Indu’s Trip To New Zealand

Nahi yaar, it is truly great. The air is so fresh and clean and although the stream outside our house is like a nala, you can see the bottom – so clean.

Wow, sounds beautiful.

It is 

Indu wasn't lying. What she didn't add was, she was lonely. Here she was, in a new country, the envy of all her friends back home and she was miserable. In fact she was hurt and homesick. She wanted to go back home and be among people she knew and had so much interaction with - shared laughter, movies together, yawns at boring lectures; Madras Cafe’s delicious and affordable idli-sambhar, more roadside junk, shopping sprees... In the evenings it was simply more of the same and at night, if she wasn't partying she had her family, warm and delicious food cooked and served by their live-in maid, no washing up after, chats on the phone, the internet, TV. It never stopped. She wasn’t lonely for a single moment.

Well, New Zealand was beautiful no doubt. But how long was she supposed to dish out the praise. She was beginning not to mean it anymore. Every time someone asked if she was enjoying New Zealand she dutifully dished out what she thought they wanted to hear. But if she had to say how wonderfully clean and green the country was, how fresh the air, one more time, she would scream! How long was she supposed to keep looking at hills or streams or ducks, penguins and natural beauty? Where was the action? Where was the bustle of life? Where were the roadside stalls, the crowds of people eating junk, visible and enjoying themselves? 

People seemed to go to work, Uni or school, then get back into their little cubby holes. After that there was nothing but four walls, the internet and TV. There were bars and pubs but they weren't really her thing. Movies, plays, cafes, shopping? Yes, there was that, but who did she go with? Alone was no fun and as for grownups... Indu sighed. 

She was staying with an Indian family, nice in their own way, but worked off their feet - working, chauffeuring kids to and from various activities, cooking, cleaning, washing up. She tried to help. She was really grateful for a touch of home but she understood they weren't expected to entertain her as well. 

God knows they try. Indu sighed. As for their get-togethers, they are slotted away into weekends, mostly 'at-homes' for other older folk whose teenaged kids never show up. Don't blame them, thought Indu, with a smothered laugh. They are so boring. Nothing seems to be spontaneous and fun ...and young, she thought despondently. And the weather! No help at all. Is it any wonder people remain indoors? 

It hadn’t started out like that. Indu had come to New Zealand for her degree in management literally on air. She was going to take her new country of temporary residence by storm. She was going to enjoy each and every moment. She was prepared to like and be liked. She was going to top every class. 

In a way she had idealised the kids here without really knowing they were as human and varied as kids back home. Her expectations had been way up. Her attempts to join in were misconstrued as over eagerness, rude interference or plain neediness. Her efforts were met with blank stares or polite smiles. The couple of conversations she’d attempted to join had died quickly. She was baffled. The light that she'd exuded was snuffed out. Confused and hurt, she’d begun to withdraw. Her face had acquired an aura of loneliness. 

How juvenile my expectations, she thought jadedly. Huh! Who do they think they are, she thought defiantly. Who needs them anyway? Oh, how I miss my life back home, my family and friends. I hate New Zealand. I hate the people here. 

Indu hated weekends and dreaded weekdays at Uni. Huh, Uni. Can’t they even say that properly?

Colleges over here are called Unis. If you call them “colleges” they think you’re talking of school.

What! Crazy. How can a college be a school?

I know. Stupid, isn’t it? Indu deleted that. It wouldn’t do to let on how she felt – on second thoughts, why the hell not. Seema is my best friend, she thought.

I know. Stupid, isn’t it? Then, deciding to put a cheerful spin on it, she added, When I saw some young kids in uniform spill out of “Abel-Smith College” opposite our house on my first day here I just assumed they were visiting the college on a school trip. 

Haha, and when they disappeared into classrooms you thought they were a whole bunch of child geniuses. Right?

Still the same old Seema :-) Good talking. I’d better go. It is early morning here and I should start getting ready for college, I mean, Uni.

Haha, you clown. Don't you dare go all Kiwi on me. Okay, bye for now.

