C7 Chapter 7

January, 2021

It was ten past three now. God, these girls should be on time

at least sometimes! I mean it’s permissible if it’s just another day

and you haven’t a thing to do except yawn. But certainly not now!

You want to do away with these things quickly; you do not want

to wait at a doctor’s clinic knowing beforehand that a syringe is

going to drill your butt. Idle mind is devil’s workshop. Indeed! I

couldn’t sit, I couldn’t stand. All I could do was fidget with my

hands.

Her words kept echoing in my ears. I wouldn’t take ‘I

haven’t thought of you that way’ this time. No sir, I wouldn’t.

she’d have to be clear as a crystal. No diplomatic dilly-dallying

this time around! For heaven’s sake, ‘the bell must have rung’, as

the romanticists say, by now if there existed one. I had violins

plying havoc in my mind! Tell me Shreya, if I am not the one. And

I was afraid too. For a refusal this time could well mean the end

of my innings. And I knew I could never be ‘just her friend’.

Finally mademoiselle called. I got myself together.

“Hi”

“So, late again!”

“Sorry, but dad called up. So… what were you doing?”

“Nothing, just came down to the park, so that I could talk with

you peacefully. To be more specific, I was starting at the grass.”

“Alright! Are there no girls in your park today?”

“No, not at this hour. People prefer to stay indoors at this

extremely lethargic time of the day.”

“Right! Sad for you.”

“Not at all, sometimes I prefer to be in solitude with nature.”

“Sorry for disturbing you, sir.”

“it’s okay. Shreya, I want to talk to you about something,” I came

to the point straight away.

“Oh my God! What is it now?”

I wondered what to say and how to start.

“I don’t know if I am rushing into this or not, but all I know is

that it’s very important for me to clear some things.”

“like?”

“You know like what, Shreya.”

“Still tell me,” she said slowly.

It was tough to say that again but she had forced me to say it,

“About your feelings for me,” Shreya.”

There was that killing silence again. I closed my eyes and tried to

cool myself. “Please Tejas, this will not be the end. There are

other girls,” I said to myself . “But no one will be like her,”

retorted another voice. “Please don’t say no, Shreya I know you

like me,” I finally prayed.

“What do you think, Tejas?”

“Please don’t fool around, Shreya, I don’t know anything. Please

tell me.”

“Okay, see you are a very good friend, Tejas…” I could see the

axe coming in that so sweet and polite style. Sweet and polite, my

foot! “…and I don’t want to lose you.”

“I get it, Shreya. I won’t ever ask you again…”

“Let me finish what I have to say firs. Promise me… you’ll remain

my best friend forever. Promise me, Tejas.”

I tried to control m emotions. There was a lump in my

throat. I could hold my tears as long as I didn’t say a word. I was

angry with myself for being so sentimental.

“Promise me!” she repeated again. “I promise, bye for now,” I managed to say and a tear slipped

down my cheek. So that was it. It was all over. She didn’t love

me.

“Wait! Promise me another thing.”

“What?” I asked, trying to sound normal.

“Promise me you will always remain my best friend if I tell you

that I love you.”

I don’t know if I’ll be able to put in words my feelings. It

was so sudden and subtle, her declaration. Almost like a sudden

shower on an oppressing day. And no, I did not smile for I wanted

to be sure she had said that.

“What?”

“I love you, Tejas!”

“I love you, too.”

“I know that.”

Finally I wiped my eyes and decided to smile. An ever so small

one.

“So… why didn’t you tell me?”

“Boys ask first, you dumbo.”

“But I did, last time.”

“Then I wasn’t sure but now that I was, I wanted you to ask me.”

“Girls! A curious species indeed! I hope I understand you some

day.”

“Best of luck!” she giggled.

“Thanks! But do tell me, what made you decide on me this time?

I’ll try and remove the misconceptions.”

“Shut up! You still haven’t made the promise.”

“Oh! I’ll think about it.”

“What do you mean you’ll think about it?”

“I mean… it takes time to decide on matters of heart. Who knows

better than you, your Highness?”

It was nice to be on top, for once.

I took out my letter-pad and my pen. And I began…

“Hi Didi…”

I had to tell her.

April, 2020

So we are back here, again, after that little interval of

nostalgia, and, though my heart yearns for more of it, we must

move ahead. I had decided, more or less, if you recall, that I’d

skip the Industrial Tour. I waited for the tour dates to be

announced and one fine afternoon, I, having enjoyed my siesta in

Pappi’s Alternate Fuel’ lecture, woke up to Khosla’s voice. The fat

Class Representative had his hands up, and valiantly attempted to

control the menacing class.

“Yes, I will tell the dates if you all will allow me to.”

“Who the hell has gagged you?” retorted a voice.

