without being obvious. Who wants to abandon a pretty girl’s hand? Anyway, I had to after I
was standing up.
“Hi. I am Neha by the way. Listen, I am really sorry,” she said, adjusting her hair again
with the hand I had just held.
“Hi. I am Hari, still alive so it is okay,” I grinned.
“Yeah, you see I am learning to drive,” she said pointing to the ‘L’ sign on the
windscreen. That is understandable, I thought, you are allowed to hit people if you are
learning to drive, especially if you are eye-candy.
Now to be very frank, I wasn’t hurt or anything. For one thing, she was driving at like two
kilometers an hour, and I think my adipose tissues absorb bumps better than most people’s.
Still, I wanted to milk this moment.
“You sure you don’t need a lift? I feel really bad,” she said, wringing her hands.
“Actually, I am sort of tempted to get a drop back to Kumaon,” I said.
“Sure. Please come in,” she said and chuckled, “if you trust my driving, that is.”
We got into the car. I saw her sit carefully in the driver’s seat, as if she was running the
starship Enterprise or something. Then she placed her bare foot on the accelerator. Now
maybe it is because I am an engineer, but that was hot. Bare female skin on metal is
enormously sexy. There was dark red nail polish on her toenails, with one or two toes
encircled in weird squiggly silver ringlets that only girls can justify wearing. I just wanted
to keep looking at her feet but she started to talk.
“Kumaon hostel, so a student, eh?”
“Yes. First year, mechanical engineering.”
“Cool. So how are you finding it, college and everything? Fun?”
“Nothing much, just running around to keep up all the time.”
“So you have to study a lot? What do guys call it – mugging.”
“Yeah, we have to mug. Some damn profs get this vicious joy driving students nuts….”
“My dad is a prof,” Neha said.
“Really?” I said and almost jumped in my seat. I was lucky I did not fully express my
insightful views on professors and I was hoping she was not Prof Dubey’s daughter.
“Yes, I live in faculty housing,” she said. The car had passed the housing blocks now, and
we were nearing the insti building.
“And that is my dad’s office,” she said, pointing to one of the dozens of rooms.
“Really?” I said again, my mind racing flashback to gauge if I had done anything that
could get me into trouble. “What’s his name?” I asked casually.
“Prof Cherian. You probably don’t know him, he won’t take a course until your third
year.”
I shook my head. I had heard the name, but never seen Prof Cherian. Then I remembered
our first class. “Is he the head of the Mechanical Engineering department?” I said, looking
austerely away from her feet.
Sensing my anxiety, she patted my arm while shifting into third gear. “Yes, he is. But don’t
be tense, he is the prof, not me. So relax.” She burst out laughing as if she knew of my
fascination with her feet.
We chatted for a few more minutes along the insti-hostel road. She told me about her
college, where she was studying fashion design. She had lived in this campus for over ten
years and knew most of the professors.
She apologized again when we came near Kumaon, and asked if she could do anything for
me.
“No, it is all fine really,” I reassured her.
“Sure Hari? So will I see you again when you jog?”
“I guess,” I said, dreading another round of Ryan’s training.
“Great. Maybe sometime, I can drive you to the deer park outside campus, lots of joggers
there. And you get excellent morning tea snacks there. I owe you a treat,” she said.
I was nervous at meeting the daughter of my head of department again. But her offer, and
mostly she herself, was too irresistible.
“That sounds great,” I said leaping out of the car, “free food is always welcome. Keep
bumping me.”
She smiled, waved and the little red car disappeared from sight. Her image still floated
in my head as I reached the Kumaon lawns. Ryan was already waiting there, doing push-ups
or pull-downs or something. He had seen me get out of the car and demanded full
explanation. I had to then repeat it to Alok. Though they exhibited appropriate excitement,
asking me how she looked and everything, they also told me to stay away from her, given
she was a prof ’s offspring.
