Chapter 13

This time I decided to raid a different medical ward. It was a long time since I had picked

up those ampoules from ward ‘A’, but I didn’t want to take any chances by repeating my

performance there. They had probably discovered the theft and the nurse on duty perhaps

remembered my face. Not for its handsomeness, of course. In all probability, she had

faced flak from her seniors. For that reason, maybe, she lurked somewhere in those

wards, waiting to pounce upon me whenever I showed up next.

I chose ward ‘D’, the one in exactly the opposite direction to, and at a safe distance from,

ward ‘A’. Like before, I had carefully stuck a sticking plaster to cover my name on the

lab-coat. I couldn’t have been overcautious. I wondered if Kedar would have sponsored a

stethoscope for me to carry around the wards on such missions to help me masquerade as

a senior student.

I walked on a narrow passage towards the ward D and on the way I crossed a bunch of

students who surrounded a resident doctor. The resident doctor spoke loudly and his

words suggested that he was making concluding statements, and answering questions, on

a lecture that he had taken on a particular patient’s ailment, inside the ward. A few

students gazed at me quizzically as I passed, obviously failing to recognize me.

The group of students engrossed in educating themselves reminded me that I had bunked

the two of my own morning lectures. I hoped that no one missed me there.

After experiencing the electrical shock, I had holed up in the room for half and hour, debating

with myself on the options that lay before me. There was no point in reporting to anyone

about this. Kedar had a reputation and even if I managed to straighten myself out from

this mess by approaching the establishment, he could always get back to me, in several,

different, unpleasant ways, until I fled the university. As he had once said, ‘we have

nothing to lose’. In the end, after a good cry, I had modestly concluded that I had just two

options: One was to abide by the tormenting Kedar and the other was to disappear in thin

air. Though I started out to pursue the first option, I wished in my heart that I could take

the second one.

A small grilled gate outside the back-door of the ward was closed and a modest crowd

lingered around it. Many of these people held tiffin-carriers and/or thermos flasks. Some

even carried sets of clean clothes and bed-sheets. A uniformed security guard stood

beyond the locked gate holding a baton in his hands. A couple of men were trying to

cajole the security guard into smuggling them or their things inside. The scene confused

me for a moment but it soon dawned upon me that something important was taking place

inside the ward, important enough to keep the visitors out. I couldn’t recall a similar gate

outside ward A. Or maybe it was there but escaped my attention by being open and

unguarded at that time. Even as I tried to decide my next move, my eyes met those of the

guard. He stared at me for a second, perhaps in an attempt to recognize me, before

hurriedly opening the gate just enough to let a single person pass through. He then waved

his stick furiously at the crowd and said, “Get out of the way, move, let the doctor saab

enter.” I tried to hide my apprehension with a false straight face and squeezed my way

through the crowd. As I walked past the sentinel, I heard the clang of the Iron Gate

shutting with force. The guard murmured something about me being late and that the

professor would not be too pleased with me. He had taken me to be a senior student. And

a real professor walked loose somewhere inside.

I reached the nursing station to find it completely deserted, save for an aging ayah who

furiously mopped the floor with a liquid that smelt vaguely of phenyl. Ward D comprised

of two large halls, one on each side of the nursing station. One was for the male patients

and the other for the females. I was surprised by the pin-drop silence that gripped the

area, very much unlike the ward A. That afternoon, ward A had bustled with activity:

people moved freely in and out, clanging utensils from winding lunches filled the air,

ailing patients groaned, nurses shouted and children wailed.

“Where’s everyone?” I asked the ayah.

She paused the vigorous mopping for a moment and looked at me with a surprised face.

“Go inside,” she whispered in Gujarati, pointing inside the female section through the

glass pane of the nursing station, “You’re already late.”

