℘

I remember telling Rishabh, in his hostel room, about what a gem Pappi was, when a foot banged at the door and the weak bolt, not able to bear the shock, went flying I the air; and flying in came a colossus, evidently drunk, shouting, “Hello brothers!”

It was Tanker. You have met him before but, no doubt, forgotten about it. However, a moment’s wait will make such a thing impossible. His parents had named him Bajrang, respectfully after Hanumanji, the most widely worshipped Indian God, in the innocent hope that the name would bless him with a great quality or two of the powerful God. He had required none sae the size. He was as big as a bull and when drunk, which he often was, as mad as one too. But in our circles and many circle before was, as mad as one too. But in our circles and many a circle before us he was called “Tanker’, for his capacity for any form of ethanol. Rishabh called him names, obviously jolted having his door permanently dis-bolted and told him not to shout. “Okay, calm down, brother, I will not shout,” bellowed Bajrang “Anything for you, brothers. You both are gems, love you both, man, ask for anything and… it will be yours, just ask!” he continued shouting, as was his habit when drunk. He couldn’t talk softly and, yes, always spoke from his heart when drunk. Thus the stuff about me as little brothers who must be protected and showered with affection.

“I will certainly tell you whenever I need anything; by the way any, special reason behind today’s daru party?”
“As if they need a reason!” said Rishabh.
“Shut up. You sonovabitch! Of course, there are reasons you idiot, it is Murali’s treat, he got a job with ITC,” he said totally out of his sense, “And you both are coming with me. He has called you both, have a little beer, and we have ordered pizzas. Come, come, come, and Tejas bhai, get your guitar.’
“Oh, I am not it the mood… feeling rather tired.”
“Come on, Tejas, you never come. Today, you have to come and play your jeans’ once. Please,” he said like a child.
“Okay, we are coming, but no smoking…” said Rishabh. “Oh, sure, sure, come, come. Ha ha ha ha ha ha… Lady in red is dancing…” Tanker sang in his hoarse voice, with a Haryanvi twang, spinning on his foot and draping his arm around an imaginary maiden.

I usually don’t attend these booze sessions. Dark rooms filled with smoke and the smell of liquor depress me, an artist at heart; so I avoid these jamborees. But today I was in too good a mood to refuse. I felt like playing my guitar; and it feels good to have people around you when you play.

As we moved in the corridor, a frail matka stopped Bajrang in his way and told him to stop shouting. Matka is what we call the M.Tech’s studying in IIT-D. We B.Techs generally do not get along with them. Bajrang clutched his collar and lifted him two feet in the air and roared, “Who are you to tell me what to do!” and then swung him in the air, resuming his “Lady in red is dancing…” and dropped him on the ground.

“Look what I do now!” cried the matka from the ground. Bajrang didn’t even look back and kicked open the door in his usual style. I don’t blame the matka for what he did. I myself find these binges too painful on the ear and have done any share of whining and complaining. I had seen this matka complaining for the whole semester and shouting his empty threats but no one bothered about him. He was the sole M.Tech in this wing of the most notorious B.Techs and thus had no say. We moved into the room where the aroma of hot pizzas had lost to the overwhelming reek of rum, whisky, vodka and what not.

We congratulated Murali, who was a teetotaler himself, and the topper of his Mechanical Engineering batch. There must have been ten or so packed in the room. Two or three were extremely drunk and the rest were on their ways to glory. I took a customary sip or two of vodka and excused myself from more in spite of the pleadings. I threatened them that there would be no guitar. I began with ‘Purani Jeans’, moved on to ‘Papa Kahte Hain’ and then to ‘Summer of 69’ and so on, the usual popular campus songs, while all around me clapped and some san in their trembling voices; and so we moved on into the wee hours of the morning. By then, some had retired to their rooms after puking, some had retired without puking but Bajrang was still alive, drinking as he usually does like a tanker but was much more composed now. Meanwhile we chatted on with Murali who proudly gave us tips on how to crack job interviews. There were just four of us left in the room, when we heard a knock on the door.

Bajrang shouted, “Which sonovabitch is it?” “Radhaswamy,” came the voice from the other side. “Which Swami?” asked Tanker.

It was the unmistakable South Indian accent of the matka. I never knew he was called Radhaswamy. We all knew him as matka only.
“It is that matka again, Tanker,” informed Rishabh.
“The bastard wouldn’t listen. What does he want, now, when no on me is making noise? It seems that the lesson was not enough for him!” Tanker took a bottle of soda, opened it with his teeth, shook it hard and then pressed his huge thumb against the hole, while the gas hissed out. “Open the door, Tejas,” he told me. I did as directed, eagerly waiting to enjoy the fate that awaited the poor creature. The door opened and Bajrang sprayed around the contents of the bottle in wild frenzy. I stood laughing as I saw Radhaswamy drenched in soda with horror on his face but I stopped soon as I noticed that, for some reason, Murali an Rishabh had frozen in between. Bajrang continued and Murali rushed to stop him. T peeped out of the corner of the door which blocked my full view and I shudder to write what I saw.