By: Dr. Sajad Hussain Deen
A small class of mechanical engineering students, huddled in a forgotten corner of campus life. But in that tight-knit circle of twelve, brilliance sparkled quietly. Each one of us carried a unique shade of passion and perseverance—twelve distinct stories, but one unforgettable journey.
Asif Ali was the brightest star—razor-sharp mind, solutions always at his fingertips. Mounis Mallik had an uncanny pull towards merit, as if academic excellence naturally gravitated toward him. Then there was Akhtar Rasool—perhaps the most hard-working among us—who would juggle Mechanics of Solids and Engineering Drawing simultaneously, often with eyes barely blinking from focus. Matching his zeal was Sameer Kaul, who mirrored Akhtar’s intensity like a twin flame.
Bunking classes was almost ritual. Rarely were all twelve of us present when a teacher walked in. But come exam season, you’d find the entire dozen crammed into one room—notes scattered, coffee cups emptied, and sleep sacrificed to formulas and free-body diagrams.
Asrar and Bilal, Hilal, Fayaz and Tajamul were inseparable—study partners by habit and by trust. Jehangir, on the other hand, was a solitary scholar, who preferred the calm of his own company. I often studied with Suhail Shahzad—our duo alternated between the hostel and home, depending on mood or momentum. Sometimes we were hostellers. Sometimes day scholars. But always engineers at heart.
Mechanical Engineering wasn’t just lectures and labs—it was sweat, grease, and fieldwork. From SRTC workshops to local firms, we would march together in overalls, taking vocational training like a badge of authenticity. Mathematics and Engineering Drawing tuitions were group affairs—we travelled together, struggled together, passed together.
Despite our isolation on campus, when the moment demanded force or unity, our band of twelve stood tall. Silent, perhaps. But never absent.
Our teachers were a memorable lot. Ishtiyaq Sir, the Head of Department, had a sharp wit and a clean heart. No frivolity, no favoritism—just pure mentorship and humour. During our first-year exams, he stationed himself near Boni Shehjar, a quiet encouragement as we penned our answers. Once, before an inspection, he warned us, “The Principal, Prof. O. N. Wakhlo, is coming to check your drawings.” I remember how, when Wakhlo Sir stopped at my desk, he studied my work, smiled slightly and said, “You should’ve taken Civil Engineering. You’ll become a complete engineer.”
That one line lit a fire in me.
Then there was the legend: Sheikh Ashraf Majid —our own Colonel. The man was a blend of discipline, knowledge, and an intimidating presence. Before meeting him, I asked seniors for advice. “He’s strict. If you know him, only then dare go to his office,” they warned. His workspace wasn’t an office; it was a shrine to machinery—connecting rods, pistons, clutch plates—arranged like sacred artifacts in a museum of motion.
I remember knocking, heart pounding. “Come, young man!” he barked, in a voice that echoed Ashok Kumar’s style from Choti Si Baat. He gave me a simple but humbling task: draw circles freehand —perfectly—and then explore mechanical parts, piece by piece. It wasn’t an assignment. It was initiation.
He was tough. So tough that his own staff rebelled in humorous mischief—stealing his tea, puncturing his car! But nothing broke his discipline. He remained unshaken. In every encounter, he reminded me of Ashok Kumar—unyielding, mission-driven, perhaps a little misunderstood.
“Kuchi kuchi kuchi kuchi…”
The Colonel had arrived. And we?
We were his soldiers in grease-stained uniforms.
sajad_08phd12@nitsri.ac.in
