The Reunion: Of Housie, Hilarity, and the Art of Letting Go
The housie that night was a little different — nostalgic, humorous, and mildly wicked in the best sense of the word. Instead of the usual “Two little ducks, twenty-two,” our host called out boxes marked with nicknames and one-liners. Each strike came with a burst of laughter, and every name carried a story — half-truths, full memories, and generous doses of exaggeration.
Someone had nicknamed me “Nana.” Not out of reverence for any wise elder, but because — once upon a time — I bore an unfortunate resemblance to the Bollywood villain Spot Nana.
Now that, of course, deserves its backstory.
It began with an eccentric outing that involved the Five North Indians of our otherwise Mumbaikar-dominated batch — a band of brothers bonded by their shared alienness and misplaced confidence. On a particularly inspired afternoon, we decided to shave our heads. Don’t ask why. Perhaps it was a moment of collective enlightenment. Or just heatstroke.
The barber obliged, and in a few swipes of his razor, our hair fell like academic ambition after a pharmacology viva. By the next morning, the gang had become the talk of the town — round faces gleaming under hostel lights, and with the conspicuous absence of moustaches, we looked less like students and more like villains auditioning for a remake of Pratibandh.
Last Thursday, inside that closed room where open minds congregated, our beloved housie caller shouted, “Nana!” The room erupted. Laughter spilled over the tablecloths, mingling with the clinking of glasses and the scent of nostalgia that hung in the air like a familiar aftershave.
It wasn’t just a game that night — it was a séance of sorts. Every joke was a gentle summoning of our younger selves; every laugh, a small act of reclaiming something we thought we’d lost in the seriousness of adulthood.
The night rolled on like a good memory does — easy, unhurried, glowing from within.
Atop the catamaran deck, with the magnificent Panjim bridge glimmering against red skyward hues, my gaze soaked in the charm of an orange sky. The sun was poised to kiss the horizon off the serene Goan shore. I stood still, wondering what made the evening perfect — the magnificent sundowner or the lingering music that had my comrades swaying to the tune of Yamma Yamma.
No masks, no posturing — just the warmth of people who’ve seen you at your worst haircut and your best comeback.
And if you think all these philosophical detours are purely my own musings, you’re mistaken. Me along with my highly learned friend — straight from a Virginia ER — had been wholly engulfed by the sermons of Sirsa wale Baba. Babaji had already distributed his Gyan ki Geeta, the last page of which read, “Ye bheja mujhe de de, Thakur.”
By the way, this ER specialist suffers from a rare hyperrhythmic brain disorder that gets triggered by any sound even remotely resembling music. Don’t you think so?
There was an oxymoronic twist to this reunion — meeting a few members for the first time: the better halves of the legendary Tonamec T*i gang. A pleasant addition, I must admit (as long as their access remains… limited).
The party ended. The glasses emptied. But something lingered in the Goan air — a lightness, a quiet sense of letting go. Not of the people, not of the past — but of the weight of everything that came after
