The Summer of 2001…

“It’s all about getting used to the attitudes of your seniors”, a co-passenger on the flight to Delhi told me. “Over time you get used to being woken-up at three in the morning, and once you stop having problems with fetching booze and cigarettes, it wouldn’t be much of a problem.”

So by the time I landed in Delhi, I had been thoroughly “briefed” on what to expect, not just by this co-passenger, but much before him, by my parents (who had both attended professional educational institutions and had seen hostel life), and also by friends (seniors among them). Further, in the months prior to joining St. Stephen’s College, I had browsed through resources on the institution. Most of these resources were replete with pieces by and on “legendary raggers” like Gen. Zia -ul- Haq, Kushwant Singh, K. Natwar Singh and their ilk. For instance, Khushwant’s “Blacksmith’s song”, Natwar’s week long suspension for ‘harmless ragging’ and how Zia ‘paraded’ people stark naked in the dead of night, was a part of college lore. At one place it was also mentioned how a former Principal (Principal Sircar) had once famously remarked in the morning assembly:

“If any of you cannot bear being ragged,” he said, “you might go to Hindu College (across the road from Stephen’s); if you are unable to face that even, then my boys you may take admission in Miranda House (the only college that allowed women in Delhi University back then).”

Hence, in this manner, I had “mentally prepared” myself for what possibly was in the offing.

St. Stephen’s College, Delhi (SSC) has limited places in “Residence”, euphemism for hostel. called so simply because the establishment wishes to hold on to archaic traditions that add no real value to the institution or to the lives of its inmates in any way. Being lower down on the merit list, I was not offered a place in Residence for the first one week and so had to settle down in a “PG” (Paying Guest) accommodation. Thus for the first seven days, I was a day scholar and day scholars at SSC are hardly ever ragged as they are considered not worthy of being called “Stephanians” by the Resident Students, who ironically are vastly outnumbered by the former lot.

On my eighth day in college, I was summoned to the Dean’s office for an “interview”, where I was told that since a few rooms were still vacant (as some students had not turned up despite having paid the due fees), I would be offered a place in Residence, on the condition that I promised to be a disciplined student. The offer was immediately accepted and the promise duly made. “You may check into L-10, Rudra North”, I was told.

My first day in Rez (short for Residence) passed off uneventfully, but on the second day I got the very first taste of ragging. Two seniors (they looked like an ‘MA types’) summoned me and I was asked by one of them to get a cigarette from a room downstairs. I belong to a: Western educated family and things like cigarettes and booze had never been a taboo. But at that moment, a kind of fear gripped me and I squirmed a little. I do not know till date what was the reason for my hesitation. May be it lay somewhere in all those instances (often hyped) that the aforementioned people had narrated to me about ragging; in retrospect I feel that I had been indoctrinated against ragging and I had become apprehensive (but not quite hateful) of the activity that I was experiencing only for the first time.

“Cigarette’s a bad thing…huh!” he said.

“No…err…I’ll…” was all I could conjure up in response.

“So, are you refusing me?”

“If you insist…I’ll…get it”

“You have no choice but to” he replied sternly.

Eventually I had to go and fetch the cigarette but when I returned, the stern look on his face was gone and for the rest of the ragging period, that lasted till the Anda Tamatar Party (ATP), an event organized to signal a moratorium on ragging on campus, he did not trouble me very much, except an occasional “request” to fill up water for him, which I did obligingly, as I had developed a deep sense of reverence for him (for he was one of those who did not trouble me very much). Having said this, it wasn’t until the ATP that Pankaj Yadav ‘officially’ gave me his intro and told me that he was an IAS aspirant. Till date I do not know why he ‘spared’ me; I did not dare to ask him for I did not want to invite his ire.

So this was my first tryst with ragging; ‘Ragging is after all not such a bad thing’, I said to myself as I took leave of Pankaj and his friend. I however was celebrating ahead of time for as it turned out, I had trouble ahead. But to be truthful, I quite enjoyed most of what happened during the remainder of the period, barring two or three incidents that left a bad taste in my mouth, but more on them on some other occasion.

The same night- it must have been about one in the morning- a group of seniors knocked on my door. “Hey fuchh… open up!” someone shouted. I undid the curtains and saw a group of about four seniors standing outside. ‘This is it!’- I thought- ‘I done’- and immediately froze. I opened hesitantly, greeted them and requested them to sit. I was alone in the room as my roommate was away (as he would be, for most of the first two terms for reasons he knew best). They asked me to introduce myself, and for about ten minutes, a conversation ensured, most of which I cannot recollect three summers later. After sometime, three of the foursome left the room, but one person who was tall and dark, stayed on. I had noticed that while all the others had been conversing with me and asking me all sorts of things, he had been sizing me up all this while, quiet for the most part.

