You There!

“You there, boy. Need any help?”
“Er- yes sir. Umm.. Vishwakarma Bhawan?”
“VK? Go straight and take a right.”

I followed his directions, lugging two huge suitcases with me. The population was sparse, just a few clusters of students roaming aboutwith no apparent destination.

<The seniors must come a few days late.>
<Or, you know, maybe everyone got fried by this bloody heat. Just a possibility.>
<Oh shut up! You can’t expect everything to be perfect in any Institute. Arun has worked very hard to get in BITS and you are NOT going to ruin it for him!>
<OK, OK. Geez woman, it was a joke!>

Yes, readers, I realize that this may seem confusing. But casting aspersions upon my sanity would be a trifle premature. My name, as you have doubtless picked up by now, is Arun. And I have always been a bit of a loner. When talking opportunities are scarce, and they often are, I have two consciences to keep me company. The ‘good’ one takes the form and voice of my eldest sister Durga. Prim, proper and righteous to the point of being irritating, she lights the way towards the sensible path to take. The ‘evil’ one takes the appearance of my elder and infinitely more mischievous brother Kabir. He highlights all the dangerous, albeit fun, options if and when they present themselves.

On second thoughts, casting aspersions upon my sanity wouldn’t be far off the mark.

D: <What magnificent buildings! There’s something royal about them, an elite touch.You get a warm, inviting feeling when you look at them.>
K: <Well, there must be something wrong with me, because the only feeling I’m getting right now is a nauseous one. This looks like a dump to me. God knows how this bloke’s going to stay here for four months.>
D: <Kabir Sinha! You take that back right now! You said you wouldn’t spoil it for him-“>

This bickering was nothing new to me. Looking at my hostel, I felt they both had a valid point. There was something regal and medieval about the structure. But it also looked like the Medieval Times were the last time it had been subject to maintenance.  I shrugged both thoughts aside and concentrated on heaving the twin monstrosities which were my suitcases to my room. I was surprised to see the door ajar. My roommate was already here and was already in the process of unpacking when he looked up, saw me and smiled.

“Hello, I’m Devdatt Chatterjee. Are you my roommate?”
“I guess so.” We both stood there, silent and not too comfortable. (D: <Your name, Arun!> K: <Seriously, what a doofus.>) “I’m Arun Sinha. Hello.”
“OK, cool. Why don’t you unpack your stuff too? We have lots of things to do. Making timetables and all, you know.”
“Yeah, I know”. I didn’t know at all, but I started unpacking nonetheless. The room was a pleasant surprise and was far more spacious than expected. There was even space to move around in after taking into account the beds, cupboards and tables provided for each of us. By college standards, that’s more than acceptable. I was finished with the first suitcase and was sliding it under the bed when a humungous rat ran out. It was as big as a puppy, I kid you not. It twitched its whiskers and motored under the cupboard. Durga was already creating pandemonium inside my head, screaming her lungs out. Unfortunately, a scream inadvertently escaped my lips too. A loud one.

“Aaaaahhh! What? What is it?” Devdatt asked, after jumping about a foot in the air. Upon hearing the source of my shriek, he wasn’t impressed at all.
“A mouse? Jesus man, I thought you’d been electrocuted or something. You’re telling me you didn’t expect mice in a hostel room? Come on, man.”

It was a rat, not a mouse. And it’s easy for him to be so smug about it. Let him be taken unawares by one as enormous as that, then we’ll see. I didn’t say it all out loud of course, due to the amalgamation of the facts that I didn’t want to spoil our relations right from day one and that I was a gutless coward.

K: <Twitchy little ferret, aren’t you Sinha?>
A: <Shut up.>
D: <Is it safe to come out yet?>


***
“Football is a game of ends, not means. Something ably demonstrated by your bare trophy cabinet despite all the pretty stuff you play.” Devdatt said.
“Yeah, well I can’t help it that your powers of recollection abruptly go kaput as soon as we move behind 2004. Not surprising, considering your rent boys were wallowing in mid-table mediocrity before that.” I countered.
“Whatever, man. At least I don’t drool while my London neighbours rake in the cups.”
“Yeah, well at least I don’t drool while I’m asleep watching my team play their painfully one dimensional drivel.”
“Gooner scum!”
“Chav numbskull!”

It had to happen. When two people have no problems with each other whatsoever and get along very well, one thing always pops up between them like a big, ugly zit. The football teams they support. For all the peace-loving propagated by Gandhiji, Indians are quite a quarrelsome bunch. (Sorry to sound reverse xenophobic.) Once we find a sport which India blows at (it’s not especially difficult, is it?), we promptly take sides depending on our fancy and find another reason to fight. This current fight was brought to a hasty halt as a burly senior appeared while we were on our way back from the mess.

“First years?” We nodded, but I thought it a pretty needless question to ask. Our wide eyes, anxious faces and relative neatness made the answer glaringly obvious.
“Follow me. Don’t be nervous. We just want to talk.”

K: <Yeah, and I’m Cinderella. Get ready for a first class spanking, bucko.>

***
D: <Remember Arun, if they cross the line even slightly; report the matter to the Warden at once.>
K: <Put a sock in it, saintly sis. This is disappointingly tame stuff. Just be thankful you’re not doing it with your underwear over your head.>

My views coincided with Kabir on this. The seniors were making me introduce myself in the BITSian format. And I had to start over if I hesitated even a bit. Tedious it undoubtedly was, but I could think of worse things I could be doing instead.

“No no, not PS. Practice School. Boy, how dense are you?”
“Er- sorry. My name is Arun Sinha. My Identi-“
“STOP! What about the ‘sirs’ at the end of each sentence, you idiot?”
“Right. Sorry.”

