Two professors who chose to denounce the campus goon squads were taken away by plainclothesmen for anti-government activities, under the Maintenance of Internal Security Act. Their colleagues did not interfere on their behalf because MISA allowed imprisonment without trial, and it was a well-known fact that those who questioned MISA sooner or later answered to MISA; it was safer not to tangle with something so pernicious.
Maneck worried about Avinash; as President of the original Student Union, surely he was in grave danger from the new groups on campus. At night, he listened for sounds from the room next to his. The door shutting softly, the clatter of the metal cupboard, the wheeze of the spray pump, the thunk of the bed revealed that his friend was fine, that he had not been assaulted or taken away into secret detention.
Maneck hurried between hostel and college without stopping to watch the daily farces of bullying, toadying, and submission. The office of the campus newspaper was attacked, the writers and editors roughed up and sent packing. The paper used to indulge in light satire and occasionally poke fun at the government or university administration, although satire had become increasingly difficult in recent times, for the government was practising the art in its own reports to the censored media, better than the campus paper had ever done.
After taking over, Students For Democracy released a statement in the next issue that the publication’s new voice would be more representative of the college population. The rest of the paper was filled with a model code of conduct for students and teachers.
One morning, classes were cancelled and a flag-raising ceremony was organized in the quadrangle. Attendance was compulsory, enforced by Students Against Fascism. The president of Students For Democracy took the microphone. He appealed to the figures of authority to come forward, prove their love for the country, set an example of patriotic behaviour.
On cue, lecturers, associate professors, full professors, and department heads approached the dais, en masse, in a feeble show of spontaneity. The organizers tried furtively to slow them down, to make it look like a genuine outpouring of support. But it was too late to improve the choreography. The entire teaching staff had already lined up at the table, like customers at a ration shop. They obediently signed statements saying they were behind the Prime Minister, her declaration of Emergency, and her goal of fighting the anti-democratic forces threatening the country from within.
As much as fear, Maneck felt a loathing for the entire place. But for his teachers he had only pity. They slipped away from the flag-raising ceremony, looking guilty and ashamed.
That night, the hostel room next to his own remained silent. The familiar sounds refused to rise and signal Avinash’s well-being. Maneck lay awake, worrying into the early hours of the morning. Should he report to the warden’s office that his friend was missing? But what if he had gone to visit his family, or something innocent like that? Better to wait a day or two.
At dinnertime he looked about the dining hall for a glimpse of Avinash, in vain. He asked someone at his table, casually, “What’s the Managing Committee of the Student Union up to these days?”
“Those fellows have all split the scene, yaar. Gone underground. It’s too risky for them to hang around here.”
The reply reassured Maneck. He was convinced now that Avinash was just lying low somewhere, hiding in his parents’ flat in the mill tenements, perhaps. And he would return soon – after all, how long could this Emergency and goondaism go on? Besides, he would not be caught easily. Not the way he played chess.
The former canteen caterer was back on the job, wreaking his gastric revenge. Maneck felt vindicated as he remembered the vegetarian incident that had started it all – he had told Avinash not to interfere, that it would end badly.
Nowadays, when the meal was particularly ghastly, he got himself sandwiches or samosas at a stall in the lane outside the college. He was luckier than most because he got a bit of pocket money from home. It was comforting to watch tomatoes being sliced and bread being buttered, and to hear the roar of the stove, the hot hiss of frying in oil.
One evening, as he returned to the hostel from his roadside snack, the cry of Rag-ging! Rag-ging! Rag-ging! went up in the corridor, like a hunting call. He watched in the games room as two first-year automotive students were cornered, surrounded by twelve others. They stripped the pants off one, held him bent over the ping-pong table, and handed an empty soft-drink bottle to the other. He was ordered to demonstrate what had been learnt about pistons and cylinders in the class on internal combustion engines. They overcame his reluctance by threatening to make him the cylinder if he refused to cooperate.
