Why is it so hard to say goodbye?

 

I knew this day would come. In fact, I have been preparing myself for it for almost a year. But when it finally did come—when the cartons appeared and our house slowly began disappearing into boxes—I felt something I had not quite expected. A feeling that is still difficult to put into words.

South Campus has been our home for more than twenty-five years. And not just ours. For many of Kuku’s friends, this was also a second home. We became ma and dad to Jeena and Jo—to love, pamper and scold too. But perhaps no one claimed South Campus quite as naturally as Kinu did. When she could barely speak, almost every proposed outing had the same destination: “South Campus”

She grew up here in many ways. Whenever she is back home, a stay in South Campus is always there. As it happens, she is here even now, doing an internship and staying on campus. The other evening she returned from work, opened the door and saw the house half packed. Her eyes filled up. She looked around and said simply, “It’s not fair.”

Perhaps it isn’t. But then, that is what life does. You move on.

I have spent much of my life on campuses. My childhood and early years were spent on the Banaras Hindu University campus. Yet when I left BHU, I do not remember feeling anything quite like this. Maybe it is because I am older now. But somehow, I don’t think that is the reason.

We moved into South Campus about twenty-five years ago, when it was a much smaller place, with far fewer buildings than one sees today. Our first home was on the first floor—a small bedroom, a kitchen and a sitting room; what one would now grandly advertise as a 1-BHK. But it had a lovely rooftop and a beautiful staircase leading up to it, and we loved it.

From there we moved to one of the newer quarters, and finally to our present house, with its lawn, garden and all the little things we have added to it over the years. In each of the three houses we lived in, we built things, changed things, planted things and slowly made the place our own.

But I realise now that it was never really the houses that mattered.

It was campus life. It was the people.

Somewhere along the way, South Campus stopped being merely the place where I worked and became a rather large, slightly eccentric extended family.

And what a pampered life it gave us.

The campus was safe—so safe that handing over the keys of your house to someone was hardly something you thought twice about. There were people like Rais ji (bless his soul), Khan Saab, Nandkishore ji, Murthy in the canteen, Ram, my Man Friday, and so many others whom one simply trusted.

If something went wrong at home, there was rarely any need for an elaborate complaint or a service request. You spotted someone on your way to the department and said, “Rais ji, woh batti chal nahin rahi hai” More often than not, you handed him the key and went off to work.

By the time you came home, the batti was working again.

For years, we did not even realise how extraordinary that was.

When we moved here, Kuku was in Class X, and the campus was full of children. It was an interesting age spread. Kuku and a few others were the senior-most, and it ran all the way down to some who had probably just walked out of nursery.

In fact, Kuku had become part of this gang even before we shifted here. She would return from school to my department, get a phone call—“Come over to play”—and she would disappear.

Every evening the campus belonged to them. They played pittu, cricket, football, pakdam-pakdai and all sorts of invented games, running through open spaces and around half-built buildings. Even during their Board exams, they would come out and play like mad for a couple of hours, sometimes with a paper the very next morning. The campus was vibrant, and wonderfully safe. The children simply found one another and kept themselves occupied.

The adults had their share of campus life too. There was an active Women’s Club, Diwali get-togethers, Holi milan (when we went from one house to the other) and annual fêtes where everyone brought or sold their speciality—cakes, South Indian food and, of course, Shweta’s rather famous beetroot cutlets.

One summer, the Women’s Club even organised a theatre camp conducted by Mr. Dixit, a scientific officer in the Department of Plant Molecular Biology who, I later learnt, was also an accomplished writer and theatre artist. The children spent the summer learning theatre and ended it with a performance for all of us.

Those children eventually grew up, built careers and moved away. By the time Kinu arrived, quite a few of the original gang had moved on to college. But she simply made her own South Campus world—with the Next Gen kids, our neighbours, my colleagues and the campus staff. Quite a few of her early birthday parties were celebrated on the South Campus lawns—before she grew up and McDonald’s and other places became more attractive.

Perhaps that is why both Kuku and Kinu remain so attached to this place. For them, South Campus was never really where we lived. It was where they grew up.

And talking of celebrations brings me to Murthy. Whenever there was a party, he was the man to go to. Though famous for his South Indian food, Murthy could organise almost any menu—from kebabs and Mughlai food to North Indian and South Indian fare. He catered countless gatherings for us, first on the rooftop of our little 1-BHK and later on the lawns of our present house.

And it did not stop with us. Murthy became the person our extended family called whenever a caterer was needed. If there was a gathering and food had to be organised, my first thought was invariably, “Ask Murthy.”

He is no longer with us. But he was one of those people I could depend upon completely—not just when it came to food, but even when we suddenly needed a replacement gas cylinder or Shweta needed someone to come and change one.

