Straight highways bore me, give me a long and winding road, and just don't allow me to come to the point. - Jester of Sodomia
"As human gods aim for their mark
Make everything from toy guns that spark
To flesh-colored Christs that glow in the dark
It’s easy to see without looking too far
That not much is really sacred"
- Bob Dylan (It's all right ma, I'm only bleeding)
"Bhosdi chod khatkhatana band kar (Cuntfucker stop knocking the door)." I scream on the top of my voice. The fucker still doesn't stop.
"Saale mutthi maar raha hoon, baad mein aaiyo (Asshole, I am jerking off, come later)." I yell again, cursing my luck. For the whole day the door of my hostel room is wide open, and there's hardly anyone coming in. But the moment I close it, it becomes a knock magnet.
"Sahab, aaj dopahar mein hi shuru ho gaye (Sir, started so early today)," a couple of chortling voices enquire from behind the door, and I realize that house keeping has come for cleaning.
It's 12 in the noon. It's not that I am a late riser. Just that those greasy omelettes I had in breakfast made me sleepy. I ended up skipping the classes and found myself lying on the bed. And in confines of my rooms, started scratching my crotch absent-mindedly. One thing led to another, and there I was, making love to my hand.
And the sweepers arrive to spoil that sweet brewing fantasy.
"Bhaiyya baad mein aana (Go away, come later)." I ask them in a loud voice, almost pleadingly.
The sound of their equipment being dragged on floor tells me that they are no longer making fun of me.
Half an hour later, I creep out of bed, still feeling woozy, but too bored to lie down. Carefully, I pick up the cum filled newspaper (I jerk off on newspapers), and step out of my room to place the newspaper on my second floor balcony. My unsuspecting friends used to pick such newspapers for a casual read and when they opened to the inner pages, a pungent semi dried (sometimes still wet) blot greeted them. Never a perfect way to start a day. Now they touched every piece of paper in or outside my room with good deal of distrust. A disgruntled friend, after being fooled more than once wrote "Muttheria (serial jerker)" on my door. I could never get it off and this put stop to my dreams of inviting a lady friend to my room. Not that there were many dying to be invited.
Just outside my room is a corridor, then a balcony overlooking a sizeable expanse of trees before other hostel buildings sprout out. This corridor is shared by a strip of 7 rooms - Room # 301 to Room # 307, all occupied by friends who had been good for nothing in their previous lives. Now we were about to graduate to good for nothings with MBAs. Not entirely good for nothing though, each of us had atleast one redeeming quality that none of the others had, causing us to close ranks. Sage was street smart, Sethji's legendary laziness made us feel like Olympic athletes, S was a great organizer. I could go on, but you get the idea.
Outside it's the usual cloudy weather. A voice tells me that it's the perfect weather to take a nap, and I mentally stomp it down. Feeling a bit blue, I surveyed my corridor to see if there would be anyone to give me company, or better yet a smoke. All the doors were closed. None of the fuckers rise before lunch. Sometimes even lunch walks past them. But in my grumpiness, I don't care if they are still sleeping. I bang on sage's door. Sage is the same friend who'd decorated my door with his curse. Lacking imagination, I retaliated in same manner. A serial flirter, he was never short of women to bed. Sage's room has a back window, that usually stays open, and his room being the corner one, if you are adventurous enough, you can step onto balcony into his room and steal whatever you want. So I stole the same permanent marker and proclaimed on his door, "AIDS aur khushiyan baantne se badhti hain (AIDS and happiness spread by sharing)," wishing that it would dent the steady stream of women he was accustomed to.
Answering my steady knocks, the sage comes out, yawning and scratching (always complaining about mosquitoes, but never getting a repellent).
"Bhai, sutta jala na." I ask him to light a smoke.
"Ek hi hai, tatti ke liye chahiye (I've got just one, and I need it for taking dump)," he complains.
"Do kash hi marne hain, tatti baad mein kar liyo (I want just a couple of puffs, take a dump later)," I beg. I was an occasional smoker, but when the impulse rose, it was hard to keep it at bay.