“Okay… We leave on the 10th

for Pune. Reach Pune on 11th

. Leave

for Goa on 17

th and start back for Delhi on 20th

. We’ll return here

on the 22nd

.”

“Only three days in Goa! Damn the planning!”

The whole class broke into clamour. Groups of friends

discussed among themselves what they’d do on the tour. Some

darted weird questions at Mr. Khosla who being polite in

demeanour could never satisfy the rascals. A friend of mine

shouted, “Why don’t we leave for Goa earlier?” and then suddenly

the whole class invented a slogan:

“We want Goa! We want Goa!”

For the first time I felt like an outsider. I wasn’t party to

their joys. I moved out quietly and no one noticed. They were lost

in celebration. Now that I knew the tour dates, I could finalize my

plan. I pictured Shreya waiting for me by the sea and felt no

gloom on missing out on having fun with my friends.

I felt a pat on my shoulders. It was Sameer, our department

topper and my very good friend.

“Tejas, don’t you bunk the tour, as is your habit.”

“No, no…” ii smiled, faking excitement.

“Good, then we’ll have a ball. There’s no fun without you, yaar!”

I produce here, as an exhibit, the original specimen of my modus

operandi. I would, no doubt, have loved to share with you the

detailed discussions it required, but to make the novel lighter, we

must avoid them.

1. Departure: 10th December to Pune, Goa Express, with the rest

of the class… as a simple precaution against the traditional habit

of Indian families to see off their children at the stations… thus a

direct train to Chennai chould be avoided.

2. Arrival: Pune, 11th evening; call on dad’s mobile showing

Pune’s code… thereafter every call on home landline – location

concealed.

3. While in Pune: Click as many photographs, changing clothes

as many times, at as many landmarks, changing the date fed in

the camera each time… Visit – AFMC College, where dad studied

and Kayani Bakery to but Shrewsberry biscuits for home.

4. Departure: 11th

midnight, to Chennai Express: Alone,

5. Arrival: Chennai, 8 PM, 12th

10 days stay.

6. While in Chennai: Call home at least twice everyday – give

them no reason to call… keep in touch with friends for their

whereabouts in Pune/Goa.

7. Return Strategy: Industrial Tour ends on 20th… but no

satisfied with so few a days with Shreya… so, tell at home that

Pritish, Rishabh and me staying back to enjoy Goa for three more

days… this gives me more time... Parents expect me back on 25th

but instead I return on 24th itself, thus eliminating any possibility

of them coming to receive me at the station. Thus, station

problem at both ends solved.

I distinctly remember the thrill and satisfaction I

experienced each time I went over the document. Imagining all

that was so exciting… changing trains…traveling the length of the

country… it was all extremely exhilarating. Wasn’t DDLJ all about

trains? I could hear the whistle of the engine… it beckoned me

and the wheels were about to roll.

All the planning done, and, now within an ace of action, I

must tell you that although it all looks very easy, to my mind it

was not. For days I lived in the fear of being caught by my parents

though they are pretty understanding otherwise, I was certain

they’d feel let down should my plan fail. My mind was disturbed

by negative thoughts, helped in no way by my friends and kin in

whom I confided, for they admitted frankly that they wouldn’t

have done it. And they were right too. After all, I was bunking a

compulsory educational tour… lying to professors… changing

trains… traveling the length of the country… meeting my love…

about all of which they were unaware. I shuddered to

contemplate the coming of it all out in the open together…

How, then, did I steel myself? True, I was madly in love and

impelled by that mad drive only a lover knows. Yet, an incident

from childhood played no small part in my determination.

Once during my exams in high school, I was caught with two

answer sheets – one of them mine, of course, diligently copying a

complex solution. There was a huge scandal. The teachers, one

can still understand, treated me like the rotten fish that spoils the

whole pond, but even my peers, who might not have been entirely

scrupulous in their ways, looked down upon me.

Therefore you can imagine the heavy heart, the teary eye and the

quivering body, with which I told my father about the summon

orders. I felt that I was a stain on the blemish-less lineage. I

expected a thrashing and had closed my eyes in anticipation when

I heard my father say, “You should always be careful, son!”

I prayed that he’d relate to my present mischief too in some

strange way and he be accommodating. He had told me only years

later about his sheet-swapping exploits and I hoped there was

still something in his closet, some such wild act, about which I

was yet in the dark.

Professor P.P. Sidhu, popular as Pappi among the students,

is the head of the Industrial Tour Committee, to whom one must report in case one wishes to exempt himself from the compulsory

tour. And so, it was required that I meet him. He is a Sikh, a jovial

fellow as Punjabis usually are. One of the coolest professors in IIT

Delhi, he doesn’t mind students bunking or talking, as long as

they don’t interrupt him in his work. He has never failed anyone

too, I guess. A pioneer in the field of research, he doesn’t have

much time to probe why bally fellows should go about bunking

bally tours.