Indu looked at the clock and reluctantly signed off. Dear Seema. She was the one person who still brought a smile to her lips. What would she have done without her regular chats with her close friend? She had better start getting ready. Indu dreaded Mondays. She hated the feeling of walking into the class and having every eye on her. No one said anything. The silence was deafening. She even sensed that group of girls, the ones she'd tried talking to, smirk behind her back. 

She looked to see who else smirked with them. To be fair, everyone was busy and nobody was paying her any attention at all. Sadly, she couldn't decide which was worse. She went and sat in a corner, seemingly busy as she used her phone to text a message. She ignored everyone too.

“Hi, is this seat taken?"

 

"No, I don't think so." She gave the girl a friendly smile but having been hurt too recently, she went back to texting.

Unfazed, the girl made another friendly overture. "Wow, Is that the Apple IPad 3?” Indu looked up to see the girl looking at her phone. She held it out politely, with a guarded smile.

"I find it such an improvement on the IPad 2," she ventured.

The two chatted for a while, careful to keep the conversation on mobile phones, things happening around them, the new class, even the weather but nothing personal. Indu chuckled. When she saw the girl look at her puzzled, she said, “It is only after coming here that I’ve realised why people talk of the weather so much.” 

The girl chuckled with her. "Here it seems to change from minute to minute." Then she added, “I’m Estelle, by the way.”

“Oh. Indu.”

That was the first bit of personal information they’d exchanged after a full five minutes of conversation. As they chatted, the two glanced at each other from time to time, to ensure the other was still interested, not distracted. If that happened, Indu was ready to move away. She felt skittish and at the same time, she had to admit it felt good talking to someone in class. If she glanced at Estelle, the smile seemed to be in her face and eyes. Indu opened up by the minute.

It was unfortunate she'd given up on making friends after one or two casual encounters with a few people she hadn't clicked with. There were at least a hundred more in that class. She knew now that it would have been better to have still remained vulnerable, human and approachable. She wouldn't have wasted those few precious days being miserable.

The lecturer (not professor, thought Indu with an inward smile) entered the classroom. Estelle took the seat next to hers. The two darted a quick smile at each other before getting their note books out. 

Indu knew she had lots to tell Seema when they chatted that night. She also knew she really liked New Zealand. So beautifully clean and green.

I swear, Seema, it is so clean and green. 

If you say that once more I'll scream and I swear you'll hear it all the way to New Zealand.

But it is, Indu protested. You've got to come and see for yourself. Why don't you? she added, meaning it with all her heart.

Thanks Indu. Will start collecting now and who knows, in fifty years...

Heehee. You'll never change.

Indu did not quite top the class but was happy with her results. There were too many distractions and what the heck, one is young only once.

Microsoft free clipart

 

Alms With A Difference

 A young girl, a tiny child beggar, and the tender bond that develops between the two...

That was a very beautiful story, which could so well be true - Zephyr

There was always a high flow of foot traffic on that bridge in Mumbai for it was the link from the suburb of East to West Dadar. 

Vaishali, a small speck at the foot of the bridge, eyed it stretching away endlessly, weighed down with noisy traffic, pedestrians, vendors, dust, the heat…Slipping her hands under the straps of her heavy backpack she massaged her shoulders.

Go on then, she urged herself. The trick is to keep moving. 

Bringing her hands behind her back and under the bag, she gave it a hoist and took a determined step up the bridge. That hurdle overcome she settled into a comfortable rhythm - left then right, left-right. Her mind took over, events of the day crowding out the sheer drudge of walking up, then down that bridge

Her mind was on Sandeep. She had known for weeks their relationship wasn’t working.

This must end, she had thought. But how?

It had been surprisingly easy. They’d broken up at the end of the day. ‘It’s not working for me, Vaishu,’ he’d said regretfully.

There it was. The inevitable. It still came as a shock. She had a momentary panic attack. What would she do without having a nice, strong, dependable arm to lean on? Or a partner to take her to the movies? Should she pretend not to understand what he was talking about?

NO. That would be cowardly. And unfair to them both. 

