A Bad, Very Bad Night...

The relentless buzzing of mosquitoes is driving me crazy. The pale yellow illumination in this dirty shithole of a room is not doing any good to my humor either. Even the old ceiling fan apart from its rhythmic creaking sound, has no meaningful contribution towards comfort. I am sitting on a bed that could have sent shivers down the spine of a corpse. Luckily, my wife was prudent enough to put a fresh bed sheet in my bag.

“Damn it,” a cry of exasperation escapes my mouth, as one of my dipteran tormentors sinks its stylet into the soft flesh of my thigh. In a fit of rage I swat hard to eliminate the intruder. The pain linked to the four red welts that develop instantaneously is little compared to the revengeful triumph I feel on seeing the smashed remains of the mosquito amid a splash of warm blood. That the mosquito coils placed all around the room and under the bed are ineffective is evident. On the contrary the fumes are making my eyes to pain.

The notes and scientific articles, I was studying for tomorrow’s interview, are lying beside me, desperately in need of attention. I need to go through these tonight if I have to make this trip meaningful.

Looking up, I find my own reflection on the huge mirror, bearing a worried look, sitting as if on a frying pan. I find the situation comic; my own haggard reflection my only friend in this stinking place on such a god forsaken night. I wonder what sort of crooked perversion makes someone to have an entire wall made into a mirror. In fact it had been the first of many shocks as I had entered this room.

_______________________________________________

An old well wisher of mine, a teacher at university had brought this opportunity to my notice. Though a Research Associate ship at the National Research Centre for Grapes would pay me much less than what I earn in my current job, it had the added attraction of the possibility to enroll for doctoral studies. If everything goes well tomorrow, I am sure to get this job; I have a very strong reference. This is why I am here tonight at Pune.

The NRC Grapes is located at one end of the city of Pune. The locality is called Manjiri, and it is famous for its grape and stud farms. It is basically a rural outskirt to the Hadapsar area of Pune. It is my first visit to this city and I must say it does not impress me. The scarcity of public transport is difficult to bear with, having stayed a long time in a city like Mumbai. It took me an hour to get into a bus from Pune station to take me to Hadapsar.

Although the interview is scheduled for tomorrow, I have come a day earlier. Mumbai is just a four hour ride away but I didn’t want to risk being unable to reach the venue on time. Assured of the location today, I was sure that a good night’s read would doubly ensure my success in the interview.

Having seen the location of the Research Centre, I had gone back to Hadapsar to find accommodation for the night. Hotels and lodges are very few in this area. To my surprise none of the hotels seemed to have any vacant rooms. The guy at the front desk in the first hotel had asked,

“How long are you going to stay?”

“Just the night,” I had replied.

“Come back after six in the evening,” he had said, dismissing me unceremoniously.

“So one of the rooms will be vacant after six? Can I book now, in advance?” I had inquired.

“Just come back after six,” the man had replied gruffly.

Miffed by his callous attitude, I had damned him and his hotel in my mind and left.

Amazingly, everywhere the story was the same.

“Come back after two hours.”

“Come after six.”

“We may have one, but it is occupied for the next hour.”

I was at my wits end trying to understand what sort of system these hotels had for guests checking in. It was four in the evening and I was still without a room. By now I was desperate to find a place. I took an auto back to Manjiri where I had seen a couple of hotels by the roadside.

“Hotel Holiday Inn”, the big signboard by the roadside had announced.

The place had looked good from the outside. In fact it had seemed kind of fancy and I was worried that it might cost me over my budget. Nevertheless, I had walked in through the main gate. There was a walkway lined with shrubbery leading to a small portico with a hanging sign that said “Reception”. A short way down the walkway, it branched off to the right leading to a number of neatly arranged cabins. There were eight in all. Each one had a small porch. They had looked really good to me.

At the Reception, I found three people playing cards.

“Hello”, I had said, “I want a room for the night.”

One of the players looked up. “For how many people, Sir?” he had asked.

“It’s just me,” I had answered.

