Rajkumar's and Rajkumari's paths crossed when they entered Presidency College, Calcutta, Rajkumari to read History, and Rajkumar, Bengali. Rajkumar did not restrict his exertions to the classroom; in fact, he did some reading lying where Rajkumari could study him between her classes. When the recluse stirred, he often made his way to the students' common room or the college canteen. His wiry frame did not stop him from once taking part in a hearty fight with a group of political rivals that left him with a bruised eye for a month. Graduating with a first-class Honours degree, he went on to read for his Masters in Bengali at Jadavpur University, also in Calcutta.

Rajkumari had been rebellious from the time she could spell her name. She had grown up through a series of running street battles with the storm troopers of patriarchy — relatives, teachers, priests, and the like — who had dared to try and colonize the feminine imagination. After graduating from Presidency, she stayed on at Calcutta University to read for her Masters.

When I met Rajkumari in 2009, the fact that she and I were from Presidency College created an immediate bond between us, although we are separated by thirty years of age. I kept in touch with her through email and the occasional telephone call. Soon, I came to know of Rajkumar. They allowed me to wander into their lives, playing the friendly trespasser who was welcome to live vicariously through them if he so wished. I walked back to the college portico, the agora that each cohort vacates for the next only with the utmost difficulty. I had sat there three decades ago. Glancing back at the portico, I set up tent nostalgically in a far corner of their lives.