Greetings from Santiniketan,

Greetings from Santiniketan

Santiniketan was never a stranger to me. Long before I first stepped into its red earth, it had already entered my life—through my mother’s stories. As a Visva-Bharati alumna, she would often weave bedtime tales of the Santhals here—woven in their dances, paintings, and oral traditions—carry the essence of resilience, community, and a deep-rooted harmony with nature, echoing through the alpona patterns drawn in soft white against mud floors, of shiuli flowers carpeting the autumn mornings. My childhood was stitched with these images, so much so that even before my first visit, I felt as though I carried Santiniketan within me.

And yet, arriving here as a student was a different kind of awakening. After weeks of anxiety, indecision, and sleepless nights, I finally took the step—to join Visva-Bharati. On 3rd September 2015, I entered the Department of CJMC. I was nervous, almost fragile, but the first session with P. Sainath filled me with unexpected joy—it felt like a blessing to begin my post-graduation with such a voice of truth and integrity. The very next day was Teachers’ Day. Though I was too new to participate, I remember watching with wide-eyed wonder, feeling a quiet certainty that this department would claim me as its own. And, in those first two days, I had already draped myself in sarees—almost as if trying to blend into the rhythm of Santiniketan’s cultural fabric.

The first two semesters were nothing short of magic. Time seemed to run with its own wild energy. We organised events back-to-back, wrote for Visva-Bharati Chronicle, took part in film festivals, reunions, Halokorshona, Anandabazar, Rathindra Mela, Nandan Mela, Poush Mela, Magh Mela, Basanta Utsav, Borsho Boron, 25e Boishakh, 22e Srabon. These names—once just stories whispered by my mother—were now lived experiences. I was no longer just a listener of Santiniketan’s tales; I was a part of its unfolding story. Those semesters slipped by in a blink, leaving me teary-eyed as our seniors, who had become family, bid farewell.

By June 2016, I travelled to South India for fifteen days. But upon return, Santiniketan greeted me with its familiar embrace—red soil warm underfoot, palash trees swaying, and the sound of ektara from a far corner. The department was alive with fresh faces, new friendships forming, mess shifts happening, life re-shuffling itself. Another six months of classes—Advertising, Development Communication, Public Relations—and once again, December arrived. Another Poush Mela, with its fragrance of moa and pithe, the music of bauls, the hum of visitors, the entire town glowing in fairylight. And just like that, another year dissolved into memory.

The final semester was something else altogether. My mother always said, “Eikhane ek rokom jadu ache—ekbar eshe gele, Santiniketan chara jai na. Ar Santiniketan tomakeo charbena.” Now I know it is true. There is a magic here that binds you, a gentle tug you cannot resist. I chose Film Studies and Web Journalism as my special papers, alongside most of my classmates. The dissertation phase—those last four months—was a whirlwind of emotions. We were 21 students, each caught between deadlines and dreams, yet what held us together was something much deeper. Trusts built, friendships strengthened, small quarrels patched, longings confessed—every moment seemed charged with a kind of quiet intensity. Time was moving, yet in some corners it felt frozen.

Every lane, every field, every mud-smeared wall in Santiniketan carries a story. The krishnochura blooming in March, the fragrance of shiuli in autumn, the hypnotic rhythm of khol and kartal during Magh Mela, the Holi colours of Basanta Utsav swirling like poetry in the air—these will never leave me.

Santiniketan is not just a place where I studied. It is a state of being. It has seeped into my consciousness—its art, its songs, its silences, its red earth—and I know wherever I go, a part of me will always walk these paths, under these trees, listening to Rabindrasangeet floating through the evening breeze.

And so, with a heart that is both heavy and overflowing, I can only say: Greetings from Santiniketan. It will never leave me, and I can never leave it.