“Chotte, is number seven vacant yet? He had called out to someone.

A gangly fellow of about sixteen had emerged from inside and had said something in Marathi.

“Sir, you have to come back after six,” the first guy had said upon hearing from Chhotte.

Tired of this answer, I had asked,”Can I keep my luggage here?”

“Yes of course,” he had taken the bag from my hand and kept it behind the receptionist’s desk.

____________________________________________________

On my return after six, I was shown into one of the cabins by the attendant Chhotte. He had pointed it out to me and left. The door to the cabin was latched. As I unlatched the door and opened it, I was taken aback.

It was a small ten by ten room, with a huge mirror on the wall facing the door. In fact it was the whole wall that was converted into a mirror. As I overcame the initial surprise, I became aware of a musty, smoky odor hanging in the air within. Recoiling from the smell, I withdrew from the room and threw the door ajar. There was a huge double bed inside the room. A crumpled dirty grey bed sheet was lying on it. The bed had the look of a battlefield, where two filthy hogs had just had a fight unto death. The television on the TV table was so dusty; it seemed it had not been watched in a long while. The floor of the room was littered with cigarette butts, packets of gutka and empty sachets of contraceptives.

I had regretted my decision to stay in this place but it was too late by then. I had to make the best out of it. I had walked down to the reception and demanded the room be cleaned up. Chhotte had come, broom in hand and with a grudging look on his face carelessly swept the room. He threw the bed sheet out into the porch and replaced it with an equally dirty one from the neighboring cabin.

Once I was satisfied that the room had a basic level of cleanliness and sufficient changes of fresh air, I tried settling in. I lit myself a cigarette and puffed on it, standing out on the porch. The door to the cabin opposite mine opened and an ugly, fat, middle aged person emerged. He was wearing black shades, I wondered why, because twilight was almost upon us. Behind him, a young woman in her mid twenties came out. Her face was covered in a scarf. Chhotte emerged from somewhere and the fat man gave him a hundred rupee tip. The attendant then escorted the girl out.

That this place is steeped in illegal businesses was no more a secret to me. I just wished that the night would quickly pass and I would leave this place in the early morning. I got a sinking feeling in my stomach as I remembered watching news on television of busted sex rackets and how the people involved are paraded to the police station with their faces covered in kerchiefs. I had never imagined, I would land up in the middle of such a place. I called my wife and apprised her of my predicament. Taking her advice, I locked myself in my cabin and tried to concentrate on my studies.

_________________________________________________

I don’t remember when I dozed off. I am awakened by a heavy knock on the door. The light in my room is still switched on. There is commotion outside my room. I look at my watch; it is two in the morning. There’s another knock on the door, this time accompanied by a voice, 

“Open the door.”

I get up and open the door. Two baton yielding police constables barge into the room.

“Check the bathroom,” one of them barks.

As one guy goes into the washroom, the other one appraises me with cold eyes.

“What’s your name?” he asks. I give him my name.

“Where are you from?” enquires the constable.

“Mumbai’” I reply.

“What do you do?” he continues the interrogation.

“I work for Reliance Industries,” I say.

“What are you doing here?”

I tell him about the interview I have come to attend. The other constable by now is at the bedside, with a research paper on “Multiple Residue Monitoring in Grapes by LC/MS and GC/MS” in his hand. Unable to make much of it, he tosses it back onto the bed.

“You have to come with us to the station,” my interrogator declares.

I try to explain that I have a very important interview in the morning.

“No problem, you tell that to our officer.” He says.

Understanding the futility of my protestations, I ask, “Can I get dressed?”

“Make it quick,” he replies.

As I am escorted out of my room, I notice a large number of people and policemen outside. By now it is clear that my worst nightmare is coming true. I have got trapped in the middle of a police raid. There are seven other guys huddled together on one side of the walkway, with two constables poking and prodding them with their batons. Further ahead a group of girls are being escorted by three women constables. All the girls have scarves over their faces.