Maneck slunk away in terror. From then on, he went straight to his room after dinner and locked himself in. He made sure that he had whatever he needed – newspaper, library books, glass of water – so he would not have to leave his sanctuary when the raggers were on the prowl.
One night, after he had changed into his pyjamas, his stomach began rumbling in a nasty way. Must be the samosa chutney at the roadside stall, he assumed. Shouldn’t have eaten it, there had been something peculiar about the taste.
He badly needed the toilet, filthy as it would be at this hour. He opened the door cautiously. The corridor was empty. He walked rapidly, looking over his shoulder. Halfway down the hall they pounced out of a storage room and caught him. He fought back. “Please! I have to go to the toilet! Very badly!”
“Later,” they said, twisting his arms behind him to make him stop struggling.
“Ahhhh!” he screamed.
“Listen, it’s just a game,” they reasoned with him. “Why turn it into a fight? You’ll simply get hurt.”
He stopped resisting, and they eased up on his arms. “Good boy. Now tell us, what subject are you taking?”
“Refrigeration and air-conditioning.”
“Okay, we’ll just give you a little test. To see if you’ve been studying like a good boy.”
“Sure. But can I go to the toilet first?”
“Later.” They led him to the workshop where there was a large working model of a freezer, and asked him to take off his clothes. He did not move. They closed in to undress him.
“Please!” he begged, kicking and pulling away. “Please don’t! No, please!” He prayed that Avinash would appear miraculously and save him, as he had saved the kitchen workers from the vegetarians.
The raggers were very efficient, taking less than a minute to hold Maneck down and strip him. “Now listen carefully,” they said. “The first part of the test is simple. We are refrigerating you for ten minutes. Don’t panic.” They tumbled him into the freezer, doubled over to fit the confined space, and heaved the door shut. The darkness of a coffin closed in around him.
They waited to be amused by his reaction. For a while there was nothing. Then a banging commenced, and continued for the next two minutes, followed by a brief silence. His hammering started again – weaker now, and sporadic, faltering, picking up, fading.
The blows became alarmingly feeble before dying out altogether. They looked at their watches; only seven minutes of the promised ten had elapsed. They decided to open the door.
“Aagh! Chhee!” They fell back as the stench hit them. “Bastard shat in the freezer!”
Maneck was stiff and could not emerge. They pulled him out moulded in a stoop and slammed the door to seal away the smell. He looked around dazed, unable to straighten.
They offered mock applause. “Very good. Full marks for the first test. Bonus marks for the shit. Well done. Now comes the second part.”
His blue lips trembled as he tried to speak. His hands reached stiffly for the pyjamas. Someone snatched them away. “Not yet. For the second part, you must demonstrate that your thermostat is working.”
Numb, he gaped uncomprehendingly.
“You said you’re taking refrigeration and air-conditioning. What’s the matter, don’t you know what a thermostat is?”
Maneck shook his head and made another pathetic slow-
motion grab for his pyjamas.
“This is your thermostat, you idiot,” said one of them, slapping the frigid penis. “Now show us if it’s working.”
Maneck looked down at himself as if he were seeing it for the first time, and they clapped again. “Very good! Thermostat correctly identified! But is it working?”
He nodded.
“Prove it.” He was not sure what they wanted. “Come on, make it work. Shake it up.” They took up the chant. “Shake-it-up! Shake-it-up! Shake-it-up!”
Maneck understood, and discovered his lips had thawed enough to speak. “Please, I cannot. Please, let me go now?”
“The second part of the test must be completed. Or we’ll have to repeat the first part, freeze you with your shit this time. Thermostat checkup is compulsory.”
Maneck held his penis weakly, moved his hand to and fro a few times and let go.
“It’s not working! Try harder! Shake-it-up! Shake-it-up!”