But they had neither seen her nor talked to her. I was dying to meet her again, was waiting
for the next time I bumped into her and could feast silly at the sight of those two bare-naked
feet
Five Point Someone What not to do at IIT Novel Chetan Bhagat
Re: Five Point Someone What not to do at IIT Novel Chetan Bh
4
—
Line Drawing
BANG IN THE MIDDLE OF THE FIRST SEMESTER CAME Ryan’s scooter. His parents
sent him a dollar cheque as a Christmas gift as everybody else around them was doing in
Europe. Ryan was not a Christian and cared two hoots about Christmas, but loved the
cheque and cashed it; voila scooter – a beautiful Kinetic Honda in gleaming metallic blue.
When Ryan got it to Kumaon, all the students gathered around it to pay homage, but only
Alok and I got to park our butts on it. It was for two people, but Ryan carried both of us; we
went to class, canteen and on rare occasions to movies like the Terminator zipping away on
Ryan’s Kinetic, letting the world watch us in envy and the scooter in probable pity, groaning
as it was under our combined weight.
Meanwhile, classes got worse. The professors kept up the pressure and the overworked
students worked even harder to beat the average, thereby pushing the average higher. We
still studied together, but the resolve to concentrate was breaking down. We had managed to
reach average grades in a few assignments, but in physics we had messed up.
One night Alok got a call from home. His father had had a seizure or something and
someone had to take him to the hospital pronto. Alok’s mother had never done this alone and
she sounded hysterical enough to warrant a trip for herself to the hospital.
There was a strong rumour of a physics quiz circulating but Alok had no choice. Ryan
offered his scooter, which Alok couldn’t drive for nuts. Hence Ryan had to go as well. I did
not want to be alone, so I went along.
It was the first time I’d seen Alok’s home. I told you he was kind of poor, I mean not
World Bank ads type starving poor or anything, but his home had the barest minimum one
would need for existence. There was light, but no lampshades, there was a living room, but
no couches, there was a TV, but not a colour one. The living room was where lived Alok’s
father, entertaining himself with one of the two TV channels, close to unconscious by the
time we reached. Alok’s mother was already waiting, using her sari edge to wipe her tears.
“Alok, my son, look what happens when you are not here,” she said in a pathetic voice
that would make even Hitler cry. Man, I could totally see where Alok got his whining talent.
Anyway, I hired an auto and Ryan and Alok lifted the patient into it. We then went to the
hospital, checked him in and waited until a doctor, unfortunate enough to work in an
overcrowded free government hospital, saw Alok’s father. We returned to Kumaon at three
in the morning exhausted and nauseated by hospital smells.
Of course, you can imagine what happened the next day, the physics quiz, that’s what
happened and we screwed up big time. We got like two on twenty or some such miserable
score. Alok tried to ask the professor for a re-quiz, who stared back as if he had been asked
for both his kidneys.
That physics quiz episode broke Alok a bit. Now he was less vigilant when Ryan
distracted us from studies.
“You know guys, this whole IIT system is sick,” Ryan declared.
“There he goes again,” I rolled my eyes. We were in my room.
I expected Alok to ignore Ryan, but this time he led him on with a monosyllable. “Why?”
“Because, tell me, how many great engineers or scientists have come out of IIT?”
“What do you mean? Many CEOs and entrepreneurs have,” I said, a mistake as Ryan had
not finished yet.
“I mean this is supposed to be the best college in India, the best technology institute for a
country of a billion. But has IIT ever invented anything? Or made any technical contribution
to India?”
“Doesn’t it contribute in making engineers?” Alok asked, snapping shut his book. I knew
that with Alok not keeping us in check, we were not going to study any more that day. I
suggested we go out to Sasi’s for paranthas and skip the mess dinner. Everyone agreed.
Ryan continued to muse. “Over thirty years of IITs, yet, all it does is train some bright
kids to work in multinationals. I mean look at MIT in the USA.”