Without admitting it wasn't working for her either, she had quietly agreed.

Were they making a huge mistake? Was it her imagination or had he held on to her hand a moment longer than necessary? Her heart full of doubt she’d watched him turn away, before walking out those huge college gates herself.

Right now, on her way back home, she admitted to herself that it was a blow to her ego. And inconvenient. Nothing more. Half way up Tilak Bridge she acknowledged the guilty sense of relief that was beginning to suffuse her being.

I'll survive, she thought, a sudden spring in her step, knowing she shouldn't feel so ridiculously happy. If only I didn't have to face those pitying looks from the others, she thought, her feet slowing down. I know, she thought, perking up again. I won't tell them. Not yet.. 

They’d been together for two years. It had crept upon her gradually that there were certain things about him she didn’t like. Where once she couldn’t wait to get to college simply to be at the receiving end of that lazy smile through, oh those heavenly, even white teeth, she had started seeing past that.

Why couldn’t she ignore the little things he did? Like laughing at just about everyone and expecting her to laugh with him?  She felt a twinge of embarrassment every time he did that and her gaze became shifty. When the animated conversations about life, their hopes, their dreams gave way to gossip, that’s when she should have ended it. Somedays when they were by themselves, she found herself surreptitiously checking her mobile to see if there were texts from friends. Anyone. Even her mum, for goodness’ sake. 

It was difficult for Sandeep not to be admired. The result was inevitab...

 Vaishali jumped, coming back to the present with a fright. Was that a creepy crawly that had brushed against her leg? A cockroach? She shuddered. She hated cockroaches. With a half-strangled sound, she bent down to flick wildly at her leg. She stopped herself just in time as she saw a tiny hand, the tiniest she'd ever seen, withdraw in fright. It belonged to a child beggar. He'd barely brushed it against her leg to catch her attention.

For a second, reacting to the fright he'd given her she had this urge to yell at the little boy. Sanity restored, she looked at him again. He was a boy of about three or four. Exhaling on a shaky breath she would’ve continued on her way - such things happened on Mumbai roads all the time - but he had such a quality of vulnerability that without realising what she was doing, she stopped. She looked at the child beggar, not knowing what to do. 

This was a gut reaction. It wasn't the face she'd trained herself to present to beggars. However persistently they invaded her space, however much they touched her with their dirty, grubby hands she kept walking, never looking at them, her face carefully blank, her pace neither quickening nor slowing. After about five minutes of this - their insistent touching as they tried to force her to look at them, and her determination not to, they ran off to harass another, more likely victim. They never realised how close she came to caving in.

In the eighties she used to give money to the few beggars on Bombay roads. But, almost overnight, their numbers had increased. Begging had become a whole new industry - that of gangs organising poor and deprived kids into a beggar's brigade. There were too many and they had started using tactics of harassment to get her to cough up. She would recoil wherever she felt a beggars’ army of persistent hands on her person but she’d decided she was better off holding on grimly to her lost-in-thought demeanour and measured walk.

Today was different. After that one touch, the little child did not touch her again. He sat there, frozen, except for his huge eyes, not beseeching - the look these beggars normally assumed - but slightly fearful, slightly curious and very hopeful - a look that somehow pulled at her heartstrings.

Vaishali knew so many reasons why she ought not to shell out to this beautiful, dirt-streaked baby and yet, she was driven to. She wanted to wipe the sadness and fear off the little upturned face, the obvious hunger. He still hadn't acquired the streetwise cunning she knew would mar his face before long - a beseeching face for people like her and a knowing, sideways glance for his beggar friends.

As she went for her purse, she realised there was probably a gang of other kids watching out for suckers just like her. 

She suddenly knew what she must do. She clamped shut her coin purse and marched across to one of the street vendors standing not too far away. She bought a batata wada. She cautioned the vendor not to put any chutney in the bread. After her tiff with Sandeep, the two hadn't ended up at the canteen for a coffee and she luckily had some pocket money to spare. She picked out the visible chillies from the vada with her fingers, went back to the child and handed it to him. He accepted it with excited eyes and a beaming smile. She stood there watching over him while he ate – quick, tiny little bites. One of the other beggars tried to approach her. She stopped him with a fierce look. There was something so formidable about her blazing eyes that he did not dare.