I followed her pointing finger and located a group of students that surrounded the fourth

bed from the door. A tall, balding gentleman, who wore a long, full-sleeved lab-coat,

towered over the students. He appeared to speak to the group with meaningful

movements of his arms, as if trying hard to explain something. A platoon of nurses that

included at least one from every level in the hierarchy: the matron, the ward in-charge,

the assistant nurse and a couple of student nurses, all dressed in spotless white, stood in

attention. Several of them held an assortment of articles- stethoscope, examining

hammer, torch, clipboards, case-sheets etc. Some resident doctors, with bored faces,

stood a little away, perhaps indicating that whatever was being taught to the undergraduates

was too petty for them. I managed a peek at the patient on the bed. She was a

frail, elderly lady with gray, unkempt hair, who appeared visibly distressed by the

overwhelming gathering of doctors. At the moment she nervously fingered her IV line. I

concluded that the professor was in the midst of his morning rounds. Sudden panic

gripped me, as I felt trapped. My earlier escapade at ward A had gone pretty unnoticed,

perhaps because it was carried out in the late afternoon - a time of the day when most of

the staff and the doctors disappeared from the ward after enduring a hectic morning with

patients and their fresh complaints; their respective bosses and their fresh complaints.

But today I found myself in the meat of things. Before I could make up my mind for the

next move, I noticed a nurse break away from the group and move towards me. I geared

myself up to face her but my mind was unable to instantly think of an excuse for my

presence there.

“Are you from this batch?” she sounded too polite for her looks, and replied her own

question, “I don’t think I’ve seen you here before. What is it that you want?”

“Er.. I need to see the professor,” I said, trying to sound as convincing as possible, “I

want to consult him for my mother’s ailment.”

She smiled. “Of course, he’s one of the best doctors around. But you’ll have to wait for

some time, till he finishes with the rounds. You are…?”

“I am from the first MBBS,” I said hurriedly, deliberately avoiding my name.

“Oh,” she said, “you may sit here if you want while you wait for him to be free.”

“Thank-you, Sister,” I said and sat down on a chair. She left to rejoin the dull flock. I

waited with bated breath to see if any more heads turned my way. None did. Clearly, my

visit was unremarkable and medical students seeking off-time consultation from senior

doctors was perhaps an incumbent practice. I now had to wait for the ayah to do her

thing and move out. This was going to be easier than ward A, I thought.

The security guard did not care for a second glance at me before repeating the drill of

opening the gate just a little bit to let me squeeze out, and shooing off the hopeful

relatives away from the grill. He seemed to enjoy displaying his authority. The nurse

could make her own deductions about my sudden disappearance, if at all she remembered

me at the end of the rounds.

Once in the safe confines of an empty cubicle of the library, I pulled out the envelope

from my pocket and counted the ampoules. There were thirteen in all; I had almost

emptied the jar that contained the ampoules in the ward D.

It was eleven-thirty and there was no point in joining everyone at the dissection hall. I

would have to answer a lot of questions, which meant that I’d have to lie a lot. So it

wasn’t difficult to decide to go back to the hostel and feign an illness. But then, I didn’t

need to feign. I really felt ill.

On my way back, I reflected upon the months that I had spent at the medical college. All

the euphoria that had come with admission to a medical college had disappeared. So

much had happened in these few months that it was difficult to believe that so little time

had passed since my first day at college. It appeared as if my life had been more eventful

in these few months than it had ever been in all of my preceding life. Ankleshwar was

never more than a sleepy town and everyone seemed to lead a happy, if somewhat lazy,

life. There was no glamour, but no filth either. People seemed to care, and I had real

friends. I had friends who were like me- like me in every way: their upbringing, their

hobbies, interests, their likes and dislikes. No one made fun of anyone; there was no

exploitation, no hatred, and no jealousy. College life had all these ills. There were simply

too many people; too many students, too many teachers - professors, lecturers, tutors; and

no one seemed to care. I had done badly in exams for the first time in my life and my

teachers couldn’t care less. No one cared two hoots if I studied, attended classes or

smoked grass. There was so much competition everywhere and everyone was ready to

trample the other under his boots given the first chance. There was callousness and

indifference all around. I had been made an object of ridicule; I was being exploited by a

goon and I couldn’t do anything about it. The girl I cared for was too good for me,

belonging to a different society. Everyone seemed to belong to someplace up there.

Beyond my reach, above me. I was alone. And I got lost in this big, big world too

quickly, too hopelessly. I missed my parents, I missed my town, and I missed my school.