He taught us the fuels course in which I was supposed to make a

“Pneumatic Linear Double Sided Anti-Rotation Tubeless Air

Transfer Cylinder’, whatever that means. This was to be installed

in a breakthrough bus being developed by my institute which was

to run on bio-gas, and I hadn’t even gone so far as to decipher the

meaning of each term in the title of my project. This had not

impressed Pappi, who, however jovial he might be on the subject

of bally tours, is somewhat professional on the subject of

projects. I tried telling him mildly that if making cylinders with

such obnoxious names were child’s play, India would be

producing such buses like babies to which he replied, “That’s

exactly where I take India.” He asked me if I knew that in Japan,

a seven-year old could make a computer, and I said I didn’t know

to which he replied that I better know. I had adroitly delayed the

project so far, but, now that the semester was coming to an end,

the going would be tough.

I saw him bending over a fat book, scribbling down notes

with the enthusiasm of a child who has just been gifted his first

crayon-box. He looked up at me for a fleeting second and bent

down again.

“Sir,” I began, “I am afraid it won’t be possible for me to go on

the Industrial Tour.”

”O-k-a-a-y,” he said in a sort of tone which comes out when one

has cold. In his case the cold was perennial.

I didn’t know what to do with this long ‘Okay’. I found

myself puzzled. It couldn’t have meant: “Don’t be afraid, son, I

am sure whatever that prevents you must be a worthy cause, go

home, son, go home and celebrate!” I endeavoured to speak

again, this time clearing my throat. “Sir, I wanted to tell you that

it is not possible for me to go to the Industrial Tour.”

“Okay,” he said again as he continued to play with is crayon

box. The second nasal “Okay” was a tad too much. What on earth was that supposed to mean? I felt increasingly that I spoke to a

parrot that had been taught extremely well to speak, the only

problem being to be ‘Okay’. I looked on while he played on. What

else can a student do in front of his professor, however jovial he

might be, who has in his hands power, which can be misused to

stop him from meeting his darling?

It would, no doubt, be astonishing for you all this parrot-like

conduct of the professor but I knew better. The one adjective that

immediately comes to mind, the moment one talks about

professors, however rare that might be, is absent-minded. O other

adjective described a thing or a person better. Pappi was known

to immerse himself some ten thousand leagues under the sea,

when in the midst of his research, so that it took him jolly good

time to come up to the sea-level. Presently I waited for that

moment. But then I eared, perhaps he might have drowned. Thus,

like a nimble lifeguard, I shot, this time coughing more and

speaking louder, “Sir, does that mean I have got your

permission?”

“Yes!” he shouted ecstatically and with ecstasy jumped my

insides too. I had heard that it was all a cakewalk, this permission

getting session, but what the hell, the professor hadn’t even

asked for the reason. I scarcely believed my good fortune. I

admired the professor and his ways, what with the amount of

ecstasy he showed, as if he was handing me his daughter’s

wedding card. Just when I was about to thank him, he shot out

from his seat a if a pin had been poked and shouted, “Yes, yes,

yes!” and then looked at me. I wondered what the next three

yes’s were about, just when he ran up to me as ecstatic a

Archimedes must have been once out of his bath and said, “Tell

me, what’s five multiplied by six!”

Once doesn’t expect that. I wondered if it was a test one had

to undergo to secure permission and I promptly replied thirty to

which he said, “Thirty it is indeed then, you know what! We’ll

soon have a bus that runs on gas made from human wastes and

gives an average of thirty kilometres per cubic…”

“Congratulations, sir,” I hastened to add.

“Yes, yes, yes!” he added to the already confusing yes’s listen!

You wait right here and I’ll be back!’ I wondered what I had to wait for, my work already over.

Then it dawned to me, the mystery was solved, I had already

placed what those three enigmatic yes’s were about. Now, I knew

the origin of the first ecstatic yes too. It was right there, right

there with the next three yes’s like a bosom bother. They may

better be called four yes’s four yes’s of celebration, of finding that

five into six was indeed thirty! What a fool I was to celebrate

prematurely. Presently he entered with a pile of books and asked

me, ”What brings you here?”

“Sir?” I said, hardly believing that he had not heard a thing.

“What sir?”

“Sir, I told you that it is not possible for me to go on the tour.”

“Tour? Ah yes, the tour, indeed, yes, yes, the tour, indeed. Okay!”

“Yes sir! I was asking for permission and you said yes.”

”Did I? Okay! But why? What happened? Why are you not going

on the tour? It is a privilege to go isn’t it?”

“sir, it is my brother’s marriage.”

“So?”

“Sir, I must attend that!”