She was aware that the other pedestrians had started noticing her.  Some looked at her with interest, but most had cynicism writ large on their faces. What a foolish young woman, those faces seemed to say. Perhaps she thinks she can change the world. 

Vaishali reached home on a high. She was happier than she'd been in a long time. Not only was she rid of Sandeep, she had watched a young child finish half a vada and put away the other half for later. For the first time in a long while, he would've been too full to finish what was on his plate.

*****

Jeevan, for that was the young child's name, didn’t remember feeling so full and content. He slept. Waking up at around 6 pm, he fished out the other half vada and hiding it in his beggar’s cloth which was normally spread out before him to collect coins flicked down by one or two passers-by, ate it. He knew his minder would come around dusk to take him away and he didn't want to have to share even a crumb with anyone.

So that's how batata vadas tasted. He had always smelt them but this was the first time he'd had one. It was delicious. His minders only gave him watery daal. He normally went to bed hungry. But not tonight. In fact, he couldn't have eaten a morsel of that daal, so full was he.

The young lady came every day after that. She was careful never to give him money but always brought him a slice of bread or roti with a dry sabzi in it. It was packed in newspaper. It was half her lunch. She liked to think he looked forward to their little tryst as much as she did. Within a couple of days, she thought she saw a change in him. His pallid face now looked like it had a bit of colour and his eyes were definitely brighter. Whenever he saw her, he stood up in anticipation and pleasure. They exchanged smiles. With tenderness in her eyes, she gave him the packet she'd lovingly prepared for him.

The other beggars kept away. It wasn’t food their minder was interested in. It was money. And she had none to spare.

Vaishali watched as the little boy opened the packet and peeked inside. With a shy smile at her he bit into his little wrap, his beedi-bati. She waited patiently as without looking up again, he finished it. Bending down, she patted his head. A spring in her step she went on her way.

Vaishali knew she wanted to do much more for this child but didn't know what else she could do or who she could approach. These were the seventies, well before the internet revolution. Her wish remained locked away in her heart, pushed to the back of her mind the minute she reached college.

Over the weekend, with so much on her mind, Vaishali forgot the child. She didn't remember the little boy until the weekend was gone. Her mind on what she would tell her best friend about her break up, she started out for college on Monday. 

I can't keep it a secret much longer, she thought. I'll have to tell. 

As she reached the bridge, she knew she'd forgotten something. With a sinking heart she remembered what it was. She hurried back home, picked a sheet of newspaper and hurried out again. Out of sight of her house but still within the boundaries of her housing colony, she opened her lunch box with fingers that shook and rolled some of the sabzi into one roti for the little child. Her heart hammering, she wondered how she could have forgotten the boy. She tried to imagine his reaction. He would've felt so let down. Perhaps, she thought without hope, he didn't beg over the weekend. Thoughts of Sandeep had all but flown. Her breath escaping on a sob she thought, to have given someone so young, hope, and then to let him down so badly. 

She hurried back to the bridge. With an anxious heart she rushed to the spot where he normally sat. He wasn't there. 

She traced her steps back. He wasn't there. 

He is so tiny he's easy to miss, she thought, not wanting to give up hope. Eyes beginning to fill with tears she crossed the bridge, uncaring of the squeal of brakes and angry honking from a car that almost ran her over. Of course he wasn't there.

I'll be late for my lecture. He must be on the other side. That's where we've always had out evening trysts. Trysts! 

She laughed, aware that she was drawing attention to herself. It had been what? Four whole five-minute encounters? No, meetings? No, definitely trysts. Minutes full of love. And concern. Vague fears at the back of her mind for when she had to leave him every day. She rubbed hard at the solitary tear that had run down her cheek unnoticed, but was now tickling her nose. Those minutes spent with the tiny boy had impacted her more than two whole years spent with Sandeep. 