I longed for the tether that we had in school, I longed for the individual attention that we

got from the caring teachers there. Everyone at school seemed to care about what we

wore, ate or read. I hated growing up and I hated getting into the college.

Students everywhere actually longed to start a college life for the freedom that came with

it. I wasn’t too sure about my college life. I wasn’t ready for all this; too much was

happening too soon.

I paddled furiously to reach the hostel. I threw my bicycle recklessly in the parking and

rushed towards Kedar’s room. I had decided to have a word with him. The door to his

room was ajar. It was completely dark inside, as if the windows had been shut closed and

covered with thick, black blinds. I lifted the latch and firmly rapped it against the door.

There was no response. I was getting impatient and I no longer felt the fear. My pulse

was racing but I did not feel the terror. I was surprised by this sudden transformation in

me but I badly wanted it to last. I pushed the door gently and it opened with a loud,

purring sound. Rambo’s bed was occupied and the size told me he was on it. There was

no sign of Kedar. I turned and put on the light switch. The brightly lit up room revealed

its usual shabbiness. I flinched uninhibitedly and shook Rambo’s bed with all my

strength. The bed squeaked and creaked but Rambo didn’t move. On the contrary, his

snores got louder. I held the end of his blanket (he used one even in this heat) and yanked

it off him. Save for his brief, he was naked. The sluggish breeze from the fan quickly

dried the beads of perspiration on his exposed skin, cooling it immediately. The sudden

drop in the temperature woke Rambo up and he fished vigorously in the air for the

blanket. Unable to find one, he blinked his eyes repeatedly to the unexpected light. His

face contoured in an extremely unpleasant disfigurement. He let out stinking breath from

his mouth with heavy respiration as he sat up, completely disoriented in time, place and

person. He took his time to wake up fully and when he started digging the corners of his

eyes for muck, I knew he was ready to talk. I pulled a chair and vacated it of its myriad

contents before occupying it. Rambo stared at me with sleepy eyes and tried to place me.

When his head jerked back, I knew he had placed me. I’m not sure if he was surprised by

my bravado, because he did not show it.

“How are you doing?” I asked.

“Fine,” he said in an indistinct voice.

“I mean how’s your cancer thing?”

“The pain’s there…..hey you were supposed to get me those injections!”

“Yes, I was.”

“You got them?”

“Yes, I got them, Rambo, but I’m afraid, this is the last time I’ve got these for you.”

He was amazed by my straight talk and did not try to hide it. It was all over his face.

“You know what? Kedar tried to kill me for these injections.”

Rambo looked at me with a shudder. Clearly he was unaware of Kedar’s murderous

antics. “What?”

“Yes, Rambo, Kedar tried to kill me for these.” I brought out the envelope containing the

thirteen ampoules and tossed it at him. Rambo did not touch the envelope. He believed

me. He believed me because he knew Kedar better than me.

“He tried to kill me so that you could live some more without pain. Look here, Rambo,

I’m sorry that you have this dreadful disease but there surely must be another

way of getting these injections. I’m not going to burgle any more for you. Is that clear?” I

wondered if I had crossed my limits. All this would reach Kedar and he would retaliate.

Only I wasn’t all that afraid now. In fact, I wasn’t afraid at all of these goons. My

newfound gallantry surprised and confused me at the same time. I wondered if this was a

sort of inevitable reaction from me. As our physiology professor would later tell us, the

three sequential reactions of all animals to any kind of threat: fright, fight and flight.

Probably my ‘fright’ phase was over and now I was into the ‘fight’ part. I hoped badly

that the ‘flight’ part would not be needed.

Rambo continued to sit still. I got up and stood by his bed.

“Listen, Rambo,” I said, “I want to help you fight your disease. I can help you find a

good doctor. I can ask my professors about them. I can help you with the facilities at the

college hospital. Yes, I can exploit my position as a medical student and do the best that’s

possible for me to do, but please, please do not ask me to do this again. Don’t ask me,

because I won’t do it. Even if you all beat me and smash me to smithereens, I won’t do

it.” I didn’t look at Rambo’s face for a reaction and quietly slipped out of the room,

pausing just to switch off the light on my way out. The ball was in their court now. I just

had to wait for them to volley. Or simply shoot an ace.