He lights the cigarette take three deep puffs before handing me the cigarette.
"No class today?" he enquires.
"You had one, I had two, both of us missed."
He nods, looking at floor, as if trying to remember something.
"I fucked till 3a.m. in the morning before walking her to her room." he boasts out of nowhere, referring to his latest conquest, a first year girl who frequented our snooker place. It was his way of reminding me that the curse I put up on his door was futile.
"I just jerked off," I said, pointing to the soiled newspaper.
"And I will beat you with this newspaper, if you don't stop mocking me." I continue, not ready to concede defeat.
"Had lunch?" he asks.
"I will have it later, just had breakfast." I tell him.
"Bring some extra for me in your plate." he demands, before heading off to the toilet.
As our days on campus were numbered (a month and a half left), and mess had been made optional. We were supposed to pay per meal. This was a feature we were itching to misuse. One person would buy a meal for pittance, dump inhuman amount of food, and bring it to his room, where as many as 5 people would be waiting to devour. Since we were mindless about filling the plate, many leftovers were substantial. Several dogs and squirrels that frequented our corridor had gotten fat. Squirrels especially. They gorged on everything. Even the chicken bones we left. Not used to eating such oily food, they became so fat that their belly rubbed on floor when they used to run, and they developed bald patches and carried diseased look. Fat and slow, many squirrels fell prey to the corridor cat.
Dogs were different matter altogether. They had to earn their food. An easy target for cruel people like us, they were welcomed by kicks, flying shoes, bats and sometimes even darts. Usually, they would stand at either ends of corridor for an indecent amount of time, and survey it to check if they are more likely to find food or beatings. If the case was former, they would gait to the nearest plate, grab a couple of bites, and get the hell out of the corridor.
Of all the dogs, the unluckiest one was Bhagwaan Das, a black stray. How he came to get this unwieldy name? On Janmashtami's eve, some wise guy, in throes of piety, branded this dog with a long red Tilak on its forehead. Then he fed the dog till it couldn't eat any more. The dog, never been treated this well in its life, walked past while 4 or 5 of us had gathered in front of Sage's room to share a smoke. We could detect a faint smugness on dog's face, as if it wanted to brag that it had other friends besides us. Suddenly, Ganesh the practical joker among us fell on dog's feet yelling, "Bhagwaan, mujhe aashirwaad do (God, bless me)." Terrified, the dog yelped in surprise and turned around where rest of us were happy to scare it away. The dog left, but the name stuck. None of us were especially religious, so statements like, "Maine Bhagwaan ke tatton pe laat maari (I've just kicked God in the balls)" echoed carelessly in our corridor.
Coming back to the unlucky dog. As with most strays, Bhagwaan Das had floppy ears, and a damaged front leg, which resulted in it getting unfair amount of beatings. On top of it, Bhagwaan Das was an authentic dimwit. Despite having been kicked, slapped, its tail pulled, he would frequent our corridor like he was a long lost friend. The fucker even slept on the cushioned chairs, we kept in our balcony. On cold nights, it would curl up blissfully on our cushioned chairs, knowing fully well that he's a sitting duck for the first person that wakes up. In fact many times it were its shrieks that woke us up. The first person to wake up would see it lying on chair like some king of old times and hit him with belt or shoes or even bare hands if there wasn't anything around. Since the dog was retard, it would always try to escape through the armrest of the chair and get stuck there before its assailant dropped another couple of punches. We'd even come to think that dog was into BDSM, getting its dick hard by all those whippings. The dumbest part was its gullibility. If we offered as much as a morsel to it, it would turn extremely friendly, follow us around, not even pausing to remember the torture we subjected it to. A normal dog would have taken us for schizophrenic psychos and advised its brethren to keep distance from us, but for this retard, such capricious behaviour was absolutely normal.
That night, Sage, his latest but increasingly steady girlfriend, Sethji, S, Ganya came drunk (if there's an excuse to be presented) while I was in my room sketching the time away.
