Five point Someone (Chapter 5 to 8)

5 

Make Notes not War 

U .S. WAS GUNNING FOR IRAQ, TAKING AS ITS FIRST CASUALTY our majors, or end-semester exams. Thousands of kilometres from our campus, a despotic dictator annexed another smaller despotic dictator's country. It just so happened that both countries had heaps of oil and that made the whole world take notice. Next, the world's most powerful country asked the dictator to get the hell out. Big dictator refused and very soon it became clear that he would be attacked.

So, what the hell did this have to do with the three of us at IIT, you'd think. If this was one of Ryan's stupid sci-fi movies, the three of us could be like involved in a conspiracy, using the IIT lab to provide superior weapons to the CIA or something. But this was not sci-fi, and the three of us considered ourselves lucky to complete the ManPro welding assignment on time, let alone provide superior war technology.

No, the Gulf war did not personally invite our involvement but it was a big bang that swallowed our first semester majors, a catalyst for all our competitive, macho instincts. 

But before that let me tell you of the glory days of the short-lived 'draw-the-line' policy. As per plan we studied for three exact hours every day, mostly late unto night, which meant we had the evenings free for fun. 

“The best game ever invented," Ryan said as he took us to the squash courts despite Alok and me looking like guys who never came near a mile of a squash court. 

"This game will rest your mind, and burn some of that fat off,” Ryan, who had been the squash captain in his school, tossed warm-up shots in the court.

Unless you are like a champion or something, you probably know how difficult the damn game is. The rubber ball jumps around like a frog high on uppers, and you jump around it to try and connect it to your racket. Ryan had played it for years and Alok and I were hopeless at it. I missed connecting the ball to the racket five times in a row, and Alok did not even try moving from his place. After a while, even I gave up. Ryan tried to keep the game going as we stood like extra pillars on court. 

''C’mon guys, try at least," Ryan called out. 

“I can't do this," Alok said and sat down on the court. The guy is such a loser. I mean, I could not play squash for nuts, but at least I won't sit down on the court. 

“Let us try again tomorrow," Ryan said, optimistic to say the least.

He dragged us to court for ten days in a row, but Alok and I got no better. We found it hard enough to even spot where the ball had gone, let alone chase it.

"Ryan, we can't do this man," Alok said plaintively, panting uncontrollably. "If you really want to play this, why don't you find other partners?"

"Why? You guys are getting better," Ryan said.

Yeah right, maybe in thirty years, I thought grimly.

"So you don't enjoy this?"

What was Ryan thinking? Enjoy? Enjoy? I was in danger of tearing that ball into roughly fifty pieces.

"Not really," I ventured mildly.

"Fine then, we don't have to do this. I mean, I can give up squash," Ryan said.

"No, that is not . . ." Alok said.

Ryan had already decided, no point arguing with him. It was his whole ‘where my friends go, I go' stand, though I kind of felt bad making him give up his favourite sport.

"You can play with others," I suggested.

"Others aren't my friends," Ryan said in a firm voice that sounded like the final word. Alok and I shrugged and we left the court.

After squash came something tamer and less active, chess. Alok and I felt somewhat up to this one, for, unlike squash, we could at least touch and move the game pieces. But Ryan usually won, and I would never be passionate about bumping off plastic pieces like him.

Apart from chess, we spent our free time riding Ryan's scooter, feeling the fierce wind whistle through our hair. We caught every new movie, visited every tourist destination in Delhi, did everything, went everywhere.

For the most part, we managed fine within the three hours assigned to studies. Sometimes assignments took longer, leaving no time for revision. That worried Alok, especially when the end- semester exams edged closer, and he suggested increasing the limit. And we would have if it hadn't been for one thing — the afore-mentioned Gulf war.

Now wars happen all the time and India alone has fought more than it can afford. But the Gulf war was different, as it came right on TV. CNN, an American news channel, had just opened shop in India and brought the deserts of Iraq right into our TV room.

“This is CNN reporting live from the streets of Baghdad. The sky is lit up with the first air raid," a well-groomed person told us.

Alok, Ryan and I looked up from our chess game. It was sensational, spectacular and unlike anything we had ever seen on TV. To put it in context, this was before cable or any private channels came to India. Until then we had two crummy government channels in which women played obsolete instruments and dull men read news for insomniacs and retards. Colour had only arrived two years ago, and most programs were still black and white. Then, in one quick week, we had the glitzy, jazzy and live — CNN. 

“Is this real? I mean is this happening?" Alok looked dazed. 

“Of course, Fatso. You think this is a play?" Ryan scoffed as two American pilots hi-fived themselves after hours of pounding a perfectly real city. A CNN reporter asked them questions about their mission. The soldiers told about bombing a godown, and taking down a power station that gave electricity to Baghdad. 

“Wow, the Americans are going to win this," Alok said. 

“Don't underestimate the Iraqis, who have fought wars for ten years. Americans are just pounding from the air,” Ryan said.

"Yes, but America is too powerful. Saddam hasn't a clue."

"He does, wait till a land battle happens," Ryan defended.

The war sucked us in like quicksand, Alok and Ryan got really into ‘who is going to win this' kind of crap. I mean, you stop doing that when you are twelve I think (Superman or Batman?), but there was no stopping them. I liked watching the war as well, though I primly took no sides.

Iraq was kind of anonymous then, and we unabashedly cheered on America. IIT cared about America. Most of our foreign aid came from rich American firms and quite a large percentage of our alumni went on scholarship there and for jobs, constituting a chunk of the brain drain. So, unsurprisingly, our heart bled for the US.

At the same time, the war visuals became more gruesome. Americans pounded Baghdad non- stop, and Saddam hid himself deep in one of his oil wells I think. Many times, Americans hit civilian targets and people died and everything, and that was crap. I mean, the aid to IIT was fine, but how can you justify bombing kids? But then, Saddam was kind of this loser General anyway, and apparently shot his own people when he was grumpy. Oh, it was impossible to take sides in the Gulf war. And it was all pointless for us anyway. These guys would realize this soon.

"Man, the majors are eight days away," Alok finally said one day. "We've got to switch off the TV."

"We still study three hours though." Ryan quirked an eyebrow.

"Screw three hours! It's not enough," I contributed.

"I think Iraq wall win," Ryan said.

“Drop it, man, America has busted him," Alok said, "so please I beg you Ryan, let's study before we're busted too."

“Not yet, ground battle not done yet," he said righteously.

Luckily, the war ended five days before the majors. America won big-time, and Iraqis ate crow before ground battle. Saddam left Kuwait alone and Americans were happy all the oil in the world was theirs to burn and Ryan did not eat for a day or so.

“This is not fair. Real wars are fought on the ground," he wailed as we started revisions for the final tests in our room. 

“Shut up, Ryan. Americans got what they wanted. Now can we study?” I said.

“Unfair man. US is a schoolroom bully."

“ApMech, ApMech" Alok muttered like a mantra.

Squash, chess and the war — all ate into our studying hours. In the five days before exams, we dropped the three-hour rule, well we had to; the heaps of course material was un-doable even if we studied thirty hours a day. It was important to clamp down on Ryan and we studied until three in the morning every day and passionately prayed India would go to war on the morning of our first majors.

