Almost instantly we had gravitated towards a gang or a group. There were sixty of us but we had all fallen into our groups, with whom we hung out, exchanged notes and had fun with. Mine was a group of four. Apart from me, there was Suvi, Janie and Charu.
Suvi undoubtedly had the most dynamic personality in the group. She was short but what she lacked in height she made up in other areas. She was smart, stylish and enthusiastic with an attitude that was contagious. Most people warmed up to her. She was a bundle of energy, always ready for anything, a little impulsive and reckless too at times.
Charu, a Tam-brahm, was a personification of the generalizations that are made about them. She was studious, smart and intelligent. She even wore glasses. Her aim was to become a chartered accountant.
Janie was the gentle, quiet and the sensible one. Her ambition was either to become a nun or do her MSW and take up social work. We came together like a patchwork quilt and got along well despite our very different personalities.
But what I did not expect to learn so quickly at college was the ‘Great-Agnes-embarrass-a-guy-by-staring-at-his-crotch’ tradition. We were introduced, instructed and inducted into it by our seniors when we shared a lecture with them for Mercantile Law, which was the only subject in the whole college being taught by a male. The raging hormones plus the losing of all inhibitions that a woman's college does to you, was enough for everyone to co-operate on the single point agenda of this tradition. He was nick named Porukki-merki. ‘Porruki’ was a colloquial word in the local language. Loosely translated it stood for an oaf or a ‘good-for-nothing’ guy, implying he was a skirt chaser. Which was really ironic as it were the girls who were doing the pretend-chase here, not him.
The girls mostly stared very pointedly at his crotch throughout the duration of the lecture. He would begin by pretending not to notice. But of course, he would notice. There was no way he could not see something as obvious and outrageous as that, but he couldn't do a thing. The unspoken rule was that in Mercantile Law Class, you were allowed only to look at Merki's crotch. There were about a hundred and twenty of us, women, all starved of male company and his looks did not deter us at all. Merki was a middle aged, short, slightly overweight professor, with pot belly and he always tucked his shirt in. He had a large mop of thick black, oily, curly hair and a moustache shaped like the head of a toilet cleaning brush. His eyes were tiny black slits on his chubby face and they darted quickly in all directions. He could have been a bad caricature of a hero of a Malayalam movie. He would begin by explaining some concept in Mercantile Law earnestly and then within ten minutes, beads of sweat would begin appearing on his forehead. He would then take out his spotless white handkerchief and mop his brow repeatedly. The girls were relentless. Even when he asked a question, the girl who stood up to answer would still not take her eyes away from his crotch. I really pitied the poor man. But secretly I wondered if he actually enjoyed it too. I doubted if he ever got any female attention outside the gates of the college.
My letters to Vaibhav described all this and more. Our letters to each other were getting longer and longer. We became experts in anticipating how much postage would be needed for each letter. As the weeks sped our letters to each other were our constant connection, our link and the happiness we derived from them kept both of us going.
During the day, in the middle of some activity I was busily involved in, I caught myself thinking of something he had written and I found myself smiling. I caught myself making mental notes to tell him about little things that had just occurred. He wrote that it was the same for him. He said he never remembered being so enthusiastic about life, before this. He said I gave him an anchor, a purpose and a meaning to his existence. I told him he was a sentimental fool and he should write poetry. Secretly of course, I loved it. He knew it too. I liked being adored. I liked the feeling of being so important to someone. I liked being the centre of someone's world.
A year flew by and I did not even feel it pass. Then when my 18th birthday was approaching, he decided that letters were just not enough. He said he wanted to talk to me.
Getting to talk to Vaibhav on the phone involved putting together a complex combat mission much like U.S Airborne division of paratroopers in World War Two. There were no mobile phones those days. It required detailed, precise planning, a lot of forethought and co-ordination down to the last detail. He had once tried the direct approach and called up at a decent hour. My mother had answered the phone. He greeted her and she had said a curt ‘Yes?’ She did not return the greeting. She said “Ankita cannot come to the phone right now” and had hung up abruptly. I was in my room and had heard every word. My ears burnt with indignation and tears of anger were swelling in my eyes. But I hid them well. There was no way I could argue with her.
That did not stop us though. We both agreed that a phone call would be considered successful if we managed to speak to each other for at least four minutes. Vaibhav had outlined three parts for ‘Operation Mission Phone-call.’
Part one was Pre mission planning considerations which were
1. My brother had to be asleep.
2. My parents had to be out for their morning walk which they usually never missed.
Part two was Support forces which were
1. The telephone booth guy from where Vaibhav made those early morning phone calls should have woken up. (Vaibhav later told me that he had to shake him vigorously or yell real loudly into his ear. He always charged him ten rupees extra —early morning rates, he claimed)
2. I should have woken up well on time so I could grab the phone on the first ring—else there was a chance of my brother waking up.