----------------------

Chapter 11 & 12

Chapter 11

I got a paltry three and a half on ten for Chaube’s viva and a glorious five on ten for the

viva with bones. The batch highest (of forty students who were examined that day) was

eight in each. I did not try to find out the lowest scores. A docile Dr. Trivedi, freshly

promoted to the post of associate professor, after being an assistant professor for several

years, had conducted the viva with the skeleton of the upper limb. He asked

the easiest of questions but had this irksome habit of not giving the examinee enough

time to think. He would answer the question himself, almost immediately after

asking it and then top it with a smile and an “isn’t it?” We would be left with no choice

but to say “yes, sir.” So, I don’t know if the five marks were for mine, or for his own

answers. From our dissection batch, Pankaj, as expected, top-scored with six and a half

for Chaube’s test and did not make a hue and cry of it. Priya, on the other hand, was

ecstatic for her four and a half, because, as she quite stupidly declared, that her marks did

not include ‘skirt benefits’- something very common with younger, male examiners.

Sunil and Achal had done much better than me by scoring five and five and a half,

respectively, in Chaube’s test. They did not tire discussing the viva and the performances

of various batch-mates at dinner, while I ate in silence. They discreetly avoided dragging

me into their talk, for obvious reasons. Although I was entirely disappointed by my own

feat, I quickly agreed with my roomies for a movie followed by dinner at Sayaji hotel’s

rooftop restaurant on Sunday. It was to be a celebration of sorts for them but since they

were being nice by not labeling it as such, I decided to play along by not sulking.

Just when I was about to finish my meal and leave, I noticed Kedar sit right next to me. He

started shouting out orders at the mess boys but it wasn’t difficult to guess whom he was

in fact trying to frighten. The mess servants, nonetheless, scurried all over the place

unnecessarily. My roommates fell silent and made a quiet, timid exit. I started to get up

but Kedar put a stout hand on my shoulder and said, “Have some more rice, doc,” before

adding scathingly, “Bless us nobodies with the privilege of your august company,

sometimes.” I sat down. I had not seen Kedar in a long time, not that I longed to. Seeing

Rambo was out of question as no one had seen him outside the room in years. I wondered

how he coped with his illness. Quite expectedly, Kedar demanded an encore at the

medical ward. Fifteen ampoules this time, no less. And the consignment was to be

delivered latest by Monday. Kedar left immediately after making his unreasonable

demand, leaving his full plate untouched. I continued to sit there for a while and left after

politely refusing an extra bowl of dessert from the mess boys who mistook me to be one

of Kedar’s henchmen. By the time I was out of the diner, I had decided to defy Kedar.

Cancer or no cancer, I was not going about the hospital wards pinching injections like a

bungling crook.

“Stay away from that thug,” advised Sunil as soon as I was back in the room.

I ignored him and quietly changed for the night.

“He’s hinting at Kedar,” said Achal, “these people are not worth being seen with.”

“I know that,” I said, as coldly as I could, quickly getting into my bed and pulling a sheet

over me. “Good night.”

Though I pretended to, I did not sleep for another two hours, thinking of ways to get

around the bully. My mind was deeply tangled in thoughts and I considered, dismissed

and re-considered several options. One of the options considered, I confess here, was

dumping college and returning home. I immediately felt ashamed and mentally spanked

myself for being chicken-hearted. I even debated with myself about confiding in my

room-mates or, at least Brij and his father, who, as a warden himself, could perhaps be of

help. Or should I just stand up to the bastard and say ‘No!’ I wished I had the guts. I slept

a disturbed sleep, undecided, uncertain and uneasy.

On waking up next morning, the first thought that came into my mind was to disobey

Kedar in my own might and face the consequences whatsoever. A beating, at the most.

He couldn’t kill me. Could he?

Rupam cinema was awkwardly situated in the eastern suburb of the city, near the airport,

a good eight kilometers from our campus. Eight kilometers was an inconvenient distance

in those days even for those who owned motorized two-wheelers, especially when the

road to the theatre ran through narrow by-lanes of the old Baroda city, and petrol ceased

to be as cheap as before. The owners of the cinema hall efficiently overcame the handicap

of the distance by screening blockbuster after blockbuster. And since our own Bollywood

was hopelessly incapable of churning out hits in sure succession, the theatre resorted to

showing successful Hollywood films to draw crowds. Over time, Rupam came to be

known for the English movies they screened and slowly went on to become the hub for

the hip: people who could afford to travel to the theatre, buy expensive tickets and watch

and comprehend Hollywood flicks.