"Dhawan, bhosdichod, yeh kya chutiyaap kar raha hai (Dhawan, you cuntfucker, what the hell are you doing?)," Sethji shouted through my open door, irked to see me sketch. Any use of limb other than to pick up booze irritated him.
"Yeh gaypanti band kar, party karte hain (Stop being a faggot, let's party)," he yelled, even though I was sitting just 3 feet away. I smirked on the irony in Sethji's statement.
I accompanied Sethji to his room (which was next to mine), where music was blaring and the others were howling incoherently in varying states of drunkenness. Sage's girlfriend and Sethji were inveterate drunkards. No amount of alcohol could produce a slur in their voice or tremor in their hands. Sage, who doubled up as our bartender, seemed high but well in control. Sage's bar-tending skills were aimed to make his patrons dead drunk in shortest amount of time. His trademark drink was Chuttadfaad (Assbuster) - quarter rum, quarter whiskey and rest beer. Puke spots on Ganya's and S's shirts told me that they had fallen prey to Sage's atrocities already. Setting was perfect for me to be 'Drunk by Association' - act carelessly and foolishly, because everyone was too drunk to care. Sethji played 'Babydoll main sone di' on loop and in the redlight of Sethji's room we were flailing our limbs directionlessly. We all sucked at dancing, all except Sage's girlfriend (let's call her P, long names tire me). I've come to believe that girls are born dancers, so she was a norm rather than exception.
Suddenly we hear a plate crashing in the corridor. Ganya sticks his head out, takes a look and closes the door. His large eyes are red (more due to sleeplessness than booze) and he's smiling ear to ear.
"Bhagwaan gandgi faila raha hai, saale ki aaj gaand maarte hain (God's messing up the corridor, let's kick his ass)." Ganya says.
"Marni hai, to dhang se maarte hain (Let's do it properly then)," I tell them with a bit of seriousness, knowing that being the sober one, I could direct the play tonight. I asked everyone to get ragged T-shirts from their rooms and I slipped into my room to get my thick gym gloves.
While Bhagwaan cleaned the plates obliviously, everyone got the stuff ready. Sethji had a habit of purchasing chicken dishes from night mess, and leaving the leftovers in a corner of his room. Fungus would grow on whatever could rot, and the chicken bones would keep on bleaching. He used to rationalize that fungus kept the mosquitoes away. We found this logic too stupid to even question. We decided that P, who had never been mean to the dog, would go out and offer these bones to the dog. When she did, Bhagwaan became friendly immediately and started wagging its tail vigorously. We also came out. S too threw a bone to the dog, who lapped it up greedily. S then started petting the dog genially, and the dog lay down on its back exposing its belly inviting everyone to pet him, thinking that he was the star of the night. We obliged. The dog either didn't see the thick gloves I was wearing and the ragged t-shirts everyone was hiding in their back pockets.
The dog was lying supine and everybody picked up a spot to pet. I was scratching the dog's neck and chin. It seemed to like, as it stretched itself to be caressed more. Quickly, I grab the dog's muzzle, while S pins down dog's neck, strangling him. We both kept the pressure on, while Ganya tied dog's front legs together and Sage, its back legs. For an added measure, they also tied the bunched front legs with the back ones. I was worried that in their drunkenness, they would botch up, but they surprised me. All this happened with a synchronicity that gave dog no chance to writhe. Its limbs were so still that had it not been beating its tail about, I would have doubted if it was still alive. When the limbs were tied, S eased pressure on dog's neck and produced T-shirt from his back pocket. He had the most challenging task - to trap dog's muzzle. The dog was looking at me with large pleading eyes as I slowly started moving down the dog's nose and S started tying it with his T-shirt. Finally, I let go and we had Bhagwaan as static as a piece of furniture.
We stood around the dog, proudly inspecting our work. P, elated by the novelty of her deed lifted the dog from its tied limbs, assessing its weight. Then she started twirling so fast, with dog still in her embrace that we were afraid she'll throw it from the balcony and end our fun prematurely. Soon she got woozy and dropped the dog on the floor and it hit it with a painful thud.