Part three was anticipated threats which might lead to an ‘Abort Mission’ and these included
1. My parents returning earlier than usual.
2. My brother picking up the telephone extension and listening in.
My calling up Vaibhav was ruled out, as I could not possibly sneak out to a telephone booth at night. During the day I had tried twice to call his hostel phone. His batch mates would yell out for him. I'd hang up and call after five minutes. Both times I was told he was not in the room. I gave up after that, as it meant I had to sneak out of college between my breaks and hurry back in time for the next class. They marked attendance every hour, not just once in the morning like in school.
On my 18th birthday, I pretended to be asleep and lay still in my bed, listening to my parents leaving for their walk. The metallic clang of the latch on the gate told me they had left. I tip toed quietly into the living room where the extension of the telephone was and unplugged it. Then I went back into my parents' room and lifted the phone and listened for a dial tone. It purred contentedly. Satisfied, I placed it back. Then I double checked to see if I had placed it correctly.
When you are waiting for a phone call, time seems to really drag. If you have ever waited for a phone call you know exactly what I am talking about. You do not know what to do. You just wish and hope and will the phone to ring. Yo u want time to fly. I sat next to the phone and waited. After a while, I slid down to the floor and continued waiting.
It rang exactly as planned and I grabbed it even before the first ring was completed.
“Hey,” I managed to whisper.
Silence.
“Hello?”
Silence again.
Then I could hear the music starting. For a few seconds I had no idea what was going on. Then the penny dropped.
Craig Chaquico's guitar solo blended perfectly with the voice of Grace Slick to make magic that day, as I listened hundreds of miles away over a phone line, at 5:45 a.m in the morning, huddled on the cold floor, the phone glued to my ear, in my parents' bedroom. It was a love song which had climbed the Billboard hot hundred charts when it had been released. At that time I could not identify the band or the artist, but later I would know that it was a song by the band Jefferson Starship. Later I would also write down the lyrics, memorize them and listen to them a hundred times over.<
br />
“Looking in your eyes I see a paradise
This world that I've found
Is too good to be true
Standing here beside you
Want so much to give you
This love in my heart that I'm feeling for you”
A guitar solo was played here. And then it continued.
The whole song took about four and a half minutes. In between, I tried telling him to stop playing the song and that I get the sentiments behind it. But he continued playing it till the very end. Then he came on the line and said
“Happy birthday Ankita and I do mean every word in the lyrics of the song”.
I could have died right there and I would have been the happiest person on earth. I did not know what to say.
“Idiot,” I said finally. “Why did you waste time playing the whole song? We could have talked for that much time more.”
“Talk now. ”
“What do I say? I don't know what to say,” a huge smile stretched across my face.
“You could begin by saying what a great guy I am.”
“Rubbish. You are a dumbo and a fool. How did you manage it?”
“I have my ways.”
Those days there were no mp3 s or CDs or I-pods for music. We listened to music on spools of tape in a cassette which we used in tape recorders. He must have hunted for the tape for this song, rewound the tape to the exact point where it started, got batteries for the tape recorder, and then carried it to the phone booth, early in the morning. It was the month of December and I knew Delhi was freezing at that time. I was amazed and touched by the effort he made.
I wanted to talk for some more time to him. I did not want the phone call to end. I was feeling elated and on top of the world. Suddenly all the crazy things that I had read in books about what people in love did were beginning to make sense. So were the countless little things that lovers in movies did.
But somewhere, sense prevailed as I also knew that if my parents came back, it would ruin a perfectly great start to a birthday, that too one which was a milestone.
“I love you baby,” he said. The way his voice went all soft and low when he said it gave me goose bumps. He had actually said the words.
“Hang up now,” I said. “And take care. Bye.”
I hung up before he did. I sat on the floor and a huge smile stretched across my face.
My heart sang. I felt ecstatic. I was still smiling when I heard the metallic clang of the gate again. I ran into my room, jumped into bed, covered myself with the blanket and kept smiling, the words of “Nothing's gonna stop us now” were going round and round in my head.
Once you know what direction to take, finding the path to it becomes easy. After experiencing the super-high that ‘Operation phone call’ gave both of us, we wanted more of it. Compared to this, waiting for letters seemed tame. Vaibhav said he would call me every Thursday. He chose Thursday as I had been born on a Thursday. I found the gesture charming. But then, I was beginning to find anything he did for me charming.
Each Thursday there would be so much to tell him when he called. This was in addition to the letters. I wanted to share so much with him. Every minute detail had to be shared, and he was just as eager to listen. He said he loved the sound of my voice. He said he could picture me sitting on the floor in my parents' bedroom and talking to him. He always began with a “Hey” in that low baritone which I had grown to love and ended by saying “Take care, ok? I love you.” His voice always went low and syrupy when he said that. I loved it.
He could have repeated that line a million times and I would have never tired of hearing it. What amazed both of us was that there was always so much to say. We never ran out of things to talk about. Each call must have lasted for about six or seven minutes as that was all he could afford and it somehow was never ever enough. I once mentioned to him that I could send him money for the phone calls as I felt guilty that he was spending so much. He wouldn't even hear of it and we never discussed it again.