He started to sniffle, working his foreskin back and forth while they chanted. Desperate to end the humiliation, he laboured hard, his wrist aching, feeling nothing in the penis, worried that something was wrong, that the freezer had damaged it. After much effort he ejaculated without a proper erection.
They broke into cheers, whistling and hooting. Someone returned his pyjamas, and they dispersed. To avoid walking back with them, he stayed in the workshop until it was quiet outside the building.
He washed his thighs and legs where he had soiled himself, then returned to his room. He got into bed and lay on his back in the dark, shivering, staring at the ceiling. He wondered what would happen the next time the instructor opened the freezer.
An hour later the trembling was still in his limbs, and he fetched the blanket from the cupboard. He knew what he was going to do – as soon as he felt warmer, he would get up and pack. In the morning he would take a taxi to the railway station and go home on the Frontier Mail
What would his parents say, though? He could guess Daddy’s reaction – that he had run away like a coward. And Mummy would first take his side, then she would listen to Daddy and change, as always. Change, always. That’s what the proofreader had said on the train – cannot avoid change, have to adapt to it. But surely that did not mean accepting a change for the worse.
For half the night Maneck struggled with his thoughts, slowly packing his boxes and suitcase. The other half of the night he spent unpacking, and writing to his parents. He wrote that so far he had not been truthful with them, and was sorry, but he had wanted to spare them the worry: “The hostel is such a horrible place, I cannot stay here anymore. Not only is it dirty and stinking, which I can tolerate, but the people are disgusting. Many of them are not even students, and I don’t know how these goondas are allowed to live in a student hostel. They take hashish and ganja, get drunk, fight. Gambling goes on openly, and they sell drugs to the students.” He thought a bit, then added, “One of them even tried to sell to me.” That should make them think twice. “It is all absolutely horrible, and I want to return as soon as possible. I’ll work in the shop without interfering, and do as you tell me, I promise.”
Surely this was drastic enough, he felt, to make his parents act. There was no need to reveal the real shame.
Secretly, Mr. and Mrs. Kohlah were both delighted that Maneck wanted to come home. They missed him intensely but had never dared talk about it, not even to each other. They preferred to pretend, especially in company, how proud and happy they were that their son was away getting a worthwhile education.
And Maneck’s urgent letter did nothing to change this. They carefully controlled their responses to keep up appearances. “What a pity if he comes back so soon,” said Mr. Kohlah.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Kohlah. “He will lose his only chance for a good career. What do you think, Farokh? What should we do?”
Mr. Kohlah knew in his heart that if his son was unhappy he should return home immediately. But perhaps there ought to be some effort made, however halfhearted, at finding another solution – it would surely be expected by everyone, including their friends. Or he might be accused of being too soft a father.
“Seems to me there is definitely a problem at the college hostel,” he said cautiously.
“Of course there is! My son does not lie! And he simply cannot be allowed to remain in such a wicked place, full of vice and rogues and ruffians, just for the sake of a college diploma! What kind of parents would we be?”
“Yes, yes, calm down, I am trying to think.” He massaged his forehead. “If the hostel is not suitable, maybe we should find him some other lodging. Privately, in someone’s home. That would solve the problem.”
“That’s a good idea,” said Mrs. Kohlah, playing along. She did not want to carry the lifelong label of the possessive mother who had ruined her son’s future. “What about asking my relatives?”
“No, they live too far from the college, remember?” Besides, who could tell what kind of namby-pamby thoughts they would fill Maneck’s head with. After twenty years they still hadn’t got used to the idea of Aban living away from them.
“If only we can find him a nice safe room somewhere,” she said. “Somewhere that we can afford.” Which was next to impossible, she imagined cheerfully, in a city where millions were living in slums and on the pavements. And not just beggars – even people with jobs who had the money to pay rent. Only, there was nothing to rent. No, there was no chance for Maneck, he would be home soon. And she broke into a smile at that happy thought.
“What are you smiling for when we have such a big problem on our hands?” said Mr. Kohlah.
