next academic move. Just then, one of my closest friends returned from Kolkata and announced, “I have brought an application form for B. E. College for you also”. That was a momentous turning point. I could not afford to go there, yet I did apply and even passed the written admission test and the follow-up aptitude test.
Now the fun begins. I made it to the interview. It was a large oblong room with a high ceiling in the impressive main building of the college. There was a long and shiny table. The Principal was sitting at one end. Two rows of impressive-looking gentlemen took seats on either side. I was asked to sit at the other end facing the Principal’s spectacled gaze. Well, I felt like the proverbial sacrificial lamb. After very brief niceties, I was asked a series of questions relating to electricity, since I had applied for admission to Electrical Engineering. I came from a town with no electricity and promptly and quite consciously gave all wrong answers.
As I wished to disappear like Sita, the Principal asked, “Do you have a hobby?”
“Drawing.”
“Can you draw a picture of this gentleman in two minutes?”
“Yes, sir.”
Did I know that the next two minutes would change my life forever? The Principal offered me a slate and a pencil. As soon as the two minutes were over, he took the slate back. Looking at my sketch, he flashed a big smile and declared, “If you want to be considered for Electrical Engineering, you will hear from us. But if you want to be in Architecture, you are in.” Well, was he talking about agriculture? I had never heard of architecture till that moment. The Principal patiently explained it all to me and assured me that the prospects are extremely bright for Architects in the newly independent India. Well, since a bird in hand is better than a hundred in the bush, I chose to be “in”. Later I found out that the hapless subject of my two-minute sketch was the Head of the Department of Architecture.
When I arrived in our campus for the first semester, to my surprise I was put up in a military barrack, along with thirteen others. Yes, a military barrack. Architects are part-artists and part-engineers and certainly not fighters. But I could not argue the case at that time. Perhaps the Administration wanted us to learn military discipline starting with day one. But that was not to be. Here I met my class-friend, Mihir Kiran Ghosh, one of the most remarkable human beings. He was a product of Belur Bidyamandir and showed it through his poise, knowledge of Yogas, and daily meditation in the midst of a crowd so to say, He was princely in looks, played the flute and sang well. That was not all. He also performed magic-tricks and would hypnotize a few of our mutual class-friends with ease. We shared rooms in the second and third years also. It is needless to say that he influenced me a great deal and it was anything but militaristic. Now a bit of post script. After gradation he learned Manipuri Dance, fell in love with his guru’s daughter, and together they performed on noted stages in Kolkata while maintaining his architectural practice.
You are naturally in total darkness about the college environment. Well, at about 300 acres, the campus was neither too large, nor too small. Every corner of the campus, including the barracks I just talked about, was within a very easy walking distance from the central main building. And walk we did for every task. As a result, we got to know the then 650 students’ faces, if not their names. This knowing paid off when I looked for a suitable apartment- mate immediately after registering at M.I.T. here. Sure as anything, I soon ran into a face I had known at B.E.C. And together we found an apartment to share with one of his friends. But back to our campus. It was situated to the north of the Ganges (also locally known as “Hooghly River”) and west of the famed Botanical Gardens. We took advantage of both often, since where else would you find two such calming yet exhilarating places virtually at your doorstep? Visiting these with our friends helped bonding with the help of Mother Nature. At night, the imposing clock tower, with its reflection in the lake at its base, stood as a sentinel for the entire campus. The images are unforgettable.
Our department was housed in its entirety in the middle section of the third floor (second floor, as per the Indian system of counting floors) of the imposing main building (photo below, photographer unknown). There were wide staircases on either side. We negotiated the stairs with almost a sliding motion, while wearing wooden sleepers. Alas, today I have to measure each step even while walking. Ours was an enormous columned hall which housed some one hundred large drawing tables for the five years. In those days, there were no computers and hence no computer-aided drawing or design (CAD). Often, here we spent two-thirds of our 24-hour days, leaning over the drawing tables and slept on any free table under a fan in full speed, whenever we wanted to have a break. Sounds dreary, doesn’t it? It was anything but, since we were passionately engaged in creating designs for buildings. We competed but also admired each other’s creations and not so infrequently lent a helping hand too. Spending five years in this one large hall with one mission turned us into brothers, into life-long friends, who remained friends even after six long decades.