"Bhagwaan, lagi to nahi? (Are you hurt god?)" Sethji mocked the dog, while kicking it in the head for a good measure. Both Sethji and P were least sadist of the bunch, and their sudden transformation astonished us. Maybe a bunch of suppressed closet sadists.
We were a bit of unsure about what we could do with the captive. Bhagwaan must have been imagining the worst since it had pissed all over the floor.
"Saale yeh kya kiya (God, what have you done)??" I asked Bhagwaan Daas rhetorically, while slapping it and pushing it onto the floor into its own piss. An idea struck me.
We filled as many buckets we could manage with water and brought them to the corridor. We blocked the balcony drains with rolled newspapers (none of them from my room) and emptied buckets on the corridor floor, spreading it wide.
One end of the corridor terminated in a wall, and at this end we formed a pyramid of empty buckets. Each one of us would get one shot to decimate this pyramid by sliding Bhagwaan onto the wet floor. Since the dog weighed some 15 Kg easily, we all needed a long run up before we could launch it. We would run some 20 steps, holding Bhagwaan from the middle rope (the one joining front legs and back legs) and throw it forward just before the floor got slippery. And in drunkenness (by association in my case), the direction was never perfect. The dog would swerve towards the side wall and hit other obstacles before it reached the buckets. We were about to find out if a retarded dog can suffer brain damage. The game ended when Ganya's shot swerved the least and dislodged the rightmost buckets, bringing down the pyramid.
We took the stock of dog now. It's eyes were shut tight, difficult to pry open. Its heart was beating rapidly (not that we knew how fast stray dogs' hearts usually beat), and its tail (the only body part that was erstwhile moving) was motionless. It was either passed out or pretending to do so, but the stray was too gullible to pretend, so more likely the former.
"Kya karein ab? (What should we do?)," S asked.
"Chhat se faink dein? (Shall we throw it from the roof?)," I suggested only half jokingly, ready to do the honor if they showed even mild interest.
"Saale gaand maarni hai, jaan se nahi (Fucker, we don't want to kill it.)," Sage intervened, his conscience still intact.
Ganya, who was until now relishing in his recent victory, shot off, clearly with something on his mind. In the meanwhile we tried to wake Bhagwaan up by shaking it furiously. Sethji suggested that we should shock him as they show in the movies. None of us trusted ourselves with electricity, so this was out of question. P suggested that we should set fire to dog's tail to see if it was pretending. Sage, without a second thought, stubbed the cigarette he was smoking, on dog's tail. It still didn't move.
Meanwhile Ganya came a large Cello dustbin with swing lid, which was a major attraction for all prowling dogs. This bin was about a meter in height, and cylindrical in shape. Ganya had to carry it from the first floor, because our floor didn't have one. Someone on our floor had destroyed the dustbin and hostel authorities never bothered to replace it. The dogs used to look for food in these bins by intentionally toppling them, scattering all the mess onto the floor. What better revenge than throwing Bhagwaan into this bin.
With its limbs still tied, we dumped the dog into the bin. S yanked open the T-shirt that covered dog's mouth before we taped shut the swinging lid (so the dog couldn't escape.)
"I want to hear him cry." S reasoned.
"Agar balcony se phenkein, to kutte ko lagegi? (Will the dog be hurt if we throw the dog from balcony?)," I tried to incite them again.
"Chup kar, jaan se hi maarke rahega (Shut up, you won't let the dog live)," Sage chided me again.
"Acchha seerhiyo se faink dete hain, lagegi bhi kam aur housekeeping waale kal sambhal bhi lenge (Lets throw it from stairs then, will hurt it less and house keeping staff will manage it tomorrow)," I tried to reason. This opportunity to hurt the dog was too dear to pass.
"Accha idea hai," Ganya seconded me.
We placed the bin vertically (as it normally stands) on the edge of a flight of 11 stairs. S, a good footballer, kicked the bin so hard that it flew the entire flight of stairs before it hit the floor. The dog howled more in fear than pain (or maybe the other way round). Its screams filled the entire floor.