“Ah, yes, okay okay, I see, but you’ll miss something; it’ll be a

landmatk tour; not just for India but for the world. The first drive

of the Biobull!”

“Sir, Biobull?”

“Yes, Biobull… isn’t it a nice name for my bus?”

“Sir, bus?”

“What else?”

“Sir, the tour, the Industrial Tour to Pune this winter.”

“Oh, that!”

“Yes, sir!”

“You should have told me before.”

“Sir, I did!”

“Okay, okay,” his okay were driving me mad, “I must have been

busy; you’ll be required to write an application which’ll require my

signature. Now go, please go.”

“Yes sir!”

“No, wait!”

“Yes sir!”

“Congratulations!”

“Sir?”

“Your brother’s marriage!”

“Oh yes, thanks you, sir I’ll write the application. Thank you, sir.”

And with that I left his room. Never had I seen a man so

absent minded. I worried about his wife who must have to remind him every dawn that she was indeed his wife. But then he was a

gem and one doesn’t mind much if gems are a little forgetful.

Anyway, I had given him the application. He said gleefully that he

would sign it and I could take it from him the next day, tomorrow

that is.

How I wish now, to go back in time and stop the clock here, right

here! I remember telling Rishabh, in his hostel room, about what a

gem Pappi was, when a foot banged at the door and the weak

bolt, not able to bear the shock, went flying I the air; and flying in

came a colossus, evidently drunk, shouting, “Hello brothers!”

It was Tanker. You have met him before but, no doubt,

forgotten about it. However, a moment’s wait will make such a

thing impossible. His parents had named him Bajrang, respectfully

after Hanumanji, the most widely worshipped Indian God, in the

innocent hope that the name would bless him with a great quality

or two of the powerful God. He had required none sae the size. He

was as big as a bull and when drunk, which he often was, as mad

as one too. But in our circles and many circle before was, as mad

as one too. But in our circles and many a circle before us he was

called “Tanker’, for his capacity for any form of ethanol.

Rishabh called him names, obviously jolted having his door

permanently dis-bolted and told him not to shout. “Okay, calm

down, brother, I will not shout,” bellowed Bajrang “Anything for

you, brothers. You both are gems, love you both, man, ask for

anything and… it will be yours, just ask!” he continued shouting,

as was his habit when drunk. He couldn’t talk softly and, yes,

always spoke from his heart when drunk. Thus the stuff about me

as little brothers who must be protected and showered with

affection.

“I will certainly tell you whenever I need anything; by the way

any, special reason behind today’s daru party?”

“As if they need a reason!” said Rishabh.

“Shut up. You sonovabitch! Of course, there are reasons you idiot,

it is Murali’s treat, he got a job with ITC,” he said totally out of his

sense, “And you both are coming with me. He has called you both,

have a little beer, and we have ordered pizzas. Come, come, come,

and Tejas bhai, get your guitar.’ “Oh, I am not it the mood… feeling rather tired.”

“Come on, Tejas, you never come. Today, you have to come and

play your jeans’ once. Please,” he said like a child.

“Okay, we are coming, but no smoking…” said Rishabh.

“Oh, sure, sure, come, come. Ha ha ha ha ha ha… Lady in red is

dancing…” Tanker sang in his hoarse voice, with a Haryanvi

twang, spinning on his foot and draping his arm around an

imaginary maiden.

I usually don’t attend these booze sessions. Dark rooms

filled with smoke and the smell of liquor depress me, an artist at

heart; so I avoid these jamborees. But today I was in too good a

mood to refuse. I felt like playing my guitar; and it feels good to

have people around you when you play.

As we moved in the corridor, a frail matka stopped Bajrang

in his way and told him to stop shouting. Matka is what we call

the M.Tech’s studying in IIT-D. We B.Techs generally do not get

along with them. Bajrang clutched his collar and lifted him two

feet in the air and roared, “Who are you to tell me what to do!”

and then swung him in the air, resuming his “Lady in red is

dancing…” and dropped him on the ground.

“Look what I do now!” cried the matka from the ground.

Bajrang didn’t even look back and kicked open the door in his

usual style. I don’t blame the matka for what he did. I myself find

these binges too painful on the ear and have done any share of

whining and complaining. I had seen this matka complaining for

the whole semester and shouting his empty threats but no one

bothered about him. He was the sole M.Tech in this wing of the

most notorious B.Techs and thus had no say. We moved into the

room where the aroma of hot pizzas had lost to the overwhelming

reek of rum, whisky, vodka and what not.