But for one unusual happening in our department I would not be here as early as 1958. India’s independence had just begun. U.S.A. made all possible gestures to help the infant democracy. One such move was the creation of “The Technical Co-operation Mission,” through which teachers would visit each other’s country. Thanks to this, we had as many as three American architects teaching us. Our library was flooded with American books and journals on architecture. Even though I, hailing from a small town, had no practice of speaking English till 1951, we all became fluent in American English in no time. One memorable gesture from our professors was to bring food and drinks to the department in the dead of the night, when we would be working on our designs and drawings. In 1958, I sailed, yes sailed *, to U.S.A. with the mission of teaching architecture in this country. My American English went a long way in my students’ understanding me and vice-versa. I reciprocated our professors’ gesture by bringing food and drinks to my students here in the dead of the night.
Even though my first year was spent in a military barrack, the second and third years were in shared rooms with two others and the final two years in single rooms and all in regular hostel buildings. Boys being boys, you can well imagine the mischief that took place in the hostels. I shall mention two small ones and then a more elaborate one. First the smallest one. One of our friends was in the National Cadet Corps. He used to go home on weekend nights wearing his khaki uniform and upon return late at night would take off his boots and kick the mosquito net. The net would fall and he would fall asleep. Now we had a wicked idea. One evening we turned the net upside down, so that it would be blocked by the corner strings, instead of falling. When he came back and kicked the net it did not fall of course. He was utterly confused at first but soon realized what had happened and without saying a word, put the net back the way it should be. Through it all we, his roommates, pretended to be fast asleep, but silently laughed as hard as we could. Now the second small one. Since there was no question of insecurity, no one locked the door to his single room while sleeping inside at night. One fine night when it was all quiet in my hostel, a rather co-operating cow was marched in to the hostel and put inside one hapless boy’s room, which was then duly locked from outside. The confused cow must have started exploring and put its large head inside the mosquito net. I leave the rest to your imagination.
Now the elaborate one. This happened during one of our annual India tours to study historic buildings. We were a group of around thirty boys, all occupying one single railway compartment or one single hotel room. Imagine, all thirty in one room. Naturally every single square foot of horizontal space was covered with a sleeping bag. It was one such night in a hotel room. In the dead of the night, when everyone was asleep, or were they, a woman in sari was quietly ushered in. She was led to one of the boys, the deliberately chosen one. She started kissing and caressing him. He was in utter disbelief and started cursing everyone for stooping so low. As you can well imagine not one single individual was asleep. They were having the greatest laugh in the world but without making a sound. The boy bolted out of the room and locked himself in the bathroom. And the woman, in reality one of the short-statured boys dressed in a sari, changed to his proper dress and joined the chorus of loud laughter.
Before you decide that we were playing only mischief I like to add that we used to have entertainment of a sublime kind too. Every year, in Spring, there would be the Reunion, lasting three to four days. A huge tent used to be put up on the central open space, called the Oval. The highlight of the reunion used to be music, dance and dramas performed by the best of artists from Kolkata, including those from the film world and the theater world. Hemanta Kumar, Sandhya Mukherji, Dhananjoy, Utpal Datta, Pannalal, Dwijen and of course Shombhu Mitra are some of the names which come to my mind readily. There were many others but alas some 65 years since have erased some names from my mind.
We now come to the final episode. All students used to have what was known as “mess duty.” Two students would be responsible for one week for managing everything concerning the meals, starting with the menu, ordering the grocery and maintaining the meal schedule. There used to be keen competition to outdo others in terms of what was served within a fixed budget, which reflected what each student paid for one month to cover four meals a day. Well, it was 35 Rupees per month. One week it was the turn of me with another boy. We decided that we will treat all the students with “mishty doi,” but not any “mishty doi” would do. It had to be the famous “poyodhi” of “Jalajog” restaurant on Rashbehari Avenue in southern Kolkata. Two long bus-rides away. I still do not how we did it, carrying two large “harees” (earthen containers) each, all the way back to the hostel, after changing buses at Howrah Station, and bringing them back unbroken. It is needless to say that all were pleasantly surprised. We won the unwritten competition. In Sanskrit it is said, “modhureno shomapoyet,” meaning one should end a feast with sweets. So, I end here with the thought of one of Bengal’s most favorite dish, “mishty doi.”
*In those days everyone came by ship. I sailed from Mumbai, landed in Marseilles in France, and crossed Europe by train, English Channel by a ferry, and England by train. Thereupon I sailed from Southampton by a smaller version of the Titanic and landed in Montreal. From Montreal I took greyhound buses to New York and finally to Raleigh, N.C. The entire trip cost Rs. 3000/- and took one month. I wrote a detailed article on this trip for “Pratichi” several years ago. But I shall be happy to share again. •