“Was I smiling? No, nothing, just thinking of Maneck.”
“Hmm,” he grunted, finding it difficult to contain his own pleasure. “You can try writing to that friend of yours. She might know of some place.”
“Yes, good idea. After dinner tonight I’ll write to Zenobia,” agreed Mrs. Kohlah, joyful in the knowledge that it would be a waste of a stamp.
They returned to their chores. The ordeal of masking delight with disappointment was over. Now it was just a question of waiting till their lukewarm efforts failed and their son came home.
In a few days, however, they had to pretend all over again, but in reverse, when, to their bitter surprise, accommodation was swiftly arranged for Maneck. Now they had to force a display of satisfaction that his education was going ahead, and sweep away the remains of their short-lived hopes.
Mrs. Kohlah resentfully wrote a thank-you letter to Mrs. Dalai, at the address Zenobia had sent. “I wonder if Dina is still as beautiful as she was in high school,” she said, relishing the sound as she tore the page from the writing pad. The rip was in harmony with her present mood.
“You can ask Maneck. He will soon be able to give you a full report from her flat,” said Mr. Kohlah. “Even send you an up-to-date photo if you like.” He could not help feeling, as he watched her at the desk, that the busybodies from his wife’s past were interfering in his family life, conniving to keep his son away from him.
Immediately afterwards, he realized he was being silly. He brought out his bank book and wrote a cheque for the first month’s rent. Mrs. Kohlah enclosed it with her letter to Mrs. Dalai.
Dina listened closely for sounds of life from the silent bathroom. What was he up to, why was there no splashing of water? “Maneck! Is everything all right? Is the water hot enough?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“You found the mug? Should be next to the bucket. And you can sit on the wooden stool if you like.”
“Yes, Aunty.” Maneck felt awkward about mentioning the worms, which were advancing in battalions from the drain. He hoped they would soon return to their underground home of their own accord. But maybe I should have returned home on the train, of my own accord, he thought bitterly. How stupid of me to write a letter. Hoping Daddy would allow me to come back.
Dina kept waiting to hear the mug’s clatter and the splash of water. The silence outlasted her pat
ience. “What’s wrong, Maneck? Can you please hurry up? I have to bathe too, before the tailors come.”
She hoped there would be some time today to cash the rent cheque. First, however, she had to see Maneck off to college and start things on the right footing. He wouldn’t be a problem once he became used to her routine. And learned to use modern gadgets, like the immersion heater. Poor boy had no idea what it was. And when she’d asked him what they did at home for hot water, he described the boiler stoked with coal every morning. How primitive. But he had made his own bed, folding everything neatly – that was impressive.
She went to the bathroom door and asked again, “Are you managing all right?”
“Yes, Aunty. But some worms are crawling out of the gutter.”
“Oh, them! Just throw a little water and they will go away.”
There was a splash, and then silence again.
“Well?”
“They’re still coming.”
“Okay, let me take a look.”
He started to put on his clothes, and she knocked. “Come on, please wrap your towel and open the door. I don’t have time to stand here all morning.”
He dressed fully before letting her in.
“Shy boy. I’m as old as your mother. What was I going to see? Now. Where are those worms that frightened you?”
“I was not frightened. They just look so disgusting. And there are so many of them.”
“Naturally. It’s the season for worms. The monsoon always brings them. I thought you would be used to such things, where you live. In the mountains, with wild animals.”
“But certainly not in the bathroom, Aunty.”
“In my bathroom you’ll have to get used to it. All you can do is push the worms back by throwing water. Cold water – don’t use up the hot.” She demonstrated, brushing past him to reach the bucket, hurling mugfuls that sent the creatures sliding towards the drain. “See? There they go, into the gutter.”
The soft lines of her outstretched upper arm did more to reassure him than the water technique. Bent over the parapet, her back pulled the nightgown taut against her hips, revealing the underwear outline. His eyes lingered, turning away when she straightened.