A day before the majors were practical tests. It was the only part of the course Ryan enjoyed, and he dragged us early to the physics lab. We were in the same group and had to conduct an electrical setup and then answer questions in a viva-voce. We got a resistance-voltage relationship testing experiment.

I hated practical tests. Most of all, I dreaded the viva-voce. I don’t know if I told you about my condition; it strikes me whenever someone looks me in the eye and asks me a question. My body freezes, sweat beads cover me brow to groin, and I lose my sense of voice. How I hated vivas and when Ryan was all excited assembling the circuit for the experiment, I hated him too.

"Hey guys, watch this," Ryan said, holding the circuit components in his hand.

Alok looked up from his notebook.

Ryan spent the next ten minutes connecting resistors, capacitors, switches and cables to each other. It was completely unconnected to our experiment and Alok was seriously getting worried.

"Ryan, can you please connect the resistor-voltage setup so we can start our experiment?" Alok said.

"Wait Fatso, we have two hours to do the experiment. Do they have a small speaker here?" Ryan fumbled through the component box.

"What do you need a speaker for?" I said even as Ryan found one and made the final connection.

"For this," Ryan said and switched his circuit on. He moved a few connections, and soon Hindi music came from the speaker.

" Ghar aaya mera pardesi . . ."

"What the hell!" Alok jumped as if a ghost had shimmered into the lab.

"It is a radio, stupid," Ryan said, eyes all lit up, "I knew we had all the parts to make one."

"Ryan," I said, as firmly as possible.

"What?"

"We are having a damn major here," I said.

That is Ryan. The guy will do clever things but only at the wrong time and wrong place. 

Alok panicked, too. "The viva is in twenty minutes, boss." 

Ryan ripped off his circuit and looked at us in disdain as if we were tone-deaf listeners who had rejected live Mozart.

We just about managed to finish the circuit on time when Prof Goyal walked in.

“Hmm . . . ," the Prof said tugging at the circuit wires. Ryan had made the circuit; he was good at this, we trusted him.

“So, Ryan what will happen if I change the 100-ohm resistor with a 500-ohm resistor?"

“Sir, we would have higher voltage across, though there would be a higher heat loss as well."

“Hmm . . ." Prof Goyal scratched his chin in response, which meant Ryan was right.

“So Alok, how do you read the stripes on this resistor to get the ohm resistance?"

“Sir, the red stripe is a 100-ohm, then 10 for the blue, implying 110 ohm."

Our group was doing well. But Prof Goyal was not done. Despite my frantic hopes, he turned to me. 

“So Hari, if I add another resistor on top of the 110 ohm resistor, what happens to the current flow?" 

A trick question. The current flow depends on how one connects the new resistor, in series or parallel. In series, the current would drop. In parallel, it would increase. Yes, this was the answer. I think so, right?

I had recited the answer in my mind. But Prof Goyal stared at me and me alone while asking the question, not surprising since he prefixed the question with what was a good facsimile of my name.

"Sir . . ." I quivered as my hand started to shiver. My condition was upon me.

"What will happen to the current flow?"

"Sir . . I . . . sir," I said, inexorably tumbling toward total paralysis. I mean, I totally knew the answer but what if it was wrong? I tried articulating, but the thoughts did not cash into words.

"Sir, the current flow depen . . ." Ryan intervened, trying to save the situation.

Prof Goyal raised his forefinger.

"Quiet, I am asking your group member, not you."

I shook my head and lowered it. There was no use, I had given up.

"Hmm . . ." Prof Goyal said, not scratching any part of his face. "The standard of this institute is going down day by day. What are you, commerce students?"

Calling an IIT-ian a commerce student was one of the worst insults the profs could accord to us, like a prostitute calling her client a eunuch. The institute was the temple of science and anyone below standards was an outcaste or a commerce student.

Prof Goyal scribbled a C+ on our group experiment sheet, and tossed it at us. Ryan caught it, I think.

We did not have much of a chance to discuss the physics practicals, as the majors started the next day. I had even postponed my next rendezvous with Neha until after the exams. I had called her once, getting her number from the faculty's internal directory. She freaked out, telling me not to call home without notice. How the hell was I supposed to give her notice? Anyway, we had fixed to meet the day after my majors.

Majors were when everyone studied in Kumaon, lights remained on in rooms until dawn, people rarely spoke — and then only on matters of life or death — and consumed endless cups of tea in the all-night mess. Ryan, Alok and I scrambled to revise our six courses. The exams schedule was three continuous days, leaving little time to discuss the tests. I knew I had done fine in some tests and screwed up some. Alok had developed a permanent scowl and Ryan could maintain his laid-back air only with the utmost effort; no jokes, majors blow the wind out of anyone. ManPro, ApMech, physics, mathematics, chemistry and computing. One by one, we finished them. When majors ended, it did seem like the worst was over though the results come only after two weeks.

Those two weeks between the end of majors and the results were bliss. Even though the second semester began, no one really got into the new courses until they knew how they'd done in the first semester. The profs were busy evaluating tests, going easy on new assignments, giving us plenty of time to kill. Ryan upgraded us from chess to crossword puzzles, taking us from cryptic clues to rhyme words to anagrams. 

Meanwhile, I met Neha again on a summery evening early into the second semester even though she had short-circuited when I called her. It was the same ice-cream parlour. 

“God, are you crazy or what, calling at home?" she greeted. 

I didn't know what to say. I thought I'd been pretty cool to think of getting the number from the profs directory and everything.

"How else am I to reach you?

"My parents are very strict about me getting calls from boys."

I couldn't tell her, "Your parents sound like regular psychos,” so in non-sequitur, I asked, "Strawberry?"

She was wearing a demure white salwar-kameez that day. She held my hand as she took the cone from me. God, she is beautiful, I tell you.

"So how am I supposed to reach you?"

"Call me on the 11th."

A pink tongue darting out to catch some melted cream from reaching the ground had disoriented me. "Huh?"

"Just call me on the 11th of any month."

Now Neha is beautiful and everything, but she can be pretty loony at times.

"What? Why 11th?"

"Because no one is at home that day. You see, my brother died on 11th May. So on every 11th my parents go to this temple near the rail-tracks where he died. They are gone most of the day."

"Really? And you don't go?"

"I used to. But it used to remind me of Samir a lot. I'd be depressed for days afterward and the doctor told me not to go."

She said it matter of factly, as if she were choosing an ice-cream flavour. It was strange, but a hell of a lot better than her gearing up to cry or something; I can't stand people who cry in public.

"Only on 11th?"

“Well for now, that is the only safe date," she said and laughed, "why? You want to talk more often?" 

I did not answer her. I mean, I just thought it weird that I could call her only on that one day a month, like I had a dental appointment or something. But girls are weird, I was learning. 

“So tell me," she said tapping my hand again to change the topic, “how were the majors?" 

I loved it when she touched me in any way, that's how deprived or depraved I was; I almost forgot her question in the aftermath of the tiny localized tremors exploding on my skin's surface.

“ Uh majors . . . nothing great. Results come in one week or so.”

“ Did well?" 

“Not really."

“You want me to put in a word to Dad to increase your grades?” she said.

“Can you?" The pinkness enveloped me. 

“I’m kidding." 