“This is not the USA,” I said, signalling Sasi’s minions to bring three plates of paranthas.
“MITs have budgets of millions of dollars.”
“And anyway, who cares, I want to get the degree and land a good job,” Alok said.
Sasi’s was a ramshackle, illegal roadside establishment right outside the IIT hostel gates.
Using tents and stools, the alfresco dining menu included paranthas, lemonade and
cigarettes. At two rupees each, the butter paranthas were a bargain, even by student
standards. Proprietor Sasi knew the quality of food in the mess and did a voluminous
business serving dozens of students each day from every hostel. We got three plates of
paranthas, and the dollop of butter on top melted and produced a delicious aroma.
“See, it is not always the money,” Ryan said, flicking ash. “So IITs cannot do space
research, but we surely can make some cheaper products? And frankly, money is just an
excuse. If there is value, the industry will pay for research even at IIT.”
“So what the hell is wrong then?” I was irritated. I seriously wanted Ryan to shut up, now
that the food was here. I mean, if he did not want to study, fine, but spare us the bloody
lecture, it wreaks havoc on digestion.
“What is wrong is the system,” Ryan denounced soundly, sounding like a local politician.
Blame the whole damn system if you can’t figure anything out.
But Ryan had more. “This system of relative grading and overburdening the students. I
mean it kills the best fun years of your life. But it kills something else. Where is the room
for original thought? Where is the time for creativity? It is not fair.”
“What about it is not fair? It gets me work, that’s all I care,” Alok shrugged, taking a
break from devouring his rations.
“Wow, that rhymes,” I said.
“See your attitude is another problem. You won’t get it, forget it,” Ryan said.
“That rhymes too,” I said and Alok and I broke into giggles. I knew I was annoying Ryan
like hell, but I really wanted him to shut up or at least change the topic. That lazy bastard
would find any reason to goof off.
“Screw you,” Ryan gestured, diving back to his plate.
“Anyway,” I said, “so what is the plan for the weekend?”
“Nothing, why?” Alok looked up.
“Well, we have the scooter now.”
Ryan stayed silent.
—
Line Drawing
BANG IN THE MIDDLE OF THE FIRST SEMESTER CAME Ryan’s scooter. His parents
sent him a dollar cheque as a Christmas gift as everybody else around them was doing in
Europe. Ryan was not a Christian and cared two hoots about Christmas, but loved the
cheque and cashed it; voila scooter – a beautiful Kinetic Honda in gleaming metallic blue.
When Ryan got it to Kumaon, all the students gathered around it to pay homage, but only
Alok and I got to park our butts on it. It was for two people, but Ryan carried both of us; we
went to class, canteen and on rare occasions to movies like the Terminator zipping away on
Ryan’s Kinetic, letting the world watch us in envy and the scooter in probable pity, groaning
as it was under our combined weight.
Meanwhile, classes got worse. The professors kept up the pressure and the overworked
students worked even harder to beat the average, thereby pushing the average higher. We
still studied together, but the resolve to concentrate was breaking down. We had managed to
reach average grades in a few assignments, but in physics we had messed up.
One night Alok got a call from home. His father had had a seizure or something and
someone had to take him to the hospital pronto. Alok’s mother had never done this alone and
she sounded hysterical enough to warrant a trip for herself to the hospital.
There was a strong rumour of a physics quiz circulating but Alok had no choice. Ryan
offered his scooter, which Alok couldn’t drive for nuts. Hence Ryan had to go as well. I did
not want to be alone, so I went along.
It was the first time I’d seen Alok’s home. I told you he was kind of poor, I mean not
World Bank ads type starving poor or anything, but his home had the barest minimum one
would need for existence. There was light, but no lampshades, there was a living room, but
no couches, there was a TV, but not a colour one. The living room was where lived Alok’s
father, entertaining himself with one of the two TV channels, close to unconscious by the
time we reached. Alok’s mother was already waiting, using her sari edge to wipe her tears.