The word ‘sorry’ found its way out of my lips with alarming frequency. I was incessantly apologizing to a multitude of people, irrespective of it being my fault or not. The recipient of this particular apology was an emaciated second year who claimed to be my school senior. I had never set eyes on him before, so perhaps I wasn’t the person to confirm the authenticity of his assertion.

I restarted my introduction. It was pretty clear to me that Mr. Skinny wouldn’t be doing this so intrepidly if it wasn’t for his significantly larger cronies. Anyway, I must have been doing a decent job in introducing myself, because I was stopped midway when no faults could be found.

”My bottle’s empty. Here, go to the water cooler and fill it up.”
“Yes sir.” I did.
“Okay. Now slap me.”
“Yes s- what?”
“Now you’re deaf as well as dense? Slap me, you dimwit!”
“B-but why sir?”
“This is not an interview, so stop asking stuff. What do you care why? Just slap me. I won’t do anything in response.” He placed a pointed emphasis on the ‘I’, meaning that his cronies would make mincemeat out of me if I so much as touched me.
“I-I couldn’t, sir.”

Now at this point, The Undernourished One said some things which seem undignified to put in print. I’ll replace one derogatory term he used with a similar sounding, harmless word. The more street smart of you will know the word in question without any difficulty, but that can’t be helped.

“What the cluck did you say? You couldn’t? What, you don’t have the clucking guts? Slap me right now, if you don’t want to be branded a clucking chicken.”(My first pun!)

Now I wish I could tell you that I slapped him hard, leaving his face tomato red both with my fingerprints and shame. But the truth was that I timidly stood there, like an aspen leaf shaking in the wind. I was a chicken alright, and not even of the clucking variety. Kabir was showering abuses which would exhaust me of possible euphemisms if I tried to write them here. Durga meanwhile was urging me to remain calm and not lose my cool. Big sister was right this time.

“Alright, chicken. Since you refuse to slap me, you’re going to work for me from now on. Anything I want done, I’ll tell you and it better be done. Got it?”
“Yes sir.”
“Okay. Get out now.”
“Yes sir. Sorry sir.”

K: <Now what the hell was that sorry for?>
A: <I don’t know. It just came out. I’m sorry.>
K: <Oh shut up. Sorry is what I am for you, Goldilocks.>
D: <Don’t listen to him, Arun. I think you performed admirably under the circumstances.>

I always heard people saying college was a fun place, the place witness to the golden years of youth. Well, then my golden years consisted of being subservient to a scrawny git who looked like he last had a bath when the world was grooving to “Ice Ice Baby”.

Clucking Hell.
***
“What took you so long, you dimwit?” Skinny asked. I wasn’t arsed enough to reply and just stood there to hear what job he had for me and be done with it. To say that I was irked by the tedious rigmaroles I was made to go through would be a considerable understatement.  But, like the common man, I silently persevered.

“Now where is that boo- Oh crap!” he said as he upturned a bottle of water on the floor. “Here, take this and wipe the water off while I find that book.”

You know how they say that it takes only the smallest of sparks to set off a conflagration? Well, all my pent up irritation, anger and resentment needed an ignition and it was duly provided when I saw what the moron was using to wipe the floor. It was a football jersey. My team’s football jersey. I know it sounds strange that I would take more offence to this than the other humiliations I suffered, but that’s just how it is. I would like to think that I was gradually changing all semester and that this was just the final straw. Or it could just be that I am a hardcore footy fan who keeps club above all else. I’d like to think it was the former but we’ll never know.

“Well, what are you doing, staring at me? Get started.” He said.
“Well sir, I thought I’d take you up on your challenge.” I said, raised my right hand (D: <You’ll be sorry for this> K: <Just do it, bro!>) and slapped him across the face as hard as I could.

He stood there for thirty seconds, an expression of shock on his face. The slap must have been loud, because his immediate neighbours rushed into the room, flushed with excitement in anticipation of some first year beating. When they saw the scene rife with tension and the red marks across his cheek, surprise, then a more menacing look manifested itself on their faces. Knuckles cracked as they advanced towards me.

D: <You can’t say I didn’t warn you.>
K: <Perhaps I didn’t think this through.>
***
“I just want to invent a time machine. Then I want to go back and meet the person who was smart enough to make the general public aware of mechanics. Boy, would I have some things to say to him. After I break his skull.” Devdatt said.

We were studying for our Comprehensive Examinations. I was never called upon by that senior again, and due to the story circulated by my friends, I now wore my black eye, puffed up lip and multiple bruises like medals of honour, with fierce pride. When someone would incredulously ask if I had really slapped a senior, I would just nod my head wisely, telling them not to bow down to the oppressors, but simultaneously advising them that giving them one across the face wouldn’t be the best of ideas either.

It seemed as if the old Arun had been blasted asunder. I was more confident, less hesitant and more outgoing. Durga and Kabir had been talking less and less, a sign I took as positive.

“Seriously, I would like to take this inclined plane and shove it up hi-“

As Devdatt searched for prospective destinations for the inclined plane, our resident mouse whizzed away between our beds. I had decided that the little critter wasn’t so bad after all. I had changed beyond recognition this semester. If Arun (nervous wreck) could become Aun (epitome of confidence) then everything was possible.

“What do you mean small? You’re calling my club small?
“Yes. Both literally and metaphorically. You’re players are like midgets, all guile and no gumption. Your club is average, mediocre.”
“Chav numbskull!”
“Gooner scum!”

Well, I guess not everything.

***