Of course. She giggled as if she had got me. Like I thought I believed she could help me with my grades or something. Girls love laughing at their own jokes but Neha amused is better than Neha looking around furtively.

I suddenly leaned forward, bringing my face close to hers. Catching her breath, stifling that laugh and pink tongue, she watched me wide-eyed. I removed the wallet from my back pocket and sat down casually again. 

“What happened?" I asked idly. 

“I thought . . . never mind." She blinked.

Ha, gotcha.

6 

Five-point Something 

“THEY’RE OUT!” ALOK SAID, SHAKING RYAN’S SHOULDER on a Saturday morning as if India had won the World Cup or nude women were rolling on the grass outside, "The major results are out!"

"I want to sleep," Ryan said, burrowing deeper under the quilt that Alok eventually succeeded in tugging off.

We reached the insti where a crowd of students had gathered to see their first set of grades. From these one could determine their first grade point average, or GPA, on the 10-point scale. The topper would be close to 10.00, while the average would be around 6.50. We, however, were closer to the bottom. Clicking through the scientific calculator, Alok calculated our scores.

"Ok, Hari is at 5.46 and . . . Ryan is at 5.01 and I . . . I'm at 5.88," Alok said.

“So all of us are five-pointers," I said, as if making a particularly insightful comment.

“Congrats Alok, you have topped amongst us," Ryan said. 

Topped amongst us, I thought. As if we were the high-brain society or something. These were pathetic grades: we ranked in the high 200s in a class of 300 students. Alok recalculated his score, hoping for some miracle to happen on the calculator. But miracles never happen in IIT, only crap grades do.

“Screw that. Bloody hell, I am just a 5.88. This is so below average.”

“We knew that, right?" Ryan said, "Whatever. Alok, let's celebrate this over chicken."

“Celebrate!" Alok spluttered. "I have just screwed up any chance of getting a US scholarship or a good job and you want to bloody celebrate?" 

“Grow up, Fatso. What do you want to do? Mug more in mourning?" Ryan was calm.

“Fuck you," Alok said. 

It was the first time he had used the ‘F' word. From him, it sounded peculiar, I mean he is still a kid. 

Ryan’s calmness vanished faster than a prof's smile. "What did you say?" he turned toward me, "What did the Fatso say?" 

Why was the bastard dragging me into this? Ryan had damn well heard what Alok said. In fact, all the twittering students around us had heard it too.

"C’mon guys, let's take the show to the hostel," I pleaded. I don’t care if they kill each other, but privacy I insist on. They were in no mood to let go and for a moment I thought they were going to ignore me and have a fisticuff right there. Somehow, I knew this wasn’t one of the regular Ryan-Alok arguments; this had, at its core, their basic character contrasts.

"Let's go," I said again and they dragged their feet back to the scooter. Ryan rode us back to the hostel as rashly as he possibly could, intentionally going over every bump on the road. He has his own strange way of sulking I tell you. 

We sat in Ryan's room after dinner, we had not spoken a word since the insti. I had thought a little about my little GPA. Yes, a five-pointer was pretty crap. From now on, every prof would know that I was a below average student and that would influence my grade in future courses. I knew a few five-pointers who were panned at campus recruitment last year. This was crap, how did I get into this situation? Was I just not smart enough? At the dinner table, other students were either plain morose or extremely excited. There was the studious Venkat, who never left his room and was always quiet at meals. Today, he was smiling. He had a nine point five. He sat next to Alok, and told his stories of topping in four out of six courses. Alok was talking only to him and totally ignoring us. There were others too. Even the Smiling Surd in our wing had managed a respectable seven point three. I think the three of us were the lowest in Kumaon or something. I could have mulled more over my future, or rather the lack of it, but Ryan and Alok's swollen faces filled my immediate vision.

We trooped into Ryan's room and sat quietly for half an hour or so. Nobody opened a book, looked at each other or said a word. I wondered if we were going to stay quiet forever. I mean, that couldn't be such a bad thing. We could attend class, study together and eat together, quiet as mice. Maybe our grades would improve as well. It really isn't that important for people to talk.

But my rosy fantasy of silence was finally broken by Ryan. 

“So, you are not going to apologize?" he asked belligerently. 

“Apologize? Me? It is you who should apologize Ryan," Alok said. 

“You are the one who said ‘fuck you' in front of the whole damn insti," Ryan said, "and I should apologize? Hari, can you believe this? I should apologize."

Now this had nothing to do with me, so I ignored Ryan. Let two nuts figure it out amongst themselves. 

“You just don't fucking get it do you?" Alok said, going the ‘damn’ way with 'fuck'.

Ryan kept silent. 

“Get what?" I said. I mean, I really wanted to know what I was missing in this moronic conversation. 

“Get this. Today I got a GPA of 5.88. Damn it, a 5.88. Over 200 students have done better. Do you know in my twelve years in school I never even got a second rank." 

In most parts of the world, that would be a pretty loser statement to make. To announce that you were like this nerd in school is hardly something to be proud of. But that is Alok for you.

“So?" Ryan said, "your insti grades are bad. And who cares about how much you mugged. Why the hell should I apologize?" 

“Because damn it . . . because it is your damn fault," Alok said and stood up. 

Now that was whacko. Poor Ryan had just managed to scrape a five, and now he was getting crap from Alok.

"My fault?" Ryan said and started laughing. "Hari, listen to this. Fatso screws up his grades and it is Ryan's fault. My fault. Hey Alok, have you gone nuts or something?"

"Say something," Alok beseeched me.

"Say what?” I looked away from both of them.

"It is okay. If Hari does not have the guts to say it, I can. You and your ideas, Ryan. Study less, draw the line, enjoy the best years, this system is a machine, crap, crap and more crap all the time."

Ryan stood up from his chair as well; I think it gives you an edge in the argument if you stand up, kind of more serious and purposeful.

"I know you are upset and everything but there is no need to overreact. Just some stupid grades . . ."

"I am not overreacting," Alok said and sat back down. "And it is not just stupid grades for me. I don't have my parents earning dollars like yours. I came to this institute with a purpose. To do well, get a good job and look after my parents. And you have fucked it up."

Another F-word; Alok was still upset I guess.

"Stop saying fuck all the time," Ryan said.

"I will say whatever I want. That is the problem. No one can say anything to you. You propose something, Hari blindly agrees and we all end up doing it. You are just a spoilt brat. Someone who wants to do whatever he wants without caring for his friends."

"What? What did you just say? That I don't care for my friends?" Ryan said. Though his voice was notched at a menacing pitch, I noticed his hands starting to shiver a little bit.

“No. You don't care about anything — not studies, not the insti, not your parents and not your friends. You just want to have your fun." 

“You’re crossing the line here," Ryan warned.

“I am drawing the line for a change. From now on, I am not going to hang out with you anymore, it is official." 

Now it was pretty clear that Alok was overreacting. "What are you saying, man?" I said.

“No drop-shrop it. I have listened to you guys for the entire first semester and screwed up everything," Alok said.

“So what are you going to do?" 

“Like I said, no more hanging out with Ryan. From now on, I am going to be with Venkat. He has agreed to let me study with him. He got a nine point five you know?"

