Between Taramani and GC (or A day in IIT Madras)

Warning: The following story is a fictional piece of writing. It is to be taken in a lighter vein. Any resemblance to any living or dead person, thing or place is purely coincidental (yeah right!)

"Trrrrrrrrriinnnngggg..." The alarm goes off. I reach out in the dark, groping for the clock, trying to shut it off. It won't. I get up groggily. Where had I put it last night? Like everything else in my room, I find the alarm clock at different places every time I look for it. This time, I find it under my bed. I press the snooze button, and get back on the bed.

I open my eyes. I check my mobile. Its 7:30. Shit. There's a class at 8, and the professor is too damn strict about the attendance. I will have to be quick (and that's an understatement) if I want to reach on time. I jump out of bed and rush to the shower. At this point let me tell you that there have been times before when I have had a shower, felt fresh and smug, and then gulped in frustration when I realized that I forgot to bring the towel. That's a long story, and I won't go into it now. This time I have the towel around my shoulders. It flutters like Superman's cape. I rush into the shower and come out before you can say 'Ceteris Paribus.' I rush back to my room, slipping and sliding all the way. Off goes the towel, on come the clothes. I grab the bag, and rush down. I get on my bicycle and pedal as hard as I can, swerving between students and deers. I tell you, you better watch out for the ones with the big horns; the deer, I mean.

Himalaya looms before me. I get off the bike, park it between two other bikes. I hear a crashing sound, someone's bike has toppled and one sees a wonderful domino effect of two wheelers. 'It wasn't me,' I shout and rush. The canteen is serving bread, butter and jam, and Maggi. Now Maggi is one thing I absolutely love to hate. Normally I have no choice but to eat it. Today I have no time. I grab four slices of jam bread, put two of them in my mouth, and the remaining in my bag. I rush down again to my bicycle and start off towards the department. I have to steer the bike through the huge peloton of late-latifs like me and have to use both my hands. With the slices of bread stuffed in my mouth, I look like one of the other famous inhabitants of the hostels, albeit on a bicycle and without a tail.

I fly down the slope towards GC. The wind feels good in my hair. I close my eyes. But I realize that a 'W' won't look good in my grade sheet. I pedal harder. As soon as I reach the department, I jump off the bike and run towards the class. I sneak in through the back door of the class and make my way to a dark corner of the lecture hall. I sit down heaving, waiting for my roll call. Thankfully, the professor has just started taking the attendance. I answer the roll call and catch my breath. Phew, all the rush was worth it. "Present sir," says a muffled voice from the back. Definitely a proxy. But thankfully, for the 'proxifier' and the 'proxyee', the professor doesn't pay much attention.

I shuffle through my bag and find the notes of the previous class. Most probably, the professor will ask for a recap. As soon as I manage to open the book, the professor confirms it. As soon as he asks for it, a general rustling spreads through the classroom. Duck, Hide, Avoid. But the professor knows it all too well. Legend has it that if you want to avoid the professor's eyes, you better sit in the first couple of rows. This story, passed on from seniors to juniors every year, has proved true most of the time. Yes, it is a paradox. But that's what I have to learn to manage.

I feel like trying out a theory. I look up at the professor. Research has proved that looking at the professor decreases the probability of your being called upon to answer. Of course, this theory fails if the professor has already read through this paper. And now I see the professor looking straight at me.

"Why don't you recap what we learnt last time?" Gulp... gulp, gulp. Now I realize how the coyote in the cartoon feels when he realizes that he has run over the cliff and is standing in mid-air.

"Me?" I ask like an idiot.

"The one with the glasses," the professor points out.

Like a bigger idiot, I actually lift my hand to feel if I wear glasses. Frankly by this time, I'm in so much shock that I can't decide whether I don't wear glasses or I forgot to bring them today. But to my relief, a voice from behind asks the same question, "Me?"

This time the professor's answer is in the affirmative. Now was my chance to make an impression. I give an outward disappointing look as if I really wanted to recap what had happened in the last class. I don't even recall when was the last class. I make sure the professor sees me. Who knows maybe in MBA one gets brownie points for class participation?

I can almost hear the poor dude behind me gulping away his bad luck. He starts to give an answer and manages to finish it. The professor looks doubtfully at him, thinks for a while and then lets it go at that. He proceeds to start the projector, and the junta heaves in unison. No quiz today, no presentation today.

'The captain has turned off the seat-belt indicator. You are free to release your seat belts and move about in the cabin. Please note that smoking is not allowed for the duration of the flight. We hope you enjoy the flight.'

The back-benchers release the clip from the back of their seats and lean back on the chair. The front-benchers have a glazed look in their eyes, sitting upright and nodding their heads as if they actually understand something. Two hours grind by slowly. At times my hand scribbles something involuntarily on the sheets.

Tick tock, tick yawn tock.