“Where do you think I belong to?” he asked me.

“Somewhere down south.” I said without thinking.

“Why do you think so?”

“Because you are dark complexioned, and have a distinct South Indian accent” “How dare you call me a black? You racist son of a bitch!” he shouted back at me. I was not expecting such an onslaught, considering how the last quarter of an hour had gone. “I’ll fuckin tear you to pieces. You better watch out.” And so saying, he started to get up and leave.

“Wait! At least allow me to explain, sir,” I said and added. “You’ve got me wrong.” He had by now left the room, and I was dead sure he wouldn’t listen. But to my utter surprise, he turned around and came back in. “Tell me Malik, be quick”

“See, I am not a racist or anything,” I started “ All that I meant was the people from the southern part of the country are generally a little darker in their complexion- and that is why…and yes, your accent…that sounds fairly southish you know,” I added.

“Well, lemme tell you,” he said, “ I am not an Indian. Where do you think I am from?”

“Sri Lanka, is my guess”

“Why Lanka?”

“For the same reason…you look southish, and so if you are not Indian, you would most likely be Sri Lankan,”

“What do you think of Lanka?”

“I think they are … I mean you guys are giving us Indians a run for our money in cricket… you have a good literacy rate…are fairly prosperous, open cultured and all that…and yes, I have heard that Colombo has eight or nine FM radio stations. That speaks a lot about your prosperity and technological advancement.”

“Hmm”

“I know you have a few problems like LTTE and the like, but then every country has them…doesn’t it.”
He looked impressed or so I would like to believe. He suddenly got up and gave me his ‘intro’

We discussed general stuff and as it turned out, he was an Indian Tamil (I have forgotten his name though) who had passed out of college (History) a year back and was here as he was passing through Delhi on a business trip. “Just wanted to get a feel of the ragging scene at College” he told me.

“You know why I left you,” he asked as we shook hands one last time, and without waiting for my answer said again “Because we dark skinned people not generally respected by the fair skinned ones, but I felt you had different views…so you were spared…” After that he left.

At close to three in the morning, I couldn’t make much sense of what he had just said so I went back to bed.

In the weeks ahead, I was to discover that casteism and regionalism had seeped into ragging as well. In fact caste and regional divides were strictly adhered to. For example people from the Northeast and those of the Jat community were never ragged and generally stayed together as a cohesive unit. This is why, my roommate, being a Naga, never had to face the humiliation of standing before a group of seniors (and quite often one’s own batch mates) and sing obscene songs and do other such despicable things. Then there ware the Bongs and the Mallus, who although for the most part stayed amongst themselves, were not untouchables in so far as ragging was concerned.

Things went on rather ‘smoothly’ for a few days. During this period I was often called by my seniors for jobs that I really had no problems in helping them out with. At times I was asked to take the clothes to the dhobi’s (and was given a choice of taking them at my convenience) while at other times someone called me to help him set up his room, which I did without much hesitation; this way I got to know quite a few people, some of whom remain friends till date.

Indeed an “anti-ragging activist” (and saving their reverence, there are quite a few on the block these days) might think of me as someone lacking ‘self respect’- but I would do nothing to change her views on me. All I have to say on this issue is that when one’s head is on the line, activism is usually the last thing on one’s mind.

Nearly one month into the ragging period and I had not yet been sent to Ghanta Ghar (Clock Tower, which was about a kilometer and a half away form college) to fetch parathas. Quite frankly, it was an experience I had been looking forward to since the time I had learnt of this “tradition” and wanted to experience it myself. In fact I was quite dismayed by the fact that quite a few of my friends had already been sent to the Clock Tower (some of them multiple times) and as they claimed, they had become quite adept at this job, one that earned them the ‘goodwill’ of their seniors and entitled them to “parathas on the house” as indeed to ‘intros.’

But just as I was beginning to despair, I got my chance. It must have been past eleven that night (it was certainly past ten as all women had been locked up in their ‘den’) and I was returning to my room from somewhere. On the way back I was stopped by a couple of seniors, one of whom had a Vodka bottle and was visibly drunk. It did not take much effort to recognize that he was Wensie Mendis, the most vicious ragger on campus. Till that day I had somehow succeeded in escaping him, but that day, prospects looked grim.

“Hey, you! Come here you ‘spekie’ bastard,” he shouted at me.

‘O God, allow me to survive the night’ I muttered to myself, for Wensie’s reputation preceded him. I had been told of numerous occasions on which he had ragged people through the night, especially when he was drunk, and hardly did a night pass when he wasn’t. He held me by the arm and started walking toward Mukherjee West.