When Rupam screened the Bond movie ‘Moonraker’ starring Roger Moore, we chose to

see it for the action sequences and the bold scenes depicting James Bond getting

effortlessly intimate with a plethora of girls - something that had come to be the hallmark

of any Bond movie, obviating the need to decipher, verbatim, the highly accented

dialogues. We reached the theatre late enough to have a ‘house full’ board stare us at our

faces. The large open area outside the theatre was full of people, mostly college students.

Cars filled to capacity, and bikes with three or more riders traversed noisily in and out of

the grassless compound, letting out thick clouds of smoke and dust. This obnoxious

mixture of fumes and grime turned into smog that created an uneasy haze in the vicinity.

Sunil covered his nose with a handkerchief and lamented something about wasted energy

and petrol. Half of the crowd that gathered there comprised of disappointed public who

had failed to get tickets. The luckier ones who could procure tickets, by hook or crook,

chatted and laughed in groups, filling us left-outs with envy. Achal hurriedly searched his

wallet and fished out an I-card and, with a wink, rushed with towards the manager’s

office. When he returned, the look on his face deterred us from asking the details of his

attempt with the manager. Not to be let down easily, armed with three ten-rupee notes in

his hand, he drowned himself bravely into the mob, probably looking for black-marketers.

When several minutes passed without a trace of him, I volunteered to go and look for

Achal. A bell rang somewhere inside the theatre, loud and long, indicating that it was

time for the show. People with tickets moved slowly and leisurely towards the gate

while several saddened youngsters still frantically darted around with the faint hope of

locating people with extra tickets. At that moment I spotted Achal talking to a group of

Negro girls near the entrance. I beckoned him with a wave of my hand and as soon as he

spotted me, he broke off from the group, continuously and animatedly gesturing at the

expat girls. The girls too smiled widely and waved back.

“Lets go back, there’s no point in looking for tickets,” he said putting a hand around my

shoulder, “today being Sunday, the chances got bleaker for us.”

“Who are those girls?” I asked

“Who?” Achal frowned, “Oh, those black girls? They are old acquaintances, just happen

to know them through a common friend.”

Sunil’s suggestion to try out other theatres for alternative movies was promptly turned

down by Achal who, apparently, did not like to miss the beginning of any movie and

since it was already so late, this was inevitable even if we rode to the nearest cinema. Left

without a choice, we decided to hang around the hostel till evening before freaking out at

Sayaji’s rooftop for dinner. I rode pillion with Sunil, as usual. We had barely moved a

hundred yards from the theatre when Achal screeched to a halt and hailed us with an

urgent wave. Confused, we too pulled over, carefully dodging traffic.

“My aunt stays nearby in this area,” said Achal when we managed to join him, “and since

the movie plan has fizzled out, I might as well drop in and say hello to her, it’s been a

long time. You guys carry on to the hostel and I’ll join you in time for the dinner at the

rooftop. If, by any chance, I get late, I’ll join you directly at the restaurant.” Sunil

shrugged and looked at me. I shrugged too and taking this as a gesture of agreement from

us, Achal turned and zoomed off without saying another word.

Sunil shrugged once more and, copying the mannerisms of a third rate Hollywood actor,

said, using double negatives in American style and accent, “A cup of tea with his auntie wouldn’t have done us no harm either, mate! The sonnovabitch didn’t do no good by dumpin’ us like

that!” and followed it up with a spit on the roadside.

I laughed at Sunil’s attempt and indicated to him that mate was more often used by the

Australians. He said that it didn’t matter to him, and they all looked the same. I laughed

some more and told him to start his moped instead of a turbo-charged car engine, for

now. We rode back in silence. The busy, crowded streets of old Baroda city were

surprisingly full of activity even in the late, hot, afternoon.

