Leaving on a jet (airways) plane

Some memories are like old scars. No matter how much you try to erase them they never fade away. They make you wish you had selective amnesia so that you could forget them, or even better, that you had a time machine, so that you could go back and change the memories. And there are other memories. As fleeting as waves on the seashore and as ephemeral as dew drops on a blade of grass, these memories make you wish for a pensieve just like the one Dumbledore had. A pensieve where you could store the magic of the moment, and with that freeze frame of sepia do a Ted Mosby thirty years henceforth.

I’ve never known myself to be nostalgic. Quite the opposite actually. But sometimes, just sometimes (and contrary to popular belief) I do remember and I do reminisce. Or maybe (as some part of my brain keeps telling me annoyingly), I have been watching too much of How I Met Your Mother after all.

It’s been a year since a sudden bout of wayward whim (or perhaps my absolute distaste for Rajnikant and sweating a bucketload a day had something to do with it) saw me put IITR Chem Dual above IITM Meta in my preference list, and in retrospect, it’s been a year with little cause for regret. Sure, my academic accomplishments might not have put others to shame. Far from it, in fact. But belonging to the noble breed of young men who don’t let something as trivial as academics get in the way of focused inactivity (read: sleeping) and spend their otherwise worthless time on other important non value adding hobbies(like gaming), I never expected as much. But do not take that to mean that I have not learnt anything this year(perhaps nothing of value but still!). Learning to do a wheelie on a bicycle, creating 25 knights in 25 minutes and mastering the subtle art of giving proxies all form but the tip of the metaphorical iceberg that happens to be my learning curve in R-land.

It is weird how the tiniest of things seemingly inconsequential at that moment can change a life. Yeah, yeah I know- it sounds straight out of some mushy Hollywood flick but do bear with me, coz it is one of those cliches which are very true. Had I concentrated more on my lecturers than the girls in class, had I realized that there was more to metallurgy than Ellingham’s diagram, had my dislike for aloo sabzi and dal been matched by my dislike for Pongal, had I not been looted by one crazy auto driver on that fateful day of JEE counseling in Madras (or come to think of it, had I spotted even one decent looking girl there),  had I known about MA-102 earlier, or more importantly had I been Christiano Ronaldo, life might have been a whole lot different. Alas, IIT-M wasn’t more fortunate(nor was football).

My first memories of roorkee are probably not the ones I’d  cherish the most. Now, i won’t begin with the “I vividly remember my first day on campus” crap because I don’t. But what I do remember about my first day at roorkee is that it vaguely reminded me of Malgudi. Strange really, because even though I’ve read the book I don’t really remember much of it, but the hustle and bustle at the railway station, the cycle rickshaws, the sights of people by the riverside, the innumerable trees, and the myriads of little shops adorning both sides of the streets somehow made me associate roorkee with malgudi. And yet, I found the place less than endearing at the time. Nesci has nothing on Coffee Day leave alone Barista. Roorkee seemed blissfully unaware of even the ‘T’ of theatres leave alone multiplexes.  Expecting a mall to exist in this place seemed as ludicrous as expecting the Indian football team to win the world cup. Also, I was leaving behind a life of eighteen long years in Bangalore, and the estrangement of old friendships is never too easy ( Not to mention that  the sudden realization, that by coming to Rland I had effectually made myself single till classified ads adorning the newspapers or online marriage portals rendered me otherwise, didn’t help any). To add to this, coming to a land where every sentence began with a certain ‘B’ word and where anyone hailing from south of the Vindhyas was dubbed a ‘madarasi’ and treated with general dislike made me feel as perfectly at home as Sachin Tendulkar would be on a football field. So all I did was rant about it to friends and family. In fact, I even remember writing (and eventually deleting) a long ‘holden caulfieldesque’ blog post ranting about how life in IITR was a bitch. But then as one senior put it then -” Rland grows on you. You’ll learn to like it with time.”

It’s been a year since then and try as I might, I cannot deny that I have missed roorkee these holidays. Perhaps it’s not the place that I miss but the people. Perhaps roorkee will never be the home to me that Bangalore was. But if there’s one thing I have learnt during the past year it is that home is just a fleeting notion. One year down the lane roorkee might still not be the place I’d call ‘Home sweet Home’. But five years from now, I might feel the same way about Bangalore. Which is precisely why, embarking upon a jaunt down memory lane fifty years from now and reminiscing with a ‘Those were the days’ sigh, R-land will still hold a special place in the deepest crevices of my memory.