I felt disgusted. Nobody in Kumaon talked to Venkat; given a choice he wouldn't talk to himself. He had a good GPA and everything, but he was hardly human. Venkat woke up at four in the morning to squeeze in four hours of muggins before classes. Every evening he spent three hours in the library before dinner. Then after dinner, he studied on his bed for another couple of hours until he went to sleep. Who on earth would want to be with him?

“You are sick Alok," Ryan said, "you are just one sick person.”

“My grades are important to me. My future is important to me. Does that make me sick?" 

I went to Alok and put my arm around his shoulder; kind of felt he needed comfort during insanity. "C'mon Alok, we can study more . . .”

"Stop c'mon-Aloking me, will you?" Alok pushed my arm away, voice all wobbly. "Enough is enough," he said, his face contorted exactly like his mother's.

This heredity factor fascinated me; was there a how-to-cry gene? Or was this something he had picked up while growing up? Maybe Alok's family all cried together sometimes; mother, sister and himself bawling away with his father, who could still produce tears from one eye.

"You don't understand that I have responsibilities. I have to do well to support my family. Half my mother's salary goes for my father's medicine. She has not bought a new sari for herself in five years," Alok said as he choked on his tears. He needed to blow his nose.

Ryan sat down to watch Alok, intrigued. He could take 'fuck yous' ten a minute, but crying was a different game altogether. And the whole one-saree-in-five-years was tough to argue against. I mean, how do you argue with that? How many sarees a year is reasonable? I don't know, and Ryan for sure had no damn clue.

"And my sister needs to be married," Alok went on, "everyone is counting on me. And you guys don't understand. Ryan wants to play chess, see TV, enjoy his years. I hate enjoyment."

"Will it make it better if I say sorry? I mean, you aren’t making any sense. And this whole parents deal — you know I don't understand that." Ryan was gentling, I could see.

But this shifted Alok into higher gear. "Of course, you don't. How could you? You never had them."

"I had them. I mean I still have them. But I don't sit and cry for them."

“Because you don't love them."

“Yes I don't. But at least I am not crying like a baby." 

“Shut up!" Alok screamed and continued crying. 

“You are a baby. A sissy-fat baby. Sorry sissy baby, now wipe your nose," Ryan said and started laughing. It is something he always does when he can't think of anything else, a kind of conversation filler. 

“Shut up you . . . you . . ." Alok said. 

“I want my mummeeeeee," Ryan said, imitating Alok's choked tones. 

“. . . shut up, you abandoned orphan!"

Silence. Yes, sometimes people say something so messed up that all bets go off. Ryan's laughter vanished in a nanosecond. I sat up straight, confused if I'd heard right. Even Alok noticed the change in expressions and froze. Twenty solid, slow and long seconds of silence followed.

“Orphan. Hari, he called me an orphan," Ryan said. 

I stayed silent. Alok stayed silent.

“Just get out. Go to Venkat or whichever prick you want to be with. Just get lost," Ryan said.

“I don't need you to tell me. Hari?" Alok said, not crying anymore. 

“Yes?" I said.

“You coming with me?" 

“Where?"

“Do you want to be with me or Ryan?" 

This was so damn unfair. I had nothing to do with all this. Yet, I had to now choose between my friends.

“Yes, go with this loser Hari, go hold his hand." 

“I am not going anywhere." I said.

"So you choose Ryan," Alok said in defeated tones.

"I am not choosing anyone. You are the one who is leaving. Do whatever you want," I said, disgusted with both of them.

There were no more words. Alok got up and left. Ryan shut the door behind him as hard as he could. It was purely symbolic, as we never shut the door in our rooms.

"You saw what he did. And he expected you to go with him, ha!" Ryan said.

"Fuck you," I said. 

I met Neha soon after, though I was getting sick of the ice-cream parlour, and of the sickeningly sweet strawberry flavour. Neha still looked beautiful as hell, but I didn't feel like talking to her. In fact, I did not feel like talking to anyone.

"What's wrong?"

"Who said anything was wrong?" I said. I can be quite a prick if I want.

"It is all over your face. Now are you going to tell me or what?"

That is the thing with girls. They are like half your size or something, but if they know you like them, they boss you around. Who the hell did she think she was?

"It is nothing."

She placed her hand over my arm and self-respecting nitwit that I am, I melted faster than the ice-cream; like the bad mood bugs running through me suddenly got Baygon-sprayed.

"Neha, those bloody Alok and Ryan."

"Language!"

"Sorry, I mean my friends, my best friends, they had this massive argument and now our group has split."

“What was the argument about?"

“About grades. Alok said it was Ryan's fault we did badly." 

“Really, how badly?" 

I told her about our five-pointer grades. 

“Damn, did you say five-pointers?" she said. 

“Language!" I said. 

“Oh sorry. I mean that is kind of low by insti standards." 

See that is the thing. Once you get a GPA in IIT, everyone has an opinion about it, about you, even if it's a fashion design student.

“I know,” I said, "but that is not what I am upset about. It is this place. I hate it."

Neha started laughing. I told you, didn't I, she can be a bit loony at times. "What is there to laugh about?" I asked, irritated.

“Nothing. Just how people would die to get in here." 

“I know," I said, "but it sucks. I have tons to study, my grades are crap, and I don't have friends anymore." 

“So Alok wants to mug, and he goes to the mugger," she paraphrased the recent events after I had told her the longhand version, "but how come you chose Ryan?" 

“I didn't choose, Alok left," I reminded her. 

“What are you going to do?" 

I shrugged. 

“You know my dad was a 10 when he was a student." 

“He was a student?" I had never thought of Cherian as anything less in size or years. 

“Yes, a class topper. Guess he wouldn't be too happy to know I am with a five-pointer," she said happily.

“So now you also want to stop talking to me," I said.

“No silly. I am joking," she said and laughed. Why does she do this all the time, tell jokes that are funny to her alone?

"Whatever."

"Come here," she said, tapping the seat next to her in the parlour.

"Why?"

"Just come here."

Like a trained pet, I got up from the seat opposite and sat next to her; pretty girls have this power to turn Mary, making lambs out of people.

She held my hand and turned her face toward me. "I like this five pointer," she said, and kissed my cheek.

"One, two, three, four, five," she listed, smacking my right cheek each time. "See, now that isn't too bad."

Damn, I was melting again. "Can I kiss you back?"

"No, I don't have a GPA," she pointed out.

I loved people who did not have a GPA. I loved anyone who was not at IIT. I did not want to go back. I wondered if I could work at the ice-cream parlour, filling cones all day and never have to worry about classes, courses, grades, and Alok-Ryan arguments.

"Let's see a movie, how about Saturday next?" she asked.

"Sure," I said, snapping out of my fantasy of working in the parlour.

"Great. Gotta go now. I'll pick you up from this parlour at two. Matinee show," she said and left.

I waited for five minutes, read the list of five daily specials and thought about the five kisses. Somehow, it made up for my five-point GPA.

How I wished I had got a higher GPA, if only to get more of those ice-creamy kisses!  

7 

Alok Speaks 

FATSO, CRY-BABY, MUGGER, TRAITOR, SISSY, THAT IS HOW I come across to you. You probably picture me as this boy who refuses to grow up, the perennial prodigy who wants to show his good report card to his parents year after year. You are free to judge me, my whining over grades, my splitting with the group, my reticence to cut apron strings, an umbilical cord that stretches out across Delhi all the way from Rohini Colony to the IIT campus, binding me to mother.

