Namita Gokhale Talks about Trials, Travails And Triumphs At JMC

Delhi University: Celebrating 100 Glorious Years edited Hardeep S Puri is an eclectic collection of personal narratives and reflections of some of the University’s most distinguished alumni and faculty. An excerpt from the chapter titled Trials, Travails And Triumphs At JMC by Namita Gokhale

This is the tale of a troubled but rewarding chapter of my life. The year was 1972. I was 16, and among the youngest in my class when I passed of out of Mater Dei Convent in December 1971. Our school was often referred to as ‘Matar Dahi Convent’; it was conventional and strict,
but I have happy memories of it. I had received admission to Miranda House, Lady Shri Ram College (LSR) as well as the recently established Jesus and Mary College (JMC) in Chanakyapuri (St. Stephen’s College only opened its doors to women students in 1975).

I was strangely drawn to the peace and quiet of JMC, to the birdsong and the banks of bougainvillea, and the large, well-lit library. The college was affiliated to the South Campus. Several of my school friends enrolled there, as did I. Little did I know or imagine the deep impact this decision would leave on the rest of my life.

It was exhilarating to be young and full of hope. So many adventures awaited all of us. We were not so world-weary as today’s generation. Books. Films. Travel. Boys. There was so much to learn, so much to look forward to. Some snapshots from memory: sashaying down a makeshift ramp and tripping over my cotton sari as I was crowned first runner-up in the Miss JMC Contest. Catching the Ladies Special to the college, with a busload of happy, giggling, carefree girls. The library, where I was always the first to find my perch. e teachers—a brilliant and committed lot. Muriel Wasi, Shobhana Bhattacharjee, Malashri Lal and so many others—opening our eyes to the wonders of focused literary appreciation.

Looking back so many years later, I recall the sense of calm, of expectancy, of vast expanse. Brisk mornings, golden afternoons. I wanted to study philology and become an academic. It was all planned out, meant to unroll as smoothly as a red carpet. If I didn’t meet the man of my dreams by the time I was 27, I would have an arranged marriage. Twentys even felt impossibly old, over the hill—I was still just 16.

We often wore saris, me and my friends, not because we had to but because we loved the texture and drape of the cotton. It was the Guddi look, inspired by the young Jaya Bhaduri. e default mode was bell bottoms, favoured by both boys and girls. The boys usually sported sideburns and lived in a haze of idealism. They smoked and smoked up a lot, and talked of Keynesian economics and strummed at guitars.

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Delhi University seemed a different universe, with a different pace, a different vocabulary. I had a group of friends who were boys—not quite boyfriends—in St. Stephen’s College. There was the iconic Kooler Talk, with its sometimes indecipherable jokes. e boys from Hindu
College and Shri Ram College of Commerce (SRCC) were distinct in their vocabulary, their attitudes, and through so many other intangible markers. e Miranda House girls were different too, more ‘cool’, more radical and more independent than us JMC-types. As for the girls from the LSR, they were on another level altogether in their determination and focus. Looking back, I reflect on how each college had such
a distinctive identity, each reflecting the personalities and dedication of their distinct and distinguished faculty who invested so much of themselves in the teaching profession.

The year is now 1973. I was older but not really much wiser. I was 17 and wading my way through exciting discoveries and hurtful betrayals. I came second in the university in English literature that year, and it felt good. I was in awe of Shakespeare and enchanted by Dickens, but the sheen of English literature was wearing off. It seemed distanced in its vocabulary and subtext from the life around me. I had encountered the plays of Mohan Rakesh, seen them enacted at the All India Fine Arts and Crafts Society theatre, which was not far from where I lived. I was deeply impacted by Ghashiram Kotwal, by Vijay Tendulkar, performed in Hindi. I had seen Tughlaq by Girish Karnad being staged against the magnificent ramparts of Purana Qila, with the legendary actor Manohar Singh playing the lead. I had discovered the literary power of my mother tongue, sensed the creative excitement as contemporary writers, playwrights and actors reinterpreted their times.

Excerpted with permission from Delhi University: Celebrating 100 Glorious Years edited Hardeep S. Puri published by Rupa.

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