Hostel California

‘You can check out any time you like,
But you can never leave….’
-----------------------------------------------------

I remember the first time I saw the hostel where I was supposed to spend four of my exciting, entertaining and independent years of my life. There was a big gate with granite stones in place, presumably to stop bikes from entering the premises. Still I saw bikes inside, and I assumed correctly that the bark of the management was worse than its bite.

I went to the hostel office and I saw the list of rooms assigned, based on higher secondary marks. Later on I came to know that the list was just a sham - financial aspects being more important than educational ones. Anyway, the list said I had room no. 109, the worst of the lot in front of the mess, literally. On declaring myself as the occupant, the authorities called upon Prasanna, the odd jobs man to do the honours of showing me my room.

Prasanna was short, plump and old, with hardly any hair on his head, and I wondered when was the last time he was sober. Still, he managed to meander to the door and open it. The sight took my breath away. The size of the room was slightly smaller than the Dharma back-office cubicle, with a bed each on the side and a place opposite the door supposedly for hanging clothes. On the head of each bed there were tables, which seemed to be on their last legs. To start with the room was big enough, and I was to share it with someone else! And oh, before I forget, there was (a) No fan (b) No tube light (c) a part of the ceiling was hanging dangerously above the left-hand side bed. Frankly, I knew a few pigs that would have balked at the thought of taking up residence here and would have skipped to the high hills.

The assistant warden appeared to be startled to see me back so fast in the hostel office again. (Prasanna was following slowly in my wake.) I courteously asked for a better room. He laughed courteously and explained courteously there wasn't one vacant. (Afterwards I heard that the warden was routinely ambushed, with a blanket thrown over his head to hide the identity of the attackers, and beaten up. I could empathise - with the attackers.) Of course, some grease in the right palms would have helped me along. But what the hell, I thought. Let me try and rough it.

I collected Prasanna on the way and took him along to take another look at the room. After a lot of haggling and 'giving money Saar, doing everything Saar', he took 50 rupees to get the light and the fan fixed, and promptly vanished for the day. I gave up and fortified myself with candles and mosquito coils to while the itchy night away.

Since I was feeling pretty rotten anyway, I thought why not play it rough and take the bed below the hanging ceiling. So there I was alone (my roommate was yet to arrive) with the mosquitoes, wondering how is it that I was not approached by any seniors for, ahem, interaction. There were a few reasons - I didn't know anyone here and my name did not disclose much about my background in a place where ragging was state-wise. But before I could further my thoughts, there was a knock. There were 2 guys at the door, and when they confirmed their suspicions that I was a fresher, they took me along to their room.

One was a Sardar, and the other, I came to know later, was Tamil. What happened next in the closed confines of that (much better) room is better left unsaid, since this newsletter is supposed to be a gentle journal, not given to print stuff that would give its decent readers epileptic fits. All I can disclose is that the experience made me a better, stronger man ready to take on piffling stuff such as pigsty rooms and a few million mosquitoes.

As I am hinting, there's nothing like hostel life to make you tough. For example, the next morning found me in front of the, what can be laughingly called, toilets. There was a queue for the usable ones, and I was literally crossing my legs in an attempt at self-control. I soon became an expert, and often thought about writing to B.K.S. Iyengar, the famous yoga teacher, about my methods.

Within a week the Bengali seniors found me out to be from Calcutta, and came under their strict code of conduct, according to which people with moustaches (me!) had to shave it off and those without had to grow one. I was a real pain trying to remember seniors' names, and we freshers had a long list to memorise and recall on demand. All in all, I got used to the situation. The fan and the tube light were fixed eventually and I started going to the classes, usually with an empty tummy because I couldn't stomach the hostel breakfast.

I feel sorry for those who didn't get a chance to experience this aspect of life. And I challenge the rest to give a better account of their experiences!


----------------------THE END--------------------------