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)

Political Science- II

I've tried to be as truthful to the story in my head as possible, yet keep it clean and free from anything vulgar. Its a tough act to balance and I think I have given it my best.
11 PM
‘Wave’ Lawn
(The Lawn gets its name from the political party (Wave) that uses it most for its open-air meetings. Lined by tall Ashoka trees and a fence along its sides, the lawn, though large, isn’t exactly sprawling. Adjacent to the lawn, past the trees and the fence, is another lawn—the ‘Youth’ lawn. During the months preceding and succeeding the elections, no one dares frequent both lawns. Sticking to one lawn betrays one’s loyalty to a party and crossing over to the other can get one branded a traitor. The traitors are always the first targets when there is a fight, for they are soft ones—the parties they would have crossed over into would always see them as outsiders and would never really bother to save their skins)
“Sutta?”
“Huh. No. “
“Come on, go ahead. One puff and it’ll relieve your tension”
“I said NO. Just leave me alone” The last sentence came out a little louder than I wanted it to.

I was tense. I couldn’t put things in perspective, it was impossible. The Don wanted me to kick-start my campaign with a speech, my first address to an All-Party-Meet. It was a sizeable crowd—more than a hundred people: Hostel ‘king-makers’, heavyweights in the political arena who were non-hostelites but campus-residents and day-scholars. ‘From 13 states of the country, 10 different courses’ the Don had said. I had never addressed a crowd. I tried thinking of what to say, but that was like trying to clean up my room—there was a lot of stuff and I didn’t know where to start. The Don went first and was sloth-like in his speech as usual and strangely I really wanted him to finish—the longer I waited for my turn, the more swollen my bowels would be and the greater the dizziness in my head. In the darkness, I saw only the slits of the eyes of the crowd—hundreds of them hawk-like, expectantly waiting for me to begin.

“Friends, I have now come to the end of my few words” the Don said as the crowd let out a silent sigh of relief. He finished with a “Go Wave!”
“Go Wave!” the crowd chanted.
“Louder! “, the Don said, “Go Wave!”
“Go Wave!” the crowd bellowed.
And then I felt like I was beginning to lose it. Time suddenly seemed to move protractedly: I watched one of the Don’s sidekicks, now come up to me slowly, shake my hand, and say in my ear “Make sure your speech is mind-blowing. Rocking one, it must be. And also awesome!”
I vaguely wondered if they were the only three adjectives that he knew.
Now I had this distinct feeling that I was wearing only my underclothes. Two reasons, completely unrelated, contributed to this sensation: firstly, I was shivering. And secondly, with so many eyes trained on me, I felt conscious, like an under-dressed exhibit.
“Er… Hello”, I said and waved. My ears went red with shame. It seemed like the most stupid thing to do. “Um. As the Don has said, I have filed my nomination. And-- ” I couldn’t go on, so I bought time by coughing loudly. And sneezing and signaling to someone for water. I then turned to the Don and asked,
“Can I do this in English? I mean, for public speaking, I think I’d be better in English”
“Eh? Why not?” the Don said and then turned to face the crowd and asked in Hindi, “Does everyone understand English here?”
A rumble of assent followed and the Don let me have the limelight again.
“Ok. Ya. Now, when you come right down to it, it’s preposterous to assume that the onerous task of winning this election can be achieved by such a languorous, lethargic attitude—primarily because its less than a month away. Its time we coalesced and behave like an integrated bunch; lets up the ante and basically have the tenacity to plod in times of extreme distress…”

Sometimes, I have this tendency to get into this special zone—to rise above my own mediocre self, to think fast and think like a genius. And only genius could have saved me that day. I hadn’t actually said anything too special: in fact, most of it was jargon. But, the use of the language, a stroke of genius, did the trick. I used every complicated word I could think of and spoke with fluency and rising authority. No one figured out what exactly I had said, but that hardly mattered—I was, to them, a wizard in the language of the voting majority—the chic, brand-conscious, snobbish day-scholars for whom the elections were a farce fought by rustic hostel rogues. And in me, suddenly, the party members saw someone who would cater to them.
And by the time I was done, everyone was satisfied—I finished to a resounding, standing ovation and a spontaneous “Wave” chant. The Don was crying out to anybody who’d care to listen ‘I told you! I told you that boy has talent!’
Relief. And I was sweating so much that I wondered if I was wearing too many clothes. I smiled. It was my first battle won, but, I knew, there were tons to follow. I wanted time to stop then, right at that moment, and allow me the security of feeling like a superstar-in-the-making without worrying about what was to come.