“Alok, my son, look what happens when you are not here,” she said in a pathetic voice
that would make even Hitler cry. Man, I could totally see where Alok got his whining talent.
Anyway, I hired an auto and Ryan and Alok lifted the patient into it. We then went to the
hospital, checked him in and waited until a doctor, unfortunate enough to work in an
overcrowded free government hospital, saw Alok’s father. We returned to Kumaon at three
in the morning exhausted and nauseated by hospital smells.
Of course, you can imagine what happened the next day, the physics quiz, that’s what
happened and we screwed up big time. We got like two on twenty or some such miserable
score. Alok tried to ask the professor for a re-quiz, who stared back as if he had been asked
for both his kidneys.
That physics quiz episode broke Alok a bit. Now he was less vigilant when Ryan
distracted us from studies.
“You know guys, this whole IIT system is sick,” Ryan declared.
“There he goes again,” I rolled my eyes. We were in my room.
I expected Alok to ignore Ryan, but this time he led him on with a monosyllable. “Why?”
“Because, tell me, how many great engineers or scientists have come out of IIT?”
“What do you mean? Many CEOs and entrepreneurs have,” I said, a mistake as Ryan had
not finished yet.
“I mean this is supposed to be the best college in India, the best technology institute for a
country of a billion. But has IIT ever invented anything? Or made any technical contribution
to India?”
“Doesn’t it contribute in making engineers?” Alok asked, snapping shut his book. I knew
that with Alok not keeping us in check, we were not going to study any more that day. I
suggested we go out to Sasi’s for paranthas and skip the mess dinner. Everyone agreed.
Ryan continued to muse. “Over thirty years of IITs, yet, all it does is train some bright
kids to work in multinationals. I mean look at MIT in the USA.”
“This is not the USA,” I said, signalling Sasi’s minions to bring three plates of paranthas.
“MITs have budgets of millions of dollars.”
“And anyway, who cares, I want to get the degree and land a good job,” Alok said.
Sasi’s was a ramshackle, illegal roadside establishment right outside the IIT hostel gates.
Using tents and stools, the alfresco dining menu included paranthas, lemonade and
cigarettes. At two rupees each, the butter paranthas were a bargain, even by student
standards. Proprietor Sasi knew the quality of food in the mess and did a voluminous
business serving dozens of students each day from every hostel. We got three plates of
paranthas, and the dollop of butter on top melted and produced a delicious aroma.
“See, it is not always the money,” Ryan said, flicking ash. “So IITs cannot do space
research, but we surely can make some cheaper products? And frankly, money is just an
excuse. If there is value, the industry will pay for research even at IIT.”
“So what the hell is wrong then?” I was irritated. I seriously wanted Ryan to shut up, now
that the food was here. I mean, if he did not want to study, fine, but spare us the bloody
lecture, it wreaks havoc on digestion.
“What is wrong is the system,” Ryan denounced soundly, sounding like a local politician.
Blame the whole damn system if you can’t figure anything out.
But Ryan had more. “This system of relative grading and overburdening the students. I
mean it kills the best fun years of your life. But it kills something else. Where is the room
for original thought? Where is the time for creativity? It is not fair.”
“What about it is not fair? It gets me work, that’s all I care,” Alok shrugged, taking a
break from devouring his rations.
“Wow, that rhymes,” I said.
“See your attitude is another problem. You won’t get it, forget it,” Ryan said.
“That rhymes too,” I said and Alok and I broke into giggles. I knew I was annoying Ryan
like hell, but I really wanted him to shut up or at least change the topic. That lazy bastard
would find any reason to goof off.
“Screw you,” Ryan gestured, diving back to his plate.
“Anyway,” I said, “so what is the plan for the weekend?”
“Nothing, why?” Alok looked up.
“Well, we have the scooter now.”