I'll find him on our side. I'm sure I will. Just further down the bridge. I'll spot his dear little face searching the crowds for me, and when he sees me his eyes will light up with hope and excitement. I'll scold him for not being at our usual place. Then I'll laugh to show everything is fine. 

With fear deep in the pit of her stomach she crossed over. He wasn't there.

She reached college on feet that felt like lead. Her friend, who'd heard Sandeep talk about his break up with Vaishali, took one look at her pain ravaged face and knew with a sinking heart it was all true.

***

The child sat on the new road his minder told him was much better than the old bridge. His stomach hurt with hunger. He knew he would get his daal only if he earned his keep. With desperate and beseeching eyes he touched the feet of a passerby. The woman expertly twisted her legs to avoid his grubby little fingers and having succeeded, triumphantly walked on

                                     ***  

       

                                      

This story was written as far back as 2012. It is easy to give a coin and feel good about ourselves. Life is busy and it is harder to prepare a newspaper puda of something to eat and give that instead. Who knows, if the idea goes viral, it might bust the Dickensian gangs that exploit these young, vulnerable kids.

Here's an article in The Hindu to help you decide if sometimes you'd like to make an exception.

Vaishali's face: Thank you Brooke Cagle at Unsplash.com

Child Beggar: (Help me find and acknowledge this photographer, someone)

Photograph of Tilak Bridge: The Asian Age.

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Adrian and Shashi

Short Story, Fiction. 

Microsoft Free Clipart

Shashi cooked the evening meal, glancing fondly at Adrian as he fed the dog. Their bedsit was big as a barn and they’d both felt a dog wouldn’t cramp their space. They’d found Tim at the local SPCA.

“I swear Tim’s grown since last night.”

“His food bill certainly has since last month,” Shashi said dryly, energetically stirring the white wine sauce, one amused eye on Tim wolfing down his food. Within seconds it was gone. The dog looked surprised. Adrian laughed. Tim wagged his tail and bent down to give his bowl another professional lick. A few laps of water to wash it all down and he looked at Shashi with beseeching eyes.

“We’ll take you soon as I’m done, action man,” Shashi grinned, expertly measuring out rice and water into the electric cooker – a gift from thoughtful parents to make life easy. Shashi remembered wondering at the time where in the small kitchenette this would fit. Now steaming hot rice, because it was cheap and easy to cook, had become a regular accompaniment to their meals. 

Weeping Willow, NZ

With Tim barking madly at his heels, Adrian walked to the door. Barely managing to contain an animal gone berserk with joy, he leashed Tim and stepped out, letting the dog run ahead as far as the retractable leash would allow.  Putting the final touches to their meal Shashi hurried after them, eager for the walk after slaving over the hot stove.

It was dusk - the best time of day to unwind after a long, hard, punishing schedule. Their exams were looming and if they weren’t attending lectures, they were cramming. Tim forced them to get away from it all for a few minutes everyday. Once back home they would bury their noses in their books again, but with fresher minds.

Trying to keep up with Tim’s energy as he charged off to sniff at trees, lamp posts and grass verges, Shashi smiled. Tim had added a wonderful dimension to their lives. 

“Wonder what’s exciting about sniffing at dog piss,” laughed Adrian.

“You don’t know what stories those smells tell.” 

They approached the bend in the road. This is where university flats ended and the posh suburb of Streamarbour began. A wide grassy bank, majestic willows, birches and pohutakawa lined the little stream where ducks paddled, entertaining families with kids, university students, couples and the old. Shashi and Adrian paused to watch as a proud mama duck and her ducklings swam past single file. “Quark” warned mama duck in guttural tones to one of the ducklings who got waylaid by someone squatting at the edge of the stream, holding out her hand.

Tim seemed to know that hand. Tugging hard at his leash he almost dragged Adrian to reach it and proceeded to smother it all over with a very slobbery tongue. “Oh TIM,” squealed a familiar voice. Adele jumped up hurriedly to face Adrian and Shashi with a smile. “Oops, sorry Adele. Ever since you got him those doggie treats he’s been overwhelmed with gratitude.” 