Back in the room I had a long chat with Sunil. In so many months of being together, and

despite sharing a room for so long, this was the first time we actually sat and talked to

each other: one-to-one, as they say. I’m now glad that we talked because, otherwise, I’d

not have discovered a good, sensitive human being that Sunil was.

Sunil was adopted. He did not know how and when his foster parents found him and he

never felt the need to find out. He never cared to enquire into the whereabouts of his

biological parents either, because, according to him, it did not matter at all. Whatever

might have been the reason for his separation from them, it must not be a happy one. So

why find out and suffer. As an unspoken rule, the topic was never raised by anyone in

and outside the Kapoor family. And therefore, not many knew this fact. He had an elder

brother, a biological son to his parents, who studied engineering at the LD engineering

college, Ahmedabad. By showering him with all love and affection, as they did on his

elder brother, his parents never let him feel that he was adopted. His brother, too, had

been equally affectionate. At times, Sunil longed to be the biological child of his parents,

not because he lacked anything by being an adopted one, but only because he often felt

guilty of perhaps loving his family in return for all they did for him. He, for his own

happiness, wanted his affection for his family to be unconditional, and not driven by the

fact that he was repaying them in any sense.

By the time Sunil ended his story, he wiped a tear from his eyes. I dabbed mine too. He

went on to say that he regularly visited orphanages, first when he was in Ahmedabad and

now even in Baroda. He did not hide this fact from his parents who let him do his bit.

Also, he insisted that he helped the orphanage, in whatever little way, from his own

savings: a gesture that made his parents swell with pride.

When he asked about me, I told Sunil all about myself and my upbringing; and when I

was finished, we instantly felt a new bond forming between us.

Chapter 12

It was well past seven when we decided to leave for the Sayaji hotel’s rooftop restaurant.

Achal hadn’t returned from his aunt’s and we hoped that he would soon join us there.

Apart from a chat, we had had a short nap, a cup of tea at Manju’s, and even a shower

before leaving for dinner.

“It’s strange,” said Sunil as he kick-started his moped.

“What’s strange?”

“It’s strange that Achal never even mentioned this aunt of his, and now he’s been there

for four hours. I hope everything is fine with him.”

“Don’t worry,” I said reassuringly, “He’s a smart bum and knows how to take care of

himself. Probably his moped conked off. The idiot must be sweating out at some stinking

garage, getting it fixed.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Sunil still sounded unconvinced, “but I’ve not known Achal to be overtly

social either. He has always looked for excuses to avoid such formal calls.”

“Maybe he’s with a girl,” I said suddenly, “does he have a girlfriend?”

Sunil smiled at my observation. “Although he flirts around innocuously with several

girls, I’m sure he doesn’t have a steady girlfriend. He, in fact, brags about his so-called

adventures with girls more than he actually indulges in them. I’m sure if he were with a

girl today, he’d have blown a trumpet about it, at least into my ears. I somehow get a

feeling that not everything’s fine with Achal right now. ”

I respected Sunil’s concern for his friend but still felt that he was being a little too

worried.

“Don’t worry,” I said, “For all you know, Achal might greet us at the rooftop itself. You

can expect all sorts of surprises from that joker.”

It is said that not a single family in Baroda cooks at home on a Sunday evening. This was

clearly evident from the fact that all city restaurants, irrespective of the quality of food

they served, had long queues on Sunday evenings. All eateries, including the dingy

dhabas on the city outskirts teemed with people and their haphazardly parked vehicles.

No reservations were taken on telephone and guests were entertained on ‘first come first

serve’ basis.

The rooftop, too, was chock-full and we had to wait for full twenty-five minutes before

we could secure a table for three. We didn’t mind waiting because that improved the

chances of Achal getting there in time before we ordered our meal.

On a Sunday, once the guests occupied a table in a restaurant, they were expected to

place orders quickly, eat even faster, pay the bill, leave a tip and get out. The waiters

impolitely hovered over each table as everyone ate, just to make sure this happened.

Yokelish individuals from the crowd that waited at the door stared at the food and their

consumers on each table with greedy, impatient eyes. The gluttonous Baroda crowd

forgave even such impertinent behavior. Sunday, in Baroda, meant fun-day.