As we are pushed into the police van, a couple of powerful flashes tell me that the media is here too. I foresee with panic what tomorrow’s newspapers and television shows will talk about. I curse my bad luck.

The van speeds through many roads and by lanes and finally halts outside some police station. We are hustled into the station and made to sit inside a dirty lockup. The place reeks of sweat and urine. I control my urge to throw up with a lot of difficulty. The guys that were brought in with me are huddled in one corner of the lock up. Two of them have bruised faces and bloody lips suggesting that they had put up some resistance at being rounded up. The girls, I count seven of them; are made to sit on a bench on one side of the large room, right across the lock up. They sit with their heads hung low and faces covered with scarves.

All of a sudden, the constables stand up to attention and greet someone, presumably a senior officer.

“How many of them?” the new entrant enquires.

“Fifteen of them Sir,” one of the constables answers deferentially.

I did not expect that this night would hold any more surprises. But lo and behold, but who should this officer be? As the man comes into my view, I see an ugly, fat, middle aged man, with black shades hanging from the pocket of his uniform. It is the same guy I had seen coming out of the cabin with a girl, earlier in the day. As he comes nearer, I see an ugly gash just over his right eyebrow which gives him a menacing, villainous look.

The guy sees me, recognition evident in his eyes. He is coming towards me with his lips twitched into half a smile. He opens his mouth to say something but suddenly a fire alarm sets off somewhere. Everyone in the room panics. The fat man turns around and starts running. The constables run out through the door of the police station. The lady constables jostle the girls out of the place. I shout out loud,

“Hey guys open the lock up, let us out.”

But no one stops for us. No one listens to what I am saying. The fire alarm is ringing in full frenzy. I look back towards my fellow inmates. To my horror there is no one inside but me. Sweating and panting in terror, I kick and bang the gate of the lock up. I throw all my weight onto the gate, but it won’t budge. All of a sudden everything goes pitch dark. My body feels so heavy. The fire alarm is still ringing. What’s happening to me? My limbs seem paralyzed, no more responding to my frantic efforts to break free. Slowly I feel very light headed and weak. Nothing I think seems coherent to me anymore. I must have lost my mind. Finally I cease all my efforts.

____________________________________________________

I wake up to the continuous ringing of the alarm. I feel very tired and groggy as I silence the alarm. It is five thirty in the morning, and I am lying on a bed, in a small room with a huge mirror on one of the walls. I have woken up in my cabin. I can hear the birds chirping outside. As I open the door and go out, I am greeted by the cool fresh morning air. I feel the chill as the cool air dries up my perspiration and along with it the remnants of my worst nightmare.

I light a cigarette and take a long drag from it. I come to terms with reality as I slowly let the smoke escape from my mouth. I smile to myself. “What a horrible night,” I say to myself, “what a horrible nightmare.”

Hang On,This Too Shall Pass

“Faith is the bird that feels the light and sings when the dawn is still dark.”

 - Rabindranath Tagore.

Faith is the reason we persist; the reason there is order in humanity; faith keeps one grounded and steady. Faith is the reason we still exist as a race. Faith differentiates between the strong and the weak. Faith can make and misplaced faith can break.

Human civilization has come a long way from the cave dwelling hunter-gatherers through being agriculturists and industrialists to the modern day man. This tremendous development of the species was possible not only due to the ingenuity of the human brain or its bipedal, multi-tasking physique, but also to the ability to believe; its faith in itself and the elements.

Faith is not an isolated singular attribute. It is but a derivative of numerous little events. Faith gets conceived and shaped in an individual from birth. The values passed on by the family, those learned from peers, values taught at school, form the ‘pig iron’ for building a person’s faith. It is but the wide world that forms the furnace for forging this pig iron, through experience, into steel. Endeavour on the path of self realization adds sheen to this faith and makes it stainless.

The present day world poses numerous challenges to man. The least conspicuous of these, is the lack of FAITH. Today’s ‘competitive’ world is driven by lust for material pleasures. Everything and every action are valued in gold or paper. Our materially conditioned souls crave no more for knowledge of the infinite, but for meaningless gains. There is no time or intent for inward contemplation. Malnourished faith degenerates and leaves one in distress in the face of adversity.