We congratulated Murali, who was a teetotaler himself, and

the topper of his Mechanical Engineering batch. There must have

been ten or so packed in the room. Two or three were extremely

drunk and the rest were on their ways to glory. I took a

customary sip or two of vodka and excused myself from more in

spite of the pleadings. I threatened them that there would be no

guitar. I began with ‘Purani Jeans’, moved on to ‘Papa Kahte Hain’

and then to ‘Summer of 69’ and so on, the usual popular campus

songs, while all around me clapped and some san in their

trembling voices; and so we moved on into the wee hours of the morning. By then, some had retired to their rooms after puking,

some had retired without puking but Bajrang was still alive,

drinking as he usually does like a tanker but was much more

composed now. Meanwhile we chatted on with Murali who proudly

gave us tips on how to crack job interviews. There were just four

of us left in the room, when we heard a knock on the door.

Bajrang shouted, “Which sonovabitch is it?”

“Radhaswamy,” came the voice from the other side.

“Which Swami?” asked Tanker.

It was the unmistakable South Indian accent of the matka. I

never knew he was called Radhaswamy. We all knew him as

matka only.

“It is that matka again, Tanker,” informed Rishabh.

“The bastard wouldn’t listen. What does he want, now, when no

on me is making noise? It seems that the lesson was not enough

for him!” Tanker took a bottle of soda, opened it with his teeth,

shook it hard and then pressed his huge thumb against the hole,

while the gas hissed out. “Open the door, Tejas,” he told me. I did

as directed, eagerly waiting to enjoy the fate that awaited the

poor creature. The door opened and Bajrang sprayed around the

contents of the bottle in wild frenzy. I stood laughing as I saw

Radhaswamy drenched in soda with horror on his face but I

stopped soon as I noticed that, for some reason, Murali an

Rishabh had frozen in between. Bajrang continued and Murali

rushed to stop him. T peeped out of the corner of the door which

blocked my full view and I shudder to write what I saw.

To be honest, nothing comes to my mind, when I rack my

brain to think of a thing that might produced the same kind of

horror, even in a life so full of mishaps. Once, yes, while playing a

prank, I was bitten, out of the blue, by a female Doberman, which

taught me that there were Dober-men who were not men, yet as

dangerous… but never until this moment had I known anything to

boomerang in this fashion, ad this a prank, where my role was not

more than of that hopeless extra who dances behind the hero.

Without stretching your patience and curiosity any further, I

must tell you that I saw three portly gentlemen, standing upright,

as wet as three towels, behind Radhaswamy, whom I didn’t take more than a nanosecond, if that’s the smallest second, to

recognize and sport the same petrified look of my friends. Not to

worry. This isn’t a story about ghosts and spirits though now

when I think of it, it’d have been better indeed if it were. I bet

that one can’t we ghosts and spirits. I have it from reliable

sources that you can’t touch them and so logically can’t wet them

but three my friend had wetted two of the most important people

in IIT, and third, the most important one for me, not with water

but with soda and thank God soda, not champagne.

There they were and unmistakably so, as menacing as the

three musketeers; Prof. P.K. Dhingra, Hon. Dean of Undergraduate

Students; Prof. Keval Chadda, Hon. Warden, Karakoram House,

my hostel that is; and Prof. P.P. Sidhu, Hon. Head, Industrial Tour

Committee. I couldn’t believe that he was there too. You expect a

Warden and a Dean to be on a round to catch the defaulters but

not Prof. Pappi. I couldn’t see any reason for his esteemed

presence there, except that God had finally decided to annihilate

me and to do so in his most destructive fashion. It would have

taken a minute for a man of lesser intelligence, but for me it

hardly took seconds to realize that there went my chance of

skipping the Industrial Tour out of the window, I must say that a

man of lesser mental strength would have jumped out of the

window with it too, but not me. I stood my ground, injured, no

doubt, but not broken.

There was what one can call a killing silence for what one

can call an aeon after the last spoken words of wise Murali, who

had wasted no time in whispering loudly in the ears of Tanker

(who had lost his sense of distinction in the extreme state of

inebriety) that it was none other than the Dean on whom he had

been lavishing the froth. It was broken by none other than Tanker

and in such frightful a fashion that I wonder, still, what I had

done so grossly wrong in this life or previous to land myself in

that hell. I’d like to reproduce the exact conversation or

monologue, to be precise, that ensured:

Tanker: Oh, hullo, old man! What brings you here?

(Silence, spectators look on, incredulous)

Tanker: Why, of course, what a fool to have asked you that

question! You are here for the party, aren’t you? Murali

has got a top job sir, and you, no doubt, want to

congratulate this precious stone. Come in! Come in! You two also! Everyone is welcome! This Murali is a

generous soul.

(Silence)

Tanker: and who are these cute little old men with you? (Goes

up to the Warden, looks down at him with keen interest

and points a finger) I have seen you somewhere,

haven’t I? I fail to place you, but you are most welcome

too, what should I mix for you? Oh, I know, TEJAS (he

shouted), give soda and vodka to him!