"Meri baari (My turn)," I said as I placed the bin horizontally, primed for rolling down the next set of stairs. I too kicked it hard and it rolled down the stairs while the dog continued to yelp in fear. We all took turns to roll the trash basket until we reached the ground floor. Bhagwaan's screams were getting tiresome and somewhat boring.
"Chalein, daaru bhi khatam karni hai (Shall we go now, there's booze to finish?)," P asked.
"Ek aakhri cheez (one last thing)," I exclaimed. I picked up the bin from the floor and ran with it to the first floor, while others waited on the ground floor to see if I wanted to roll it down the stairs again. Instead I threw the bin from the first floor to the lawn flanked by the hostel block from all sides. As the basket hit the floor, Bhagwaan's howls turned into agonizing shrieks that lasted full half hour, before a kind security guard freed the dog from the bin. By this time all of us were in Sethji's room, where 'Baby doll' resumed again, but we were too tired to flap our limbs. The old monk opened and Sethji poured each of us a peg, and we all reminisced our favorite parts of the incident, having a good laugh at Bhagwaan's expense.
It was about 1:30 A.M. when I retired to my room. I woke up at 5 AM with a strong urge to piss as one has on cold nights, and a strange dream that someone was scraping at my door. I made my way to the washroom in half sleep and relieved myself. With the washroom door still swinging behind me, as I stepped outside, I saw that Bhagwaan had been following me to the toilet. Its limp had worsened and I saw a streak of blood dripping from its ears. I tried to hush it away by stomping my foot on the floor, but it continued approaching me with the determination of a fearless retard. Nervously, I jogged into the other direction, and took a longer way to my room (Our hostel block was rectangular, with toilet in the corner). Ferocious as the dog seemed, it was too fucked up to run after me. Locking myself into my room, I listened to the pawing that I thought I had dreamt, well into the dawn...
"As human gods aim for their mark
Make everything from toy guns that spark
To flesh-colored Christs that glow in the dark
It’s easy to see without looking too far
That not much is really sacred"
- Bob Dylan (It's all right ma, I'm only bleeding)
"Bhosdi chod khatkhatana band kar (Cuntfucker stop knocking the door)." I scream on the top of my voice. The fucker still doesn't stop.
"Saale mutthi maar raha hoon, baad mein aaiyo (Asshole, I am jerking off, come later)." I yell again, cursing my luck. For the whole day the door of my hostel room is wide open, and there's hardly anyone coming in. But the moment I close it, it becomes a knock magnet.
"Sahab, aaj dopahar mein hi shuru ho gaye (Sir, started so early today)," a couple of chortling voices enquire from behind the door, and I realize that house keeping has come for cleaning.
It's 12 in the noon. It's not that I am a late riser. Just that those greasy omelettes I had in breakfast made me sleepy. I ended up skipping the classes and found myself lying on the bed. And in confines of my rooms, started scratching my crotch absent-mindedly. One thing led to another, and there I was, making love to my hand.
And the sweepers arrive to spoil that sweet brewing fantasy.
"Bhaiyya baad mein aana (Go away, come later)." I ask them in a loud voice, almost pleadingly.
The sound of their equipment being dragged on floor tells me that they are no longer making fun of me.
Half an hour later, I creep out of bed, still feeling woozy, but too bored to lie down. Carefully, I pick up the cum filled newspaper (I jerk off on newspapers), and step out of my room to place the newspaper on my second floor balcony. My unsuspecting friends used to pick such newspapers for a casual read and when they opened to the inner pages, a pungent semi dried (sometimes still wet) blot greeted them. Never a perfect way to start a day. Now they touched every piece of paper in or outside my room with good deal of distrust. A disgruntled friend, after being fooled more than once wrote "Muttheria (serial jerker)" on my door. I could never get it off and this put stop to my dreams of inviting a lady friend to my room. Not that there were many dying to be invited.
Just outside my room is a corridor, then a balcony overlooking a sizeable expanse of trees before other hostel buildings sprout out. This corridor is shared by a strip of 7 rooms - Room # 301 to Room # 307, all occupied by friends who had been good for nothing in their previous lives. Now we were about to graduate to good for nothings with MBAs. Not entirely good for nothing though, each of us had atleast one redeeming quality that none of the others had, causing us to close ranks. Sage was street smart, Sethji's legendary laziness made us feel like Olympic athletes, S was a great organizer. I could go on, but you get the idea.