At a certain point in life our body signals its inability to put up with our cravings anymore. It is only then, that we look out in despair for our moorings. Then we realize how much we are disconnected from our ‘selves’. In a desperate attempt to reconnect, we start looking for short cuts. We place our faith in god men and their ilk. Faith in the god man is like a boat tied to the pier. The turbulence of the water tests the strength of the knot. But what if the pier itself goes down? More often than not, god men have been seen to have feet of clay. This is true especially in a country like India, where religion has turned into a shameless business for some and gullible electorate for others.

True faith in oneself is like a sailor’s anchor. It is like a direct connection to one’s ‘ground’, one’s own self. However strong the storm may be, faith keeps his ship from sinking. Even in the face of the wildest hurricane, the sailor says to himself, “Just hang on, this too shall pass.”

True faith comes from within. It does not require external embellishments. No temple or shrine can give true faith. It comes from belief on one’s own self; from random acts of compassion. Faith comes from renunciation. When one comes to realize his true ‘position’ in the creator’s grand scheme of things, faith comes to the humble. True faith is manifested in active detachment.

“karmany evadhikaras te 
ma phalesu kadacana 
ma karma-phala-hetur bhur 
ma te sango 'stv akarmani”

(Translation by Bhagvad Gita As It Is : You have a right to perform your prescribed duty, but you are not entitled to the fruits of action. Never consider yourself to be the cause of the results of your activities, and never be attached to not doing your duty.)

 - Bhagvad Gita, Chapter 2, Verse 47.

A Tale of Dental Despair

The sensation of a tooth being loose in one’s mouth is something everyone is familiar with. It can be a curiously engrossing for many people. One’s especially meddlesome human nature tempts him to run his tongue across a loose tooth all day long. The squishy feeling at the root of a loose tooth and the pain on being forced beyond its range of mobility is an exhilarating feeling for many.

Our protagonist is not an exception. In fact he spends an entire day meddling with his loose upper left canine.  The dull pain that spreads from his gums, through the mandibles, down his neck, through his spine almost intoxicates him. He starts prying the canine with his finger. The metallic ferrous taste of fresh blood on his tongue stimulates his primitive instincts no end. He pries and sucks harder finally bringing the canine to the brink of falling off. The canine eventually gives in. He examines the fallen tooth closely. The conical crown is gracefully shaped, widening down to its root, with some gum tissues attached to it. He tongues the newly formed cavity in his gum and suddenly realizes that the neighboring premolar and incisor are also loose.

He starts prying the incisor and it comes off; the premolar comes off too. He has lost three of his teeth in succession. To his horror, he finds the other teeth on his upper jaw becoming loose and as he moves his tongue over them, they start moving too. Now this is no longer funny for him. He is scared. Suddenly he feels two of his molars drop off, he spits them out. The force with which he spits causes one more incisor to get uprooted. It seems to him as if his gums are giving in. All his teeth are simply dropping off. He is petrified, he runs out of his room, his mouth full of blood and fallen teeth.

His small sister is playing with her dolls in the hall. He tells her of his predicament. She does not understand anything and resumes her game. He runs out of the hall into the kitchen, calling out to his mom. He starts sobbing and tries to speak but his mouth is full of blood and some more teeth have fallen off.

“Just go out of the kitchen. Can’t you see I am busy? We are having guests coming over in the evening. I have plenty of work now, don’t disturb me,” she says.

In utter despair he runs out of the room into the verandah where his father is sitting with his newspaper. He spits out a mouthful of blood and teeth and tries telling his father, but he can’t speak. With every effort one more tooth is coming out. He shows his almost bare gum and a couple of freshly fallen teeth to his father, with tears rolling down his eyes and blood trickling down the side of his lips.

