‘Say something.’ she said, like a
child begging for toffees.
‘Like? What you like to hear?’
‘Stories. Jokes. Anything.’
‘I will tell you something, some story with real adult stuff’, I said. I
hated myself later for using that word though she gave an optimistic nod with a
meaningful smile.
‘It happened during my hostel days in first year.’
‘Hmm’
‘And it’s a bit sleazy and contains a lot of vulgar and
to-be-concealed-from-girls sort of elements. I may not skip them’
She smiled with a flicker of irony. ‘Be as worst you can be.’
‘Lastly: there is one condition. Do not ask stupid questions in
midstream. Try your best to bear with it’ I said nonchalantly, pointing my index
finger towards her.
‘And I have made some soup.’ I said pointing at the bowls on the table.
‘You might find it to be edible.’
**************************************************************
I strongly admonish you to address the head of your department and
hostel superintendent like that. But why
we never considered giving up calling him that is ensued with a little mystery.
Power cuts were quite frequent in our hostel. The hostel had a generator
which was habituated of malfunctioning and even if it was not so, the college
never gave a damn. Power cut hours bacame ten a penny, the realization came
handy when we were still attuning ourselves to the hostel.
The power cuts continued, but
after a few weeks of our stay in hostel, the situation bettered. Those
particular power cut hours became whiles of merriment for us as we began to
play cards accompanied with the illumination of terminally ill candles. The
non-players, either due to unavailability of cards and candles or due to not
knowing the game, made lofty gambles. The tottering smokers made the darkness thinner
with the burning ends of their cigarettes. Booze only helped us to uncivilize a
little.
With the ceaseless spicy smses and bone-tickling jokes, we shot the shit
without giving much thought about the so-called tomorrows, the semesters and
any such similar rubbish.
It started out, suddenly on a
night of summer. I was yakking with Sid and Imran. It must not have been over
10 pm. The light went off, for a second time.
‘What the hell is happening here?’ imran yelled as he walked out of the
room. After a second, we heard his words piercing through air.
‘Motherfucker! Sisterfucker! sheep-fucker HOD , are we here to piss in the air all the
night? What fucking intention do you have,
you fucking lousy asshole that you send the power cuts to suck us?’
He paused, took a gasp , drank a gulp of beer . ‘You are cooling your
ass and we are facing the music every night …. ……….. You motherfucker.’
The talks, the laughs and the
shouts that crudely define a hostel, went stark silent for a minute. Slowly started murmuring which soared in to conversations,
the conversations in to discussions and before discussions would collide, the
neon lights started glowing.
The power cut lasted
for only five or less minutes. Imran was already drunk. He spared us a big grin
and went to sleep readily. We got ourselves back to studies. The episode
stopped there for that night.
The next
morning, slangs were in the air. A zestful fuss had made rounds. Imran received
spates of complements and what-more-would-have-been-suited sort of slangs from
several friends and acquaintances. A few
criticizes were offered also. He acted generously.
Surprisingly, Mr. seth ,
the victim, the superintendent, the HOD was unperturbed by the slangs thrown to him, the throaty laughs and
transcending chuckles happening in the
hostel. He did not seem to be bothersome.
Only three days were left for our
first semester examination and the first demon we had to meet with was economics,
the ultra-uninteresting creation of some big bores. We knew we might have to go to the ends of
the earth to pass in this subject. We did not even notice, when the nightfall
reached the hostel.
Whatever it was,
the electricity board was not so kind-hearted to help the freaked-out fellows (most
of whom did not own a damn economics book) like us. The clock ticked 7 and the light petered out,
the fans heaved a sigh and power-guards went on beeping harmonically.
Imran motioned towards the
gate of our block. ‘Devil’s grandson,
you are not a super-in-tendent , you are
a super-in-fucker. How the fuck should I go and shit in my exam?’ he growled.
He was not alone anymore.
‘Asshole, plonker, bastard ! We will put your ass on fire and tango
around it.‘
‘Motherfucker. Horsefucker. Fuck you.’
‘You do not give me a minute to piss. Every day it fucking happens with
you. How am I going to find my John thomas ?’
The hostel had four blocks arranged in a
circle. Every block had its own players showering abuses like fury.
Mr. seth’s room’s door
was semi-open. I was sure, he would not be relaxing on his couch while the air
was thicker with slangs than nitrogen. But we did not get to hear anything from
him, not that day and not ever. The abusers were not unhappy about this. They
continued to be enthusiastic. It went on for months.
His composure surely
led us to perplexity. He would talk to us, laugh with us and make us laugh. He
helped us to escape the ragging when the sick seniors would slap us for a milligram
of dust upon our shoes or for carrying a bag that did not resemble the crow in
its color. He would risk us by duping us as his relatives. Seniors would
snicker at him and shout ‘free cocks.’ We never got to understand what they
really meant but they used to rag us no more.
On the other hand,
inhabitants of our hostel were devoid of mercy and deference. The poor old man
had to digest the ruthless and rancid things about his family, his ancestors
and him.
For me it was a catch-22 situation. In my heart I had a sense of respect
and compassion for the oldie and a belief that the superintendent had nothing
to do with glitches of electricity board.
Regrettably , Imran was confident
about this fact. He also believed that, as a roommate , it was my duty to
bolster him and to roar with him. Every night he used to pull me to this
kurukshetra of slangs , where there was no kauravas and pandavas. There was
only one rival old , scrawny and feeble
attacked by the army of robust and eager
invaders. Foul language and shamelessness
were our solo weapons. He had none. And night after night, this Mahabharata
endured.
Ish and sid were my two other roommates. Sid was fair, a bit plump . His
coyly smile added to his boyish charm. He was studious, more than the three of
us. Ish was not fair. He was soft-spoken and had a really sick habit of waking
up at 5 in the morning, no matter what the season might be. He never hesitated
to tell us about the soft rays of sun, chirping of birds, tinkling of bells in
nearby temples and other characteristic elements of morning which we late-risers
rarely ran into.
Sid and seth sir
were from the same city. Over time and over several petty things, a natural
bonding built up between them. Sid visited his room quite a lot and Seth
sir returned the favour. He used to call Sid his son, fondly. Much as imran had the zeal
to wait for the power cut and damn the HOD , sid had the same aversion for it. Sid
was strong and determined in his decision to respect Mr. seth and Imran was
never distracted from his either. The remaining two were neutral: me and Ish.
To my conscience, I have
catechized often. When the air is dusty and someone does not blink his eyelids
, there must be something bothersome. To
say what is going on his mind, I find three options; One: he is really calm and above all these mean
things and suspicions. Two: he is concealing his color behind his mask of
calmness for a certain purpose. Three: he is on the verge of explosion and may
wretch you at any moment. I have always believed in the third option. But
something else was on horizon.
************************************************
