The Tiger of BCKV

By the time I reached room number D1/1 (read D One by One), a couple of guys have already hammered fear into my heart. I have been summoned to this room by its inhabitant, a person I have never seen. The guys say he is the worst one in the entire block. They have narrated to me, their encounters in hushed tones. The picture they painted in my mind is a very dark one. My future is suddenly looking bleak. Why the hell has this creature summoned me? I did not get involved in any trouble. I can’t think of a single good reason why this guy wants to see me.

It’s been a week I joined this University. The hostel I am staying in is named after Dr. Prashanta Chandra Mahalonobish, renowned statistician. This hostel houses about hundred and fifty students of different semesters of B.Sc Agriculture. I am one of the forty seven that joined last week. Ragging is banned in this hostel, so we have heard. Instead what a fresher is subjected to is called ‘Boring’. It is something the seniors have emphasized as being extremely important for the well being of the ‘unity and culture’ of this hostel. An integral part of this process is to approach seniors in the hostel and request them for introduction. By the end of the ‘boring period’, one is supposed to know each and every occupant of this hostel. One also has to keep a record of how many seniors he has got acquainted to. The guys with the least numbers will definitely find it ‘difficult’, seniors have assured. What exactly they meant by ‘difficult’, they didn’t elaborate and we did not have the courage to ask.

A senior is privileged to take as long as he likes to reveal his name. He is allowed to make you do or say anything, however silly or humiliating it may be, as long as he does not physically assault you. Finally, if he is ‘satisfied’ with your ‘performance’, he may choose to introduce himself to you. Once he introduces himself, he cannot ‘bore’ you again, unless of course you have presented some opportunity in the form of a ‘disciplinary breach’. There was another perk associated with this system. The senior who ‘gets’ to bore you on a particular day has to take care of your evening snacks, that is, you get to eat anything you want in the evening, and it will be paid for by the senior.

There are different kinds of guys in this hostel. There are some who are too busy to be bothered. They just ask you your name and a few harmless questions; tell you their name and a few tidbits about themselves and off you go. These guys are good for your numbers. There are others who, like spiders waiting for their prey, are just itching to catch hold of a guy and ‘bore’ him. I am very afraid of these guys, the really noxious ones that derive fun humiliating a fresher. These guys are a real bad omen for you numbers. You have to be really lucky and extremely smart to satisfy these guys and get your introduction. But then there is a third type too. These are the ‘sweet’ guys. They are really pleasant guys, with whom one really likes to interact. With them, you don’t bother about the numbers. Getting a few such guys in this hostel is like finding an oasis in the desert. I have met a couple of such seniors though. The presence of these guys in this hostel is really comforting.

Till now I have kept quite safe. Though my numbers are not that great, yet I haven’t faced too many jerks yet. But now that I got summoned to that ominous D1/1 room, I think my ‘dream run’ is over. I don’t know what my near future holds in store for me.

I gently knock on the door. No answer. I pause for a couple of moments, take a couple of deep breaths. I take a look around. I am standing on the corridor of D1 lobby, in front of the first room. It’s five thirty by my watch. It is past dusk and darkness is quickly rolling in. My throat is dry; I don’t know what awaits me inside this room. I swallow some saliva, run my tongue over my lips, and knock on the door again.

“Yes”, says a deep rumbling voice from inside.

I clear my throat and say, “Dada, may I come in?”

“Come in”, comes the reply.

I slowly push the door open. The room is dark except for a small circle of yellow illumination on a table at the far corner- a table lamp. A tall figure is seated on the adjacent bed, hunched over the side of the table. I wait for a few moments. As my eyes get adjusted to the scant illumination, I see two cots joined together, placed against the far wall of the room. In the space between the cot and the left wall of the room, a study table has been squeezed in longitudinally. From where I stand, I see an old rusty table lamp, a steel tumbler, a small immersion heater, a walkman stereo player on the table. All the windows are closed, there is a heavy burnt, smoky odor hanging in the air.

The tall figure turns his head towards me for a long second, pulls out the plugs of his walkman from his ears and rises. The guy is much taller than I, standing almost at six feet and one. With him standing in front of the small table lamp, I can’t see his face clearly.