Allow me, however, to tell you this my way, for yes, this is Alok Gupta, and His Highness Hari has given me an itsy-bitsy space here to give vent to my feelings. But before I do that, let me tell you a story.

Once upon a time, there lived a boy in a lower-middle class home in one of the suburbs of Delhi. Let us call this boy Loser — just to make it easier — whose father and mother were schoolteachers, art and biology respectively. Loser grew up in a simple home filled with notebooks and canvases, and learnt how to draw before learning to tie his shoelaces. Loser was good in studies (owing to two teachers looking over him at home), but what he loved most was to paint. Loser took part in every art competition for his age, and won most of them. The prizes kept coming in — and dozens of painting sets, calligraphy sets and stationery coupons later, it was clear Loser was above average at the easel. He wanted to be an artist when he grew up, and of course, this was a silly dream. For in India, there is only room for one or maybe two artists who are ninety years old (or better still, dead) to survive. Yet Loser did not care, he knew he would make it and nothing could stop him from his goal.

But that is when life screws you. Right at moments when, you feel you have got it all figured out. Loser's father got this prestigious mural painting job, which for once paid well. The job involved painting the ceiling of the lobby in the education department building. Murals are hard anyway, and painting a ceiling is excruciating work. They put these bamboos upon which the artist lies down and works, and hopes to create that one masterpiece that will make the world crane their necks and take notice.

However, the only time people noticed Loser's father was when he fell down from the bamboo structure, ten meters down, and that was to step out of his way lest they broke his fall.

Right side paralysis, doctors said. Half of Loser's father was gone, but more importantly, the whole of his salary was gone, the right hand that painted was gone and so was Loser's dream.

Loser’s father came home bed-ridden and never left it for ten years. His one good eye shed tears every now and then, and the sorrow of never painting again brought one infection after the other.

Soon, the bottles of paint were swapped with bottles of medicine. There was no money to afford a nurse, and Loser was appointed one. He was in class seven then, and for the rest of his school years he sat next to his father’s bed after school. 

For a while he painted, but soon he realized the family needed money more than landscapes. IIT, the one college in the country that virtually guaranteed a future, caught his eye. Yes, to become an engineer was the only way out of poverty 

Loser's mother used to cry every night. But she could not give up. She had to keep on teaching the digestive system and the endocrine system and reproductive system year after year to go on.

“One day, they will be out of this," Loser vowed to himself as he helped his father change sides at night and studied pulleys, magnetism and calculus for the IIT entrance exam. For two years, Loser did not step out of the house apart from school, gained fifteen kilos and muttered calculations while wiping bed-sores.

And one fine day he made it. He was in the IIT. How happy his mother and half-a-father were.  Yes, four more years of discipline and he could emancipate everyone. That is when he met Ryan and Hari. And then, to remain with them, he screwed up his grades to the lowest in the institute. 

Ryan, the man who lives for the moment, who does not want to be like him? Rich parents, good looks, smart enough to get into IIT, athletic enough to be good in sports and fun enough to always attract friends. Ryan is infectious, and Hari is a perfect example of this infection.  If Ryan wants something, Hari gives it to him. So, if Ryan does not want to study, Hari will close his books. If Ryan thinks GPAs are not important, then Hari stops caring about them. Ryan is Pied Piper . . . .

I remember when he came home once, he lifted my father to carry him out, and kept holding him even in the auto. It was he who argued with the hospital staff to get us a good bed, and then stayed with us until three a.m. Yes, Ryan is good, he is very, very good. For who would have broken Coke bottles for unknown freshers? Or who would have screwed up his new scooter and overloaded it with three people, two of them in possession of large butts?

But there is more to Ryan. Like did you know his parents send him a letter every other week? Or that he never replies to any of them? Yes, he will tell you he doesn't love them or whatever crap he dishes out. But the truth is, he keeps every letter neatly in a file. When he is alone in his room at night, he opens the letters and reads them again. I mean, if he is so cool and everything,   why can’t he respond to them occasionally? And why does he keep re-reading those letters anyway? I always knew Ryan had issues but Hari is blind.

See, even though I think I have figured out Ryan somewhat, I cannot for the hell of it understand Hari. I mean, he really is like me — ordinary, unattractive, fat and dull. But he wants to be somebody else — someone cool, smart and sharp like Ryan. But deep down, he knows that this is not possible. He will always remain the under-confident kid who turns corpse during viva. The uncool cannot become cool. If only he’d accept that, he would be able to think straight. But he doesn’t, and so went along with Operation Pendulum. 

When I first split up with them, I was really not sure if I had done the right thing. But after Operation Pendulum, I am not sure if I should have ever come back. Well, that is life. It screws you right when you think you have figured it out.  

8 

One Year Later 

I  KNEW 365 DAYS HAD PASSED SINCE ALOK LEFT US BECAUSE third semester results had just come out that day. How irrelevant they seemed now; another five point something, another tattoo stamped on your worth as an individual in IIT society. Ryan and I had gone to the insti to see the results, but that was incidental, the real reason was to chill out on the insti roof.

I don't remember when we first discovered this roof, it must have been soon after we started smoking grass, which was soon after we had started vodka, which was soon after we had started listening to Pink Floyd. Floyd, vodka, grass and the insti roof; finally we were on to what really mattered in life, the stuff that made IIT life bearable, especially when you were a five-point something.

The giant insti building had nine stories; one had to take the clandestine service stairs on the ninth floor to get to the roof. There was an old lock guarding the entrance to the terrace, but thankfully the bolt was even more ancient. It took Ryan three minutes with a screwdriver to remove the rusted bolt and then we were on cloud nine, the highest point on campus. The bare, rough concrete surface made up the flat patch of terrace, there was no parapet. It was mostly empty, too, from the insti-bell tower, and a few dish antennas that helped the computer and telecom networks. After dark, only the stars above were visible. If one stood up and looked down, one could see the street lights on campus roads and distant views of Kumaon and other hostels a kilometre away. 

Ryan laid out the vodka, the joints and his small Walkman in autopilot, familiar with our twice a week routine. 

We lay down on the concrete, still warm from the sunlight in the day. Ryan divided the pair of earphones, such that we had one earphone each, passed a joint to me, and we kept the vodka bottle in the center. Sip, puff, sip, rewind, stop and play. 

The lyrics washed over us and we flew up to the sky as it flew down at us. 

“You see all those kids screaming over their GPA," Ryan said, releasing a smoke-ring.

I think smoke is beautiful; weightless and shapeless, it almost appears as deceptively powerless as the person releasing it, yet, it comes from within and rises above us all. Crap, I am talking all artsy stuff, grass does this to me. 

“Yes, I saw them. And I see how they look at us," I said. 

“How?”

“Like what the hell are we there for?  How does our miserable GPA matter anyway? As if we are blocking their view or something.”

"Screw them," Ryan said, words of wisdom from the man who knows everything.

"It's true though," I said, "we really serve no purpose here . . ."

"Of course, we do. We are the under-performers."

"So?"

"So we bring the average down. We make them look better. Hence, we bring happiness in their lives."

"Point," I conceded.

"But it is not the students that bother me. It is the profs.”

"You are talking about the design class right?"

