Right Left and What Was Lost

The rain had stopped just before dusk, leaving the streets of Mumbai slick and glistening like a memory half-washed. Inside the lobby of the five star Trent Hotel in Nariman Point, the air was cool, perfumed faintly with lemongrass and polished leather. Marble floor reflected the soft yellow lights above, and the quiet hum of conversations floated like background music.

Raghav spotted him first—leaning against the concierge desk, scrolling through his phone, dressed in a pale blue linen shirt and beige trousers. His hair was thinner, his shoulders broader, but the face was unmistakable.

“Arjun?” Raghav said, unsure if he should smile.

Arjun looked up, blinked, and then smiled slowly. “Raghav Patkar. From Nagpur. I’d recognize that voice anywhere.”

They shook hands, awkwardly. It had been nearly twenty years.

“You’re here for the conference?” Arjun asked.

“Yeah. Policy and Infrastructure. You?”

“Same. I’m with the Gujarat Urban Planning Board now.”

“Delhi Development Authority,” Raghav replied.

They stood for a moment, letting the silence settle. The college WhatsApp group had kept names familiar, but not voices, not faces.

“Want to catch up later?” Arjun asked. “Maybe a drink?”

Raghav hesitated. “Sure. Let’s meet at the lounge around eight?”

“Done.”

As Arjun walked away, Raghav watched him—same confident gait, same habit of checking his watch every few minutes. He remembered the boy who used to race him to the school gate in Sitabuldi, Nagpur, their bags bouncing, their laughter echoing through the narrow lanes.

Back then, they were inseparable. Raghav’s father ran a modest stationery shop near Variety Square. Arjun’s father was a clerk in the municipal office. Both families lived in two-room flats with peeling paint and balconies that overlooked dusty courtyards. They studied together, cycled together, even failed in Maths together once.

When they both got into VNIT Nagpur for engineering, it felt like destiny had signed off on their friendship. The first year was a blur of hostel pranks, tea at Shankar’s Tapri, and late-night debates about cricket and cinema. They shared everything—notes, Maggi packets, heartbreaks.

But things started to change from the second year. Arjun’s father missed a promotion that he was certain was his. Instead, another person from a religious minority got promoted. He was told that diversity had to be maintained in office.  The lost promotion was going to put strain on family finances. Arjun found this very annoying that someone was robbing Peter to pay Paul. At college, he felt alienated by what he perceived as performative activism on campus—identity politics, cancel culture, and a disdain for tradition.

First out of curiosity, then seeing some like minded people, he began to attend debates hosted by conservative student groups. These groups were actually part of a right wing political party. There he thought, he found clarity of thought, discipline, a sense of belonging and what he thought was a way to reclaim national pride and reclaim identity.

Raghav didn’t understand. “Why do we need reclaiming? We’re engineers, not warriors.”

Arjun shrugged. “It’s not about war. It’s about identity.”

It became imminent that, their thoughts had started to drift in different directions. 

Raghav had made new friends too. He joined a campus discussion group that identified themselves as “left of center”. They talked about social equity, caste injustice, and the need for inclusive development. He volunteered with a local NGO that worked with migrant laborers and slum children. The stark inequality he witnessed reshaped his world-view. He began advocating for social welfare, affirmative action, and inclusive policies, believing that systemic change — not individual grit — is key to justice. His views on politics became an extension of his moral imagination — he saw the centrist stance not just as a policy stance, but as a form of compassion.

The first real crack came during a campus protest. A student from a marginalised community had been denied a lab assistantship. Raghav’s group organized a sit-in. Arjun’s group called it “political drama.”

“You think everything’s a conspiracy,” Arjun had said.

“And you think everything’s tradition,” Raghav had replied.

Slowly they stopped studying together. Their conversations became clipped. Once, during a student council debate, they stood on opposite sides of the auditorium, arguing policy like strangers.

On the last day of college, with their placements done in different cities, they met briefly near the hostel gate.

“Take care, Raghav,” Arjun said.

“You too, Arjun. All the best.”

And that was it.

Now, two decades later, they sat across from each other in the dimly lit lounge with soft music played in the background. The waiter brought two glasses of Glenfiddich. The rain had returned, tapping gently against the glass windows.

“So,” Raghav said, swirling his drink, “you have family?”

“Yes. Daughter in class nine, a son in class five. Wife, Neha. She teaches economics at a college in Ahmedabad. Yours?”

“My daughter’s into robotics. My son wants to be a cricketer. And wife Smita - She’s with an NGO in Delhi. Works on urban sanitation”

They laughed, the first real laugh of the evening.

They sipped quietly. The lounge was filling up. At the next table, two men were arguing—one in a Nehru jacket, the other in a kurta.

“I’m telling you, the right wing has brought stability,” the man in the kurta said.

“And I’m telling you, it’s come at the cost of dissent,” the other replied.

Raghav glanced at Arjun. “Funny how that debate never ends.”

Arjun smiled. “It’s like a loop. We’ve been having it since college.”

After an awkward pause, Raghav leaned forward. “Arjun, can I ask you something? Why did you join that student body back then?”

Arjun looked out at the rain. “I don’t know. Maybe I was tired of feeling small. They made me feel part of something bigger. Something rooted. They made me aware and proud of my identity.”

He paused, watching the droplets race down the glass like old ambitions. “I grew up hearing that we were losing ourselves—our language, our pride, our place in history. In those meetings, they spoke with conviction, like they were stitching back a torn fabric. I didn’t question much then. I just wanted to belong to something that didn’t make me feel like a footnote.”

Raghav nodded. “I get that. I had joined the other group because I felt people like us—ordinary, middle-class—were being ignored. I wanted to speak for those who didn’t have a voice.”