As a sophomore this year (hard to believe that I passed, huh?), continuing the tradition of R-land I would be expected to dispense unsolicited advice to gullible fachchas (after some bad-ass ragging, i might add) crowding around me (more out of fear than genuine interest) and should I come across anyone cribbing about R-land I should’nt be surprised if I gave him a piece of Joey-esque wisdom – “If chicks, food and weather were the only things to certify a place as worth living (which they are), you and I would probably be in Brazil or Paris, but since neither can afford the plane tickets you’d better STFU”, before reverting to those wise old words - ” Rland grows on you. You’ll learn to like it with time.”. After all, life comes a full circle.

P.S: I composed this thing a few days before I left for roorkee, but lack of a good modem meant I could not post.

P.P.S: My first attempt (and a rather lame one, i might add) at a senti post.

P.P.P.S: The title alludes to a John Denver Song I have been listening to quite a lot lately, and also the fact that Jet Airways>>Any other airline

P.P.P.P.S: Fachchas beware, coz Daddy’s Home.

P.P.P.P.P.S: I luv using P.Ss.

P.P.P.P.P.P.S: Bugger off losers, haven’t you had enough P.Ss already??

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Another day in the life of a RJBite

A deep, dark, insightful documentary on the life of a keyless RJBite, and IITRian in general.

Disclaimer: Any reference to any person living, dead, seriously sick or comatose is probably intended, and put forth with deliberate malicious and sadistic intent. Comments will be heavily moderated. Spammers will be tracked down, convicted under the Threat to the Nation Act (2010), Section-42 and will then be publicly castrated.  So, moral leaders of the new fangled world like the anonymous in the comments section here, if you are reading this (which I seriously doubt, coz this would involve errr…..reading), before you start dispensing your moral strictures, you are kindly requested to bugger off.

Warning: Longish post. Best read with gaps of fifteen minutes in between, as the level of awesomeness cannot be absorbed by the human optic nerve at one stretch.

Glossary:

RJB: The official residence of the first yearites. But every IITRian worth his willy knows that it is actually a third world refugee camp whose inmates have to regularly go to labs as guinea pigs for horrendous experiments and torture which would make Guantanamo bay seem like a Sunday afternoon picnic.

LH (Lecture Hall(ocaust)) : One of the aforementioned labs which also happens to be the lair of demented mentors (dementors in short), commonly known as profs. Also a rehabilitation centre to treat insomniacs and ppl with sleep disorders.

Library: Dunno. Never been there.

RJB Mess: The only garbage disposal site in the world where the garbage is disposed off in plates. Rumour has it that the health authorities, in order to justify their existence in the campus, regularly pay the mess workers a small amount of money to maintain a continuous inflow of students into the hospital.

NCC (Nazi Concentration Camp): The Institution where the likes of Hitler, Osama, Idi Amin are employed.

NSS( Nasty Social Service): The place where little pansies who were too chicken to take up NCC rot. The guys have to service little kids orally (read out books to underprivileged kids, you perverted bastards!) and the girls constantly work for the upliftment of their masses.

UG Club: The place where Btech students, potheads and old age home escapees alike gather to watch matches (women’s beach volleyball or women’s wrestling, whichever is playing) and ofc, Rakhi ka Swayamwar on TV.

Nesci: The poshest and most awesome eating joint in the whole of the 100 square metres beside the UG Club.

As I’m performing my daily, or to be more precise, monthly ablutions to try and scrape off the fungi and multiple layers of algae that have settled upon my luxuriant skin in the past few weeks I experience musical bliss that one can only associate with the bathroom cubicles of a RJB bathroom on a somnolent Sunday morning. It starts off with me checking under my feet to see if I have stepped on any frogs by mistake only to realize that the melodious croaks are emerging from the other occupied bathroom cubicle, with the background score being provided by the occupant in the toilet cubicle. The sounds emerging from the toilet cubicle, akin to the painful grunts of a newly castrated bull, remind me to reprimand the mess secretary for not having enough fiber in the mess food, and the repulsive odour arising from the same leave me mentally castigating its occupant for the excess consumption of oily food.