7AM
Room 84
I woke up feeling very light. Then I had this sensation that something was wrong, that I shouldn’t be feeling so light. And it hit me, my stomach panicked, and I hugged my pillow tight, turned over and willed myself to sleep.

8 25AM
The Mess
(The Mess is a mess. The food is nothing short of a mess; the conversation is cheery, loud and dirty; the tables are messy, especially towards the end of a meal; the floor is messy too for onions and cucumbers, besides cheese and lemon, are often used as friendly missiles)Breakfast done, I was contemplating on whether to go back to my bed and sleep or sleep in class. As I made my way out, thoroughly undecided, I bumped into the tall, well-built figure of Andy (N.D, Nitin Dhar, actually), another contender for the President’s post. Leader of the Youth party, he was my only competition_ and a very strong one at that_ for the rest were independents. I hastily said sorry, wished him a fine morning and was about to proceed, when he caught me by my arm and said,
“Aur, Future President Saab, How are you?” I didn’t like the tone of his voice at all.
“I am good” I said, trying to get away. But, he tightened the grip on my arm.
“I heard you give very good speeches in English. Hah!” he said, cocking his head to one side, and continued, “You must remember that I am from English (Hons)”
I couldn’t quite think of anything to say.
“The entire Science community is with me. The societies will come around. And I am tall, and see my body?” he said, flexing his muscles and continued, “the girls will also be with me. Tumhare Paas kya hain?” he concluded, laughing at his own little finishing joke.
It was ridiculous, yet scary. Contempt etched in every twitch in his face, he let go of my hand and walked past. I decided to bunk class and shave-off my two-week old beard: I had to look decent for the girls.

6PM
Room Number 84
I woke up to see the room lit by beautiful golden light that angled in from the half-open meshed window that faced west. The rays were delicate, soft as the setting sun and minute dust particles swirled and danced in the light. I changed and decided to go to the market. At the hostel gate, I met the Don, who frowned. I wondered if it had something to do with my wearing bathroom slippers. I said,
“Good evening Sir!”
“Evening. Well, where are you going?”
“To the market”
“All alone?”
“Yes. Shoaib’s gone to a movie”
“Just wait here, don’t go anywhere” he said and sped away into the hostel.

In a flash he was back, flanked by two burly looking juniors, both of whom I sort of knew.
“I’ve just briefed them” the Don said, pointing to the juniors, “The two of them will go along with you. No, they won’t intrude. Just pretend they don’t even exist. They’ll just make sure you are safe—it’s just a precaution, nothing to worry about”
“They are like my bodyguards or something? I mean, who’s going to come after me? Osama Bin Laden?”
He took my hand, gave it a squeeze and said, “Not Osama. But anyone who thinks you are too stiff competition for him. Listen, you are now a Presidential Candidate at the college level elections. I am just trying to be on the safer side. Go now”
As I watched him turn around and leave, I had this passing feeling that I was not there at all—rather it was all happening in a movie and I was only someone in the audience. I just couldn’t believe all this was happening in my life—it was mine, for God’s sake. I was now beginning to lose my hold on something that was almost exclusively mine. That thought went down as well as medicine for stomach-ache.