"Yes, that Prof Bhatia. I mean you were there, right? I gave him some ideas on how one could design a suspension bridge and he got all excited. He told me to make a scale drawing and submit it, said he would give me a special internship project. Then he asked me my name and found out my GPA. So then he calls me and says to forget about the drawing and internship. Can you believe that scum?" Ryan said.

We had finished one joint each. Ryan sat up to make another one, crushing the grass and tobacco hard, as if it were Prof Bhatia's innards.

"Screw him," I passed the words of wisdom back to Ryan.

We refilled our glasses, as it turned dark on the roof.

"Yes, screw all profs," Ryan said.

"Yeah. Though Prof Veera is all right." Prof Veera was our fluid mechanics professor.

"Yes, not him. Though I have heard the worst one is yet to come," Ryan said as he lit up the second joint.

"Who?" I debated whether I should smoke more. Ryan’s tolerance was much higher and he could probably make a wholesome meal out of dope but I knew I was getting trippy. For one thing, I felt I was feather-light; up here, it felt like I was floating above the world. Screw all profs, all students and all design assignments.

“Prof Cherian.”

“Neha’s dad?" I said, somewhat returning to my senses. 

“Yes. They say he's a real terror. Like he is the head of the department, and is this total control freak with other profs and students.”

I knew Neha's dad was a control freak, at least with his daughter. “Who told you?" 

“It is well known, ask any senior. Anyway, for the record, Anurag told me.”

“So when does the control freak teach us?" 

“Next year. He takes third year courses," Ryan said. 

“Next year, too far. Give me another joint."

There were still more than two years to leave this place. And the worst prof was yet to come. I deserved another joint. 

“Here," Ryan said, passing me the crude cigarette. He was a good pal, one who rolls joints for you.

“Anyway, I don't want to talk about grades or profs. Talk about something else," I said.

Ryan stayed silent; I guess he was searching for another topic.

“How is your girl?" he asked after straining his brain for twenty seconds.

That is how Ryan addresses Neha. He never says her name, as if her being 'my girl' is more important than her being Neha.

“Neha is great. Going for a movie next week.”

“So you guys serious?”

"Serious about what?"

"I don't know, like you love her and everything?"

"I don't know," I said.

That is how men talk about their relationships. Nobody knows anything — neither the questioner nor the answerer.

"Has she said anything?"

"Well, you know how she is. So damn moody all the time. Sometimes she is all cuddly, holds my hand, and acts cozy at the movies. But when I try something, she stops me and gives me these lectures on how she is a decent girl and I should learn to behave."

"What do you do? You are a bastard I know," Ryan said and started laughing. Screw him. That is the thing with people who know you well, they judge you before they hear you out.

"I do nothing. Like I mean, do you know we have not even kissed yet. Like I have met her twenty times, but every time I get the push. She has like this under-the-elbow policy."

"Sounds like a nice girl. You're lucky."

"Screw nice. I don't want nice."

That is true, nice people are completely boring. They don’t give you joints, and they don't let you kiss them.

"Talk to her then. Tell her to be naughty. I am sure she wants to be bad," Ryan said.

"Are you crazy? She is a girl; girls never want to be bad.”

"They do. Just that they want it a little less than us."

I couldn't imagine Neha wanting to do the same things I wanted to do with her. "I don't believe you. Did you ever have a girlfriend?" I said.

"Then don't believe. Anyway, enough talk about women. Time for another drink and tape," Ryan said.

Ryan never talked much about himself. Sometimes, I wondered if he was gay. But he wasn't, I mean, I would have known. I practically lived with the guy, and unless he found me hideously unattractive, I think I would have known. But he wasn’t gay, for he did notice the heroines in movies, whistled at pretty girls on the street. Maybe he just wasn't in the mood for women most of the time.

He changed the tape and put on another Pink Floyd. I saw the levels of the vodka bottle drop and Ryan scraping through his brown bag for the last joint of the day. A half-moon lit up the sky, and bright little stars looked smug, winking down at us like students with higher GPAs.

You know the thing about Floyd? Not only are they damn good, they sound better with every drink, like the singers designed them for alcohol. Like samosas-chutney, idli-sambhar or rajma- chawal, Floyd and vodka are in a combo-class of their own.

“You know what today reminds me of?" Ryan said.

“What?" 

“The first sem results. You remember?" 

“Yes, I do. The first fiver." 

“And after that." 

“What?"

“Fatso left us.”

Ryan still referred to him as Fatso and even though it is derogatory, it was always laced with indulgence. I know Ryan had not spoken to Alok for the entire past year and he wouldn't let me as well. "Don't go to him. He left us," he said, and I knew Ryan would do some serious sulking if I rebelled.

"How come you thought of Alok today?" I asked, rising to see how much vodka remained. Surely, Ryan had drunk too much to be talking this.

"I just mentioned him today. I think of him more often.”

Ryan in a profound mood. Grass and vodka have mixed to optimal levels.

"Screw him," I said as the song reached some of my favourite lines.

“What do you think he is doing right now?" Ryan said.

"Who?" I said, "Alok?"

Ryan nodded.

"Probably mugging away with Venkat. I hear he is a six-pointer now," I said.

"You know Hari, Alok did the right thing."

"Yeah, right."

"No, I am serious. You should have left me too. I am not good for you."

Now what is going on here, I thought. Am I going to have to waste real good dope in making Ryan feel all wanted and better about himself? I have two options: one, to tell him to shut up and enjoy the song, two, do what he wants me to do.

"What is the deal Ryan? Not feeling good?"

"No, I am fine. You should have left me. Everyone leave me. They must be right."

"What?"

"They do. Dad, Mom, Alok . . . they all do."

"No need to be senti, Ryan, just enjoy the evening."

"You think Fatso was right? You think I did not care for him?" he demanded.

I hate it when people want to be assured, you have no choice but to play ball.

“No Ryan, Alok was wrong. He will realize it someday. Now just close your eyes and cruise a little," I advised. 

I closed my eyes. The grass and vodka were now in complete control of the policeman in me, making me see what I wanted to see. I saw Neha sitting next to me, smiling and embracing me. Her hair, and especially that one soft, floppy lock, brushes me. Her round face resembles the moon, or is it that I am actually watching the moon? This is trippy and the grass is getting the better of me but I want to be gotten the better of. I continued drifting until Ryan interrupted me. 

“You know the best thing about the insti roof?" He stood up, towering over me.

“That no one knows we are here." 

“No. The fact that you always have an option."

“What option." 

“You can jump over the edge and end it all." 

“Shut up, Ryan." I struggled to sit up. 

“I’m serious. They can do whatever, but I can still control my options.” 

“You are too drunk Ryan, I want to go back," I said, sobering up fast. Sometimes, you want your commonsense to get the better of you.  

We never missed the fluid mechanics class in the fourth sem and the reason was Prof Veera. That and the fact that the class was at noon and we finally woke up by then. Prof Veera was completely different. For one, he was like twenty years younger than other profs. No more than thirty, he dressed in jeans and T-shirt, which bore his US university logos. He had like five degrees from all the top universities — MIT, Cornell, Princeton etc, and T-shirts from all of them. He carried this CD-man with him, and after class, he would plug it into his ears before he left. Students said Prof Veera had just joined the insti, and was not supposed to be taking a full course so early. However, the prof he was assisting had a heart attack or something, and Prof Veera had to teach us.

