28 March 2012
One of the few pleasures at P.S.G. was tea-time. Classes were over for the day, teachers had departed on their rickety scooters, and everyone was a lot more relaxed. Tea-time consisted of imbibing a hot,stainless steel tumbler full of a rich, saporous libation which could soothe the most wicked of souls. In addition to the potation used to dulcify our nerves and pique our mental faculties, we were provided with a light snack. These varied from day to day on a 7-day rotation. Our choices consisted of goodies, or baddies, which I had very little enlightenment about. Mondays brought about lentils and beansprouts. Obviously you should be able to discern that I hated Monday tea. Tuesday was Bombay Toast day. Bombay toast was like a bastardized version of French Toast, and actually weren't that bad. There just wasn't any syrup. Wednesday was pakora day. I'll get back to these scrumptious little morsels in a minute. Thursday was vadai day. These little buggers were round, fried, lentils with curry leaves, onions, and a whole gobbledygook of stuff mixed in. I enjoyed them only if I ate the rind, which was crispier than the thicker center. Friday was thyri-vadai which looked like a donut but didn't taste nearly so good. Saturday was baji day. Baji is a form of frying, kinda like tempura. People dip unripened bananas, onions, or another vegetable in an orange batter and fry it. The amount of oil used is usually quite substantial. Whenever I ate one, the taste of the oil masked whatever wickedness was in the middle. Palatable? No. Tolerable? Yes. Finally, the Superbowl Sunday of afternoon tea snacks, the samosa. These were easily the most popular item on the menu. Students who wanted more than one had to pay a nominal fee. Samosas are like the Indian wontons only they're not filled with beef and they are not served in a broth. They're fried and filled with lots of different things. The filling we were given was potato masala. I didn't like the lumpy filling, so I would always just eat the crust and leave the glop behind. Hey, it worked for me. Now, let me get back to describing my FAVORITE snack, pakora. My first time having tea at college was on pakora day. I was a bit apprehensive at first because I'm a very picky eater. I also always smell my food before eating, not because I can tell if anything is wrong, but because it's a habit I have. We were given a little, stainless-steel cup filled with irregular, tan-brown fried lentil fragments. I took my rations to our table. Abi, George, and Robin were also seated alternately taking lingering, gingerly sips of tea and scarfing down the pakora mcnuggets. After the fiasco with the oothapam, I wasn't too confident that my fears of being provided with a constant deluge of inedible foodstuffs would be assuaged. I took a sip of tea. OOOH man that was hot. I picked up a piece of pakora, eyeing it suspicously. Ok, no foreign material like curry leaves or onions present. No odd smell. Lick it a little bit. No nausea. Pop it in. WHOA. Now whomever thought of the word scrumptious was most likely talking about pakora. These little beauties tasted just like KFC! I mean, there was no chicken in it. It wasn't juicy or anything. But if I closed my eyes, my mind would be tricked into thinking of a better time, a time when KFC and other fast food eateries were in abundance; a time when pancakes tasted like pancakes; a time when anything was possible. I painstakingly finished the pakora, down to the last crumb. I took my cup and tumbler and dumped it in the dirty dishes bin. If every tea time could be like that, I could see myself in a much better mood every day.
Since there was no time like the present, I headed outside to meet Uncle Rufus and Suresh. One thing about India is that sidewalks are very rare. P.S.G. had it's own set of sidewalks, tho. They were gray and appeared to be fabricated from slate. A subtle touch, no doubt. As I was awaiting the arrival of my uncle's oblong ambassador, a girl dressed in a brown churidar came up to me.
"You are supposed to wish your seniors."(wishing seniors meant saying either "good evening/afternoon/morning, madam/sir" etc.) "Excuse me?" I hadn't heard her, my mind was still occupied by the KFC pakora. "You are supposed to wish your seniors." Me being a fun-loving guy, I just couldn't resist the opportunity presented to me on a silver platter, "Ok, I wish you were dead."
