The Tale of Two Humans!

Dr. M. Sathya Prasad, 22 July 2025

I hate exams - both taking and giving. I hate competitive exams even more. I hate the word competition. The word collaboration sounds far more pleasing to my ears.

During my four years at the engineering college, I made a firm resolution: I will not study for any competitive exams. Yet, the desire to specialise in engineering stress analysis, FEA, etc., remained. And to pursue higher studies, I was required to write competitive examinations such as GATE and GRE, both of which I detested.

I chose the middle path, as advocated by the Buddha. I decided to write the GATE examination without any preparation. I was confident that I could do well enough to secure an ME seat somewhere, which would give me breathing room to prepare for one of these exams later, should I decide on my path in life. For me, GATE was just one more safety net. I never had (or have) any particular aim in life, and the desire for achievement never truly existed. I was never in a hurry to succeed - and still never am! Now approaching sixty years of age, I still don't know the meaning of the word success.

Awards and accolades, if any, I receive along the way are treated with gratitude, but also simultaneously with the disdain, contempt, and nonchalance they richly deserve. My rhetoric has always been a true reflection of my mental make-up.

There was another reason for such organic indifference at such a young age. I was in regular contact with a Yogi (of sorts) who was then doing a postdoc at the same campus. This person wrote a book about his spiritual experiences in 1983 or 84, which I read and was fascinated by at that time. He used to sit in the high voltage lab, and whenever I saw his Rajdoot motorcycle parked, T** 18**, I would sneak into his room and bombard him with spiritual questions: Does God exist? What is atma? What is death? How can I develop willpower? And so on. Too deep for an 18 or 19-year-old kid. I read the two books of Dr. Abraham T. Kovoor, "Begone Godmen" and "Gods, Demons and Spirits", cover-to-cover, and felt they were way too shallow. 

This Yogi was about 16 years older than me, with a BE, ME, and PhD—all from the same college where I was studying. Lanky, fair, tall and handsome, he remained celibate throughout his life. He always wore a simple white-on-white outfit. I stayed in touch with him until 2019. He still lives in Mylapore.

My contact with this Yogi was a closely guarded secret - only two people knew about it: Raj Ganesh and Sampath, to whom I confided very little.

By the time I was in my fifth semester, I had developed a genuine frustration about the futility of materialistic education. A strong fire of dispassion burned within me, along with a great desire to remain a brahmachari. The desire for marriage never existed. There was, of course, the natural attraction to the opposite gender, typical of that age, but there was also a fierce inner determination to renounce. It felt like the proverbial Magdeburg hemispheres - vacuum chambers being pulled apart by horses.

While travelling on the 47A bus during my final year, somewhere near T. Nagar, a small pouch I was carrying was stolen. It contained my GATE hall ticket, library cards, a demand draft for TOEFL fees, my College ID card, a small amount of cash, and more. Some deft thief had dipped his hand into my jolna (sling) bag and stolen it.

The day after the next day was the GATE exam. When I checked my bag in the hostel room that morning, panic struck—I had been robbed.

I rushed frantically to Mr. Abdulla Khan, who worked in the College office.

Mr. Khan comforted me with immense kindness. “Just bring a passport photo,” he said. “I’ll take care of the rest.”

But I didn’t have a single photo left. Everything was in that stolen pouch.

Back then, passport photos, mostly black and white, took a week to develop. I had to arrange for one within a couple of hours, as the CEG office closed by 4:30 PM.

That’s when I met my classmate, Syed Dayanudeen Khazi (Dayan). I explained the situation to him. Dayan was a flamboyant guy, zipping around on a 100cc motorcycle. The petrol tank had a dent from the time a traffic cop fined him, and in frustration, he banged it with his hand.

Dayan came from an affluent family. His mother was a medical doctor. Throughout our four years, the only trousers he wore were khaki baggies. His shirts were equally loose. Thanks to his oversized clothes, one could never estimate his true weight. He walked casually and always sat dutifully in the last bench, helmet in hand, with the visor, of course.

I was often tempted to call him Syed Dayanudeen Khaki instead of Khazi.

Dayan didn’t wait for me to finish explaining. “Sit, daa machaan. Let’s hunt for a studio,” he said.

I rode pillion as Dayan drove across the city, searching for a photo studio that could deliver prints within an hour. Dayan was relentless, even as my anxiety kept rising. If I didn’t write the GATE exam, one of my safety nets would vanish. Coming from a lower-middle-class family, I had always maintained a plan B—and, if possible, a plan C.

At last, we found a large studio at the corner of Nungambakkam and Kodambakkam High Roads. Within an hour, we had the photos and rushed to the CEG office.

Mr. Khan greeted me with the kindest smile. “Don’t worry, boy. Just go to your exam hall tomorrow and write the exam. No one will question you. I’ve taken care of everything. All the best.”

To me, both Dayan and Mr. Abdulla Khan were the embodiments of divinity.

When I sat for the exam, I was physically and emotionally drained. Add to that my complete lack of preparation. I ended up qualifying only for an MS in Mechanical Engineering at IITM, which I eventually chose not to pursue.

A few months later, during our final exams, the usually cheerful Dayan seemed a bit forlorn.

“What’s up, buddy?” I asked.

“Machaan, I’m going to flunk tomorrow’s CAD/CAM final exam daa. I don’t understand a word of Zimmer and Groover.”

Now it was my turn.

“Nothing to worry about at all, daa. Just come to my hostel room in the 6th Block and spend two hours with me. I’ll make sure you’re prepared.”

He came over that evening, and we studied together for three hours.

The next day, Dayan was all smiles.

“Sathya! Machaan! I did well daa. Thanks to you. You taught me exactly what I needed.”

I just smiled and patted him on the back. As he turned away, my eyes were moist.

I said to myself, “What I did for you was nothing compared to what you did for me, my friend. God bless you.”

My dearest Dayan:

This episode is for you, my dear, dear friend. You mean so much to me.

May God bless you with a long, happy, and healthy life. Continue to be a blessing to this world.