His father looks at him with anger on his face as he says,

“That happens when you don’t look after your dental hygiene. Since the last twenty two years I have been teaching you how to brush your teeth, to floss properly after every meal, but you have never listened; now I can’t do anything.”

So saying, his father angrily puts his glasses back on and goes back to reading his newspaper.

Our protagonist feels that the world has ended for him, he sobs inconsolably as he runs out of the house spitting out a tooth after every few minutes. He runs hard across the road, up the hill. He keeps on running beyond the hill, across the green meadows. He stumbles and falls, but picks himself up and keeps running. Suddenly it starts to rain, he runs unheeding the downpour, his drenched long hair cascading over his face. All of a sudden he sees the girl in blue salwar kameez with an umbrella in her hand. She looks at him with her sad eyes. He drops down on his knees, face streaming with rain, tears and blood, a desolate look in his eyes, chest heaving with sobs, heart thumping out loudly. He stretches out his arm towards the girl. But with the same sad expression in her eyes she slowly walks away into the rain, into the wilderness.

Suddenly the earth starts shaking heavily; he tries to stand up but falls back; large trees around him seem to be falling down straight on top of him. He closes his eyes in fear.

“Abhi, hey Abhi, what’s the matter, get up,” he hears distant voices.

He opens his eyes and stares blankly at the three pairs of curious eyes peering down at him.

“What happened, are you okay?” they ask.

His eyes hurt, his head is groggy, and he tries to sit up but feels sapped of all his energy. He raises his hand with a lot of effort and feels his face, his mouth, and his teeth. They are intact. He is lying on his hostel bed and had been dreaming. A huge load of unhappiness and fear comes out in the form of a huge sigh of relief and he cries out. His friends are totally clueless. Tears of joy and relief stream down his pale face as he tells his bewildered friends about his dream.

He comes out of his room. The sky is overcast, it is going to rain. He puts on his shirt and runs out. He runs across the corridors, down the flight of stairs, across the entrance to the hostel, onto the street. It starts to rain, he runs unheeding the downpour, his drenched long hair cascading over his face. All of a sudden he sees the girl in blue salwar kameez with an umbrella in her hand. She is with her friends. They cross near the Telephone booth by the big Jamun tree. For a brief moment she looks at him, their eyes meet for a split second. To him the split second seems like centuries of togetherness. His heart brims over with indescribable happiness.

He walks as if under a spell, unmindful of the rain, into the football ground by the side of the road. He drops down on his knees and spreading out his arms, looks up at the sky. With all his being, he absorbs the downpour of heavenly bliss. His heart full of happiness, his mind calm, he feels so balanced, so ‘one’ with everything around.

The Manual of Laziness

Chapter 1: Basic Understanding of Laziness

The word laziness is used with very negative connotations. Beginning from childhood, you are egged by every older human being to refrain from being lazy. “An idle mind is the devil’s workshop” you are reminded every time. Sadly enough, people use the words lazy and idle interchangeably. Nothing can be far from justice, not only to English as a language but also to the proud people who personify the idea of laziness. Idleness is simply a state of ‘not working’. Laziness is an inherent loathing in an individual against a particular activity or any activity that can be classified under the heading ‘work’. An idle person may not be lazy. A lazy person however may often be found idling.

The laziest person according to the recorded history of the earth (post the age of the dinosaurs of course) was a man named Jerome Klapka Jerome. Having spent 27 years of his early life in absolute laziness, he attained enlightenment. Under influence of this new found Buddha hood, Jerome decided to compile his life’s lazing into a single manual for the reference and enlightenment of future generations of indolent people. He surrendered his virgin laziness (until then) to put together “The Idle Thoughts of an Idle Fellow”. And believe me guys he never got to be lazy again amidst one book after the other, amidst publishers and editors. The poor dude sacrificed his shiftless lay-about life for fellow lazy beings- Hail Lazy Jesus!

