So I’ll do an MA in anthropology instead, Rahul thought, and then a PhD. And I will endeavor to reach the root of this problem known as mankind. O supreme one! Give me the strength and faith to discover how Satan managed to sabotage history for his own benefit!
But what about Madhuri Dixit? And her backside? And her startled doe-like eyes?
Rahul crumpled a piece of paper into a ball, loaded it into the slingshot, and drew it back as far as he could. Pfffff! The paper ball whizzed through the air and hit Madhuri Dixit right on the bottom.
“Oooooooh!” came her sweet voice, soaked in music and infused with quivering pain. The doe turned her head and looked lovingly at her hunter. “Thank you, Rahul! Thank you for the boo-boo! I love you!”
FOUR
It was the second month after the beginning of the term. The university was known as “the Cambridge of India” and it spread over a few hundred acres surrounded by mountains scattering far into the distance. Students came here from Japan, Indonesia, Fiji, Mauritius, and even from a few African countries. The chair of the geology department was the world-famous Professor Watson. He’d turned down offers from all the major academic institutions in the U.S., France, and Germany in favor of India, since the astonishing variety of what he found here was better for his research. “This country is a living museum of wonders. Countless cultures, histories, races, and castes. . We’ve found evidence of human civilization here from as long ago as several hundred thousand years: alive, robust, burning brightly. And what applies to people equally applies to the ground we’re standing on.”
Dr. Watson went on. Bending over, he picked up a rock, which he examined with great care. “Look at this. This rock reveals the lava stage of the mountain on which this university was established. Look carefully. It’s actually a fossil, a thousand years old, maybe a hundred thousand. And it’s the fossil of some aquatic life. Right where we’re standing now, on this very spot, there once was an ocean.”
The people standing around suddenly looked confused. An ocean? Here? In Madhya Pradesh?
Rahul began to enjoy himself. He’d been assigned to the second floor of Tagore Hostel, Room 252, with a roommate, O.P., Omkar Prasad. O.P. was six foot three, thin like a bamboo stick, neck like a heron’s, bobbing at every step. O.P. was a clown and a chatterbox and declared, “I’ll marry a four-foot maiden. It’ll give these mountain people something to stare at when we make love in the ‘standing position.”’
Rahul pictured himself strolling in town in the shadow of the mountain. Looking up at the sky, he admires the full moon, shining like a golden plate in the night. His gaze wanders over the peak of the highest mountain where he notices a gigantic man, naked as Adam. Rahul makes out an impish apparition, like a tiny woman, fastened to the giant’s waist, and then the wind carries a thump to Rahul’s ears — a sound like someone drumming on an hourglass-shaped damaru. Thump! Thump! Thump! The figures sway back and forth. Who are they? O.P. and his fantasy girl? Or the maiden of the rock? The daughter of the Himalayas? It’s Shiva and Parvati! So this was the cosmic union from which the world was created. Thump! Thump! Thump!
Father used to get up at half past four every morning, bathe, then perform puja to Shiva. Sometimes the Sanskrit chanting and echoing of the prayer through the house woke Rahul in the silence of the dawn:
namami shamisham nirvana vibhum, vibhuam vyapakam bahma ved swarupam
ajum nirgunam nirvikalpam niriham, cidahashamahasha vasam bhajeham
nirankara monkara mulam turiyam
FIVE
O.P. proved to be a very good friend. To meet his expenses, Rahul was forced to tutor two students — which none other than O.P. had arranged. He’d been studying at the university for two years, had already completed his MSc in criminology, and was now doing advanced research. O.P. didn’t need to worry about funds, since he was receiving a prestigious UGC — University Grants Commission — scholarship.
Rahul discovered that the very contours of the university were changing fast. In the past few years, foreign students had stopped applying. Internationally renowned thinkers like Dr. Watson wanted out, and were putting out feelers elsewhere. The situation was deteriorating.
He heard about the female student from Mauritius who’d been abducted last year by some goondas who raped and killed her. The thugs threw her body into a ditch under a footbridge. O.P. warned Rahul, “You’d better be careful and keep your wits about you. If you go into town, don’t look for trouble. Even if you’re just buying a ticket at the cinema, don’t flash a 100- or 500-rupee note, because it’s not just the guy sitting in the booking window you have to worry about. It’s everyone. The paan seller and the chaat vendor, they’re all in on the racket. If they suspect you’re the kid of some Assamese high roller, they’ll come by the hostel whenever they feel like it and take you away. Every year you hear about dozens of abductions. This is an old dacoit stomping ground. Devi Singh, Malkhan Singh, Mohar Singh, Tahsildar Singh — that whole gang of dacoits used to prowl around here and wreak havoc.”
Rahul soon realized O.P. was telling the truth. Even the postman was in cahoots with the goondas. Money orders from families of South Indian students or others who were a long way from home usually arrived on the first of the month. The goondas knew precisely how much each student received. As soon as the clock struck nine thirty on the night of money-order day, a couple of jeeps would pull up to the hostel. Out they’d come wielding hockey sticks, cycle chains, iron rods, homemade pistols, any weapons they could easily get their hands on cheap from the local mechanic. They addressed one another with goofy nicknames like Ajju, Lacchu, Acchan, Babban, Cuppy, Penda, Guddu, Dabba, Boxy. To denote rank and seniority they’d add “Little Brother,” “Elder Brother,” or “Guru.” So there’d be Acchan Guru or Brother Lacchu. Every so often someone would even achieve the rank of Ustad: Parasu Ustad, for example. Of course, these characters were connected to local politicians and police, but on top of this they also wielded considerable influence both in student politics and within the university administration. The goondas called students who came from Assam, Manipur, or Arunachal “monkeys” or “mallu”; South Indians or students from other countries were “rundu.”
A Manipuri student named Sapam Tomba lived in Room 212. He was handsome, pleasantly plump, a quick student, and a good badminton player. He and Rahul had gotten to know each other well. Sapam was in his first year of an MSc in botany. A couple of weeks ago, at home near Imphal, his older brother, a primary school teacher, had been killed by gunfire. Sapam cried and cried. He couldn’t go back to Manipur to attend his brother’s funeraclass="underline" first because he didn’t have enough money for the trip, and second because his father forbade him to return home. Incidents related to the insurgency in Manipur were on the rise, and the whole state was overrun with the Indian Army and Border Security Force personnel that executed “combing operations” and had deadly “encounters” with insurgents every day. “If I go home, they’ll say I am a PLA member and shoot me. It’s safer here than there,” Sapam said.
The goondas had broken into Sapam’s room, too. They took his watch, 600 rupees from a money order, a teakettle, and a thermos. But that wasn’t the worst of it. They made Sapam strip naked and tried to force him to pee on the hot electric heater. They tortured him until he gave in; Sapam passed out cold from the electric shock. He still hadn’t returned to a state that could be called normal; they had broken him. He’d cry and ask, “Where can I go? How can I continue with my studies? Tell me!”