"Hi everyone," Prof Veera said as he entered class. He offered chewing gum to the first row students. The front row guys were all mugging nine-pointers, and freaked out at his offer. They declined, and he shrugged and popped a piece in his mouth and turned to the board.

"Turbulent flows," he wrote in big letters on the board.

"Guys, in the first five lectures, we studied simple flows called laminar flows. The shape and direction of these flows are predictable with the help of formulas and equations. You know which equation, right?"

He looked around for answers. Unlike other profs, he did not stick to the first row. In fact, he scavenged at the back. "Okay, I am not going to ask the studious kids all the questions. I want to ask the cool dudes at the back."

Ryan and I were chronic backbenchers; out of sight, this was the most defensive position for the outcaste five-pointers, but Prof Veera did not care.

"Ryan, tell me, which is the first principle equation for laminar flows?"

"Sir, me?" Ryan said, surprised that a Prof would know his name.

“Yes you, Ryan. I know you know the answer." 

“The Navier-Stokes equation." 

“Right. You want to write it down for the class?" 

Ryan ran up to the board and the nine-pointers in the front smirked at a five-pointer contributing to class. The reputation was right though; Ryan doesn't go up to the board unless he knows he's right. 

“Perfect, thanks Ryan. By the way, was it you who wrote the impact of lubricant efficiency on scooter fuel consumption in your last term paper?" 

“Well, yes sir." 

“Is it true you actually tested the data on your scooter?"

“Yes I did, sir. Not accurately though." 

“I like that," Prof Veera said, looking at the nine-pointers who were busy taking frantic notes like trained parrots. "I really like that." 

Ryan came back to his seat. I could tell he loved fluid mechanics, and most of all, he loved Prof Veera. He never missed FluMech and he would do anything for Prof Veera. Others however — the testy design prof, the painfully dull solid mechanics prof and the assignment-maniac thermodynamics prof — were a different story. Ryan could cut up their guts with a lathe machine in the machining workshop given a chance. 

I met Neha at Priya cinema a week after the FluMech class. I would have said I met my girlfriend but the damn problem was I was still not sure. I had known her for over a year, but she called me different things depending on her mood. First, I was just a friend. Then I was a good friend, then a friend who was special, then really-really good and special friends or some such crap. For her, calling someone a boyfriend was a big thing. Her dad had made her promise that she would never have a boyfriend, and she wanted to keep it. Of course, it did not prevent her from watching movies with me hand in hand every two weeks for over a year.

"Late again?" she said. I must have been late by like two minutes.

"Had FluMech class. Prof Veera overshot time and we did not even realize it."

"Prof Veera is that young guy right?"

"Yes, you know him?"

"Not really. Dad mentions him. I think my dad hates him."

"Your dad sounds like a total . . ."

She raised her eyebrows.

"Let's go in. I don't want to miss the trailers."

The movie was Total Recall, another sci-fi action crap. That's the thing about English theatres in Delhi. They either show action or adult movies. I don't mind the latter except that you can't really take a girl to them. Especially these really nice and good-Indian-traditional girls like Neha. So, you have the choice of sci-fi action nonsense or a Hindi movie. No self-respecting girl will watch a Hindi movie on a date. Hence, there I was again, to watch Arnold flex his muscles and blow up planets.

"You like sci-fi," she said as she took her seat.

"I do," I said. What choice did I have anyway?

"Typical IIT engineer."

Yeah right. Typical IIT engineers, my girl, don't skip design class to watch stupid movies.

And then just when I thought it couldn't get worse, it did. Neha and I took our seats in the balcony (Rs 35/ticket, total rip-off) and waited for the trailers to begin. However, according to a new government regulation, the theatre had to screen a ‘family planning documentary' first.

Okay, so India has this big population. So maybe people should just use some protection and we would have less new people. Simple enough, right? So you would think. Apparently, nobody wants to use contraception, so the government has to show people a more permanent way to not have kids.

The documentary began; a doctor in a government hospital introduced himself with a beatific smile. He was supposed to be your friend in family planning, though I think he was the angel of death, especially when he recommended one sure shot procedure — vasectomy.

The documentary showed this mill worker who had this idyllic home where he lived with his simple wife (who cooked all the time) and two kids. Then one day he sleeps and has a dream that he has six kids or something (obviously that would have taken a lot of screwing his wife, but they skipped all that). The kids need more food, education, toys and keep asking dad for more. But dad is tired from the mill job (not to mention the screwing) and breaks down. That is when our friend in family planning or angel of death appears.

The doctor had this portable flip-chart with a picture of the male anatomy. He opened it, and the whole theatre, especially the front rows, started hooting. (Theatres are the opposite of class lectures, the front row is where the action is.)

Anyway, so all this is going on when I am on my date. I had never approached the topic of sex (let alone controlling sex) with Neha. But there he was, the angel of death, showing the exact location of the cuts so that the male organ came under control. I was embarrassed like every other man in the balcony.

Neha looked at me, noticing I was shifting around in my seat.

"You all right?"

"Don't you think this is too much? Why do they have to show this indecent stuff?"

"What? It is educational."

"Yeah, right. I need that when I come to see a movie.”

"Oh come on Hari. I actually think it is pretty funny."

The wife on screen listened carefully to the doctor and smiled at the prospect of sex without any consequences. I think the doctor and the wife had a thing going, but that was just my imagination.

To the relief of all, the documentary ended in like half an hour. The mill worker wakes up and realizes how he must control his family and signs his reproductive facilities away. Happy ending, smiling faces of wife and kids which turn into cartoons, and the inverted triangle of the population control department. 'Small Family Happy Family' was the last nugget of wisdom thrown at us before trigger-happy Arnold took over the screen.

Neha held my hand as the movie began. She had grown comfortable with doing this and I could not hope for anything more. I remembered my last conversation with Ryan. Could Neha also secretly want to do more than hold hands? Could I just ask her? Should I just make a bold move?

We went to Nirula's after the movie for a meal. "So, what is Prof Veera like, tell me," Neha said, cutting the pizza we ordered into equal-sized pieces. Girls love organizing food on a table.

“He is really different," I said. "Like he doesn't discriminate between nine-pointers and five- pointers. And he likes original thinking. Even his assignments push you to think more." 

“Like how?"

“Like he gave a term paper asking students to think about an engineering problem linked to fluid mechanics. Most profs would have just said, 'do all the numericals at the end of Chapter 10' or something, but Prof Veera invites ideas." 

“Sounds cool. Is he good looking?" 

“I think so."

“Then I should try to see him. Maybe I'll ask dad to invite him home," she said and laughed.

A surge of jealousy rose within me. Somehow Prof Veera didn’t seem so nice anymore. "Go to hell." 

“Hey, are you getting jealous?" 

“No, why should I get jealous? I'm not your boyfriend." 

Neha laughed really hard. Jokes only she finds funny. Stupid woman, I feel like cutting off her cute lock of hair. 

"I am just kidding, silly," she said. "In any case my dad will kill me for that. And he hates him anyway. But it is nice to see you all worked up." 

“I’m not."

She held my hand, though she hadn't stopped laughing. What is so funny to women all the time? And why do I still find her so beautiful? And why the hell can't I kiss her?