He leaned back, fingers tracing the rim of his glass. “My mother used to say, ‘If you don’t speak, someone else will speak for you—and they may not speak kindly.’ I saw classmates struggling with caste bias, with language barriers, with professors who dismissed them. The group gave me vocabulary for what I had only felt. It made me believe that change could come from empathy, not just slogans.”

Arjun took a sip. “You know, I still believe in some of those ideals. Discipline. National pride. But after all these years, I also see the cracks now. The intolerance. The silencing.”

He looked down at his drink, as if searching for clarity. “There’s a difference between love for your country and suspicion of your neighbour. Somewhere along the way, the lines blurred. I’ve seen colleagues just following orders or instructions... afraid to speak, afraid to questions. That’s not strength—it’s fear dressed as patriotism.”

Raghav sighed. “Same here. The centrist’s talk about equality, but sometimes it’s just rhetoric. They forget the ground realities.”

He rubbed his temple, the weight of years pressing in. “I’ve sat in meetings where people debated theory while sanitation workers waited outside for their wages. There’s a kind of elitism in activism too—where suffering becomes a case study, not a call to action. I’ve seen leaders more interested in being right than being kind. That’s not progress—it’s performance.”

The lounge had grown quieter. The rain outside had slowed to a drizzle, and the city lights shimmered through the glass like distant lanterns. Arjun and Raghav sat with their second drink. Maybe it was the drink or the maturity, the conversation now less guarded, more porous.

Arjun stared into his glass. “You know, there was a time I really believed we were building something. Not just roads and policies—but a nation with spine.”

Raghav looked at him. “And what changed?”

Arjun hesitated. “It started with a project. There was this slum near Vasna. Flood-prone, unsafe. I had drafted a redevelopment plan — low-cost housing, drainage, community spaces. It was solid. But the party cadre blocked it. Said “those” residents weren’t priority voters.”

Raghav just shook his head. “That’s brutal.”

“They wanted a beautification project near the riverfront instead. Something glossy. Something that looked good in a photo.” Arjun’s voice was steady, but his eyes betrayed the old sting. “I thought they’d back me. I thought development meant dignity. Turns out, it meant optics. And it was not just one project. The same “us” and “them” continued all the time.”

Raghav nodded slowly. “I’ve been there. Seelampur. Sanitation workers. Those men from the lowest strata of society cleaning sewers without gloves or Oxygen masks. I organized a campaign—health benefits, fair wages. The NGO I worked with, pulled out when the municipal council got involved.”

“Funding politics?” Arjun asked.

“Yeah! They said, ‘We can’t antagonize the council. We’re negotiating a grant.’” Raghav’s jaw tightened. “One of the workers died two months later. Septicemia. He had a wife, a 10-month-old baby and no insurance.”

They sat in silence, the weight of those instances settling between them like monsoon silt.

Arjun broke the silence. “That was the first time I felt betrayed. Not by the people. But by the system I thought I was part of.”

Raghav nodded. “Yeah! I realized then, that ideology doesn’t bleed. People do.”

Arjun looked up. “And yet we kept defending our sides. Kept arguing like it was a sport.”

Raghav smiled faintly. “Back then, we were young. And maybe a little too sure of ourselves.”

Arjun chuckled. “And now we’re older. And still unsure.”

Raghav added, “Maybe being unsure is the beginning of wisdom.”

Arjun nodded. “Or at least the end of arrogance.”

They laughed again, but it was different now—less nostalgic, more forgiving.

“You know what’s strange?” Raghav said. “All these years, we’ve been part of the same college WhatsApp group. And it’s the same story—right wing, left wing, center, apathy. Everyone arguing. No one listening.”

They laughed again, but it was a quieter laugh, like two men remembering a song they had once sung together with conviction.

He paused, eyes scanning the lounge as if searching for someone who still knew how to listen. “Even birthdays get politicized. Someone posts a wish, and within three replies, it’s about nationalism or secularism. We used to share jokes, yaar, remember? Now it’s just forwarded outrage.”

Arjun nodded. “It’s like politics carved out vote banks in friendships.”

He looked down, fingers tracing the condensation on his glass. “And we didn’t even notice when it happened. One day we were debating ideas, and the next, we were defending camps. The whole narrative shifted from what is correct to who is correct. The warmth went missing somewhere between hashtags.”

“Exactly,” Raghav said. “And we the people? Still stuck in the same traffic, still paying the same EMIs, still watching onions hit ninety rupees a kilo. No ideology has made our life easier. Just noisier.”

They sat in silence, letting the truth settle like dust on old photographs. “I missed this,” Arjun said. “Talking without shouting.”

“Me too,” Raghav replied. “We were good together. Before the labels. Or maybe it’s the Glenfiddich.”

Both men had a hearty laugh.

Arjun looked at his watch. “OK. I have an early flight tomorrow.”

“Same here.”

They stood, shook hands again—this time firmer, warmer. And they hugged.

“Let’s not wait another twenty years,” Arjun said.

“No,” Raghav smiled. “Let’s meet before the next election.”

They laughed again.

Outside, the rain had stopped again. The city glowed under streetlights, its pavements steaming. The air smelled of wet earth and unresolved conversations. Somewhere in the distance, a car honked, a child laughed without the care to know which side she belonged to.

And in that moment, it was clear: politics had drawn lines where there were once bridges. The slogans had shouted louder than the silences between friends. But the city, like life, kept moving—indifferent to ideologies, tender to those who still remembered how to listen. And for two men who had once stood on opposite sides of a college auditorium, the quiet between them now felt like the beginning of something whole.

And though it was approaching the midnight hour, its people moving— to left, to right, and center dodging potholes and puddles, trying to find their way home.