Amidst this serene tranquility, comes the alluring music of Mithunda`s “I’m a disco dancer” to which I immediately start shaking a foot or two before I realize it is actually my cell phone ringing.  I answer the phone suavely, a la James Bond giving out my surname first and then my name. The conversation from the other end begins in typical R-land style-with a flurry of expletives and rather unloving references to every single close female relative that I possess. After the caller has exhausted the entire range of his expletives, he demands that I appear at his toilet cublicle with a bucketful of water. Apparently, the Bhawan authorities, no doubt influenced by the “Save Water” campaigns happening all around the world have decided to cut water supply to the toilets. I admire this noble gesture, if only to hear the squeaky little mandrill on the other end plead and wail and squirm. And I switch off the phone.

I appear out of the bathroom, and march into the corridor rejuvenated, (by the news of ravana still suffering in the toilet, and not by the ablutions I might add), my smug grin directed at the passers-by hardly suppressing my feeling of superiority on having woken up early abandoning the comfort of my bed. The cold air kissing my bare skin would have sent even rakhi sawant running for her clothes, but I bear it with my characteristic fortitude, and make my way to my room, only to find it locked.

As I stand there in the middle of the corridor putting salman khan to shame with my barest of the bare belongings, with most passers- by giggling, the ‘happier’ ones ogling , and the ‘happiest’ ones sulking (they were hoping I would do a ranbir kapoor from ‘Saanwariya’ as well) I realize that tearing out every strand of hair on my head in frustration isn’t gonna help (although it might reduce my hair cutting expenses). I decide to wait for my room partner. Half an hour(and half a fistful of torn hair) later the situation is still the same.  My initial assumption that my room partner is outside SB bribing the watchman to let him in is replaced by the realization that he has probably been abducted by aliens, and is halfway to zorgobia. As I look around, I spot a worn out old tee and a pair of Bermudas on my neighbour’s clothesline. My sartorial ambitions were never the highest. Quite the contrary, actually. But I’m pretty sure they never revolved around floral yellow tees and rotten ole Bermudas, which in my humblest opinion are just a tad above Neanderthal man’s banana leaf skirt, tiger claw necklace and feather headgear on the “Check me out, girl” scale. But if govinda can carry it off, I realize that so can I.

Hungry, jobless, clueless and most importantly keyless as I am, I make my way to the mess to feast on last night’s leftovers.  The mess cooks seem to have attended cooking classes during the winter, what with the eclectic variety of quasi-vegetarian dishes they are experimenting with and all? We get twigs with the rice, worms in the rajma, cockroaches taking swimming lessons in the water jugs, cats in the sambar, and aloo in aloo paratha. I’m kidding abt the last two ofc!!  This morning they had decided to serve puris and aloo sabzi. Puris made out of hard vulcanized rubber and deep fried in concentrated sulphuric acid and the sabzi consisting of yellow gooey dog refuse that would have left  Hannibal lecter getting all squeamish and running to the nearest bathroom. I make my way to the nearest table and sit down. It is then that I realize that I’m still wearing my Bermudas.

The residential warden walks into the mess with all the pomposity of a roman general returning home after a long, victorious campaign. With all the alertness of a hawk looking for its prey, he looks around and spots me, or rather my Bermudas. He comes over to my table all frothing at the mouth, with a ridiculously contorted facial expression like he has chilly sauce smeared all over his bottom, and in general acting like a maniac who would make the Joker fear for his life, and starts howling like a flatulent, old wolf with a bad case of constipation.  Expletives, snarls, and spit alike spurt out of his mouth continuously for a long time. I shamelessly wait till he gets all tired and starts panting like a steam engine before resorting to my favourite tactic of “Hindi nahi jaanta”. Then the moron gets all preachy talking about the traditions of the 150 year old insti and starts dispensing moral homilies about Indian culture which he had no doubt rehearsed for some 5^th grade elocution contest. He even goes so far as to say ”It is allright to wear Bermudas in your room, but while stepping out, you must respect your culture.”

By not wearing my Bermudas??!! WTF!!Dude, this is Indian institute of technology, not Indiana institute of technology.

Distraught at my abject humiliation in the mess, I trudge back to my room at a pace a herd of tortoises stampeding through peanut butter would scoff at. Deep, dark, morbid ‘Bagga-esque’ thoughts start surfacing in my mind. I start contemplating the various ways to commit suicide. Do I kill myself with books at the library? Do I eat the burgers at Nesci? Do I attend classes at the LH? Or do I just attend NCC? My train of thoughts is stopped by the realization it is Sunday and I have NCC sessions today. It is better to be dead than be late for NCC.