“First Year?” he asks.

“Yes Dada, my name is Abhigyan Saha.”

“Ok, Mathura Bagan?” he says in his deep rumbling voice.

Mathura Bagan is a Tea Estate not far from here. It is where my uncle stays with his family and is mentioned as my permanent address of residence. One thing I have noticed is that each of the seniors knows our names and where we come from beforehand. It seems they have done a sort of home work on us first year students.     

“Yes Dada”, I reply.

“Is it too dark, do you want me to put on the tube light?” he asks.

“No Dada, it is fine”, I say. The lighting is nowhere in my list of worries at this moment.

“Good”, he says, “actually the tube light is screwed up. But wait I will make it a little better.” So saying, he lifts the lamp shade upwards and directs it towards one of the walls.

In this newly adjusted illumination, I see him properly. A tall and lean guy, dark complexioned, with black wavy hair, wearing a dirty crumpled T shirt and a dirtier pair of crumpled white and black check pajamas.

He comes towards me, inspects me from head to toe in a searching glance. He has a very different kind of eyes. They are very big; in fact they are very beautiful, bright eyes. I can sense a feeling of curiosity and slight amusement in his eyes. He has a very particularly well taken care of moustache. And below that thin curved expanse of facial hair, he has a pair of thin lips darkened and chapped by excessive smoking. The lips that, in spite of the stoic expression he has on his face, are perhaps very minutely twitched with amusement. It may be a mistake though, can’t be sure in this dim setting.

“ICSE Board, so you studied in English medium?”

I have joined this University in the five percent ‘Other Board’ quota. Other Board includes all boards of secondary education other than West Bengal State Board of Education.

“Yes”, I said

“Hmm, stay right here, I will be back in a couple of minutes”, he says. So saying he turns back towards his table and picks up the steel tumbler. Inserting two of his fingers into the tumbler he fishes out something and tosses it onto the floor. Then with the tumbler in his hand he walks out of the room. I look to see what he just tossed onto the floor. It is a Bidi stub, wet with the contents of the tumbler. I can’t help flinching in disgust. The floor is strewn with hundreds of stubs. There is an empty glass of tea, probably from the hostel canteen sitting on the window sill with three or four more stubs extinguished into them.                          

I look around the room; there is a small wooden cupboard, the door of which is broken. On top of the cupboard is a beautiful earthen figurine with its maker’s inscription at the bottom. I can’t read the name, not that I want to. Every object in the room other than the table top and bed is covered in a layer of dust. The surface of the table is covered with old sheets of newspaper. The paper has turned yellow with age. It is burnt at one place, right through into the wooden surface, most probably by a forgotten live Bidi. The ceiling of the room is covered, no sorry, engulfed in cobwebs, a thick blanket of cobwebs. The room reminds me of Miss Havisham’s banquet hall, in Charles Dickens’ Great Expectations.

Presently, the door opens and the guy walks in with the washed tumbler in his hands.

“Do you want some tea”, he enquires in the same rumbling expressionless voice.

“No, thank you Dada”, I answer.

He pours some water from a bottle into the tumbler and adds sugar from a tin can he has taken out of his broken cupboard. He wipes the immersion heater lying on his table with the edge of his dirty t shirt, immerses into the tumbler and plugs it to the connection mounted on the wall beside the table. He now turns back towards me.

“I like to brew my own tea. It has a different taste. The canteen tea is very bland”, he says, this time with a twitch of a smile at the corners of his dark lips.

“Of course it will taste ‘different’”, I think to myself but don’t offer any comment. I just give him the most pleasant smile I can muster up.

He comes up to where I am standing. His eyes look down into mine from an altitude couple of inches higher than my own. His large eyes, having taken on a more prying avatar, are looking into mine; trying to break open the can of my soul and peek in.                

“Do you know that there are two tigers in BCKV?” he asks in a very somber tone, the words spaced out evenly to have a theatrical effect.

By now I have lost most of my fear of this person. He seems quite normal to me. But I am not one to lower my guard so easily. I put up an innocent face, make my eyes seemingly as wonderstruck as I can, and reply with faked curiosity, “There are tigers in BCKV? No Dada, I didn’t know that.”

