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To be honest, nothing comes to my mind, when I rack my brain to think of a thing that might produced the same kind of horror, even in a life so full of mishaps. Once, yes, while playing a prank, I was bitten, out of the blue, by a female Doberman, which taught me that there were Dober-men who were not men, yet as dangerous… but never until this moment had I known anything to boomerang in this fashion, ad this a prank, where my role was not more than of that hopeless extra who dances behind the hero.

Without stretching your patience and curiosity any further, I must tell you that I saw three portly gentlemen, standing upright, as wet as three towels, behind Radhaswamy, whom I didn’t take more than a nanosecond, if that’s the smallest second, to recognize and sport the same petrified look of my friends. Not to worry. This isn’t a story about ghosts and spirits though now when I think of it, it’d have been better indeed if it were. I bet that one can’t we ghosts and spirits. I have it from reliable sources that you can’t touch them and so logically can’t wet them but three my friend had wetted two of the most important people in IIT, and third, the most important one for me, not with water but with soda and thank God soda, not champagne.

There they were and unmistakably so, as menacing as the three musketeers; Prof. P.K. Dhingra, Hon. Dean of Undergraduate Students; Prof. Keval Chadda, Hon. Warden, Karakoram House, my hostel that is; and Prof. P.P. Sidhu, Hon. Head, Industrial Tour Committee. I couldn’t believe that he was there too. You expect a Warden and a Dean to be on a round to catch the defaulters but not Prof. Pappi. I couldn’t see any reason for his esteemed presence there, except that God had finally decided to annihilate me and to do so in his most destructive fashion. It would have taken a minute for a man of lesser intelligence, but for me it hardly took seconds to realize that there went my chance of skipping the Industrial Tour out of the window, I must say that a man of lesser mental strength would have jumped out of the window with it too, but not me. I stood my ground, injured, no doubt, but not broken.

There was what one can call a killing silence for what one can call an aeon after the last spoken words of wise Murali, who had wasted no time in whispering loudly in the ears of Tanker (who had lost his sense of distinction in the extreme state of inebriety) that it was none other than the Dean on whom he had been lavishing the froth. It was broken by none other than Tanker and in such frightful a fashion that I wonder, still, what I had done so grossly wrong in this life or previous to land myself in that hell. I’d like to reproduce the exact conversation or monologue, to be precise, that ensured:

Tanker: Why, of course, what a fool to have asked you that question! You are here for the party, aren’t you? Murali has got a top job sir, and you, no doubt, want to congratulate this precious stone. Come in! Come in! You two also! Everyone is welcome! This Murali is a generous soul.
(Silence)

Tanker: and who are these cute little old men with you? (Goes up to the Warden, looks down at him with keen interest and points a finger) I have seen you somewhere, haven’t I? I fail to place you, but you are most welcome too, what should I mix for you? Oh, I know, TEJAS (he shouted), give soda and vodka to him!

(Why on earth should be have called me to do the honours, I fail to see, but blame it on my bad luck. Or Mr. Fate. There were two more students in the room and I was no expert barman, one of those who juggle with bottles and pour the drink from a mile above without sprinkling a drop, but still he called me and I felt like one of the arms, right or left, whichever is stronger, of an underworld don, who is about to get the same sentence as his boss. Meanwhile, I could see the disgust with which the three M. looked was intensifying and presently the Tour Head gave me an obnoxious stare while Tanker moved towards him. There was a card hanging from a chain which went around his neck and I knew like Holmes, that the inscription on the card held the clue to whatever he did in this room. I had desired to get a view of it, right from the beginning, but couldn’t read more than SALAD, written in big, bold, capital letters with something small beneath, and that had left me more confused. What could salad mean? For a normal boy like me, it meant nothing more than those raw vegetables that doctors recommend for health. Why this Prof. was here and why he was publicizing salad, when I was sure he had nothing to do with chefs and butlers, was too maddening a mystery to me. Presently Tanker, in his third attempt, finally grabbed the card and tired to read.)

Tanker: You still wear I-cards, old man? Funny! (roars with laughter) You don’t need it; you are not a kindergarten kiddy.

That was the final straw. What had so far been a monologue was interrupted by Pappi who could not take it any more. You don’t expect professors, wet with soda, to like being addressed as kindergarten kiddies and neither did Pappi. He roared, “You bloody fool; do you not know what are you saying and where it’ll land you? You will not be spared. As the head of ‘Society Against Liquor and Drugs’, (so that was what SALAD was) I assure you and your friends that I will not rest till I have you out of this college.” This was the not-so-jovial side of the otherwise jovial Pappi that none of us had witnessed before.

We three were given summons and were to be courtmartialled the following morning. The famous ‘Disciplinary Committee’ or the ‘Disco as it is famously known was to decide our fate, which indeed looked very bleak.