"...and we wind up for today." The golden words for everyone. Everyone packs their bags and leans forward to rush out of the classroom before the professor gives any case study or before the CR has any 'small announcement.' If it is a morning class, people normally head for the hostel. After an evening class, we go to Gurunath. Food is eaten, tea and coffee is sipped, supplies are bought. I realize that I myself have to buy toothpaste. I don't remember when it ran out. Before you accuse me, all I have to say in my defense is that I do have chewing gum before coming to class, so if you smell bad breath, "It wasn't me!"

The rest of the day is going to be spent lazing around the room. Maybe a game of table-tennis or for those who are outdoor-inclined, football. Some of the studious dive into their books and for those from planet Orkut, the Internet is the place to be. Dinner time is another battle. Eating whatever they pass off as food is a challenge in itself. But I can't complain. The idea is to stuff down as much as you can when you find something that tastes good. There is no knowing when it will be served again. The fast food extras are somewhat better, but only relatively. At this point I must confess, I don't fully realize what the deal is with this side dish they serve called egg thokku. Can someone please enlighten me?

While burping, we reach the hostel again. There is a case study to be discussed in the night. We gather in someone's room and decide to finish analyzing the case study in an hour or so. However no one seems to want to open the case study paper, though. One among us informs the group about this interesting action movie he downloaded from DC++. The topic shifts from motivation and reinforcement theories to cars and guns. A couple of hours wasted. Never mind, we decide. We can do it tomorrow. The group disperses and we return to our respective rooms.

Random screams and shouts in strange languages waft through the empty corridors. The voices will continue throughout the night. This is a place that never sleeps. In the intermittent silences, I can hear the washing machines clicking and switching their cycles. Soak to rinse. Rinse to spin. Spin to soak. Another day ends in the the campus. The machines gets booted up. The routers are working overtime. Sounds of guns cocking, bodies flying and cars screeching. I can hear a frustrated scream. Someone has just been fragged. I open up a book and look out the window. I can see the city skyline through the window grill. This is my home for two years. This will be the window of my ... ahem... got a little too philosophical there.

I fire up my laptop, check my scraps. I reply and log out. I open a text book and out falls a small note. I pick it up and read it. My eyes pop wide on reading it. There's an assignment due tomorrow and I haven't gone through the material yet. I put the laptop aside and pick up the text book. I page through the book and find the chapter I'm looking for. I am supposed to submit a soft copy. Oh great, I think. I'll have to type the whole damn thing. But the software engineer in me saves the day. I fire up the Internet, surf to Wikipedia and the rest is history. I'll have to finish it before 1 am when they switch off the Internet. By the time, I manage to bunch together some material for the assignment my eyes are fighting to get some rest.

I plop down on the bed and soon the sub-conscious mind takes over. Almost immediately I fall into a deep sleep and start to have a pleasant pre-placement dream. I see myself ready for the interview. Confidently I walk towards the interview panel and...

"Trrrrrrrrriinnnngggg..."

...and the cycle repeats. Soak rinse spin soak.









PS. Thanks for the scrumptious jam bread. - The ants of Taramani.

The Accident

“Anna!” Ramesh shouted out to one of his waiters, “take this order to the Apogee institute.”

Anna looked up from the table he was wiping, slapped the wet cloth over his shoulders and ran up to the manager’s seat.

“What am I taking?” he asked.

“It’s a Mysore masala dhosa and an onion uttapa. Go to the second floor and get this bill signed. And come back soon. There are many deliveries to be made,” Ramesh said.

“Will they give the money or…” Anna started to ask.

“No, they’ll probably add it to their account. Stupid people, can’t even pay regularly. So just get the bill signed, okay?” he explained.

“Theek hai,” Anna replied and picked up the plate which was kept on Ramesh’s counter.

“Arre, cover it with a newspaper first,” Ramesh reminded.

Feeling embarrassed, he grabbed a newspaper from the sheets hanging beside the counter and covered the dish carefully.

“What’s wrong Anna, aren’t you well? You look worried,” Ramesh asked him.

“Nothing, sir,” Anna replied. “My sister is getting married in a few months and I’m worried. There are a lot of things to take care of in the village. I may require a few weeks’ leave.”

“OK, we’ll discuss that later today. Go now, you’re getting late for the other deliveries,” Ramesh told him.

“Yes, sir,” he said and rushed outside.

Ramesh turned around to find someone to take the next delivery until Anna returned. Hardly had he left the counter when he heard a loud screech and the harsh scraping of metal on asphalt. He assumed that the accident had happened somewhere close to the restaurant. The road in front of the restaurant was notorious for such accidents. There were many colleges in that place and teenagers were always showing off their fancy bikes and cars. Sometimes they went overboard in their antics and crashed into something or the other. Just last week, a boy had crashed into the back of a rickshaw and toppled the unstable vehicle over. By the time the rickshaw driver managed to get out, the offending car and its occupant had already reached southwards to the next suburb. The rickshaw driver, bleeding from his head, had tried to single-handedly turn his vehicle the right side but couldn’t manage. Ramesh had run out and had brought him in to his restaurant, made him sit on of his table and had attended to the driver’s wounds.