12 AM
The Don’s Cell
I knocked and entered.
“Come, have a seat” The Don said.
I walked and sat beside the Don. I smiled apprehensively at the three men seated in front of me. They all returned my smile, but smiles didn’t seem to come naturally to them. The man in the middle looked like a first-rate politician: he wore a white kurta; his hair was oiled and neatly parted. His moustache was thick and he had an air of irritating superiority about him. Beside him sat his two henchmen: both sporting unruly stubbles, smoking lazily as they stared around uninterestedly. One wore an ugly blue shirt with gaudy fluorescent stripes; the other a blue, artificially faded, torn jeans with patches of pink on the pockets that would have even given Govinda-of-the-90s a run for his money. It was fashion that was beyond me.
“We are getting him to stand for President” said the Don to the man in the middle, gesturing towards me.
“Oh” he said, looking at me with amusement and continued, “If it’s your choice, Don saab, then it has to be good”
I wondered what that meant. Didn’t I look like a potential candidate? Did looking like one mean looking like him? But, the Don didn’t look like him!
“ Angrezi bahut tez bolta hain” said the Don. I panicked. Was the Don defending me? What was I doing in the company of these rogues? What have I gotten into?
“Hmm” the politician said and turned to face me. He then said—
“Acha, you are my brother. We are friends now. We have spent seven minutes in each other’s company, and as per our forefathers, that is long enough to make us good friends. Now listen bhai, any problem, any panga, any person who’s a pain in the ass, come to me. I’ll make sure they’ll go back to drinking their mother’s milk in a couple of days’ time. And if you want some money, to throw a party for friends—after all parties get you a lot of votes—just ask me: I’ve given the Don some money, if you want more, ask me. Here, wait…” he said, and turned to the ugly-shirt man, and said, “Just give him my card—the one with my latest number”
The card was duly passed on. I pocketed it with just a passing glance at the name: Ram Prasad Dahiya from the NSUI party. The politician then carried on,
“And make sure you have alcohol in your parties: loads and loads of alcohol. Money is not an issue. I’ve also allotted a good hefty sum for canvassing. Posters, sim-cards—all don’t come freely, you know” he said and paused to take a long drag at the cigarette his henchman offered him.
Then he sat up straight, his eyes fixed on me, and said in a soft tone-- polite yet menacing.
And one humble request from this small man—please get all your friends to vote for my party, NSUI, in the University elections. Our agenda is simple…”
I lost track of what he was saying after that. So, that was his game after all, I mused: he wanted me to campaign for him in the university elections. In return, he’d give me enough money to garner my votes, to strengthen my hold on the college. His other promise was what intrigued me: he would get rid of my enemies—what did that mean? Could he get rid of anybody? I had no enemies, no one I hated. Correction: I had one enemy, one man who made everyone’s life a living hell in the college—the principal. Would he be able to make the principal go back to drinking his dead mother’s milk?

The meeting ended on a comical note. The Don got me to touch the politician’s feet; a gesture that seemed to have touched the latter’s heart. He hugged me and said, “Ab, tu mera bhai se beta ban gaya!” For the second time that day, I was at a complete loss for words.

After the group had left, I was still bursting with questions. Things were still murky, I wasn’t quite sure of what I was getting into. The more I thought, the more the uncomfortable sensation of absolute helplessness came upon me. The Don, I think, had sensed my questions, read my thoughts simply by the manner in which I looked at him. He gazed fixedly at the ground, eyes weary, and said to me “You have a long day ahead tomorrow. Go, go to sleep. We can talk later”
Little did I realize, as I turned to leave, how much truth his words had.
To continue ...

Political Science

Disclaimer: The protagonist and I have as much in common as a military-tank and Santa Claus. God promise.
The Don’s Cell
10 PM(The Don’s Cell was once used by the Hostel staff and Teachers for their meetings. Now, thanks largely to the Don’s work, it is the party-room that doubles up as a Students General Body Meeting Room during the election-month)“The elections are coming” the Don announced, stating the obvious with a comical sense of occasion, and continued, “And we have gathered here in the Cell to discuss strategy!”
“And we”, I whispered to Shoaib, “are here to feast and drink!”
“Friends, it’s been a tough year, last time around. We’ve had our share of troubles. But, the past year, as a member of the Union in power, we’ve learnt a lot. I, personally, have grown over the year…”
“Oh yes, he’s grown. Horizontally, width-wise. He’s got a beer-belly that was surely not there when he became President” Shoaib said into my ear.
I snorted and whispered back, “Why can’t he cut the crap? I want my wine”
Shekhar ‘Don’ Deep must have heard my last comment. At once, he glanced at me—a single swift glance—and only his eyes went icy cold as he let his gaze stay on me for a moment. He didn’t stop talking. No one else, not even Shoaib who was seated right next to me noticed anything, and yet I got the message: shut up. The Don was a jackass in most ways, yet he had his moments.