“What course are you doing at college?” he asked

“Physics” I replied rather meekly.

“You’re doing Phheeseecs!! Ha! Ha!…Phheeseecs!” he said again and roared with laughter. My heart sank. ‘ I am doomed’ I said to myself- half saying it out aloud. Thankfully Wensie did not listen, but Rohan (Dutta) who was with him did.

“Lets send him to Ghanta Ghar, Wensie “ said Rohan and then without waiting for Wensie’s reply took me aside. “ Have you ever been to that place?” he asked. I shook my head and so, he brought out a piece of paper and a pen from his pocket and made a neat sketch of the escape route out of college and the route to Ghanta Ghar thereof. Then handing me over some cash, said, “Get us sixteen parathas. You can take that short guy from L-3 along if you wish… and ya, get as many for yourself as you want…or you both can even have them there itself.”

I did as was directed and knocked on L-3. A short guy, almost three-fourths my height opened up. I could see that he had been washing clothes- clothes seemed to hang everywhere in the room and the odor of detergent was all over.

“Good evening sir” he murmured as he opened the door, mistaking me for a senior. Fear on his face was palpable and I could make out that he had had a long day.

“Eh, chill yaar…I am your batch mate only…not a senior” I told him. I could see that he was greatly relieved to hear that.

“Oh…ok…Hi, I am Rahul… Rahul Pant…come in…”

“Hi!… I am Aman…Listen we have been ordered to fetch parathas from Ghanta Ghar.”

So I embarked on my first ever ‘adventure’. Believe me, never before had I escaped from anywhere in such a fashion leave alone wander on city roads at such unearthly hours. I cannot even begin to describe the thrill of breaking rules, which most of us in Rez considered draconian. We had to sneak out from right behind the Principal’s Residence, and were anyone to spot us, next morning we both would have been expelled- no questions asked.

At that hour, we couldn’t find a rickshaw from college to the Clock
Tower, so we decided to walk the distance. Half way in our journey, we saw a Delhi Police patrol van coming toward us. Instinctively, I looked around and discovered that we were the only people on the desolate road, besides of course the Policewallas themselves, and hence were liable to be questioned by them. And sure enough, as the patrol van came closer, it slowed down and finally stopped.

“ Itni raat ko kahaan ja rahe ho, ” a voice with a distinct Jat accent enquired.

“Sir, parathe khaane Ghanta Ghar ja rahein hain…bahut bhookh lagi hai, ” Pant replied.

“Senior ne bhejaa hai?.. Waise kaun college ke ho?”

“Sir Stephen’s se hain…”

“ Arre, Steephhan ke ho… jaao jaao yaar…chal be, jaane de…padhne waale lagte hani..kyon dukhi karein bechaaron ko…” saying which he motioned to the man on the wheel to move. We both heaved a sigh of relief and kept walking.

Our destination was essentially a row of makeshift all-night dhabas whose clientale, besides students like us, included truckwallas and those returning from the night show at Amba cinema. First we had our fill and then got the stuff packed for them. Luckily, on the way back a rickshaw was available and we were happy to pay him nearly twice the usual fare as by now we were dead tired. After handing the stuff over, we went back to our respective rooms. Three years on, this experience remains etched in my memory as one of the most exiting I’ve ever had.

And in the days and weeks to come I would make more trips to the Clock Tower usually on ‘orders’ from seniors but at times on my own accord too. Such trips that I made on my own were made primarily to ‘escape’ ragging in general or particular seniors whom I was running away from. But at least on a couple of such escapades, I ran into the same guys I was trying to escape! That I faced severe ‘retribution’ for “daring to double cross” them, goes without saying; but thankfully, nothing very severe ensured.

Soon it was time for the Students’ Union elections followed by the college fest- Harmony. In the wake of such ‘serious business’ ragging took a back seat and sometime in the middle of September the ATP was organized, which unfortunately I could not attend as ragging had taken enough toll on my attendance schedule and hence I could not bunk lectures for the ATP, without facing my teachers’ wrath.


Epilogue: What became of them…
Pankaj Yadav made it to the Indian Administrative Service (IAS) securing the fourteenth position nationwide. He is today posted in the Indian state of Uttar Pradesh.

My Indian Tamil friend made many trips to college over the years that I was there, and each time we met we exchanged pleasantries; our subsequent meetings were so insignificant that it never became necessary for me to ask him his name.

Rohan Dutta graduated with a major in Economics and last heard, he was making tickets for a private airline.

Wensie Mendis graduated with a major in Philosophy and came back to Delhi University to do a masters.

Rahul Pant is working with a TV production company and will, in the years to come, become an established journalist.