Now, as Ramesh stepped out on the road, he saw that a crowd had already gathered around the fallen person. He could see a bike lying a few metres from the crowd. The headlight had broken and there was glass everywhere. He looked further away to see a safety helmet just rolling to a halt. The safety helmet didn’t look too safe in the middle of the road. As soon as it rolled to a stop, a car would suddenly strike it again and it would get knocked to another part of the road. Ramesh, a hardcore fan of football, didn’t appreciate the irony of the game which was being played out there. He looked up towards the sky and mouthed, “If you’re trying to be funny, that definitely isn’t.”

The impatient honking of the cars caught his attention and he turned towards the people in the crowd who were pointing and mumbling among themselves. No one moved to help the victim whom Ramesh still could not see. He pushed his way through the crowd and was shocked when he saw Anna lying spread-eagled on the ground. He didn’t seem to be bleeding but he clearly was in pain. He ran to the fallen boy and asked him whether he could move. The pain was evident in Anna’s face as he tried to shake his head. His face was twisted into a painful grimace. Ramesh ran his hand over Anna’s hands and legs to see if there was any fracture. He glanced up at the faces in the crowd who were still looking down at the whole spectacle. Ramesh tried to control his frustration and asked them to help him lift up the boy and carry him into the restaurant. A few people came forward and took positions beside Anna. He had suffered a huge cut on his forearm which was bleeding rapidly now.

“Ok, everyone together now, lift,” he said.

Just as they lifted Anna, one of his hands plopped down lifelessly and hung by the boy’s side at an unnatural angle.

The crowd was pointing anew at this new development, towards the bloody hand which was oscillating with very step Ramesh took towards his restaurant. Blood was dripping freely from Anna’s right hand, dripping on to the ground, dripping on to the trousers of the people who had gathered around him. The crowd suddenly decided that the whole affair was over and went back on their ways. The few people whose clothes the blood had dirtied, grumbled and swore silently. Ramesh and the men gently lay Anna on an empty table. Ramesh carefully put Anna’s hand by his side, and pressed his handkerchief against the cut. He told one of the waiters to run to the clinic nearby and call the doctor. He directed another to bring some water. He quickly checked for any other cuts, and felt relieved when he didn’t find any.

The doctor arrived and immediately set open his bag on the table. He fumbled with the antiseptic solution and told Ramesh to remove the handkerchief from the wound.

“I’ll take it from here,” the doctor said.

Ramesh left the blood red handkerchief on the table and sat on his counter with a heavy sigh.

“What do you think doctor?” Ramesh asked, worried. “How bad is it?”

The doctor grunted while wrapping the bandages around Anna’s arm. He had already dabbed some soapy water on his arm and the bleeding had reduced. The twisted arm looked less bloody. “Well, it looks like that he has a fracture in his left hand. But he will survive. Won’t you?” the doctor asked, looking at Anna.

The boy could manage a weak smile.

“He was lucky that it was a two-wheeler,” the doctor continued. If a car had hit him at this speed, it could have been much worse. Speaking of which, where is the driver of the motorcycle? Is he hurt?” asked the doctor.

“I don’t know. I never saw him,” said Ramesh dismissively. One of the waiters replied for him, “No sir, he wasn’t hurt. I think he was just bleeding from his mouth.” The waiter had seen the driver stand up after some time. He had collected his helmet, climbed on his bike and had driven off.

Ramesh ran his hands through his hair, and looked around. Everyone was looking at Anna and the doctor. Slowly, the they resumed their lunches, some mumbling silent prayers for the boy while others shaking their heads at the carelessness of the waiter. “See how young the boy is. I hope he gets well soon.” “He should have looked on both sides before crossing the road. People run about on the road and the driver of the vehicles has to take the blame.”

Ramesh stared silently at the clean table top of his counter. Just then the phone rang. Although he was in no mood to pick it up, he did. A clearly irritated voice spoke, “Arre Ramesh yaar, why haven’t you sent the dhosa yet? How long should we wait for it? Our lunch time is almost over. Tell your waiters to be fast, man. Those stupid boys stand at the paan shop all day and smoke. Put some sense in their heads, will you?” Ramesh listened quietly as the voice shouted profanities and advised him how to do his job. Without showing any sign of anger, Ramesh quietly kept the receiver back into its cradle and walked to the door of the restaurant. He glanced at Anna from the corner of his eye and stepped out on the pavement. He looked around. People had resumed their work, vehicles were plying normally. Some one had carried the plate of dhosa to one side of the road. He looked at the people walk over it carefully. A few dogs caught its sight and sniffed at the strange mixture. They overturned the plate and started to devour the contents heaped on the road. Ramesh saw the bill for the snacks floating in a puddle of water nearby. It was coloured with Anna’s blood. The water mixed with the blood and dissolved it until the redness disappeared completely. All signs of the accident had vanished.

Ramesh looked up across the street. He could see a big board advertising the institute. He read slowly “Apogee Institute”. Below it in bold letters - “Etiquette: You learn it here.”