When news came that a Netflix show about the IITs was about to hit the stands, my reaction wasn’t the wide-eyed anticipation of someone about to see his life (I am an alum) represented on screen. Instead, I had the wariness of a New York gangster who had just been told about an upcoming Martin Scorsese film. Nearly two decades after Five Point Someone and 12 years after 3 Idiots, there was still something left to be said about the IITs? It is now a genre, with its own tropes. I did not care for another tale of the closeted artist reined in by society’s singularly narrow definition of success. In a romanticised reconstruction of my youth I am indeed that closeted artist. But it’s been 18 years since I graduated. I want to bury that young man, not praise him.
But “Alma Matters” does not play by these rules. In fact, it eschews the non-fiction imperative of advancing a point of view. The show is neither elite university triumphalism nor a formulaic story on the price of ambition. Also, it does not care much about plot. The structure is part thematic. The gender imbalance, placement season nightmares, the camaraderie, parental expectations, and yes — suicide, are covered sequentially. The structure is part chronological. The initial bits are about first impressions of campus, the wide gulf between the infinite hype and the reality. The third and final episode ends with our heroes getting placed and bidding misty eyed goodbyes to their beloved university. The pace is unhurried.
There are many things to love. IIT Kharagpur celebrates Diwali in its own way. Boys and girls spend a month creating 40-feet tall, and 60-feet wide paintings from Hindu mythology made of earthen pots, oil, and cotton wicks. It is art, made of fire. The canvas is an exquisite piece of ephemera. The tiny lights flicker, hanging in space, telling stories of demons versus Gods and a gust of wind or an autumn shower would kill it in minutes. The tradition and the craft is called “illu”, after illumination. There is a wonderful addendum to the illu sequence. The enterprise involves back breaking labor, and not inconsiderable risk. A young man with natural gravitas delivers a “dulce et decorum est pro patria mori” speech, exhorting his troops to toil hard to deliver the perfect illu.
Somewhere towards the end of the suicide bit, we see a young man walking a rail on a terrace. The rail is well within the confines of the boundaries. There is no risk (Alma Matter eschews the shrill drama that has become a feature of the contemporary documentary), but we worry about the young man. He balances himself, arms outstretched. Is he being playful? Is it the beginning of madness? We will never know.
The last 20 minutes will stay with you. A few young men have been placed. Their work here is done. These are the final weeks on campus. They know they must bid adieu, also to each other. There is deep, touching affection, and in the manner of men everywhere it is silent, unarticulated, finding expression not in extravagant or event the quietest of declarations of love to each other, but to other, peripheral things — the campus, some lovely strays they have adopted, and the Hall of Residence, which is IIT Kharagpur’s version of the nation state.
At the very end, two boys take a walk after a night out. They have flowers behind their ears. A koel sings the coda to the most interesting five years of their young lives. One of the men, nearly breaking into tears, says “we are far from anywhere, there isn’t much to do. The din of the world doesn’t drown out the voices in your head. That is what Kharagpur is about.”
As the credits rolled, I was more forgiving of the kid who graduated 18 years ago, and was left with a deep gratitude for the life I have had.
