The ragger-raggee chemistry

"Ragging" - that`s a word that fills the heart of every freshman joining a new college with dread. The fearsome uncertainty of the act, drilled into you by the legions of friends and relatives who had already been through the rite of passage, is enough to unnerve even the bravest of the lot. I was no exception to the rule, and had already begun imagining what I would need to face as part of the college ritual, even before my CET results were out. My concerns were exacerbated, when I got admission into RVCE, since I had a first-person account from my cousin, of what ragging in RV entailed, and it didn`t make for a pleasant discussion. So, it was with a sense of trepidation, that I boarded the bus on my very first day to college.

The bus was jam-packed, with all the seniors occupying the seats at the back, and lounging there like royalty. The first few seats were occupied by a bunch of cowering freshies like myself, who had deluded themselves into believing that maintaining a physical distance was enough to gain them amnesty from what would soon follow. Boy, how wrong they turned out to be!! But, you can`t blame them for trying! Me, I had no such refuge to turn to, since all the front seats had been taken, with five terrified freshers to each seat, and imposing my considerable bulk there, would have meant being alienated from my fellow sufferers, in the long run. So, I decided to occupy the only seat that had been left, strangely vacant, towards the back, fully aware of the fact that it was a bait. The way I approached the seat, anyone watching would have thought, that I was being led to the guillotine! I gingerly occupied the seat, that felt more like an electric chair, and seeing the beatific smiles bestowed on me, only increased my misgivings at having taken a decision, that I knew, I would rue for the rest of the semester.

No sooner had the bus started, that I heard my name being called. YESSIR, I was addressed by the name, that I thought only I knew in the bus. I tried to pretend that it was someone else being called, but when someone taps you on the shoulder while calling out, you know that trick ain`t gonna work no more. Turns out that my pathetic excuse for a cousin had already told the entire crop of goons at the back, about my impending arrival on the bus. This bit of information was revealed to me, by a guy, who looked every inch the quintessential ragger(Is that the word?), specifically created by God to do nothing else but rag, and who I now count amongst my best friends. This might sound absurd to you, but at that moment, quite inexplicably, I felt pride intermingle, with the overwhelming emotion, fear. Pride at the fact that a fourth-year knew me, a lowly first-year by name.

College legend has it, that the raggee who has faced the worst ragging turns out to be the best ragger. Well, let us just say that my ragger, was passing on the baton, that he had inherited from his seniors to me. What followed was pure mayhem! After my session, which didn`t turn out to be all that bad, maybe because I was giggling non-stop at most of the things I was told to do ( sample this, they asked me to use my drafter as a gun, to hijack the bus), I was given the task of informing my fellow first-years, when it was their turn. All in all, it didn`t turn out to be as bad as I thought it would be. Indeed, at the ice-breaker party at the end of the semester, I was chosen as the most sporting fresher. What an honour!

In the days that followed, we were asked to do a lot of other things, some of which cannot be printed here. Some of it, like proposing to the most beautiful female senior student, was something WE juniors (notice the stress on WE), all looked forward to, even though, as protocol dictated, we all tried to look suitably bashful as we did so. All in all, I thoroughly enjoyed our stint at being ragged, and ended up being best friends with the guys, who I thought I would never, ever like.

Ragging, at times can get really dirty, and the government is justified in making it punishable by law, in such cases. But, I believe that punishing the kind of ragging that we were subject to, which was nothing more than tomfoolery, is definitely over-reacting.

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Time, does stop here.

One place in Bangalore where time really does stand still is the 'India Coffee House' on MG Road. From the peeling paint on the walls, the strictly no-frills interior and the waiters in their traditional attire, most of who have been with the joint since it`s inception, it is impossible not to feel like you are in a time-warp here.

Last weekend I and a friend, found ourselves on MG Road at around 4 in the afternoon, on one of my regular trips to Blossoms, where quite surprisingly, I was not able to find this book called 'Bone Man Of Benares' by Terry Tarnoff, that I so badly want to read. In case you have any pointers on where I can get this book, let me know ( Already enquired in bookworm and all the major book stalls).

Coming back to the subject, we were famished, and 4`o clock being too late for lunch, we decided to get a quick bite at the coffee house. The place was teeming with people and the buzz of conversation was thick in the air. Before I proceed, let me tell you what the 'India Coffee House' is not. It is not one of those places where you bring a date along, unless you want to break up in double quick time. It is also not one of those places where you expect the waiter to be servile to the point of looking like your personal Djinn. That said, while you are there, it is a nice place to see the world go by, from the giant windows that overlook MG Road.

We found a table after a short wait, which we had to share with a businessman, and his brat of a son, who kept sprinkling salt all over the place, while the father, who ensured that only one half of my posterior got to touch the seat, looked on dotingly. We ordered a Masala Dosa and an Omelette; not that there is much choice anyway. When it finally did arrive, my recently health-conscious soul, balked and did a double-take, to see the Masala Dosa, drowning in oil. Mr. Businessman, who apparently had no such qualms, was busy digging into MD No.2, which meant that one half of my rear, would continue to be in limbo for some more time, while sonny, having got bored of the sprinkling act, was looking for more devilish acts in which to engage himself, one of which involved kicking me repeatedly under the table, something which did not stop, until I decided to return the favour, with interest. My omelette-eating friend, had no such problems however, since guilt pangs don`t strike a person, who has by his own admission, no hopes of ever losing weight, by the traditional, strict diet-rigorous exercise routine.

After labouring through my Dosa, literally, by separating the potato in the Bhaji, and trying to get as much of the oil into the tissue, rather than into my tummy, we finally decided to order some coffee. Thankfully, by that time, our co-diners had made their way, out of the hotel, having savoured everything that the eatery had to offer. The coffee, which arrived piping hot, was absolutely out-of-this world. After the harrowing experience, I had just had with Satan and his imp, I was numb with exhaustion, and the coffee revived me no end. Go there, if only for the coffee, is my advice.

After the largely satisfying experience, it was with a sense of utmost reluctance that my friend and me, stepped into the present. Next time, if you happen to be in the area, do drop in to this place, if only to experience life, as it must have been in more un-hurried times.
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