I barge into my neighbour’s room, which thankfully isn’t locked. I wake him up from his deep REM slumber gently. Well, as gently as my large fists can manage. I ask him for his NCC uniform.  He starts out with an expletive but stops short when he realizes that the colossal mass of rippling muscles, with six pack abs and herculean physique standing before him is not the Hulk but yours truly deeply madly. He grins sheepishly, flips out an arm from under his covers, and points to his cupboard before going back to sleep. With a small tug of my little finger I open the door of his cupboard which immediately loses contact with the hinges and with the NCC uniform neatly ironed and kept there I dress up. I realize that I can’t find the cap (or beret if you insist). I ask him where he keeps his cap. He refuses to dignify this with a response, pretending to be asleep. I ask him again. He shows me the finger this time. I’m one of the greatest believers in the Mahatma’s principle of persevering with dialogue in every endeavour. But as the cliché goes “sometimes a guy’s gotta do what a guy’s to do” (even if that guy happens to be a uber awesome stud like me). So my attention for the next few moments is taken up with administering some well deserved slaps, the sound of which resonates along the corridor.

When I stand up again, the situation is pretty much the same as before, except that I’m perspiring a little and he is a contrite model of cooperation, with perhaps a slight reversal in the topography of his facial features. He gets up faster than you can say “Honorificabilitudinitatibus”. He flings clothes from his cupboard, empties his drawers, rips apart his blankets and bed, checks under his bed, puts his hand in the dustbin before he remembers that he had lent it to someone in the other block the previous week.  He darts to the other block like a bullet from the muzzle of a LMG and returns in a minute. He apologizes profusely for keeping a gentleman like me waiting, and I readily forgive him. I’m not too bad that way.

I make a dash for the NCC parade ground.

The whip bearing Azkaban prison guards who are recuited as NCC commanders over here are cruel, heartless beasts who, if, someone faints during the drills, leave them lying on the ground under the blazing sun, only to be trampled upon later by the marching cadets. Naaa, I’m kidding ofc, the commanders are kind little souls who immediately pick up the unconscious cadets and rush them to the hospital, where they are drugged, operated upon and discharged the next day. Minus a kidney or two.

The corridor is deserted. All the room lights are off. Apparently, everyone’s gone to the new DJ event happening at the large, colossal, open space near the UG Club sparring several thousand square centimeters. Deserted and alone, I stand in the lawns, the cold wind engulfing me like a venomous python around its prey. Ennui creeping into me like a fast developing tumour, I decide that I have to go the DJ event before I turn into an icicle. This time the event, like all the other events so far, consists mainly of self proclaimed uber cool dud(e)s (who were all probably major playboy studs back in their respective native villages) wearing collared-up fluorescent tee shirts and oversized dark shades. Which was cool. Except that it was night. They all have one more thing in common- brought up on a diet of Set Wet and Bryllcreem ads, they all tend to believe that it is necessary to pour a bottle of gel on their heads(or was that oil?) to get a crown of greasy, smelly fibrous mush and later spike up their hair to resemble that of a cat before setting out of their rooms. As always the DJ Springeez (imported from the wastelands of Siberia), after a round of ‘angrezi’ expletives and much guttural, constipated roaring kicks off the proceedings with an awesome himesh crooning – Tandoori nights. To the beats of which, the aforesaid studs start practicing sunny deol steps with all the grace of angry chimps stomping on cockroaches, and moving their hands all over their bodies wildly like they had just bathed in itching powder.

Ofc there is the other kind of suave and sophisticated dud(e)- the one who just stands there, not dancing or anything, but ogling the infinitesimally small number of girls with the half smug smile and a “I know you think I am hot” look.  He does little else, just gives ppl those cool, calculating looks with a cocky grin on his face, and waits there to give autographs to his fans from the audience. All he has to do is say “Meouw”, and you have to peel the girls off him to let him breathe. Or so he believes.

The girls –many of them with half a kg of makeup on their face and decked up in bridalwear- were playing their part as well in making this a night to remember. Ofc, there were those who could make rakhi sawant feel like an Eskimo. The repertoire of their dance steps runs the entire gamut of pelvic thrusts and heaves. Not that I’m complaining though.

After a long and hard day, I get back to the hostel. I see the silhouette of a shapely young maiden with long flowing hair following me. I feel a familiar stirring in my Bermudas (familiar bcoz it is my cell phone vibrating, you perverted bastards!) The silhouette unfortunately turns out to be that of a freshly bathed sardar with his hair untied. So I remove my cell from my pocket to read the message received. –“Hope you got the key, it lies on the window sill as usual.”