“There have been two tigers in the history of Bidhan Chandra Krishi Vishwavidyalaya; one was Dr. Bidhan Chandra Roy himself. Do you have any idea who the other one is?” he asks. His eyes are looking straight into mine. This time his eyebrows are arched upwards to give a mysterious look to his dark handsome face.

I widen my eyes slowly in a faked expression of alarm and nod my head in the negative.

“The second tiger of BCKV is standing right in front of you”, he says.

I blink my eyes a couple of times but say nothing. I bring a look of admiration mixed with apprehension on my countenance and look away from his eyes. If this guy wants to preen, let him do so. I am not a fool to tweak his ego by saying anything for or against and invite trouble for myself.  Till now I have performed very well, I think to myself.

However, tiger or not, this guy is definitely not like the others. The way he looks, the way he stays, his bohemian trappings makes me think of him as a renegade. His expressive, bright eyes set onto his dark chiseled face, his careless three day stubble and moustache, does give him a fierce look.

Then all of a sudden, taking me completely by surprise, he says, “I have heard you have a very good handwriting?”

Now from where does that come? Where does my good handwriting figure into all of this? I don’t say anything. I don’t know what to say. I do have a decent handwriting; I have spent years cultivating a handwriting that many have said could be made into a font. But I don’t want to come across having to do some letter writing job for this guy. It is really very boring having to write love letters on behalf of people simply because one is calligraphically superior with a decent stock of vocabulary. I have suffered this in school.

“I have some work for you”, he rumbles; the menace and theatrics no more there in his voice.

Just as he is about to say more, “Knock Knock, Dada can I come in?” comes a voice from outside.

“Yes”, says Mr. Tiger.

The plump figure of Sujit (one of my batch mates) waddles into the room in his characteristic white printed short kurta and blue pajamas. “Dada, I have come to introduce myself”, he says “My name is Sujit Kumar Ghosh. I am from Malda.”

“But brother I am already talking to this brother here”, says Mr. Tiger pointing towards me.

“Okay dada, I will come later then.” Sujit turns to go away, but then turning around, he says,” You are also from Malda, are you not?”

“Oh! You already know a lot about me it seems. Come then you can sit till I complete introduction with Abhigyan here.”

Sujit, with an air of familiarity and a satisfied smile on his chubby face waddles towards the cot and is about to seat himself on it when Mr. Tiger rumbles, “Not there.”

Sujit stops and turns around.

“Go and see what is there behind that wooden cupboard”, he instructs Sujit.

Sujit complies, but then not finding anything that can be used for sitting; he looks around perplexed and says,” There is nothing here Dada.”

“No there must be a bottle of Thums Up, I kept yesterday. Bring it out and sit on it”, Mr. Tiger rumbles in a very matter-of-fact manner.

My heart skips a beat. This guy is screwed, I feel sorry for Sujit.

Sujit looks with disbelief at the senior from his own district. His round eyes seem ready to pop out through the heavy glasses he wears to augment his severely myopic vision. Though I feel bad for him, I can’t help feeling amused seeing the comic expression on his face.

“Don’t waste my time. I don’t like saying something twice” says Mr. Tiger in a slow, menacingly authoritative tone.

Sujit takes out the bottle and with the look of a betrayed martyr on his face squats over it. Mr. Tiger inspects to ensure that my chubby batch mate’s round bottom is in contact with the mouth of the bottle. Having satisfied himself, he now turns towards me.

In the last six to seven minutes, the radical changes that occurred in the atmosphere of this room have left me shocked. I have realigned my position regarding any writing job that this terrible guy has to offer me. I am now ready to write a novel, let alone a letter for Mr. Tiger; in fact whatever it may take to save my glutes and hamstrings the torture of squatting on a 300 ml Thums Up bottle.

“So, where were we? Yes, I want you to help me write a couple of posters for my final presentation for the degree. I will give you the content you just have to write it neatly on chart paper.” So saying, he hands me a sheet with some scribbling on it, “this is what has to be put down on chart papers”, he says.

Seeing the scribbling, I understood, whatever this guy may be talented in, definitely it is not his hand writing. It took some time for me to decipher what was written on it.