(Why on earth should be have called me to do the

honours, I fail to see, but blame it on my bad luck. Or

Mr. Fate. There were two more students in the room

and I was no expert barman, one of those who juggle

with bottles and pour the drink from a mile above

without sprinkling a drop, but still he called me and I

felt like one of the arms, right or left, whichever is

stronger, of an underworld don, who is about to get the

same sentence as his boss. Meanwhile, I could see the

disgust with which the three M. looked was intensifying

and presently the Tour Head gave me an obnoxious

stare while Tanker moved towards him. There was a

card hanging from a chain which went around his neck

and I knew like Holmes, that the inscription on the card

held the clue to whatever he did in this room. I had

desired to get a view of it, right from the beginning, but

couldn’t read more than SALAD, written in big, bold,

capital letters with something small beneath, and that

had left me more confused. What could salad mean?

For a normal boy like me, it meant nothing more than

those raw vegetables that doctors recommend for

health. Why this Prof. was here and why he was

publicizing salad, when I was sure he had nothing to do

with chefs and butlers, was too maddening a mystery

to me. Presently Tanker, in his third attempt, finally

grabbed the card and tired to read.)

Tanker:. You still wear I-cards, old man? Funny! (roars with

laughter) You don’t need it; you are not a kindergarten

kiddy.

That was the final straw. What had so far been a monologue was

interrupted by Pappi who could not take it any more. You don’t expect professors, wet with soda, to like being addressed as

kindergarten kiddies and neither did Pappi. He roared, “You

bloody fool; do you not know what are you saying and where it’ll

land you? You will not be spared. As the head of ‘Society Against

Liquor and Drugs’, (so that was what SALAD was) I assure you

and your friends that I will not rest till I have you out of this

college.” This was the not-so-jovial side of the otherwise jovial

Pappi that none of us had witnessed before.

We three were given summons and were to be court-

martialled the following morning. The famous ‘Disciplinary

Committee’ or the ‘Disco as it is famously known was to decide

our fate, which indeed looked very bleak. Though everyone will tell that Disco is the worst thing that

can happen to you at II, no matter how groovy it might sound, I

wasn’t much worried about its decision. I do not claim to be some

super-cool toughie that can not be shimmied by the severest of

storms. But here I was, a man confronted by two storms who has

no option but to worry about the storm more lethal, which, here,

undoubtedly was the one that threatened my union with my

inamorata. It may sound a bit strange but that’s how it is. A man

in the throes of this queer thing called love doesn’t worry about

trifles such as suspensions. There are graver things in life to

worry. He just waves his hand and says, “Ah, we’ll deal with

triflings later.”

I had a vague feeling that we’d get away as we, from which

I exclude Tanker, had really done nothing, save being present at

the place of calamity; but how I would get away from Pappi was a

question I didn’t want to think about. Things definitely looked

bleak. Pappi still had my application with him. It hadn’t been

signed and wouldn’t be signed, I could scarcely believe my

misfortune. How on earth could they convene a ridiculous body

called SALAD and make the Industrial Tour Head its president!

There were thousands of professors and even more butlers for

this rummy thing called SALAD. And how on earth could I be

caught for an offence of drinking when I had just wetted my lips.

And how on earth could a guy go mad like that to bathe his

teachers in soda and then go about offering them drinks! I had

only heard that people lose their marbles on an overdose of hooch, but never had I expected to witness marbles so utterly

lost.

I couldn’t sleep the whole night thinking about the absurdity

of it all. Once or twice, I thought of calling Shreya but did not. To

worry a girl at three in the night with such ghastly shockers is not

the conduct of gallant men. I reflected how sometimes one is just

a spectator to his fate. I remembered a movie where Ram, as

innocent a man as ever was born, goes to his friend Shyam’s

house early in the morning for their routine walk. He finds the

house open and is surprised. He walks in as any close friend will

and is shocked to see Shyam dead in a pool of blood. Scarcely

does he turn in an effort to call the police that he finds it already

there with Inspector Vijay merrily dangling the handcuffs in the

air and muttering, “I knew you would have return.” I was feeling

exactly how Ram must have felt about the whole damn business

but what brought solace was that Ram was acquitted in the end.

While introducing Tanker I forgot to include a thing or two,

which Who’s Who(s) will not dare to forget in the years to come. I

hasten to correct the error for it is vital to this story. Tanker or

Bajrang, as Who’s Who(s) should list him, is the absolute king of

jugaad. Jugaad, as it is popularly known in these parts, is the art

of getting things done in a way which is slightly deviant from how

it should be done. Example, you can say, a backdoor entry.