“You mean, overwhelming,” laughed Adele ruefully, rubbing her wet hand and face. Part of the charm of a university town was that one did run into friends often. After a few minutes of conversation Adele said she had to get some books from the library and that she’d better hurry before it closed.

Adrian and Shashi smiled their goodbyes clutching Tim's collar for he wanted, once again, to demonstrate his fondness for the lady.

“Easy boy,” murmured Shashi, making sure Adele was out of earshot, “she’s married to medicine. You don’t stand a chance.” 

Adrian laughed. “I agree,” he said. “She’ll probably top the class." 

After a good forty-five minutes they led a tired but happy dog back home. Tim promptly flopped in his favourite corner, dozing contentedly within seconds. Adrian poured out some wine - a pinot for Shashi and a cold chardonnay for himself, gifts from Adrian's indulgent parents. 

“You drink red and I, white; I am a tea person and you prefer coffee. However did we get together and manage to stay together for five whole years?” he laughed.

“I know. You like rugby - jinkies, what a blood sport,” Shashi teased, knowing Adrian would rise to the bait as he loved rugby with a passion.

“What about cricket? Half the players are just sitting around waiting.”

“You wouldn’t understand. It is a game of skill.”

“It’s boring. Nothing seems to happen. Rugby is fast - involves all players.”

“A game of kill," said Shashi, slightly riled, "where the unsporting rule by manhandling their opponents.” That was an unfair dig – a reference to a recent incident where a rugby player had picked up his opponent by the legs and smashed his head.

“Those players are disqualified - taken off the field immediately. You know that. Rugby isn’t just violence without rules."

 “Those huge hulks break all your so-called rules and are happy to take the penalty AFter they’ve almost crippled their opponents and made them redundant,” said Shashi. “That’s not sporting.”

Adrian laughed softly. “People break rules in cricket too – all that match fixing and under arm bowling...” 

This was beginning to sound like an argument. How on earth did that happen?

“Well,” said Shashi, flush in the face, eyebrows knitted, “I hate it when that happens.”

 Realising they were dangerously close to a fight over something outside their influence, Adrian quietly got up and dished out the food. Then he motioned for Shashi to join him.

“Damn, it smells good,” said Adrian, sniffing appreciatively.

Shashi, knowing full well Adrian was trying to make up, but still sore about his exposing the underbelly of cricket, couldn’t help feeling a bit gratified. The two ate their meal in silence though both were aware that it was Shashi’s turn to say something to indicate the fight was over. Feeling childish and pretending to take refuge in their theory of savouring each bite, seemed like a better idea.

“Damn, it tastes good too,” he ventured finally, responding to Adrian's truce offering. The two smiled tentatively and Adrian raised his glass in a silent toast. After a sip he added, “Hope I can rustle up something as good tomorrow.” They finished the meal and continued sitting at the table, chatting some more. Then, reluctantly, they got up to clear away their simple meal.

As the two passed each other Adrian silently reached out for Shashi. For a moment the young men hugged, content, energised by each other, and wonderfully happy. These were their last few, critical days at medical college. Both knew a lot depended on their doing well in their exams. There could be no distractions now. “Later,” said Shashi softly with a sigh and a final lingering feel of Adrian’s wonderfully sculpted arms. The moment passed and they reluctantly broke contact. After a while each was lost in his books.

They both had dreams. To make them a reality  they knew they’d have to work hard - perhaps harder than others. There simply were no shortcuts. Eventually, they planned a partnership.  Partners in life and partners in work.

Damn, life was good.

Note for non-Indians – The name, 'Shashi' is common to both genders in India. I used the name as I wanted heterosexual Indians to realise only towards the end that the story was about two men living ordinary lives together. As I suspected, most comments were positive towards same sex couples.

if you liked the story. Thanks.

 
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Jayaram - An Excerpt from Never Mind Yaar

Chapter 2

Billimoria’s office overlooked the gate. Some of the faculty were already at the window, highly amused as they watched the clerk at the entrance. With the familiarity of old colleagues, they smiled Dr. Naakwaa a quick greeting and shuffled to make room before turning their attention back to the gate. Not wanting to miss out on the action, Dr. Naakwaa hurried across to join them. 