“I didn’t ask you to get up, did I? Sit down”, booms his voice. I look up, and find Sujit with a destitute expression written over his face as he goes down on his haunches, back to squatting position. I feel very sorry for my comrade.

“So when would you like to get on with it, will you start right away?” his awful tormentor asks me.

“There is a group of people in my own room. It will be better if I work in this room. But it’s too dark in here to work. I can do it tomorrow morning, if it is fine by you”, I say.

As much as I would like never to visit this awful room again, I also understand that as long as I am in this room, Sujit will have to squat on the bottle. It will be better for him to quickly get over with whatever Mr. Tiger has planned for him.  Moreover, the guys from second year have asked us all to gather for some ‘fun-filled activity’ tomorrow morning. I will have an excuse to skip that tomorrow.

I look at Sujit. He is in a pitiable condition. He is crying silently. Tears are streaming down both his chubby cheeks and his glasses are clouded with vapor.

“So tomorrow first thing in the morning?” Mr. Tiger enquires of me.

“Definitely Dada”, I answer with all earnestness.

All of a sudden, there is a commotion outside in the corridor. It sounds like a couple of seniors are ‘boring’ Madan one of my other batch mates.

Voice 1: “What’s inside your pants?”

Madan: “Nothing Dada.”

Voice 1 and 2: “Nothing?” (Loud laughs are heard)

Voice 2: “Off with your trousers; let us see if you are telling the truth.”

Voice 1: “Haven’t you heard him? Take off your pants”

Madan: “No, dada please.” (Madan’s voice sounds choked)

Voice 1: “Then tell us what’s inside your pants, quick.”

After a long pause

Madan: “Anus” (Madan tries to answer in the most scientific words)

(There is a roar of laughter outside; a couple of more voices have joined in. All of them are laughing themselves into splits)

Tiger smiles in an amused manner, opens the door.

One of the seniors says to Tiger, “Krishna da, the guys coming from your district are real samples. There is another fat one. That guy too needs some treatment” Madan too is from Malda, like Sujit. The last sentence was for Sujit. I look at Sujit and he looks at me. I feel like laughing out loud, seeing the comic expression on his face, but I can’t.

Tiger brings Madan into the room. Sujit has moved away from the door with his bottle. His tears have dried up. His face now bears a look of curiosity. He too is relieved, I guess, since the attention now is on another guy. He has moved into a corner behind the new entrants, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible.

“Take off your belt.” Mr. Tiger, alias Krishna da (as I have just learnt) orders menacingly.

Madan takes off his belt, his gaze down on the floor, the look of a defeated man on his face. It seems to me he has gone beyond despair now.

“Now, unzip your trousers and lower it”, comes the next command in the same menacing tone.

Madan unbuttons his trouser, unzips it and is about to lower it when all the seniors shout at once, “Stop.”

“Now put your hand inside and tell us what exactly is beneath your trousers”, asks one of the other seniors.

Madan puts his hand inside and then in a moment of sudden realization he says, “Underwear”.

“That means you were telling a lie, till now?” thunders one of the seniors, while the others are holding their sides to refrain from bursting out laughing. It is with a lot of effort that I am preventing myself from rolling with laughter. My condition is like a novice on a tight rope, I can fall off any time. So I keep my act together. The four or five seniors who had accompanied Madan into the room leave. They take Madan by his arm and drag him along.

Krishna da looks at me and says, “Now you may go. I want you here tomorrow morning. If somebody asks you to do something else, tell him I have asked for you. My name is Krishna Gopal Adhikary. Is it Okay?”

I nod my head in agreement and walk out of the door.

As I open the door and walk out of the room, a barge of cool, fresh air assaults my senses. I sneeze a couple of times in succession. I gulp in a few lungful of fresh evening air to drive out the stale burnt air in my lungs and to revive my senses. I look into my watch, its five fifty five. I have been in this room for just about twenty five minutes, but it seemed like ages.

“Dada, can I go now?” I hear Sujit’s voice on the inside.

“You can go now, but I want you here in my room by five o’ clock sharp, tomorrow evening.” The rumbling voice of 'The Tiger of BCKV' commands.

I do not wait there any longer. I make my way quickly through the dark, empty corridors, towards my room.