Ryan stayed silent.
Re: Five Point Someone What not to do at IIT Novel Chetan Bh
“Hey, stop sulking like a woman.” I nudged his elbow until he had to laugh.
“Yes, we can go, you dope. Connaught Place?”
“Why?” Alok repeated.
“Well, they have this cheap dhabha there with the best butter chicken and we can catch a
good Hindi movie. And then maybe check out some girls in the market.” Ryan’s eyes were
exaggeratedly lecherous.
“Sounds good,” I said, the mention of girls making me think of Neha. I had not bumped
into her again, maybe I should go jogging again.
“Alok, you’ll come too, right? Or will you mug all day?”
“Uh..there is this ApMech worksheet…anyway, screw it man…yes, I will come,” Alok
capitulated.
We did go to Connaught Place that weekend and had quite a blast. The movie was what
every Hindi movie is like – regular boy meets girl, boy is poor and honest, girl’s dad is rich
and a crook. However, the heroine was new and eager to please the crowds so she bathed in
the rain, played tennis in mini-skirts and wore sequined negligees to discos. Since all her
hobbies involved wearing less or transparent clothing, the audience loved her. The girl’s
father damn near killed the boy who flirted with his hot daughter, but ultimately the hero’s
love and lust prevailed. The hero had no damn assignments to finish and no freaky profs
breathing down his neck. I know, these Hindi movies are all crap, but they do kind of take
your mind away from the crap of real life like nothing else.
After movie came lunch. The dhabha was great as Ryan is never wrong about these
things. He ordered for everyone, which he always does. And he orders big – right from
boneless butter chicken to daal to paranthas to raita. The spoilt brat even orders the
overpriced Coke, I mean, which student orders Coke in restaurants? Anyway, the meal was
great, and an overactive desert-cooler sprayed water on our faces and kept the ambience
cool.
Tearing his rotis like a famished Unicef kid, Alok got chatty. “This is too good man, the
chicken is fundoo here.”
“So tell me, Fatso, did you have fun today or not?” Ryan asked.
“Uh-huh,” said Alok, mouth too stuffed with food, but he meant yes.
“Then tell me, why the hell do you want to kill yourself with books?”
“Aw, don’t you guys start arguing again,” I groaned. I had enjoyed my day so far and
watching these jokers go at it is really not funny after a while.
“We are not arguing,” Ryan said, in a tone that sounded like he was arguing with me now.
He took a deep breath. “Okay, here is the thing. I have been thinking.”
Oh please, spare us, I thought. But it was too late.
“Guys, these are the best years of our life. They really are. I mean, especially for
someone like Alok.”
“What, why specially me?” Alok was baffled, nibbling at a chilli from the salad bowl.
“It brings out the amino acids in your eyes,” I joked, when he coughed at the tangy
spiciness.
“Because,” Ryan told Alok, “look at your life before this. I mean, I know you love your
dad and everything. But like, you were just nursing him and studying for the past two years.
And after college, you’ll probably have to live with them again, right?”
“I’ll take up a job in Delhi,” Alok nodded, a bit more serious now, though his mind was
still preoccupied with chicken breast.
“Exactly, so it is back to the same responsibility again. I mean, you will earn and
everything, and maybe hire a servant. But still, would you be able to have this kind of fun?”
“I love my parents, Ryan, it is not a responsibility,” Alok said and stopped eating. Boy,
this must have affected him. Usually, the Fatso will not leave chicken for his life.
“Of course, you love them,” Ryan waved a hand. “I mean, I can understand that even
though I don’t love my parents.”
“What?” I said, though I had not wanted to be part of their argument.
“I said I don’t love my parents. Is that a big deal?”
Alok raised his eyebrows at me. I mean, if Alok could love his dad, who if you think
about it, is no more than a vegetable with vision, how could this brat not love his parents?