With nothing else to do, and the Don’s lecture seeming as interminable as the Timeless Test, I gazed around. We were sitting at the Don’s feet, Shoaib and I, both complete misfits in the Don’s Cell. On the wall facing me, behind the Don, Piyush Rastogi, the latest ABVP candidate for President, rubbed shoulders with Swami Vivekananda; on my right, on the plush (by hostel standards, i.e.) chairs, lounged my seniors and some of the Don’s closest associates, some plain bored and gazing wistfully at the “No Smoking” sign on the wall; squatting right behind me were some more of the Don’s inner circle of friends, most of them my batch-mates; at the back of the room, listening with rapt attention, sat the juniors—new recruits who the Don saw a “spark” in. And behind them lay the sole reason for my being in the room: a locked cupboard that, the Don had assured me, had 3 bottles of vintage imported wine.

By the time the Don was done, Shoaib had yawned so much that he complained his jaws hurt; I had all of the Swami’s 10 commandments memorized and had stared so long at the wine-cupboard that I knew its every crack and even the number on its lock backwards. An air of relief more than anything else, like that of a man who had finally leaked after hours of torture, descended as the Don took his seat at long last. He gave his priceless key to a junior who proceeded to the cupboard. Wine glasses_ old scratched ones, that had survived many a drunken brawl_ were brought out; Liqour flowed, chips and sweets gobbled; an iPod, connected to speakers, blared the latest Punjabi track; gradually people broke into brash, impromptu jigs as the liquor got to them; and every time I wondered what I was doing there, I took a sip of the divine Wine and felt reassured; only Shoaib seemed more lost than me, sipping his Coke meditatively; and before I realized it, the Don had cornered me.
“So, liked my speech? Mind-blowing, no?” he asked
“Yes. Very inspiring” I said and gulped down some wine.
“I would like to discuss some issues with you—“
“What?” I shouted, for someone had just turned up the volume of the iPod.
“I want to discuss something. With you” he said, raising his voice and making extravagant hand gestures.
I didn’t quite hear every word, for lip-reading wasn’t my forte (not especially when I was tipsy), but I got the general gist and said,
“Ok”
“Come over here” he said taking me by the arm and guiding me to a quieter corner.
“Yes, Don saab, what can I do for you?”
And that was when Shoaib, pushed by a swinging junior, bumped into the Don and spilled all his coke on the Don’s pajamas.
“Oops”, he went, “Am sorry, sir. Real sorry. Here, let me help you” and took a great swipe at the Don’s groins. The Don yelped in pain, and screamed, “Back off, you bumbling bastard!”
“Am sorry, sir. I swear I am. God promise. Mother promise. Mother Dead promise—“
I managed to pass my hysterics as fits of severe choking cough as I watched the Don, wet pants and in pain in the wrong areas, do his best to maintain his calm and say,
“Shoaib, if you could kindly leave the two of us here alone. We have something important to discuss”
Shoaib, thoroughly embarrassed and apologizing profusely, moved away, leaving the two of us alone, far from the dancing crowd.

And that was when the gravity of the situation struck me. The Don was famed for his long monologues on meta-physical planes of alternate consciousness or even the evils of AFSPA. And in me, he had always assumed, he had found an intellectual equal—an ideal listener, who would not only listen but comment, criticize and pit his wits against. I had evaded the Don for over a year, with nothing more than pleasantries and the odd comment on Anti-incumbency or Global warming being exchanged between us. But this, I thought, was it. I shouldn’t have missed my visit to the Hanuman Mandir last Tuesday, I thought. And in my mind I saw the Great Monkey God, roaring with laughter at my predicament and chiding my careless attitude towards Him. And for the first time that night I noticed that behind Swami Vivekananda’s benevolent calm was hidden a distinct smirk: even he was laughing at me.
“ Sir, actually. Er… Yes, Sir. I am feeling very sleepy” I said.
“Sleepy?” the Don went, “At 11 in the night? Ha! You must be kidding. Come on, the night is still young and we have so much to talk about”
And so we sat, the Don and I, in one quiet corner. Shoaib was sipping his coke and laughing, not too far away. And strangely, as I stared around, I saw an alarmingly large number of eyes trained on us, and the chatter seemed to hush-up. I took a final swig, completely resigning myself to my fate. The Don began. And, thankfully, the rest of the evening was a blur—I only remembered shaking hands with the seniors and dancing energetically and Shoaib’s voice going “What did you do? What did you do?”