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ASHES TO ASSES

                                    As you must be aware already, IIT roorkee is home to some of the most brilliant minds in the country. In keeping with the tradition of R-land, the freshers batch this year too consists of a lot of young, dynamic, smart, intelligent, suave, uber-cool  students with the most exemplary student among them being ………………………. ahem, my modesty prevents me from going any further. As you read this post you will realize that it is a testimony to the brilliance of these students (or atleast some of these students.)

                                   Alone I sat there, on the mess chair, with two plates in front of me, pedantically separating the rajma from the worms and and placing the worms in the bigger plate ( why? Coz the worms are more in number) until my whole world turned topsy-turvy by the arrival of a young bloke who was living proof that evolution could go backwards as well.  This instrument of mass terror (lets call him, say, Ravana. Why? Bcoz he strikes the same terror in my heart now as Ravana used to do when I was a kid) came from behind me and tapped me on the shoulder with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer and so began our unfortunate tryst.

   (I would like to mention here that our conversation was almost one sided and was carried out in English that a fifth grader would have scoffed at. I’ve improved it a little bit so that the readers don’t face the same problem in comprehending him as I did.)

Ravana (pointing at the chair beside me): “you have a problem with me sitting here?” (in a typical south Indian accent)

Me (turning around, and appraising the person who had the temerity to disturb me): “No.” Only with you.

He was wearing a shirt that seemed to have gone out of fashion with the moghuls, and his pants were just short of his neckline. His big, round spectacles spoke great volumes of his ‘ghissuness’. His width would have put any normal sized hippo to shame and a ridiculously big smile seemed to have been etched into his hirsute anthropoid face.   

He takes a seat beside me and immediately begins talking. Usually, my loquacity drives people nuts. On that particular day I would have made a clam seem positively garrulous.

Ravana:  ”you iit roorkee student?”

No, I just happen to be a big fan of the mess food here.

Me: “uh.. yes.”

R: “Can I have your name?”

Why, don’t you have one already??

Me: “eh… yes, im varun.”

As I don’t bother to reciprocate, in a camaraderie-inspiring gesture, he pats me on my back warmly (if you can call being hit on the back a coupla times by a heavily built gorilla ‘patting’) and says ”May I introduce myself? “

Certainly, try those people over there. But I just give a noncommittal shrug hoping that he would take it for the negative and leave it at that.  But he goes on,

“My name is Ravana” (name changed to maintain anonymity.)

I just smile awkwardly.

Ravana: “I think I’ve noticed you before” (all in broken English)     

Seriously?? That’s quite surprising coz I’m not sure I’ve noticed you yet.

Me: “Perhaps…” (I am quite famous.)

Ravana: “Do you mind me talking?”

Me: “No, Not at all.” As long as you don’t mind me not listening.

Ravana: “U frm India?”

God, I’m clueless. Does he mean south India?

Me: “uh.. yes.”

R (beaming): “even I frm India.”

 Whoa, and I thought such coincidences happen only in bollywood movies. Ah, that explains where he must have noticed me before.

And then he starts chuckling loudly, and patting me warmly (well, it certainly made my shoulder warm) till our friendly exchanges result in a few broken bones (needless to mention, my bones). And then he starts talking abt almost every damn thing that has been thought of till now. Abt how he managed to get thru jee even after preparing for only 1 month, abt why he was still not happy as he was expecting to get CSE at IIT Bombay. Abt how he doesn’t bother about the amount of time he spends studying, bcoz the quality of his studies is very good. Abt how blah blah blah ……………

Dude, whats wrong? Don’t you get any attention back home? Pardon me, but you are obviously mistaking me for someone who gives a damn.

I try to look interested but in reality, im struggling to keep my eyes open and am unable to stifle my yawn. He notices it, and asks me “am I boring u?” “no, no, not at all buddy”, I always yawn when I’m interested. And he drones on and on and on, and I go back to my dozing. When I come back to my senses, I see that the situation is quite the same – Ravana is still mumbling something incoherently about why he changed his hot sixth girlfriend because he didn’t like her surname. Yeah, Very likely, pompous ass! I look around for some kind of help, but everyone seems to be engrossed in their own affairs, and no one seems to be giving a damn to the poor soul suffering at the hands of Satan’s sidekick, Ravana. I pray to all the gods and goddesses I know of, in all the languages I can remember, begging for forgiveness for all the sins that I might have committed,  and to save me from the hands of Ravana (O Rama, where art thou?). But it seems like God is also enjoying the show on his home theater while munching popcorn.