And his parents were nice, I mean they gave him everything - the blue scooter, clothes from
Gap and money for the damn colas at restaurants. His parents had worked their asses off all
their lives, started selling flower pots with two potters, and then moved all over India to
make a name until two years ago when they went overseas. They weren’t making any big
money out there yet but wanted to keep sonny boy happy, this spoilt, pigheaded, marginally
good-looking ass who did not love them!
“Screw you,” I blessed.
“Screw you! You don’t even listen to me,” Ryan said.
Yeah right, that when I listened to this idiot all the time.
“Why?” Alok said, getting back to his food.
“I don’t know why. I mean, I have been in boarding school when I was six. Of course,
like every kid I hated it and cried when they left me. But then, it was at boarding school I
got everything. I did well in studies, got noticed in sports, learnt how to have fun and live
well and made my best friends. So, somewhere down the line, I don’t miss them anymore.
Just kind of outgrew them. Sure, we meet at vacation time and they send letters, cash, and
everything but...”
“But?”
“But I don’t miss them.”
“So you don’t think that is wrong?” Alok picked teeth.
“Heck, no. I mean, for me my friends are everything, they are my family. Mom and Dad
are nice, but I don’t love them the way I love my friends. I mean, I don’t love them, but I
love my friends.”
“So you love us then Ryan aah? I love you,” Alok said in a falsetto; he was obviously
satiated, his lighter mood a proof of his post-gluttony bonhomie.
“Up yours, Fatso, love you my ass,” Ryan said and some heads turned to look at us.
Ryan, however, came back to his earlier theory.
“Anyway, my point is, these are our best years. So either we can mug ourselves to death,
or tell the system to stuff it.”
“And how exactly do we tell the system to stuff it?” I enquired.
“I mean, not like stop mugging completely or something, but like, let us draw a line. We
can study two-three hours a day, but do other stuff, say sports, have you guys ever played
squash? Or taken part in events – debates, scrabble and stuff, an odd movie or something
sometimes. We can do so much at the insti.”
“Yeah, but very few people do it. And they are the ones with pretty bad GPAs,” Alok
“Yes, we can go, you dope. Connaught Place?”
“Why?” Alok repeated.
“Well, they have this cheap dhabha there with the best butter chicken and we can catch a
good Hindi movie. And then maybe check out some girls in the market.” Ryan’s eyes were
exaggeratedly lecherous.
“Sounds good,” I said, the mention of girls making me think of Neha. I had not bumped
into her again, maybe I should go jogging again.
“Alok, you’ll come too, right? Or will you mug all day?”
“Uh..there is this ApMech worksheet…anyway, screw it man…yes, I will come,” Alok
capitulated.
We did go to Connaught Place that weekend and had quite a blast. The movie was what
every Hindi movie is like – regular boy meets girl, boy is poor and honest, girl’s dad is rich
and a crook. However, the heroine was new and eager to please the crowds so she bathed in
the rain, played tennis in mini-skirts and wore sequined negligees to discos. Since all her
hobbies involved wearing less or transparent clothing, the audience loved her. The girl’s
father damn near killed the boy who flirted with his hot daughter, but ultimately the hero’s
love and lust prevailed. The hero had no damn assignments to finish and no freaky profs
breathing down his neck. I know, these Hindi movies are all crap, but they do kind of take
your mind away from the crap of real life like nothing else.
After movie came lunch. The dhabha was great as Ryan is never wrong about these
things. He ordered for everyone, which he always does. And he orders big – right from
boneless butter chicken to daal to paranthas to raita. The spoilt brat even orders the
overpriced Coke, I mean, which student orders Coke in restaurants? Anyway, the meal was
great, and an overactive desert-cooler sprayed water on our faces and kept the ambience
cool.
Tearing his rotis like a famished Unicef kid, Alok got chatty. “This is too good man, the
chicken is fundoo here.”
“So tell me, Fatso, did you have fun today or not?” Ryan asked.