Coming back to our hero, Tanker has all the links in the world and

seldom is a distressed soul disappointed when he comes for help

to our Tanker. He is the undisputed king of politics that form a

vital part of one’s stay at IIT and has devoted his life to it and it

seems that he would stay on here forever if there was not a

clause in the IIT rule-book that states “…a student must not take

more than six years to complete his degree…” it was Tanker’s

sixth year and the authorities were already fretting, faced with

the task of dislodging the monster from his den. Reminds me of a

story about Hanumanji, after whom Bajrang is named, when he

blocked the path of Bhima who tried to lift the monkey-god’s tail

but even the mighty Pandava, with his infinite muscles, didn’t

succeed.

I mentioned above that I felt we’d get away, and specified

strictly that ‘we’ excluded Tanker, but I was proved wrong and rightly so. I committed the folly of forgetting Tanker’s talents and

it was foolish. The gist of the story, without increasing the

suspense of the length, is Tanker got away and saved us

unscathed, too. How he produced medical proof that his wild act

was nothing but an epileptic seizure is an amusing story, but must

be excluded here. Thus no real case could be formed against us

and, in the comedy of errors that followed, we were warned that

we were on probation for the rest of our stay at IIT, and any

adverse report would most certainly result in an expulsion.

The recent developments – the DISCO meeting, and the

sleepless night had left me weary. And I slept like a dog. I

remember my crazy dream in which the invading Pakistan army

had come as far as my house and the entire mantle fell upon my

heroic shoulders to save my colony. I was surprised to see that

Pappi and the Dean were fighting for the Pakistan army, when I

suddenly heard a bang… and again… and again. I feared that my

house would be destroyed in that shelling when another bang

woke me up and I jumped some feet in the air. Relief, which came

to me on discovering that my house was safe, was momentary

thought as I noticed that some idiot was banging my door and

calling out my name. I managed to get up. It was Khosla, my

friend, the Class Representative. He had formed a habit of waking

me up and I hated that. He was everywhere, it seemed. Whenever

I slept, he came quickly, like a nightmare.

“What do you want at this unearthly hour?” I asked.

“It is noon, my friend 12’o clock to be precise.”

“Oh!”

“And get ready, Pappi has called you.”

“Me?”

“And he is lived!”

“Oh!”

“Did you submit the interim project report?”

“No, when is it the last date?”

“It was to be submitted in the morning class at nine for which you

didn’t appear. He was very cross at that.”

I had forgotten the report. It only decreased my chances to

meet Shreya. The professor who was to hand my passport had

been disgraced, or so he thought, by me and then I had not

worked at all on project. He would eat me up for sure. The fact

that I had thought him a gem just a day ago brought no solace. “How could I attend his class when he himself had caused me to

land in front of the Disciplinary Committee?” I asked frustrated.

“Yes, I forgot! What happened there?” and on asking this his face

beamed in anticipation. How people derive joy from such

abominable happenings is beyond me. The world is full of sadists,

I reflected. I didn’t want to disappoint him by telling him I got

away.

“Later, now, let me get ready!”

Life is not a bed of roses, someone has wisely said, but it

wasn’t supposed to be a bed wholly constructed of thorns either.

Reflecting on these lines I moved on to his highness’ room and he

ushered me in after my polite, “Sir?”

He arose from the pile of books and looked at me like a dad

eyeing the lover of his daughter.

“Mr. Tejas Narula,” he started and I was startled to hear that, for

not often am I addressed as mister and when I am , it indeed

spells doom, “I did not get your interim report.”

“Sir, I was at the disciplinary committee inquiry.”

“Inquiry forsooth, we’ll come to that farce later. How far have you

reached in devising your cylinder?” he thundered.

“Sir, I am working on it…” I did no know what to say for I had

nothing but fortunately or unfortunately he didn’t let me speak

and interrupted, “I’ll tell you how far you have gone. You have

gone as far as a deadbeat can go after bunking all the practical

classes.”

“Sir?” I wanted to say that I had not bunked all but wasn’t given

a chance.

“I know how to deal with rouges like you!”

“Sir?”

“Don’t go on mumbling sir-sir, you think you are very smart? You

will get away with anything? But I tell you what, you are wrong

and you’ll see when I fail you in this course. You were the one, if I

remember correctly who sought permission for not going on the

Industrial Tour. Right?”

I wished I could have said wrong but I was helpless. I just

nodded in approval and tried to gulp in the shocker. I knew he

would not exempt me from the Industrial Tour and that meant

death.

“What did you say you had? Marriage of your brother? I am very

sure that there is nothing like that and I am going to check it with your parents. You bunk classes and you think you can bunk

anything?”