At that precise moment, the "limo" pulled up to me and I jumped in. I didn't even get a look at the girl I had just brazenly affronted. I didn't care. My uncle and cousin were there to protect me so I could say whatever the hell I pleased. Or so I thought. I arrived with luggage, uncle, and cousin in tow to the front gate of the hostel. I had a lot to bring in, including two suitcases, books, radio, and cassettes. My room was located on the second floor(third floor for Americans), room 334. I made my way up the stairs to the threshold. The key provided to me looked like one of those keys cartoon characters used to open up locked chests. I put the key in the hole and unlocked the door. The room was quaint by Marriot standards, for sure. There was a ceiling fan, closet, chair, and desk. The windows were, say it with me now, barred. The bed was made of cement. I had prepared for this scenario and purchased a mattress some days earlier. Located on the far wall of the room, not that far to be quite honest, was a full-lenth mirror. I started unpacking my things. I had packed one suitcase half-full with what I thought was a dire necessity, toilet paper. Do you have any idea what people do to clean their taint if they don't use toilet paper? Let me paint a picture. People in India, those who don't shit on the streets anyway, normally squat over a white hole in the ground. Sometimes there isn't a flushing mechanism. But, fear not, the contents of the commode could be expelled by a turbulent flow of water. So, while squatting on his or her haunches, and after expelling all flatulence and feces, said crapper turns on the water tap situated next to him/her and fills up a bathroom mug. In one swift motion, the mug is taken with the right hand and poured down the butt-crack. The left hand meets the right hand around the corner, so to speak, and scrubs the taint vigorously, feeling some dingleberries here and there. Repeat. In all honesty, it's actually much more sanitary to wash your ass the Indian way than to use toilet paper, but I was a man who feared change. So, like the Boy Scouts motto says, "Be prepared." Or was it Cub Scouts?
After getting situated and settled, I bid adieu to my uncle and cousin. I didn't feel like reading anything. I wanted to check out my surroundings. I started my constitutional by walking around the hexagonal perimeter of my floor. Then I traced the path to the conjoining building and walked around there. I was minding my business admiring the stale , humdrum architecture when I heard a whistle.
"Eda(eh-daa) junior FUCKER!"
I looked up and saw a group of three local boys who were obviously seniors since they called me a bad name. They motioned for me to come up to their area, which was on the 4th floor. I walked up the stairs and remembered to salute them. The one who summoned me was a tall, husky, dark gentleman named Prabhushankar. With him was a ratty looking fellow with nappy hair and bucked-teeth named Meera and a fellow not worth remembering whose name I forgot. Prabhushankar had the floor.
"You bloody junior. Did you just insult Reshmy?" "Sir? Pardon me but who is Reshmy?" "YOU DO NOT ASK QUESTIONS HERE! WE WILL ASK YOU AND YOU WILL ANSWER!" "Yes sir." Ass. "One senior from my batch just asked you to wish her and you said something else. What was it?" Oh shit. Damn, news travelled fast around here! "Sir, I don't remember what I said because I was in the process of getting into my uncle's car to come to the hostel." Please buy that one. "I believe you said, "I wish you were dead." You did say that, didn't you?" I was getting backed into a corner and didn't know what to do. I stayed silent. "You fucker, if you EVER cross myself or any of my batchmates, you will be the one who wishes you were dead." "Yes sir." "Now, before you go, recite the Junior Salute."
This was a new one. I hadn't read that in my "P.S.G. Juniors' Guide to Not Getting an Ass Kicking During Ragging."
"I'm sorry, sir. I don't know it." "Oh you don't? Well, Meera will teach it to you and then you must repeat it." "Yes, sir."
Meera stepped up face-to-face with me, barely inches apart. He started reciting it. All I could think of was how badly they needed to cure their boredom. After he was done, I recited the pledge:
"Mighty Mighty Seniors! Us Bloody Bloody Juniors Shall Salute You When We See You! If Not, We Will Wash Your Dick With Mysore Sandalwood Soap And Drink It Like Holy Water, SIR!"
I guess there were no cheerleader scholarships being offered at our pristine institution. After taking my leave of the Tony Basil Trio, I started back towards my side of the hostel, vowing to never come to that side again. The seniors definitely made me nervous. I sure didn't want to get beat down or smacked. I just remained "pavum". Hopefully, that would be enough. Before I could get to my door, I heard someone shout my name.
"Bobby!"
I looked around, up, and down. It was a voice I hadn't recognized and I started to wonder if that person was calling another Bobby. My name wasn't uncommon there.
"Bobby! Yeah you! Come here!"
The call was coming from the ground floor from a room situated opposite to mine. I raced down the stairs and stood in the senior's doorway.
"Hey, man how are ya?"
I was thrown for a loop at first because this person had an American accent. He was a dimunitive fellow with a well-toned complexion and wiry limbs. He had a look about him that I figured meant he was a prankster.
"I'm fine, sir." "You don't have to call me sir. Just call me what I like to be called." "And
A Recondite Use For Mysore Sandalwood Soap • Opuss № I