“Uh-huh,” said Alok, mouth too stuffed with food, but he meant yes.
“Then tell me, why the hell do you want to kill yourself with books?”
“Aw, don’t you guys start arguing again,” I groaned. I had enjoyed my day so far and
watching these jokers go at it is really not funny after a while.
“We are not arguing,” Ryan said, in a tone that sounded like he was arguing with me now.
He took a deep breath. “Okay, here is the thing. I have been thinking.”
Oh please, spare us, I thought. But it was too late.
“Guys, these are the best years of our life. They really are. I mean, especially for
someone like Alok.”
“What, why specially me?” Alok was baffled, nibbling at a chilli from the salad bowl.
“It brings out the amino acids in your eyes,” I joked, when he coughed at the tangy
spiciness.
“Because,” Ryan told Alok, “look at your life before this. I mean, I know you love your
dad and everything. But like, you were just nursing him and studying for the past two years.
And after college, you’ll probably have to live with them again, right?”
“I’ll take up a job in Delhi,” Alok nodded, a bit more serious now, though his mind was
still preoccupied with chicken breast.
“Exactly, so it is back to the same responsibility again. I mean, you will earn and
everything, and maybe hire a servant. But still, would you be able to have this kind of fun?”
“I love my parents, Ryan, it is not a responsibility,” Alok said and stopped eating. Boy,
this must have affected him. Usually, the Fatso will not leave chicken for his life.
“Of course, you love them,” Ryan waved a hand. “I mean, I can understand that even
though I don’t love my parents.”
“What?” I said, though I had not wanted to be part of their argument.
“I said I don’t love my parents. Is that a big deal?”
Alok raised his eyebrows at me. I mean, if Alok could love his dad, who if you think
about it, is no more than a vegetable with vision, how could this brat not love his parents?
And his parents were nice, I mean they gave him everything - the blue scooter, clothes from
Gap and money for the damn colas at restaurants. His parents had worked their asses off all
their lives, started selling flower pots with two potters, and then moved all over India to
make a name until two years ago when they went overseas. They weren’t making any big
money out there yet but wanted to keep sonny boy happy, this spoilt, pigheaded, marginally
good-looking ass who did not love them!
“Screw you,” I blessed.
“Screw you! You don’t even listen to me,” Ryan said.
Yeah right, that when I listened to this idiot all the time.
“Why?” Alok said, getting back to his food.
“I don’t know why. I mean, I have been in boarding school when I was six. Of course,
like every kid I hated it and cried when they left me. But then, it was at boarding school I
got everything. I did well in studies, got noticed in sports, learnt how to have fun and live
well and made my best friends. So, somewhere down the line, I don’t miss them anymore.
Just kind of outgrew them. Sure, we meet at vacation time and they send letters, cash, and
everything but...”
“But?”
“But I don’t miss them.”
“So you don’t think that is wrong?” Alok picked teeth.
“Heck, no. I mean, for me my friends are everything, they are my family. Mom and Dad
are nice, but I don’t love them the way I love my friends. I mean, I don’t love them, but I
love my friends.”
“So you love us then Ryan aah? I love you,” Alok said in a falsetto; he was obviously
satiated, his lighter mood a proof of his post-gluttony bonhomie.
“Up yours, Fatso, love you my ass,” Ryan said and some heads turned to look at us.
Ryan, however, came back to his earlier theory.
“Anyway, my point is, these are our best years. So either we can mug ourselves to death,
or tell the system to stuff it.”
“And how exactly do we tell the system to stuff it?” I enquired.
“I mean, not like stop mugging completely or something, but like, let us draw a line. We
can study two-three hours a day, but do other stuff, say sports, have you guys ever played
squash? Or taken part in events – debates, scrabble and stuff, an odd movie or something
sometimes. We can do so much at the insti.”
“Yeah, but very few people do it. And they are the ones with pretty bad GPAs,” Alok