Summer vacation doesn't always mean days off for graduate students in the United States, particularly not for the international ones who can't afford the fare home. So we stayed on the campus. Some of us earned a stipend being a teaching assistant during the summer session, which is a short course with a lot packed in. If we were lucky we got to house-sit or dog-sit for professors and live in style for a while by their pools. There were no classes to sign up, though research-wise there was plenty of ground to cover. The only good thing was we could take longer-than-usual coffee breaks without feeling guilty. Pocket Park, our campus coffee shop, was a little glass house wedged into the farthest corner of this small, deserted open-air hangout. Tables, chairs, benches, stairs, the steps of a small wooden stage -- we could seat ourselves anywhere after getting a mugful of strong coffee. It gets oppressively hot in the summer so we usually picked a table under the trees. That day another person occupied the table a little distance away. She was younger, dressed comfortably in a pastel kameez. Her shalwar was wide at the bottom, almost something a Chinese girl would wear in a martial arts movie. "Look," I said to Abraham, "is she desi?" Desi means compatriot in Hindi, but it loosely applies to anyone from South Asia. "Don't know," Abraham said. He was already looking in her direction. I could see he was dying to make her acquaintance. He did not want to ponder over her nationality. At that moment she looked up and smiled. We waved and gestured her to join us. Introductions were made quickly. "I am here to do research in the mathematics department," she said. "I am originally from Islamabad." Questions flew back and forth. This was after all the first time we were meeting someone from across the border. All of us became cultural ambassadors of our part of the world at once. I mentioned that I did not have a chance to learn Urdu, though my dad was posted in Hyderabad. She quickly grabbed a paper napkin and started writing out the alphabets for me. An hour into this conversation we realised we had to be getting back to our labs. Our friend mentioned she missed her good old dal chawal, as her dorm did not have any kitchen facilities. We said we would stop by the maths department on our way home and make dinner plans. By the time we got home we were thoroughly drenched by a sudden downpour. I pulled out some spare desi clothes for her to change into. My housemate walked in with a friend from the business school. They probably mistook her for a visiting cousin of mine. "Know what? Pakistan lost today! They are not going any further in this tournament," the friend said and they proceeded to exchange a high-five. Normally I would have joined in, but I remembered my manners. "My friend, from Islamabad," I introduced. My housemate and friend looked decidedly embarrassed. "Well, we celebrate much the same things in Pakistan," my guest admitted sportingly. That cleared the air, a bit. Later we went out to dinner at a Middle Eastern restaurant. Our friend from the business school quietly picked up the cheque. He was trying to make amends for that gaffe. We all knew that. Pakistan had lost to someone. We most certainly did not profit by their defeat, for we had already lost a match. It only meant both our teams were out of contention now. The kind of thing we celebrate on both sides of the border. Makes sense? Of course, not. We did not talk about it again. Soon after, my housemate's friend became a professor at a prestigious university. I still think of that incident with quiet amusement every time India or Pakistan loses in any tournament. And now, after the recent summit by the Taj Mahal. We are both losers if there is no peace in Kashmir. Massachusetts-based Vijaysree Venkatraman's campus days are not long behind her. Illustration: Uttam Ghosh Tell us what you think of this diary Be part of an exciting venture! Write a Diary!
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