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Monday, July 07, 2008

Political Science-- 3

(Its been quite a while and had actually half given up. But, the series seemed very reader-friendly, by my low standards at least. They were the only posts that people (If two-three persons can be called that) ever asked me about ... So, on popular demand ...)
7 30 AM
The Bathrooms

(The Bathrooms are like standard hostel ones, all over the country: dirty, smelly and wet. The mirrors are stained; the flushes work sometimes; the showers might shower you with slime for water, and sometimes shower the nozzle along too with the slime/water. But, like everything else in the hostel—all this is made up for by the cheer, goodwill and loudness around. The bathroom is also where the most interesting and honest conversations can take place, and is considered by many an intelligent mind as a great place to innovate, ideate and think.)
“Oh my god! The sun has surely risen from the west today”
Amit Kumar, as is his name, has a penchant for clichés. Most clichéd statements are badly timed—overused (over-timed?)— But Amit timed them as well as Ashish Nehra timed his cover-drives. He was peeing in the adjacent loo; and he was a friend. No, an enemy actually—he was from the other party. No, a friendly enemy, I guess.
I was groggy. And the familiar feeling of uneasiness was just beginning to settle in my stomach: I had come to expect it, as part of my new life now. I felt like a sailor with perennial sea-sickness. Also, quite like inflation, it was self-fulfilling—on some mornings when I didn’t feel any uneasiness, I felt odd and sort of expected it to come on. And it did.
“I have been up by 7 30 for three days now!” I said defensively.
He laughed and continued,
“Wow! That’s amazing! I’m impressed, President Sir!”
“Knock it off—can’t a man just pee in peace?”
“Pee for President! Pee for President”
“Shut up now!”
“And no, a man can’t pee in peace. Why can’t they lower these damn things? Do I have to stand on my tip-toes always?”
Amit bore the dubious distinction of being the shortest hosteler around.
I snorted. And said,
“Loo-ser”

On my way back, I met this stranger, who seemed vaguely familiar, walking up to the toilets. Instinctively, I stuck out my hand, telling him,
“Hi, I am standing for post of President from the ‘Wa—“ and caught myself mid-way: he was the sweeper.
He gave me a very perplexed smile, before proceeding, leaving me with some very fundamental existential concerns.

I opened my door to see the Alarm going crazy and Shoaib sleeping with his head below his pillow rather than the other way round.
“Shoaib!” I shouted.
“You fool” he said, his voice cracking, unused and rusty, “Don’t you know the difference between ‘snooze’ and ‘off’ on your alarm?”
“Am so sorry”, I said, rushing towards my mobile phone and turning the alarm off. And then I hit him on the back and that seemed to frustrate him even more, but he emerged from behind the pillow and stared at me through half-open eyes and asked,
“What?”
I looked straight into his eyes, assuming a very serious countenance, and said in my most solemn tone,
“This is getting to me. I don’t know what I am, I don’t know who—“ I said, pointing to myself vigorously with both my hands, “this is!”
He looked at me and then slowly, like a man under the influence of hemlock, shut his eyes and went into a content sleep.

2 PM,
The College Canteen
(The canteen is shady. The chairs are those typical red, plastic ones one sees in shady places. The lighting is poor, dark-ish—shady again. The waiters don’t hop around cheerfully, but creep up on you, the man at the counter doesn’t speak at all, only grunts and nods, like we’re discussing a top-secret smuggling deal. The staff are all Malayalis and the lucky few to be acquainted with the language can understand what they say amongst themselves: for the rest, their conversations seemed very shady. Everything tastes the same in my canteen and therefore, Special Chinese Noodles is only a wriggly version of Pure South Indian Dosa.)

We needed a break. I had shook so many hands that I felt like some holy mystic—touch my hand and see all your troubles go. I had smiled so much that my jaws were aching, and sadly, the plastic smile was still stuck on my face, like a scar that refused to go. The Don, as always, was by my side. As I was ordering at the counter, the Don nudged me and said, smiling indulgently,
“When you become president, you won’t be paying for all this!”
Behind that fixed smile, I groaned: what a great incentive to become president, I thought—save 15 bucks worth expenditure on food that tasted like it was made in my hostel toilets. Furthermore, the canteen was run by Tamils and even my excuse of a Tamil was enough to earn a free chow mein or a dosa every now and then.
As we made our way, with two plates of noodles and coke, I acknowledged innumerable students with a nod or a smile as the Don—my walking directory—whispered each of their names and their courses in my ears.
“And that’s Nikhita, English Honous—Oh, and I have some good news for you” he said.
That sentence finally broke through my fixed smile—I actually frowned, my jaw muscles cracking and vibrant, relishing the new-found freedom. The Don’s news generally meant trouble, and the good ones especially were perhaps the worst type of news. Steeling myself, I asked,
“Well, what is it?”
“We’ll be going” he said and paused, trying to force a long chain of noodles into his mouth, “We’ll be going to visit the girls’ hostels today!”
I smiled a real smile for the first time in the day. I imagined a picture of walking through scented corridors, girls everywhere. If they dressed anywhere close to as sparingly as we did in our hostels then it was going to be a wonderful evening. I asked,
“When will that be?”
“In the evening. Say, around, 5 30?”
I smiled again. I felt rejuvenated and life didn’t seem too bad really: the malayali waiters suddenly seemed very cheery and less creepy, as they took orders; the noodles tasted like they were specially got from ‘Mainland China’; all around me, the students fought, talked, shouted and enjoyed; and I was still smiling, thinking of James Bond and girls ...