Good old Jayaram. He had been with the college since its inception, almost thirty years ago. Thin, neat and small, with an ego inversely proportioned to his stature, he was their very efficient, one man admin department. 

Jayaram disliked students, tolerating their very presence at the college with grim determination. He found their exuberance loud and brash, unless they were quiet, when he labelled them dumb. As expected, he was being perfectly disagreeable with the new comers. Seated on a hard chair just outside the gate, he watched crossly as a queue of sorts approached him. To get a better view of what was transpiring at his desk, each student moved slightly to the left of the one in front. After a point, having reached the furthest distance from which they could see his desk clearly, the sideways queue of students doubled back on itself. Soon they were standing two deep in front of him. As the second row slowly started snaking out rightward, Jayaram glared with irritation. 

"Line, line," he yelled in his thin, reedy voice. 

The youngsters shuffled obligingly, almost aligning them-selves behind each other. He ignored the young lady standing at the head of the queue for as long as possible. Assuming a grave expression he fussed with his list. With great deliberation he removed the doily from his glass of water and sipped it before carefully replacing it. Bent in concentration he polished his glasses with a large handkerchief. His eyes fell on his watch. “Tch,” he said with an accusing glance at the young woman who tried not to look ruffled or guilty about wasting his time. Running out of things to do he finally deigned to look at her, barking out in Hindi, "Which line?" 

"What?" said the poor, baffled thing, darting a quick look at the line behind her and wondering if she ought to be in another one. "Arré Arts, Science, Commerce?" he said, enjoying himself hugely as he glowered at her. The four professors, safely out of sight behind the reflective glass couldn’t help laughing as the luckless sixteen-year-old mumbled, "Commerce". 

Jayaram, unable to resist a final well-aimed jibe, raised a bushy eyebrow high above the rim of his thick glasses and wondered out loud how she would go through five years of college if she couldn’t understand a simple question like his. Having scored his victory, he pretended to lose interest. Glancing at the young man behind her, his next victim, he cleared the formalities with the young woman and dismissed her.

The hopelessly disintegrated queue took one step forward en masse. 

And so it was for much of the next hour as Jayaram, eyebrows high, barked at the youth in his thin, high pitched voice. The new students shrugged off his mocking tones and disdainful superiority. 

Chalta hai yaar, they seemed to say, never mind. There isn’t much we can do if the man wants to extract full mileage from his moment by being rude and obnoxious. 

Within no time, at his insulting best, the impossible yet indispensible clerk had efficiently despatched six hundred new comers to their rightful classrooms. The faculty on the first floor breathed a sigh of relief.

Excerpt 1 from the book.
Excerpt 3
HOME

AT GYAN SHAKTI - An Excerpt from Never Mind Yaar

Chapter 1

Dr. Naakwaa of Gyan Shakti College couldn't help smiling to himself as he looked at the sea of eager, animated young faces. They all seemed to speak at once, or so it seemed to an old man like himself, their ceaseless chatter outdone only by sudden bursts of loud laughter. Even as they talked and laughed in their own groups, he saw their eyes covertly watching the others. An air of breathless expectancy hung about them, as if something momentous would sweep them up on a wing and fly them away to an unknown destination. Without exception, they all clamoured to go, even the ones standing at the periphery, hesitant and slightly lost though they appeared to be.

Without any warning a wild screech hit his eardrums. He turned, mildly reproachful, to look at the youngster responsible. Even as he tried coming to terms with the sheer pitch and volume of that awful, grating sound, a sudden whoop of joy caught his attention. Sheer relief written all over her face, a young lady dashed across the room, grinning and waving to someone she recognised in the roomful of strangers. The sudden flurry of action startled those nearby. Whatever they were doing suspended mid stream, they turned to watch the five meter dash and a very joyous reunion. Sweeping somebody completely off her feet, the young woman refused to put her down. Uncaring of curious onlookers, the two laughed, one a little helplessly, suspended as she was in mid air, and the other, in blissful abandonment. Suddenly noticing Dr. Naakwa in the doorway, they stilled. And following the direction of their eyes, so did everyone else.