It infuriates me no end to see foolish people making generalizations about laziness and lazy people.  You call a guy who sleeps 15 hours a day, lazy? Come on buddy cut the poor guy some slack. He is just tired, let him sleep. A dude qualifies to be lazy when he lies for 15 hours on his bed listening to sparrows chirping outside his window, or looking at the ceiling fan trying to figure out in what probability it may fall off. Being lazy is not easy boss. Agreed, that every individual has potential to be lazy, but, it requires years of cultivation, nurture and practice to become really lazy.

Another outrageous thing about people is their tendency to stereotype. Dude, listen to me, all lazy people do not sit on the couch, eat potato chips and watch TV. Are you bloody serious, in thinking that? That’s racist dude, believe me. People manifest laziness in multiple ways. No two lazy people are the same. It’s just like the mutants in X-Men. However unlike the X-Men mutants, with practice one can imbibe other forms of laziness to become versatile, multifaceted.

The most common types of laziness you will see (apart from the lying-on-couch-watching-TV) are, ‘sitting-at-window-watching-road’, ‘missing-bath-till-seasons-change’, ‘not-sweeping-room-till-dust-allergy’, ‘counting-raindrops-on-telephone-wires’,’counting-stars-lying-on-terrace’,’not-taking-out-trash-till-becomes-ant’s-pilgrimage’, ‘lying-on-floor-watching-ants-foraging’,’catching-mosquitoes-collecting-in-a-jar’,’wearing-same-denims-without-washing-everyday-till-it-gets-torn’,’sitting-and-chewing-fingernails’…….. So on and so forth. The plethora of attributes is simply mind boggling. Believe me; you can’t count them on all your fingers, or toes, or even your families, or neighbors’ fingers and toes. You see, you should understand the diversity among lazy people before indiscriminately and often wrongly calling someone lazy. Please understand, you insult us that way and undermine our being.

It takes years of idling and laying about to become a Lazy-Master. People have spent life times in the pursuit of various forms of laziness to become Grandmasters. Having practiced the art for more than three decades, I can tell you one thing, Laziness is a gift, but only very few can sustain it. Believe me my friend, it looks easy to you. But it’s very hard being lazy and surviving in today’s competitive world. Your parents, relatives, peers will kill the god gifted laziness that’s inside you. In order to keep your indolence alive you have to adapt. You have to acquire a certain degree of spirituality to move forward on your chosen path of laziness.

The first thing that harms laziness is Ego. You have to let go of that to be happily lazy. People’s opinion about you must not bother you. As long as you are satisfied with yourself, the world can go to hell.

The second thing that is very important for survival is letting go. You cannot possibly keep all the reins in your hand and think of idling peacefully. Let go of the reins, and sink in into the sensation of deep relaxation.

The third thing is to stay away from needless physical luxuries that only bring weakness and dependence. Moreover if you are sensible enough you have already realized that a life dedicated to laziness does not offer you too many opportunities of luxury and sense gratification. Therefore you should not get too attached to having or using such means.

The fourth thing very important is your sustenance. My personal approach is maintaining good sense of taste in food (when someone else is preparing the food) but being a Spartan eater (I am not talking about quantity here), when you have to cook your own food. You cannot possibly stay lazy and yet cook yourself a three course dinner. Any lazy person’s guide book will tell you that the best thing to eat is a mash of every possible food ingredient boiled with ample amount of water. That way, you get all the nutrients, keep unwanted fats out and also the gruel consistency of the food reduces the need to chew. Moreover it saves you a lot of effort in preparation. The effort can be further reduced if you can eat right out of the cooking utensil, so you need not wash an extra plate.

If you are able to surpass these few obstacles, then Voila, you are ready to tread the path of laziness. I hope I have been able to impress upon you the fact that being lazy is actually very difficult. Please show us some respect, though we hardly care if you don’t. But please do not insult us by calling some random loser ‘lazy’. We too got some class, man! And we resist (though mutely) any sacrilege of the sanctity of our religion of laziness.

Okay guys that’s enough talk for a day….got some very important work to do…..downloading a movie on Bit Torrent…..got to track its progress.

Buen Dia.

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.