What haven't we done for our country?
Some of us died,
Some of us gave public speeches.
Orhan Veli Kanik If you are a shy, nine-year-old kid and, and suddenly one day two older students ask you whether you have a girlfriend, you would likely be uneasy. I certainly was. And that was how I first met Suman. That was also the way I remembered him until 10 years later when, during my undergraduate years, I would be initiated to his circle of friends by another acquaintance, LK with whom I studied in Guwahati. Each time we visited home, if I wanted to meet him, a corner table in a particular tea shop would become the temporary address for LK & Co.
The first time I sat with them was during our autumn break. Over several rounds of tea and snacks that extended well over three hours, I talked to all five of them. Some had just finished their undergraduate studies and, probably with no prospect of employment, were killing time by sipping tea, reading newspapers and discussing anything under the sky, from state politics to Madhuri Dixit's cleavage. The rest were still doing their undergraduate studies, losing a few years of their academic lives along the way. In a small town with nowhere to go, gossip over tea was the only form of entertainment; and so, like everyone else, they too used to drop by every evening.
The weather was no longer hot and humid during that trip, so no one was sweating. In addition, if you sat and drank three cups of tea and then had to bicycle home, the natural instinct was to visit the toilet before leaving for the night. One evening, when Suman did not make such a move, someone reminded him about it; in reply, he simply pointed to his T-shirt. Everyone nodded and laughed. On Suman's T-shirt was written Ajinomoto and the logo of the Japanese company – in Assamese, the phonetic equivalent of which meant 'I will not urinate today'. This was obviously a guy to be appreciated, and over the following year I spent many evenings sitting with Suman and the group.