“Congratulations.” Maneck contemplated his next move. “And what does your father do?”
“Employed in a textile mill.”
“He’s the manager?”
Avinash shook his head.
“Accountant?”
“He operates the machinery. He’s been running a fucking loom for thirty years, okay?” His voice shook on the brink of a rage, then he calmed down.
“I’m sorry,” said Maneck, “I didn’t mean to…”
“Why sorry? I’m not ashamed of the truth. I should be sorry, that I have no more interesting story than this. No mountains, no snow, no runaway houses — just a father who has given his years to the mill, and got TB in exchange.”
They turned their faces to the board again, and Avinash kept talking. After winning the scholarship, he had been looking forward to his own room in the hostel. All his life he had lived with his parents and three sisters in a one room-and-kitchen rented to them by the mill. His father had had tuberculosis for a few years now, but was forced to keep working amid the dust and fibres to support the family. Besides, if he were to quit, they would have to vacate the mill’s quarters, and there was nowhere else to go.
The hostel had been a big disappointment to Avinash when he had arrived, filthy, with rats and cockroaches everywhere. “Our home may be one room and kitchen, but at least we keep it clean.” Then there were the frustrations of being President of the Student Union and Chairman of the Hostel Committee. “I regret getting elected. There is nothing in the college prospectus to prepare you for hostel life.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t want to spoil your first day by describing it. What you’ve seen so far is nothing. But if students took an interest, demanded improvement, the bathrooms and toilets would easily be repaired. The money for maintenance is all going into someone’s pocket. Just like the canteen. The caterer has a fat contract, and provides garbage for the students. But you get to choose your garbage — veg or non-veg.”
“I’m not fussy about food,” said Maneck bravely.
Avinash laughed. “We’ll see. Actually, it’s not much of a choice. I think the veg food is the same as non-veg, but minus the gristle and bone.”
Maneck concentrated; he thought one of his men was at last going to breach the defences.
“The trouble is,” said Avinash, devouring the hopeful piece, “most of the students in the hostel are from poor families. They are afraid to complain, all they want is to finish their studies and find a job so they can look after their parents and brothers and sisters.”
Foiled again, Maneck crowned another king for Avinash and lost the game two moves later. He didn’t mind that he kept losing, because his opponent did not gloat.
“You look sleepy,” said Avinash. “No wonder you can’t focus on the game.”
“It’s okay, let’s play one more. But you know, you are different from the other students.”
Avinash laughed. “How can you tell? You’ve just arrived.”
Maneck considered, running a finger around the concentric grooves that embellished the surface of the draughtsmen. “Because… because of everything you just said. Because you became the president, to improve things.”
Avinash shrugged. “I don’t think so. I’m planning to resign. I should be spending my time and energy on studies. I was the first one ever to finish high school in our family. Everyone’s relying on me. My three young sisters, too. I must collect money for their dowries, or they won’t be able to get married.” He paused, smiling. “When they were small they used to bite my fingers, when I helped my mother to feed them.” He laughed at the memory. “My father says that all the blood he spits will not be in vain if I get my degree and a good job.”
They raised their faces from the board, and Avinash fell silent. It had been easy to keep talking while their eyes were glued to the pieces. The logic of the checkered board had been in control, towing both the game and the conversation. Now the thread was broken. Embarrassment and awkwardness came tumbling out.
“I must unpack.”
“Your room should be fine now. Let’s check.”
They carried back the suitcase and boxes, swept up the dead cockroaches, and made the bed. “Don’t push it to the wall again,” said Avinash. “Safer to leave at least a foot.” He also suggested immersing the bed’s legs in cans of water, to discourage things from climbing up. “We can do that tomorrow. You’ll be okay for tonight.”
Maneck complained to the warden’s office that nothing happened when he pulled the chain in the toilet.
“That’s because there is no water supply for the flush tank,” said the clerk, looking up from scotchtaping some torn documents. “The building contractor did not connect the pipes, to save money. College has taken him to court. But don’t worry, the sweeper who cleans the bathrooms is looking after the problem.”
“How?”
“With buckets of water.”
“What time does the sweeper come?”
“Before the hostel awakes — four a.m., sometimes five a.m.”
Maneck immediately made a firm resolution: to be first in the toilet every morning, no matter how early he had to rise for that privilege.
The next day, hearing him up before dawn, Avinash came to check. “What’s wrong? Are you sick or something?”
“No, I’m fine-why?”
“Do you know what time it is? Five-fifteen.”
“I know. But I hate someone’s shit staring me in the face when I go to the toilet.”
Avinash was annoyed that he had dragged himself out of bed for no reason, then laughed. “You rich boys. When will you get used to reality?”
“I told you I’m not rich. The bathroom at home is plain, just like this. But there’s water in the flush. And not such a stink.”
“The problem with you is, you see too much and smell too much. This is big-city life — no more beautiful snow-covered mountains. You have to learn to curb your sissy eyes and nose. And another thing you better be prepared for is ragging.”
“Oh no,” said Maneck, remembering his boarding school. “Haven’t these fellows grown up yet? What do they do? Pour water in the bed? Salt in the tea?”
“Something like that.”
In his letter home at the end of the week, Maneck was hard-pressed to find things to say that would not be mistaken for whining. He didn’t want Brigadier and Mrs. Grewal, and all the others who would share the letter, to think he was a softie who couldn’t manage by himself.
After the first fortnight, however, when Avinash and he had become good friends, he could almost believe what he had been told before leaving home: that he would have an enjoyable time in college.
One evening, over draughts, Maneck confessed his ignorance of chess. Avinash said he could teach him in three days. “That is, if you’re seriously interested in learning the game.”
Since they were both non-vegetarian and sat in the same section of the dining hall, the chess lesson began during dinner, with paper and pencil. Maneck said the diversion made the canteen swill easier to swallow.
“Now you’re learning,” said Avinash. “That’s the secret — to distract your senses. Have I told you my theory about them? I think that our sight, smell, taste, touch, hearing are all calibrated for the enjoyment of a perfect world. But since the world is imperfect, we must put blinders on the senses.”
“The world of the hostel is more than just imperfect. It’s a gigantic deformity.”
After eating, they adjourned to the common room, where it was still quiet. A few students were gathered around the carrom board. Each time the striker slammed into the ledge and rebounded, the spectators followed with a murmur of approval or commiseration. Another group came in, laughing and boisterous, and started a game of capping-the-fan: tossing a pen cap at the slow ceiling fan and trying to land it on one of the three blades. After several attempts, the game’s originator climbed onto a chair, arrested the fan and placed the pen cap on it. They turned up the speed to raucous cheers as the cap came flying off. Next, they grabbed one among them and raised