And when it came to parties, we certainly partied a lot on this campus—sometimes with family, sometimes with our students, and very often with colleagues who had by then become close friends.

As more of us moved into the campus apartments, we gradually became a rather close-knit family. Parties rarely needed a reason or much planning. Someone might spot a sparrow, the sun might suddenly come out on a cold winter morning, there might be a pleasant breeze—and that was reason enough to sit down together.

We gossiped, we sang, we danced too—at times—made elaborate plans for trips (Make My Trip!) that were never taken, and generally found excuses to spend time together. When we were a 'little younger' and perhaps a little less serious, some of us even formed what we grandly called the Fukre Gang. There was no particular purpose to it, which was perhaps the whole purpose.

With time, of course, friends became busier, took up various responsibilities, and the completely extempore parties gradually became fewer. But the feeling behind them never really disappeared.

South Campus also became the place where my extended family gathered every December. They came from different cities, sometimes even from as far away as the US, and somehow December 31 came to mean our house in South Campus. Family mixed easily with colleagues and friends, and the evening invariably involved food, drinks, music, dancing and a great deal of laughter.

Now that we are leaving, “Ab South Campus mein New Year party nahi hoga!!!” hits with a bittersweet nostalgia.

And then there were my colleagues. I was fortunate to have a great set of them. For a long time, I remained one of the juniors among the seniors, until one day a new bunch of juniors arrived and I was no longer quite as junior as I liked to believe.

I was lucky to share an extremely good rapport with both ends of this large spectrum. Of course, we had our differences—and sometimes fairly strong ones—but, by and large, we managed to keep them professional. Perhaps what helped was that most of us learnt to disagree and then simply move on.

My friendships also ran across departments. One of the great strengths of South Campus was that you could bypass departmental boundaries when you needed to. I can hardly remember being told “No.” It could be a chemical I had run out of, an instrument I needed to use, or even financial help when the money in a project had temporarily dried up. Someone, somewhere, usually helped.

Looking back, I feel extraordinarily fortunate for that.

Many of them stopped being just colleagues a long time ago. They became friends, and some became family. We did not always agree—and perhaps that was precisely why those relationships survived. We had somehow learnt the useful art of agreeing to disagree.

And how can I forget the taxi stand just outside the campus? Right from the early days there was Gurnam ji and his band of drivers. Whatever the hour, one could depend on them to turn up on time, whether it was for an early morning airport drop or a late-night pickup.

In more recent years, Amarjeet ji became our go-to person. He was Amarjeet bhaiya/uncle to Kuku and Kinu, and I trust him completely. If they had to go out late, I could simply tell him where and when. He would make sure they reached safely, and then, just as importantly, extract them from the party at the appointed hour and bring them back home.

Over the years, he too became more than just someone we called for a taxi. He became part of our extended family—someone we knew we could call at almost any hour and rely on without a second thought.

The list of people who made South Campus what it was for us is endless. The malis, cleaners, guards, administrative staff—over the years they all became part of our lives. You could ask for help, often at the most inconvenient hour, and somehow someone would respond.

Even outside the campus there was South Moti Bagh—Bharat Store, the chemist, the bookstore, the chasmawala and the other little shops. After so many years, these were no longer just shops and shopkeepers. They knew our stories and we knew theirs. They had shared our joys and, at times, our difficult days too.

And then there are my canine friends.

Perhaps this is the part of leaving that I have been trying not to think about.

Two of ours, Random and Quantum, are themselves South Campus born. There were always a few others around our house too, turning up for some food, a safe corner or simply a little petting. Then came COVID, and that family grew considerably. Feeding them gave us something to look forward to during those strange months and, in many ways, they probably did as much to keep us sane as we did to keep them fed.

I had thought that once COVID ended, things would go back to the way they were. But once you have seen a face waiting patiently for you every evening, it is rather difficult to tell them that the pandemic is over and so is our arrangement.

So they stayed.

Lambu, Kittu, Bicchu, Dheet, Kalu and many many more..... each arrived at a different time and simply became part of the family. They wait not only for food but for their little bit of daily pampering. And they loved back unconditionally, as only they can.

They are going to be the hardest ones to say goodbye to. In their own way they have told me that they are sensing a change... how do I explain it to them?

I cannot take them all with me, nor do I want to uproot them from what is, after all, their home. I tell myself that they are survivors and that others will come along to feed them, call their names and scratch their heads.

I know they will manage.

But that doesn't make leaving them any easier.

Perhaps only now do I understand just how much South Campus pampered me. It gave me a home, friends who became family, people I could depend upon, children growing up around me, parties that needed no reason—and finally this motley bunch waiting for me every evening.

For more than twenty-five years, South Campus made it very easy to belong.

Perhaps that is why it is now so difficult to leave.