                               Apparently, I have to take up matters into my own hands. So, as I am about to tell him to shut his bloody trap,

Ravana, points at his wrist and asks “waat is the time, I say?”

I know where my watch is pal, where the hell do you keep yours? Do I point at my crotch when I ask for the restroom?

But I say nothing of the sort and just tell him the time. If looks could kill, Ravana should have been vaporized by my look on the spot, but alas, looks don’t kill (or atleast they don’t kill monstrous beings from the netherworld like ravana here).

                                     My mentioning of the time brings out the Michael Schumacher in him. He hurriedly gobbles up whatever rajma and rice is left in his plate and leaves the table at a pace that leaves me thinking whether there was Tabasco sauce smeared on his bottom. Whatever, who cares, as long as he’s gone. It doesn’t clairvoyance to realize that he had some important work to do which he just remembered now. And I sit back leisurely trying to eat the food left in my plate(the smaller one). All his crappy talk has ruined my appetite.( Not  that it needed any further ruining, the mess food would have taken care of that) but hey, atleast I’m alone again. So, I sit back and try to enjoy the food (TRY is the keyword), when an express train comes from behind and rams into me making me spill all my food over my shirt. I start wondering about how a train got into our mess and I turn around. Ah, its my dear friend Ravana back to his back-clapping antics again, and in one hand he has a plate filled with rice and rajma. So much for my psychic powers! He chortles as he sees food on my shirt. Grinding my teeth, I try to collect my plate and leave for the washroom. Ravana sees me going and immediately asks for my room number. I give him the first arbit number I can think of and make to leave. Smiling, he tells me that he lives in the same wing. Now, of all the 500 odd rooms that RJB has, I had to go and choose one from his wing?? (DAMN YOU, MURPHY). Before any further fiascoes happen, I decide to leave, when he asks for my phone number. As I’m about to concoct one for him, he sees my cell phone lying on the table and picks it up and gives his cell a missed call. Alas, my day is getting worse by the minute. Now I have to change my SIM card as well. And this time I run off to the washroom like my bottom has been smeared with Tabasco sauce. When I emerge from the washroom, I see him standing outside, this time with a proposition – since both of us live in the same wing, we could study together, and the guy even has the effrontery to ask whether we should study in his room or mine. I was half tempted to reply ‘both’. That he should study in his room and I should study in mine. But I don’t wanna appear rude, so I tell him ill think of it later since I have a very important class now, while I promise myself never to go near his wing or hell, even near his block.  He appears dejected and tells me that if there is anything I need I can ask him. Dude, right now, I need what only you can provide: your absence. As I walk out of the mess, im glad to realize that his education hasn’t come in the way of his ignorance- coz it’s a Sunday.    

 

EPILOGUE: If you guys thought that was the last I saw of Ravana, you couldnt be more wrong in your life. Even now, when I go to the mess, the canteen or when I’m when strolling around the hostel campus, I see him waving at me frantically (he has the uncanny knack of being wherever I happen to be present.) whats worse, sometimes when im late for class, and im cycling at a pace that would embarrass lance Armstrong, this guy turns up from nowhere and hops on to my cycle and I have to trudge along huffing and puffing while I haul his fat arse to class. If u guys thought that was bad, wait till you hear this- I am watching the Ashes test in the canteen and this guy pops out of nowhere and asks “Can i buy you a drink?”. I’m totally pissed and i tell him “I’d rather just have the money”. i mean seriously – do i look like a lonely dame in a pub looking for company. Sometimes I receive his calls too, which I reject by sending the preloaded message saying “ I’m busy now. Can I ignore you some other time?”

                                   Sometimes I think he suffers from insanity. Other times, when I can think more clearly, I realize he can’t be suffering from it. He must be enjoying every minute of it. Or maybe he’s gay. Then, of all the 900 students in RJB, why pick me out. Could it be just bcoz of my herculean body, my eight pack abs, my bulging biceps, and a face that would give brad pitt a run for his money. Naa, it must be due to my funny, charming, sophisticated yet modest persona as well. Whatever it is, it is certainly proving detrimental to me right now. I pray to god everyday to save me from this scourge and saying this I await divine intervention in any form. Yes, any form. Including Swine Flu. Go ahead, call me a retard, but hey, atleast, ill be away from Ravana, with an added bonus – hospital food is way better than mess food.

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