Room Number 84,
8 AM
(My room is an organized mess: Shoaib’s half is organized, my half is messy)“What did I do?”
“What happened? You went mad! “said Shoaib, “You were saying yes to everything. Yes, yes, Oh yes and Yes!”
“Shit, shit, shit and shit”
We were drinking coffee in our room. Room number 84 might require rechristening if all went well, I thought sadly—the President’s room, perhaps. I slurped my coffee and shook my head. It all seemed so unbelievable, happened so fast. The Don had smooth-talked me into filing my nomination for President, Students' Union. Two factors, I strongly believe, contributed to me listening to precisely one sentence of what the Don had said: One, the overwhelming sense of relief when he said, “I have an innovative election strategy that you must listen to” (that was the only sentence I heard). I had expected something on the lines of ‘Let’s have a detailed analysis of William Rogers’ Retrograde views on Women’s Emancipation in India’. Factor number two was the wine. And to make matters worse, he had finished so abruptly, in a matter of a few minutes, giving me hardly any time to warm up. We shook hands and he had said
‘Congrats young man!’.
‘Congrats? What for’ I had asked innocently.
‘I like your sense of humour’ he said laughing and walked away.
And I was smiling as I shouted after him, ‘I like you too!’
“And you kept smiling like a monk who’d attained nirvana!” Shoaib was saying, “He was done with you in less than 2 minutes. And then he moved on to announcing your candidature to everyone there. And you played your part to perfection—acknowledging your name, waving to the crowd and dancing to the seniors. That was then. Now the entire hostel and half the college knows”
“But, I haven’t still filed my nomination. What if I don’t do it at all? Wait, I have an idea. Shoaib, just hide me somewhere. Or I’ll just take the first bus out of this place and don’t return till 3 in the afternoon. Or I’ll probably call in sick. Or—“
“Shut up” Shoaib said, “Listen, I am serious now. You can’t back off. Do you understand? You just can’t. You run away now, and you’ll have no friends here—you’ll be branded a traitor. They see you now as a leader, no longer a reclusive talent. And if you disappear, then don’t expect me to cover your backside; I’ll be the first to kick you, in fact”

The Red Room
2 PM(The Chief Election Commission’s office is a forgotten, dusty old small red-room that comes alive during election-season. Two chairs, a table and the CEC-- Chief election Commissioner-- himself take up most of the room. The CEC is obese, irritable and chews so much paan that when he opens his mouth it is hard to distinguish between his discoloured teeth and his tongue. The walls were once white, now, for obvious reasons, they are red. The spider-webs at the crevices are also a deep, vivid crimson)

“Krishna Rama Govinda…”
“What are you muttering under your breath?”
“Me? Muttering? What muttering? Just let me file my nomination in peace”
A pause. And then--
“Saraswati Durga Maha Kali“
“See! There you go again”
“Shoaib, just mind your business”

My hand was shaking so badly that I could barely write. I prayed to every God I knew—we had so many, somebody had to help. I prayed that my nomination be cancelled due to some glitch in my papers, perhaps. I didn’t want to get into this. I didn’t know what I was getting into, in fact. Politics was just not my cup of tea and politics at this level was no cup of tea anyway—it was serious business. Or it seemed like at least. And it certainly was dirty and cheap and stupid. I prayed and cursed: I cursed the Don, I cursed the wine; I was not brave enough to curse God, I was in enough trouble already. And as I finished my last signature, the most cursed man in the college walked into the Red Room.
“Good morning Sir” Shoaib and I chimed.
The Principal grunted in acknowledgement.
“All done? Everything in place?” he asked the CEC.
“Yes sir” he said, pausing to suck in some juice, “Last nomination from this man here”
The Principal gave me an appraising look and said menacingly, “Dirty game this politics. And dirty people only play it”
I gulped. And now my entire body was shaking. I gave him what I thought was a smile. He didn’t return it, just looked away and started to walk out.
“Watch this” the CEC said softly to us, as the principal was leaving and spat out red liquid whose trajectory ended on the principal’s posterior. He then swore with obvious contempt, loud enough for us to hear. Shoaib was nearly howling, I merely let out a short nervous burst of laughter before resuming my prayers.

To continue...