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 5th 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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