He was giving an exam after four years. It was early and he hadn’t slept. D school was sparsely populated, and the tea appeared with astonishing briskness. An acquaintance chanced by and they lit their moral degeneration. The boys or men or boys to men came out stood up (cigarettes still in hand) to get a refill. A gyp appeared out of nowhere dripping with authority, “kya kar rahe ho?” The cigarettes are palmed and chucked. And like a couple of teenagers caught snogging in lodhi garden, they are oozing with guilt. The director, it seems, has spotted them. They must report to him to recoup their cards. An exam delays their visit. Two more cups of chai, a more discreet smoke and they are off, to pay the arbitrarily imposed fine of two hundred rupees. The corridors of the economics department are huge. All that money they have. The Director, a kind looking man with a round face and a comb-over looks very much the administrator he is, rather than the academic he might possibly be. He is helping out a couple of girls from the economics department with something to do with their internals. His office is being painted. We stand respectfully, we don’t look the part though, and we are of course reeking of stale tobacco, tea and a sleepless pre-exam night. Maybe in JNU we’d be sexy. His manner seems kindly but that changes as soon as he turns to the defendants. “You are from sociology?” He enunciates the word with contempt, accenting the ‘sho’ to an unwarranted degree. “Yes sir.”
“You were the one who came to protest my circular?” He was.
“Among others sir.”
Director sahib is beaming with righteous indignation. He doesn’t appreciate the cheek. “You all talk big. But rules are not meant for you are they? You think all of us are fools?” He did, but he was trying his best to look contrite. “All those talk about the “atmosphere” of a campus - freedom of interaction! Have you seen today’s Times of India? D school is listed as one of the hot spots of smoking. I am empowered by law to take necessary action.” Still trying their best to look sheepish. “Please pay the 200 rupees fine at the office.” They assumed that was that and began to shuffle towards the office at the other end of the corridor. Director-man whips around at with style – it’s time for the punchline. “Leave your home number.”
At first the manboy thinks it’s an innocuous request. Still, it is a suspicious one. “I am sorry sir, but why?” The arrogance of the question angers the Fuhrer. It is difficult to understand why, the weight of his pronouncement was implied in his tone. “Because I want to talk to your parents.” “Why, sir?”
“It’s my choice.” That’s right, he said that. Like a petulant thirteen year old girl he said it. The manboy does his best to control his temper. His companion seems pretty unaffected by the whole thing. Time to put on one’s best well brought up-articulate-intelligent boy voice. “Sir, you are free to talk to our parents, of course. But they have absolutely nothing to do with this.” Director sahib is visibly pissed off. Perhaps he expects them grovel in fear of their parents, like havildars in cal. “What do you mean? Your parents have sent you here with great expectations. You are no longer children. You are doing Masters in Sociology. Yet you intentionally break the law.” How hard is it to say sociology? Pronounce it right bitch, or at least with a little less condescension. He has paused his diatribe, perhaps for effect but more likely because his limited brain function is incapable of forming sentences at a reasonable speed. “What does your father do? I need to talk to him.” “He passed away a few years ago sir, he was an etymologist.” He wasn’t. “You must have a mother? Give me her number.” Now the boy is pissed in that most fundamental north Indian way. Pehle baap pe gaya, phir ma pe. These were, in essence, fighting words. A few years ago and he would have probably thrown a punch, or at the very least, uske ma behen pe toh chale he jaate. But the fact is he really would be in deep shit with his mother if she got a complaint. She still doesn’t know he smokes, he is back living at home, not earning, basically a leech. And fuck, she did send him here. Still, he cannot grovel. Bowing to the ego of such pettiness irks him. Uska ego Ego, mera ego phaluda? “Sir, I have a mother, everyone does. Feel free to talk to her, I’ll leave my home number. But please don’t think anyone has sent me anywhere. I am twenty four years old. I pay my own fee and my own fines. I pay for my own books. We knowingly broke the rules, and for that we are sorry. I’ll try to make sure it doesn’t happen again. There is a fine, which I am more than willing to pay. But you cannot treat us as autonomous individuals capable of making mistakes, hold us responsible for those mistakes, and then threaten to call our parents, sir.” The idea is to confuse him. No aggression, an out an out apology and cowardice masked as a firm ethical stance. “Obviously the threat of a fine doesn’t work with you people. Even now you stand in front of me, smelling of smoke. Next time I am going to hand you over to the police.” Director sahib is practically frothing at the mouth. His combover askew from the forceful gesticulating - partial baldness shining through – he cuts a oddly funny picture. The manboy is tempted to do Sharon Stone – whatcha gonna do, arrest me for smoking? “We understand that, sir. You have a responsibility to the law and to the university.” They are eyed suspiciously, he is not sure whether the statement is genuine. “Fine, I will contact your head of department. That toh I know I am well within my rights to do.”
“Of course sir.”
“I will ask her to take appropriate action.”
“Yes sir.”
“And next time, I will call the police. That is the only way people like you will learn.”
Let it go. Just let it go. They walk of and pay their fine. Next day there are copies of their id’s placed like mugshots on notice boards. Bad elements, smokers, treated like peddlers.