Hotel Sayaji, an eight-storeyed, three-star property, was recently developed and cleverly

located at the ‘hotspot’ of the city- the Kaala Ghoda. Just half a kilometer from the

railway station, and most crucial business points in the city, the hotel soon became the

most sought after locale by the frequent-traveling businessmen. Its proximity to the MSU

campus made sure that its restaurants never went unoccupied. The impeccable hospitality

and the delicious, reasonably priced food added to the reasons for it to be cramped up to

capacity all through the year.

We took our time to browse through the menu. Achal still hadn’t showed up and we

knew we couldn’t hold up the three-seat table for long. In the five minutes that we had

been there, three different waiters had approached us to pull away the vacant chair from

our table since the possibility of the third guest arriving had diminished considerably.

Sunil took off his cap and placed it on the chair along with his handkerchief to indicate

that it was taken. When the fat steward approached us for the third time for our order, his

smile had been replaced by a concerned frown. Sunil glanced at his watch and reluctantly

placed out the order. Although Achal was at times despicable because of his childish

pranks, we missed him at the rooftop. By ourselves, me and Sunil lacked the skill to

create and sustain an atmosphere of frenzied celebration that youngsters like us ought to

be indulging in, at places like this. Achal had that contagious liveliness in him. And we

missed him for that. We finished our meal in silence, save for a poor attempt on my part

to crack a couple of jokes, at which Sunil managed a grin, more out of courtesy than for

the humor in them.

We finally left the restaurant at nine-thirty and there was no sign of Achal. Sunil rode

recklessly to reach the hostel. By now, even I was worried. Was there an accident?

The door to our room was slightly open. A dim light from the night lamp seeped through

the opening. Achal has arrived? Did he have dinner at his aunt’s place? Or at the mess?

We entered the room and though it was dark, we could make out that the silhouette that

sprawled on the bed was clearly Achal’s. Relieved, and armed with newfound strength,

Sunil hastily pounced upon his friend and exclaimed, “You cheat! We waited for you like

hell at the restaurant and you’re sleeping here! Get up, you sloth!”

Achal stirred a bit but didn’t say anything. Sunil playfully punched him some more. I put

on the light.

Reacting sharply and snappily on being disturbed, Achal displayed his annoyance for the

sudden light in his eyes by waving wildly at the switchboard. Sunil retracted from him

slowly and put off the light. Apparently comforted by the regained darkness, Achal

curled upon himself with a pillow tucked between his legs and went back to sleep. Sunil

looked at me and I shrugged in confusion. We quietly changed and went to bed.

In the morning Achal had mellowed down considerably. He even looked apologetic for

his wacky behavior on the preceding night.

“I. . .I’m sorry about last night, I was not in the right frame of mind,” he finally said as

we returned from Manju’s stall after having a quick, quiet cup of tea.

“What do you mean?” asked Sunil, “Anything went wrong yesterday? We were quite

worried for you. You had a pretty long stopover at your aunt’s.”

“There’s no aunt…” said Achal hesitantly.

We were taken aback. “No aunt?” Sunil shot back, astounded, “What do you mean?

Where were you yesterday, in that case?”

Achal then went on to narrate the dreadful experience that had robbed him of his money,

moral and self-esteem. And scared the shit out of him. The bunch of Negro girls that I

had seen him talking so animatedly with, were, in fact, unknown to Achal. He had struck

a ‘smart’ deal, or believed to have had done so, by buying from them, at twice the cost,

the only extra ticket they had for the movie. He planned to watch the movie and hoped to,

perhaps, befriend some of the better-looking babes in the group. The girls

claimed to be students from Zambia who had arrived in MSU, Baroda, under the popular

‘youth exchange’ programme. The girls, too, had spared no amount of coquetry to allure

a gullible Achal. Everything went on fine for the first half an hour of the movie. Angelina

(And now Achal was sure that this was a fake name), the girl who sat right next to him,

asked him if he was interested in a bag of popcorn and a cold-drink. Soon, just the two of

them were in the deserted lobby of the theatre. Suddenly the girl held Achal’s arm and

looked seductively into his eyes. Petrified, Achal struggled to free himself and run. Just

then, two more girls and a burly African male materialized, who coolly asked Achal for

his wallet, his watch and his Reeboks. They warned him that they’d otherwise frame him

for attempting to sexually harass their friend in the secluded area of the theatre under the

pretext of buying her snacks.

