All the characters in this story are fictitious. Any resemblance to any person living or dead is purely coincidental and it shall not be the responsibility of the author if anyone feels he/she is being referred to and goes ballistic.
The room, that day, was adorned with the presence of Rohan, Khandelwaal and Chikna, Haridwar making the plastic chair auspicious with the sheer contact of his blissful butt with the material, when the door suddenly burst in and ricocheted off the wall, the hinges creaking ominously.
Mr. G had just come in, and with his arrival the sanctity of Room No. 311 augmented hundredfold. He had had, apparently, a very bad day.
I guffawed in mirthful mockery. “Ha ha, Man U sucks!”
“Liverpool is chutiya. But ManU was a fart today man. They didn’t deserve to win.”
“They are fart all the time. It’s just that your nasal cavity is too blocked to detect the stink.” Said Chikna, rendering another one of his fart jokes in the air. Rohan and Khandelwaal acknowledged it.Mr. G and I sat discussing the minutiae of the match, while Chikna rendered some more of his FJ’s. Out of the blue Rohan asked, “Oe what were those girls from H10 doing here in the pool room?”
“They have made some sort of a band. Fuck ‘em man.”
“Band?” said Khandelwaal.
“Band? That lot were up shit’s creek in the Freshie Band competition.” Remarked an incredulous I.
“Yeah man.” Said Mr. G, “whereas we have a phodu band ready to give them a run for their money. Only if Skanda didn’t have his quiz tomorrow. Fuck man, it’s a shitty day.”
“Hey, last I heard they needed a guitarist for today’s practises.” Said Haridwar.
“Why don’t you go then?” said Khandelwaaal.
“I am just a beginner yaar. And I have got a girlfriend.”
“Fair enough.” Said I.
“Bissu why don’t you?” asked Rohan.
“I don’t even attend those fucking classes buddy. I am still a long way off. If there is anybody here in the hostel who is decent enough to go it’s you.” Said I, gesturing towards Mr. G.
And then, as time seemed suspended for an infinitesimal fraction of a second, he mouthed those lines…
“A guitarist of my stature wouldn’t like to be associated with them.”
And with the repartee, the curtain fell (or rather, the door banged.)
1 hour later…
(Here, the readers are encouraged to enhance their powers of envisioning situations, and imagine the above as you might have beheld in a Bollywood movie as the prologue or epilogue. Or rather, when upon the celluloid sex is depicted by nudging two marigolds close together which is followed by the line ‘Nau maheene Baad”, and the wailing cacophony of a brat in a make believe maternity ward invariably succeeds and reverberates aggravatingly.)
1 hour later…
Chikna was sprawled on my bed, watching ‘My Sassy Girl’, on my laptop, wearing my noise isolation earbuds, while I pretended to solve Maths Tution sheets besides. Haridwaar had dropped off to sleep. Rohan and Khandelwaal had made a quite exit before. Gulti didn’t flinch when the door slammed open again, and Mr.G made his Hagrid-ey appearance veritable again.
“Where’s the pick?” said he.
“Dunno, ask him.”
Haridwaar, it seemed was feigning sleep.
“It’s inside the cupboard.” Said he.
“Why this sudden craving to strum strings?” enquired the inquisitive I.
“I am playing with ‘em…” said he, as he searched for the plectrum.
“ ’em?” said I, and then I understood.
“It’s only for today yaar.”
“Yaa I understand perfectly.”
He had found the plectrum, and without another word he rushed out…