20 years ago, Bombay gifted me a July
July 28, 2005: A city drowned as the skies opened like never before. We were a bunch of students, eager and restless, standing at the threshold of our professional lives. Less than a month in an institute, we had joined with wide-eyed enthusiasm – the JR batch of 2005 at Xavier Institute of Communications, Mumbai. And that evening, as tragic as it eventually was for the city, gave us the unexpected chance to truly know one another.
This picture, as the cliché goes, tells a thousand stories – and at least 87 remain fresh in my mind. It’s a little over 20 years old now, yet it feels like yesterday. Another cliché, I know.
Cut to July 28, 2005. A city drowned as the skies opened like never before. We were a bunch of students, eager and restless, standing at the threshold of our professional lives. Less than a month in an institute, we had joined with wide-eyed enthusiasm – the JR batch of 2005 at Xavier Institute of Communications, Mumbai. And that evening, as tragic as it eventually was for the city, gave us the unexpected chance to truly know one another.
The skies roared while we sat blissfully unaware in the classroom. Then came the announcement: “Class dismissed. Get home as quick as you can.” Some of us did, some couldn’t. And some of us – the owners of these trusted Nokias – stayed back. We were 13. Left behind. Or were we? We had each other.
We sang, we danced, we stayed together. We were silly enough to step out into the storm, sneaking out of college, ignoring wiser advice, embracing a flooding South Bombay (yes, it will always be Bombay to me). That afternoon, we were almost strangers; by midnight, we were family. Strangers on the street cheered us, helped us, loved us; we loved them right back. We had enough in our hearts to go around.
For two nights and three days, we stayed together, anchored in a college, a city that had never felt more our own.
For two nights and three days, we stayed together, anchored in a college, a city that had never felt more our own.
And this picture? It’s from that first night, taken at a popular coffee shop that offered us shelter and steaming hot cups of coffee at 2 AM. A simple photo of simple phones – unlike the smart ones that rule our lives today. That night, we had no internet, no social media, enough battery to last us through, and far more love for each other and the city than we realised.
The 13 of us, a small part of that JR batch, now wear different hats in different corners of the country and of life. Some bonds remain, some have gently loosened, but that July remains ours. We were foolhardy, not brave. Irresponsible, not heroic. And we were not sorry. Perhaps we still aren’t.
Two of the 13 appear in this other photo from that night; today, they can be found offering wisdom to a new group of strangers-turned-family at XIC.
By Biprorshee Das