Shamed and barefooted, Achal had managed to hitch a hike from a bewildered, aging

gentleman who dropped him at the hostel. Where was he, then, for all those hours after

reaching back, I enquired. He replied that he had closeted himself at several places, in

turns – the common room, the mess, the toilet…

We were angry, sad and amused at the same time. Angry with Achal for trying to fool us;

sad for what he had gone through and amused at the thought of Achal wandering barefoot

on the streets of Baroda, and eventually hiding in a toilet.

“You didn’t report this to the police?” I asked.

“The police?!” retorted Achal, “are you crazy? The whole world would have known

about this if I had approached the police. And what would have I told them? Who’d have

believed my story? For all you know, they would have charged me with assault on that

bitch and I’d have lost even my pants along with my shoes!”

I suppressed a smile. But almost instantly, I felt guilty for feeling amused at his plight. It

was clear that Achal had learnt his lesson. He had lost a hundred and ten rupees in cash,

his I-card, few postage stamps, his Reebok sports shoes and a Titan watch. We calculated

the total loss at eight hundred and sixty rupees. Achal insisted that we count the thirty

rupees that would be needed for a duplicate I-card. And then he went on to say, with

outrageous grit, that Angelina, or whatever her name was, was indeed sexy. That was

more like Achal we knew.

Monday came and went. I had defied Kedar. But instead of a sense of triumph, my heart

was filled with terror. I knew he would retaliate. And every minute I waited for him to

strike. And wait I did. As if he knew my predicament exactly, like a sadist, he let me

suffer all Tuesday. And Wednesday. On both days I had used the first floor bathroom,

annoying several inmates from that part of the hostel, hurriedly had my meals during the

busiest hours at the mess and didn’t wander to Manju’s stall at all. On Thursday morning,

I was a bit relaxed. Suddenly I realized that I hadn’t seen him at all in the last few days.

Was he out of station? Had Rambo’s condition worsened? Was he shifted to a hospital?

Was he dead?

Sunil and Achal had left for college before me, leaving all their stuff- clothes, books and

sundry items - scattered all over their furniture. Each day, I took time to clean up my side

of the room before leaving because I liked to return to a tidy ambience. I had tried

tutoring my roommates about neatness but gave up the effort when, in an attempt to keep

their area clean, they had started redirecting their stuff to my bed and table. I had reversed

my teachings immediately. Satisfied with the way I had made my bed, I picked up my

bag and started to leave. As soon as I grabbed the door handle to pull it open, I felt a

strong electric shock run through my body, making it quiver in agony. I tried to pull free

from the brass handle, but had no strength. The whole door shook with my shivers and

made a rattling sound as it hit the doorframe repeatedly. I was about to black out when

the current abruptly died out. I slumped on the floor, completely limp. I must have lain

there for about five minutes before I could gather strength to get up. Dazed, I still felt the

numbness across my body. The hand that held the door handle was totally anesthetized,

as if it wasn’t there. I shook it violently several times before I could feel the blood

running through it again. The color returned and I checked its strength by making a fist

repeatedly. Needless to say, I was shocked - both, literally and virtually. In a bid to

investigate, I picked out a plastic clothes hanger from my closet and used it to pull the

latch. The door swung open and to my horror, I found an electric wire, suspended from

somewhere above, swaying perilously in midair. I stepped out, carefully avoiding the

wire, and scanned the ceiling and the wall just above the door. Someone had connected

one end of the cable to the main-switch in the lobby which was incidentally located

immediately atop our door. On close inspection, I could guess that the other end had been

connected, probably loosely, to a screw from the inner handle that had been drilled

through the thickness of the door, to the outer surface. I cautiously held the insulated part

of the wire and tugged at it firmly. It snapped from the switch box and fell at my feet. At

that moment, I noticed an envelope beneath the door. There was a handwritten note in it

that said: NEXT TIME THE WIRE WON’T BE LOOSE. GET THE STUFF BY

TONIGHT – LOVE, K.

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