“Sir…”

Hell… I had not thought of that. I mean yes, I had thought,

as a quick mind would, that due to the unfortunate events of the

night my trip might be in danger but never had I thought that he

would decide to call my parents to confirm the excuse. I was in

hell and the deepest one. There was in front of me a different

Pappi, a Pappi who was about to spoil his record of not failing a

student ever, a Pappi who was mad, not the Pappi whom I had

labeled a gem, not Pappi at all but Prof. P.P. Sidhu. The previous

night’s insults had been too much for him. I agreed, but felt

unlucky to be singled out. Why hadn’t I worked on my project? I

thought. Again, because Pappi was known to be cool with grades.

Rishabh had worked he was about to destroy.

“I told you to shut up! What do you think of yourselves? It is a

shame to have students like you in IIT. You are a disgrace! Utter

disgrace! You were laughing while you friend was showering

whisky on three professors. On three Gurus! You know who a

Guru is? We used to touch our Guru’s feet everyday! Every dingle

day, you buffoon and that is why we are blessed with such life

and knowledge. I wonder if you respect even your own parents! I

bet you wouldn’t mind insulting you parents.”

“Sorry sir but…” I wish I could have told him that it was soda, not

whisky and that I had goodness in me.

“Sorry! Sorry for what? British left but left their legacy, sorry!

Damned word… used anywhere and everywhere. You think I am

friendly with students and so you can take any liberty? You fool! I

have been such an understanding professor, all these years, ask

your seniors and this is the way you treat me…” he had been hurt

and all his anger was coming out, “And do you feel sorry? Not a

bit! If you were sorry you would have apologized in front of the

committee today but what do you do? You make such an insane

tale of your friend being epileptic! I couldn’t believe it when the

committee told me. Epileptic! My foot! Never have I heard of such

sacrilege! First you show the highest form of disrespect to your

Gurus and then you choose to reprieve by the committee but

there are other ways to punish and better ways. Take that in your

head that I am not going to leave you like this. I will not rest till I

have set you right! I have it from my sources that you are a good

friend of Bajrang and you were a part of this derisive conspiracy.”

“Sir, I did not know about it!” I said, defending myself. And I was

honest. It was amazing the number of charges he had levelled

against me when I hardly deserved any. “Honestly, sir, I was

unaware!” I said, almost pleading and on the verge of breaking

down.

“Honest! That will be confirmed soon. I know you are a liar, I

have seen your conduct this semester… you attend classes as if

you’re doing a favour to me! Yet I give you one chance, I am

going to call your father and check if your brother I sindeed

getting married. If this is a lie then God save you! Wait here,

while I call the undergraduate office to get your phone number!”

He picked up the receiver of the phone and dialed the

internet number for the UG section, the office where all the

student records are kept. I felt what a victim when his head was

stuck in a guillotine must have felt in those beastly times. Not

many people witness death coming slowly to them but there I

was waiting every second for the blade to fall. The ground

escaped from under my feet, it felt as if someone was churning

my intestines determined to reduce them to pulp; my knees grew

weaker as I waited for the call to be picked. Often in these

situations one gives up and I gave up too. I could do nothing but

stand and stare at my fate being altered right in front of my eyes.

He would tell all to my dad, who would want a suitable

explanation for my actions. He’d also tell dad how I had insulted

my Gurus by spilling whisky on them and what a student I was. It

was the end. But what hurt most of all was that I would not be

able to meet Shreya. I had tried so hard, planned end… I started

to wonder if ever I’d be able to meet her… that her dad was

against me and would not allow her to come to Delhi. It looked so

hopeless. Life had been so full of problems lately yet I had fought

them all. I had loved honestly and devotedly. And this was my

reward! I was moved to tears but didn’t let them fall. My mind

was full of thoughts. Why God was being so unjust, I did not

know! Where I had gone wrong, I did not know. If trying to meet

one’s loved one against all odds was wrong then I did not agree

with it. I believed that I had done nothing wrong. But the thing

was, that my life was about to end and I was not going to meet

Shreya. I closed my eyes as Pappi spoke.

“Hello UG section, Prof P.P. Sidhu here. Good morning, can I have

the number of a student… Yes… Tejas Narula? ... Yes, Home

Telephone number… he is not there? When will he be back? Okay,

yes… Okay, yes, call me after lunch then… yes, after two, fine…

I’ll be in my room after one… thank you!”

I opened my eyes. He had replaced the receiver and looked at me.

I had my eyes wide open in surprise and relief. I finally drew

breath and a deep one that. I had got a life jacket and I was not

going to lose it. I thanked God silently while Pappi told me, “So

two it will be then! The man who looks after the records in out

and will be back then. He’ll call m and give me the number. I don’t

want your number from you. Get out.” I said sorry again and

rushed off. There was no time to waste. It was twelve thirty. I

had seen in professor’s clock. I had ninety minutes to save my

life, not a minute more, not a minute less.