Everyone agrees that the ending of a year is symbolic. A culmination of everything that was- good or bad, a defining tone of finality, complete closure. At the same time, with just one passing second, there is yet another tomorrow. A new hope, limitless opportunity and unbound scope. Everywhere around us, events occur which are mirrored in this perennial phenomenon. Be it the emergence of the butterfly from its chrysalis, the appearance of fresh new leaves on bare wintry boughs or simply birth and death- the oldest and most sacred rituals known to man. It is the rite of passage, the simple passing of the baton.

It is therefore fitting (symbolic would be too symbolic a word here) that one of the most sacred ceremonies at IIM Cal takes place around this season. The word itself is just perfect. It is indeed time to reminiscence, not just for the returning heroes, but also for the welcoming hordes. To look back at the time that has been and look ahead at what lies in store, while doing what you can to define it. The last week has seen 60 of our revered Elders return and take centre stage once more. They, who had left the alma mater with eyes that shone of promise and a will to scale new heights, returned to the place which gave them the gifts to do exactly that and more. A simple look at the brief snapshot of each one of them is ample testimony to their more than impressive achievements. For one memorable weekend, we watched in awe as more and more of the newsmakers of those yellow pages that are delivered to our rooms every morning filled the familiar landscape. We witnessed in wonder, the curious case of all these Benjamin Buttons as time flew backwards, putting 20-something souls into 40-something bodies. And we observed in admiration, the 25-year old camaraderie, that once defined the soul of this place and forms of which continue to do so, take shape once more and become increasingly palpable.

As we made sure that Reminiscence 2009 was a reason to remember, the symbolic season entered our thought process and we tried to get a glimpse of the next chapter. As the new year, and with it the new decade, loomed tantalizingly in the distance, we wondered what our own homecoming would be like. 25 years after we leave the portals of the land with the 7 lakes, how much of what we have taken will we be able to give back? 25 years will see us establish ourselves into the transition that is about to begin soon. We will start ahead in the rat race that the real world is supposed to be, and battle to stay ahead of the pack. There will be 2 battle-lines firmly drawn within us as well- the expanding waistline and the receding hairline, and we wonder which battle will be easier. And then the ring of yet another Blackberry brought us back to the gala night and as we saw the owner pop it away to continue his precious discussion with another of his ilk, we realized that we had some enormous shoes to fill. And then we reached for another helping of the delicious fare.

25 years later, bonfires, bulbs and our own anticipation will light up this southern suburb of Calcutta once more. Amidst deafening thumps shall we walk again on the metaphorical red-carpet and go about separating the old comfortable familiar with the new and exciting unfamiliar. Climate change might have taken place, leaving environmentalists among us bemoaning while the more athletic of us firmly strap our ice-skates on. The promising new profs of today, bright sparks in the present’s vast floodlight, will by then have become the legends that constitute the yore of Joka- the wonders that the excited newbie calls to tell his friend about, scarcely believing his luck at being taught by such distinguished academics. New and more sophisticated hostels will dot these everyday grounds, but somehow, our own hostel shall remain the best. Footer-volley will kick off again, although the legs that do so will have lost considerable agility. 25 years later, as the age divide disappears, obeying its annual custom, and we, along with the then-students, make merry along the crackling bonfire; as the young and the old revel together as the Children of IIM-C and as all worries are forgotten for one brief, yet unforgettable winter evening, the spirit of Joka shall rise once more. And its silent joy shall be audibly shared by one and all.

-MM