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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