Nuts, Bolts, and the Brotherhood We Built in Kashmir

 

We were literally a dirty dozen.

In a college buzzing with bigger batches and celebrated courses, the twelve of us were tucked away in a corner. We were mechanical engineering students, half-forgotten by the larger campus, yet fully present in each other’s lives. 

We weren’t famous, but there was something solid about our group that clicked like a well-oiled machine.

Each of us brought something different to the table. Asif Ali, for instance, had a mind like a laser, cutting through problems with precision. 

There was one Mounis Mallik, chased by merit. It was like marks followed him out of respect. Then there was Akhtar Rasool. That boy didn’t study, he wrestled with books. Mechanics of Solids in one hand, Engineering Drawing in the other, his eyes refused to blink until the diagrams made sense.

Sameer Kaul matched him in energy, as if they were cast from the same mould. Their hunger to understand things pushed the rest of us to raise our game. That’s how it worked: we lifted each other without even trying.

We bunked classes a lot. I won’t lie about that. But when exams knocked, you’d find all twelve of us holed up in a single room: our notebooks overlapping, questions flying, someone solving problems, someone else brewing tea. 

We argued over equations, forgot who owned which pen, and shared everything, especially the stress.

Some of us formed tight pairs. Asrar and Bilal, Hilal, Fayaz and Tajamul moved like clockwork, always in sync, and reliable. Jehangir kept to himself mostly, comfortable in his silent rhythm. 

I often teamed up with Suhail Shahzad. Depending on our moods, we’d either stay in the hostel or study at home. Wherever we were, we stayed tuned to the same frequency: engineers-in-progress, growing into our own.

This wasn’t a course we picked casually. Mechanical engineering came with sweat and smudged hands. From the SRTC workshops to dusty training at local firms, we showed up in grease-stained overalls, ready to learn. 

Group tuitions in Mathematics and Drawing weren’t just coaching sessions. They were daily pilgrimages. We walked, studied, and passed together.

On campus, we didn’t carry much weight. We were far from the spotlight. But when it mattered, when unity was called for, we showed up. That’s how we protected our space and each other.

Our teachers shaped us who we became.

Ishtiyaq Sir, our Head of Department, balanced humour and sincerity like few could. During our first-year exams, he stood outside Boni Shehjar hall as if guarding our futures. 

Once, before a surprise inspection, he whispered, “The Principal, Prof. O. N. Wakhlo, is coming to check your work.” I still remember Wakhlo Sir stopping at my desk, glancing over my Engineering Drawing sheet. He gave a small smile and said, “You should’ve taken Civil. You’ll become a complete engineer.”

That sentence stuck. It did something to me.

Then there was the man named Sheikh Ashraf Majid. We called him The Colonel. He walked like he owned time, spoke like a general, and carried knowledge like armour. 

Before I ever met him, seniors warned me, “Only go to his office if you must. And only if you’re prepared.” 

His room was a living museum of machine parts – connecting rods, pistons, gears – all lined up like soldiers waiting for inspection.

The first time I knocked, I was more nervous than I’d like to admit. “Come, young man!” he boomed, sounding uncannily like Ashok Kumar from an old Hindi film. He didn’t hand me a lecture or a chapter. He gave me a pencil and said, “Draw circles. Freehand. Perfect ones.” 

That was the beginning. From there, we moved to real parts, breaking them down, understanding their heartbeats.

He was a hard man to impress. His discipline radiated into the staffroom, the labs, even the corridors. Some of the juniors pulled tricks: stealing his tea, poking his car tires. None of it shook him. He kept marching. Every time I saw him, I saw a man stitched into his purpose.

And then came the sound: “Kuchi kuchi kuchi kuchi…”

That was our signal. The Colonel had arrived. And we were his soldiers: Tired, hopeful, oil-stained.

Years later, I can still feel that bond of twelve. It was fraternity built through bolts and bearings, lessons and laughter. 

By Dr. Sajad Hussain Deen

sajad_08phd12@nitsri.ac.in