This was the new batch of ‘99. They were the brightest in Mumbai, the crème de la crème. Dr. Naakwaa had every reason to feel satisfied. Like every other college affiliated to the University of Mumbai - good or bad, near or far – the college had to turn away more students than they enrolled each year. There just weren't enough seats. Gyan Shakti’s reputation ensured they had the pick of the herd. Their seats were blocked for the toppers, those who earned maximum marks in school …unless they were blocked for the progeny of families with connexions like the erstwhile politicians of Mumbai, their minions, doctors, judges, actors, producers and of course, the underworld.

The college was on the outskirts of Mumbai. Started in the early sixties by a philanthropist who named it Gyan Shakti – Gyan for knowledge and Shakti for strength - it boasted wide open spaces, plenty of resources and the very best faculty Mumbai could provide. The fees were hefty but parents, many of them middle-income, paid up happily. It was their sincere belief that an education was the only inheritance they could give their children. An education at Gyan Shakti was even better. The ones who gained admission through the clout of their parents' influence or money eventually passed too, knowing it gave them an advantage simply to say they'd studied at GS.

That reputation could have suffered a minor setback today. When Dr. Naakwa had reached the college early that morning Jayaram was in a flap. The list of new students and their respective classrooms had gone missing. It had simply disappeared. As they hunted around for the precious printout, he wondered what good it was to anyone except themselves. This had to be someone’s utterly juvenile sense of humour, unless whoever did this was trying to get at the clerk. It was too much of a co-incidence that even the backup from the front office had disappeared. Admittedly, Jayaram was insufferable with the students and deserved everything they gave back. But he wished they wouldn’t play their pranks at the expense of the college. Well, there was only one thing to do. Dr. Naakwaa marched through the corridors that were as yet quite deserted, to the computer room. Then, to add to his woes, the electricity chose that very moment to black them out as it did from time to time. He cursed his luck. How was he to get a copy of the list? It could take the Electricity Board minutes, or even hours, to locate and repair the fault.

A hundred and fifty gleaming new machines, 128 MB of RAM, 1 GB of hard disk, Windows ‘98 – the latest oper-ating system, 17” monitors, internet connection for the faculty.... All this technology brought to its knees in one fell stroke by the MSEB, (the Maharashtra State Electricity Board), he fumed, aware with a feeling of total helplessness that there was nothing he could do. Well, I had better do something pretty damn quick, he thought with a mounting sense of panic. I know, he decided in desperation, we’ll use the originals. No, he shook his head, dismissing the idea almost immediately. Jayaram wouldn’t thank me for having to sift through six hundred handwritten forms. At least they are in alpha order, he argued as nothing else came to mind. I must convince Bhathena, Reddy and other members of the Board of Trustees to get us a generator of our own, he thought crossly, getting set to hurry back to his office for the originals when with a flicker the lights came on.  

Jai-Sri-Ram, the heartfelt words of thanks burst from him. Jai-ya-ram, you are in luck, he thought, feeling quite chipper on the one hand and aware with slight self-disgust on the other, that he allowed his mood to be dictated to by the vagaries of the MSEB, Rushing to get his precious printout, he prayed there wouldn’t be yet another blackout. He knew from experience a second, slightly longer one might soon follow. Within no time, feeling decidedly upbeat, he hurried with as much dignity as possible to hand over the new list to Jayaram waiting impatiently at the entrance.

On his way back, he saw that the corridors weren’t quite so deserted anymore. An ever increasing trickle of students had begun to fill them. Much relieved to have averted that slight calamity, he was more receptive to the ‘good mornings’ and ‘hello sirs’ that came his way. He headed for the stairs, anticipating the pleasure of meeting up with some of the other faculty who ritually gathered in old Billimoria’s room at the beginning of each term.

 Chapter 2 from the book

Mumbai's Psyche - Excerpt from the book 

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