4 30 PM
The Don’s Cell
I walked into the Don’s cell, fresh from a bath and a shave. I was early, but very excited, and wanted to be on time. The Don looked at me and one look at his face, my face fell. This, I knew was news, and the worst type.
“Er … Sharan?” he said, like a father trying to tell his child that the brand new toy-car from the store they had bought had some internal defect and wouldn’t budge even if it had King Kong pulling it, “We might not be going to the hostels today”
“What?” I said crestfallen, falling into a chair. The Don paused as only Dons do—from Godfather to Sarkar—and trust me, these long periods of inertia only look good in the films. I dug my nails into the chair, frustrated, waiting. At long last, he asked in a dramatically poised tone,
“Hmmm … Have you heard of the party Insignia?”
“No” I said, wondering why the he could never answer straight and had to go about it in such a round-about manner with questions for answers and added for good measure, “Nor have I heard of Gold Flake Party or Classic Mild Party”
The Don either didn’t get the joke or chose to ignore it. He continued,
“Well, they are a fringe party. But, they made an impact last year. And they have a decent chance this year—apparently they’ll team up with NSUI if the need arises. Anyway, getting to the point—“
‘Finally’ I said, half-aloud.
“Yes, I’ve fixed up a meeting with the President. She wants to address the hostel, but firstly she wants to talk to us. I have a feeling you might just like her”
“When is she coming?”
“Any time now …”
“Cant we just get done with her and then go to the hostels?”
“Well. I am not too sure. Lets see …”
And there, I thought, there was still a ray of hope. I went back to feeling a little light, like I had air-floaters for sandals. And then there was a knock on the door and it swung open and I literally flew.

She was a vision. The first thing I noticed about her, strangely, were her fingers—they were long and slender, like those of a seasoned artist. She was beautiful—she had eyes that were focused and incisive, that made you strangely conscious of who you are and not what you are wearing; her eyebrows danced at will, like those of a child, in perfect contrast to the maturity in her eyes; her hair fell on her shoulders in a manner that was almost stately, yet attractive; she was draped in a shawl, that covered her top and fell back gracefully; I couldn’t take my eyes of her.

“Fuck you, Don” she said.
And I swear I heard Violins play in the background, as she said those words.
The Don didn’t say a word, but quietly offered her a cigarette.
“Fuck you, Don” she said again.
The Violins were getting louder.
The Don asked lazily—
“What is it?”
“They’ve taken my I-Card. Your stupid watchman took my I-Card and asked me to sign in some shit-all register”
“I can have them got back. I am sorry” the Don said in the same strange, lazy drawl.
Her eyes fell on me, and I felt my back go stiff—I nearly overbalanced and fell off my chair; her eyes flicked to the Don immediately, enquiringly.
“Oh, I forgot” the Don said apologetically, “This is Sharan. He’s our Presidential candidate”
She turned to look at me and flashed a small smile—it was a small one, and yet it was flashed. And it was, oddly, not plastic—I had seen many a fake smile in recent times, mostly by politicians-to-be to people they thought they wouldn’t ever see again but had to be nice to, just in case, and this was not that kind of a smile. Maybe I was just imagining things; maybe not. She said:
“So, what course are you in?”
“Economics”
“Ah!” she said, turning to the Don, “You didn’t pick a Science-ee?”
“No. This kid’s good. Real good. And we need someone like him to get us the Arts and Commerce votes. I am a major hit amongst the Sciences. When I was President last year—“
I was just beginning to roll my eyes and sink back into my chair, prepared for a long-drawn out speech, when she cut him short:
“Don, not now. I am not in the mood”
“Eh? What? Not now, yes, I guess, not now. Not now … no, not now …” the Don said, shaking his head. And I was glad.
There was another silence—this one not so dramatic for the Don didn’t intend it to be—and we all sat looking around; I was looking mostly at her, feasting my eyes.

“Maybe you should talk to him and see what you think of him” the Don said, looking at her.
“Huh?” she said, shaken out of her reverie.
I was nervous—what did the Don want me to do now? Talk? For a second I thought of the Don as a matchmaker, and I was the groom desperate to impress a potential bride. I smiled, thinking of the picture. The Don unfortunately took that as a sign of my willingness to ‘talk’ to her.
“Sharan” the Don said, “Tell her what you think of Hypocrisy being a benchmark for Civilization”
“Well” I said immediately, “I think they should make that road four-laned, the one near Haus Khas”
The Don looked at me, startled at first, then confused, then thoughtful and finally aghast. I didn’t care, I had had enough of impressing people …
And then I looked at her, and a smile lit up my lips: she was amused, impressed perhaps; she was smiling. And boy, could she smile!


To be continued ...
(Part 4's already done, by the way)