On one Thursday, during yet another operation phone-call, my parents came back earlier than expected. I nearly jumped out of my skin when I heard the main entrance door of the house opening. I must have been so engrossed that I hadn't heard the giveaway metallic clang of the gate. There was no time to dash out. I panicked, hung up, rolled over and hid under the bed.
Seconds later, my dad and mom walked straight into the bedroom. My heart was pounding and I felt like a burglar. I was desperately thinking up excuses to say if they found me there. The phone rang again. Vaibhav must have presumed that the line had got disconnected. My dad answered it and hung up when there was no reply from the other end. I lay under the bed, as still as a rock. And fortunately for me, neither of my parents discovered me. I lay there for at least forty five minutes, till my dad went out of the room. My mother was in the kitchen. I could tell by the sounds.
Later I crawled out and bolted to safety, feeling exactly like a commando who moves from one trench to another, during war time. I knew Vaibhav would call the next day. And I was back at the phone, waiting.
He did.
“Idiot,” I said “I nearly died. I had to lie under the bed for forty five minutes. You are a fool of the first order. Why the hell did you call back? You should have used your brains!”
He laughed and laughed some more. I laughed along with him, delighted to hear the sound of his laughter.
“How was I to know?” he said when he finally stopped laughing. “I nearly jumped out of the phone booth myself when your dad answered.”
I hung up quickly that day. I did not have the stomach to risk another trench operation.
3
Election Selection
The college elections in Kerala are a huge event as they are heavily politicised. It gave a good indication of which party would form the next Government. It was well known that political parties sponsor the campaign expenses of the students' wing of their respective parties. Posters are put up all over the town, especially at the places which students frequent. There are groups moving around in jeeps with loudspeakers blaring out announcements all around the campuses. There are fliers, and election speeches. There is intense competition and the air is electric. There were also instances where candidates were stabbed and killed because of inter group rivalry. It was a messy business.
St. Agnes wanted to steer clear of all this, and so the elections in our college were completely devoid of politics. It was a bit like school election, but on a much bigger scale. There were eight major official positions the most important being the posts of Chairperson, Arts Club Secretary and General Secretary. A notice was put up announcing the election dates and inviting nominations for the posts. Anybody could nominate a student for any position. The nomination forms had to be filled up in triplicate and submitted. It had to be endorsed by two other people.
Suvi shot into the college canteen like a rocket from her hostel and said “Did you all see the notice?”
“Yeah,” said Janie. “We saw it yesterday.”
“And..?” prompted Suvi
“And what?” I asked.
“Guess,” she said, her eyes gleaming. Her excitement was infectious. She looked charged.
“A re you contesting? Wo w! That's great!” I exclaimed.
“No you, idiot, you are.”
I was stunned. Then I recovered.
“What? What nonsense! How can I contest?” A second later I asked curiously, “What post?”
“ We have already filled up the forms and given your name for Arts Club Secretary,” she danced.
“What an idiot you are. Didn't you think of checking with me first? And who endorsed my nomination?” I spluttered, a little indignant, a lot flattered and also slightly reluctant all at the same time.
“Smitha and Hannah,” she said. They were her room mates in the hostel.
“Don't worry,” Suvi assured me. “We will do all the campaigning for you. It will be fun.”
“Yeah, right. It
is fun for you. It is me who has to stand in front of all those people and beg for votes. I can't do it.”
“Weren't you the head girl in school?”
“So? That was different. They chose me. I did not have to beg for votes.”
“So—we choose you” said Suvi. “Vote for….” She shouted.
And to my surprise Janie and Charu shouted “Ankita” and they caught my hand and raised it, just like a referee of a boxing match raising the hand of a winner.
Everyone in the canteen turned to look and they continued their chants. “Ankita for Arts Secy. Vote for Ankita,” they continued screaming and my classmates who were in the canteen joined in.
When my initial embarrassment was gone, it was replaced by a sense of competitive spirit. My whole class got involved. Suvi appointed herself my chief campaign coordinator and managed to collect funds. I was surprised to see people actually contributing so much money. The whole hostel was behind me too. They had to be, with Suvi around! Suvi was such a whirlwind. She motivated everybody. They made posters. They made fliers and I led them like a true Indian politician. We went all around the campus. Suvi managed to hire a huge drum and between Smitha, Hannah and herself, they managed to carry it around and make a big noise. Sandhya got a bugle too and she led the ‘band’. I must admit she knew how to play it well and everybody came out to the see the unique musical entourage, cheering wildly, holding placards and posters urging all to vote for their candidate—‘Ankita for Arts Secy’. Initially I felt a bit silly doing it, but when I saw the frenzy that other candidates were whipping up I did not feel out of place anymore.
My opponent was a first year pre-degree student, the equivalent of a student of Class eleven. We were now in our second year of Bachelor's degree and naturally our campaign style, content and the support we gathered was so much better and more sophisticated than what they managed.
We took our breaks in the canteen, between campaign runs and speeches. We also discussed our next move, what the strong areas were, where I needed to focus and where we needed to campaign more strongly, which pockets were ours and which were not.
Life Is What You Make It A Story Of Love, Hope And How Determination Can Overcome Even Destiny Page 2