She stopped laughing and got back her composure. "Sorry, Hari. Don't feel bad, you are my sweetest little special friend." 

Now what is that? Another title for the fortnight? 

She bent forward to kiss my cheek. Now is my chance, I thought. Give her the illusion that you don’t care then as soon as her mouth comes to the cheek, jerk once and move your lips there instead. This is the only way to kiss good Indian women, Ryan told me.

"What are you doing?" Neha pulled back.

I tried to look innocent.

"Were you trying to kiss me on the lips?"

"No."

"Hari, you know I am not into that."

Then what the hell are you into? Funny private jokes? Or your stuck-up father?

"Because this is wrong. This spoils everything. Because it feels wrong. You are not a girl, you won't understand."

Yes, I wanted to say, and you are not a guy, so you will not understand. So, should we just eat our pizza and go home? I didn't say anything. I had lost my chance, and right then even my desire. Besides, her face had turned sad. I didn't want her to be upset. Because we fixed our next date at the end of the meal. I didn't want to not fix the next date. "This pizza is good."

"You want to meet next Thursday?"

"Sure."

"I have to buy a gift for a friend's birthday. Will you come to Connaught Place with me?"

I agreed. I was sick of Priya and all the overpriced dating alternatives around it.

"Cool. I'll get the car, and pick you up from the ice-cream parlour," she said.

I scraped through the crumbs on the pizza plate without looking up. 

“Venkat, I have certain responsibilities . . ." Alok said.

“But they aren't my problem are they? This is the third time this month. It is about time I stop listening to this sort of stuff,” Venkat said, interrupting him. 

It was a chilly February night. The noise came from inside Venkat’s room. Ryan and I were in the corridor of our wing, returning from one of our visits to the canteen.

“Why are they talking so loudly?" Ryan said. 

“I don't know. Normally muggu Venkat's room is pretty quiet.”

Ryan put his ear on Venkat's door. 

“What are you doing?" I said. 

“Shh . . . I think they're having an argument."

“What do we have to do with it? Let's go," I said. 

“Shh . . . come here," Ryan said. 

At some level, even I was curious about the argument. Was it a big one? What was it about? I put my ear on the door, and every word could be heard loud and clear.  

“Alok, this is too much. I mean, I have to study for ten hours a day to keep my GPA. The least I can expect is to count on my group partners," Venkat was saying.

“My dad has become unconscious. We are worried he may have had a stroke! Two calls have come from home . . ." Alok said. 

“Listen, your mom always overplays your dad's illness. He will recover, how will your making a trip help?"

“I am the only man in the house Venkat. I want to go. Can’t you take care of it this time?"

"Actually, no. I have to study class notes for other subjects. I don't think you realize this, I mean how would you being a five-point something," Venkat said.

"Realize what?" Alok said.

"That I have to maintain my rank. The second guy in the department is only 0.03 behind me you know. Now should I finish this group assignment or read my notes?" Venkat said, or rather shouted.

"Bloody mugger," Ryan whispered in my ear. I signalled Ryan to keep quiet.

4Venkat you study all the time. Can't you just . . ." Alok said.

"I am a nine-pointer, do you understand?  I have to maintain my position!”  Venkat said, speaking more to remind himself than to tell Alok.

"But am I not your friend? You know I have to take care of my dad," Alok said, this time pleading more than protesting. 

"Enough!" Venkat said, "this assignment is worth ten percent. Alok, you can't go."

“Venkat please," Alok said, and voice started to sound like his mother's, which meant he was going to cry soon.

"This is too much, I am going in," Ryan said, kicking the door open. I would have tried to stop him, but Ryan acted in a nanosecond.

Alok was standing next to Venkat, who sat on the study chair. They turned toward us in surprise.

"What the . . ." Venkat said, "Ryan, what are you doing here?”

It was a valid question. What was a five-pointer doing in a nine-pointer's room? Venkat looked at Ryan as if a person searching for a bar had reached a temple.

"What's the problem?" Ryan said, completely ignoring Venkat.

I stood there silently, checking out Venkat's room. Apart from a bed and a few clothes, there were just books, books and more books.

“Ryan, it has got nothing to do with you," Alok said. I could tell he was shocked to see Ryan, yet somewhere deep down, like he felt his saviour was there.

The pathetic ‘I-will-cry-any-moment' expression had vanished.

“I said, what's the problem?" Ryan said.

“I’ll tell you what the problem is," Venkat said. “We have a Thermo assignment due tomorrow, and Alok and I are in the same group. It is ten percent. Yet, he wants to go home . . ."

“I am not off on some tour, Dad is really sick," Alok said. 

“Do you want me to go?" Ryan asked.

I was left puzzled. One year of silence, and now this sudden offer of help.

Did Ryan really want to get back with Alok or was he just proving what a prick Venkat was? 

“Huh? You? Where . . . home?" Alok said. 

“Yes, I know where you live and I have taken your dad to the hospital before. I have a scooter too and will get there faster. Or, if you need to go, then I can help you finish the assignment, except I don't want to work with this mugger bastard friend of yours,” said Ryan, stressing on the word 'friend'. 

This was too much. Ryan was acting like a Mother Teresa for Alok. The person Alok had insulted and left, was today a cure-all fairy from heaven. I looked at Venkat, who looked like a younger version of any of the anally retentive profs in the institute. He had put enough oil in his hair to cook an entire Kumaon dinner, his forehead sported an ash-mark from his devout prayers. Yet, at that moment, it was Ryan who looked like an angel.

“Really?" Alok said.

"So I go then," Ryan said and stood up. Alok nodded and Ryan left the room.

We remained silent for a minute. Ryan had solved a problem that could save a sick man's life and offer a nine-point mugger a future. All with a scooter ride to Alok's home.

"Well, that settles it then. I'll leave you to do the thermal assignment," I said and stood up to leave the room.

"Wait," Alok said.

"What?" I said.

Alok walked out of the room with me. Wasting no time, Venkat took out the thermodynamics book, giving Alok a glance which meant 'come back soon'.

"Thanks," Alok said.

"Thank Ryan," I said.

"Yes, I will. Is he still mad at me?"

"Obviously not, or why would he have gone to your house?"

"But you know Ryan, he could do things for you and yet be mad at you."

"Yes, he can sulk. But what difference does it make. Just thank him later." I was getting irritated with Alok. I didn't think he had the right to say he knew Ryan anymore, certainly not as much as me.

"Hari?" Alok said. "You think I can come back?" 

"Come back where?" I was bewildered. 

"You know, the three of us again." 

"Why? Venkat isn't working out for you?” 

"I didn't know what I was doing man. I want to move back.” 

I couldn't believe my ears. The difference one year with an obnoxious nine-pointer can make! "You sure?"

"Yes, I am sure." Alok's voice was small.

And then, like sentimental fools, we hugged each other. I think Alok was dying for a cry and he shed a few tears that he always has spare. I was kind of mellow too, I'd never thought the three of us could be together again. I knew Ryan would do some drama, but finally he would agree. If he could spend hours taking care of Alok's half-dad, he certainly felt something for him. "Good. Welcome back then," I said.

“Yes. Right after this damn thermal assignment though," Alok said and we laughed together for the first time in over a year.