Outside it's the usual cloudy weather. A voice tells me that it's the perfect weather to take a nap, and I mentally stomp it down. Feeling a bit blue, I surveyed my corridor to see if there would be anyone to give me company, or better yet a smoke. All the doors were closed. None of the fuckers rise before lunch. Sometimes even lunch walks past them. But in my grumpiness, I don't care if they are still sleeping. I bang on sage's door. Sage is the same friend who'd decorated my door with his curse. Lacking imagination, I retaliated in same manner. A serial flirter, he was never short of women to bed. Sage's room has a back window, that usually stays open, and his room being the corner one, if you are adventurous enough, you can step onto balcony into his room and steal whatever you want. So I stole the same permanent marker and proclaimed on his door, "AIDS aur khushiyan baantne se badhti hain (AIDS and happiness spread by sharing)," wishing that it would dent the steady stream of women he was accustomed to.
Answering my steady knocks, the sage comes out, yawning and scratching (always complaining about mosquitoes, but never getting a repellent).
"Bhai, sutta jala na." I ask him to light a smoke.
"Ek hi hai, tatti ke liye chahiye (I've got just one, and I need it for taking dump)," he complains.
"Do kash hi marne hain, tatti baad mein kar liyo (I want just a couple of puffs, take a dump later)," I beg. I was an occasional smoker, but when the impulse rose, it was hard to keep it at bay.
He lights the cigarette take three deep puffs before handing me the cigarette.
"No class today?" he enquires.
"You had one, I had two, both of us missed."
He nods, looking at floor, as if trying to remember something.
"I fucked till 3a.m. in the morning before walking her to her room." he boasts out of nowhere, referring to his latest conquest, a first year girl who frequented our snooker place. It was his way of reminding me that the curse I put up on his door was futile.
"I just jerked off," I said, pointing to the soiled newspaper.
"And I will beat you with this newspaper, if you don't stop mocking me." I continue, not ready to concede defeat.
"Had lunch?" he asks.
"I will have it later, just had breakfast." I tell him.
"Bring some extra for me in your plate." he demands, before heading off to the toilet.
As our days on campus were numbered (a month and a half left), and mess had been made optional. We were supposed to pay per meal. This was a feature we were itching to misuse. One person would buy a meal for pittance, dump inhuman amount of food, and bring it to his room, where as many as 5 people would be waiting to devour. Since we were mindless about filling the plate, many leftovers were substantial. Several dogs and squirrels that frequented our corridor had gotten fat. Squirrels especially. They gorged on everything. Even the chicken bones we left. Not used to eating such oily food, they became so fat that their belly rubbed on floor when they used to run, and they developed bald patches and carried diseased look. Fat and slow, many squirrels fell prey to the corridor cat.
Dogs were different matter altogether. They had to earn their food. An easy target for cruel people like us, they were welcomed by kicks, flying shoes, bats and sometimes even darts. Usually, they would stand at either ends of corridor for an indecent amount of time, and survey it to check if they are more likely to find food or beatings. If the case was former, they would gait to the nearest plate, grab a couple of bites, and get the hell out of the corridor.
Of all the dogs, the unluckiest one was Bhagwaan Das, a black stray. How he came to get this unwieldy name? On Janmashtami's eve, some wise guy, in throes of piety, branded this dog with a long red Tilak on its forehead. Then he fed the dog till it couldn't eat any more. The dog, never been treated this well in its life, walked past while 4 or 5 of us had gathered in front of Sage's room to share a smoke. We could detect a faint smugness on dog's face, as if it wanted to brag that it had other friends besides us. Suddenly, Ganesh the practical joker among us fell on dog's feet yelling, "Bhagwaan, mujhe aashirwaad do (God, bless me)." Terrified, the dog yelped in surprise and turned around where rest of us were happy to scare it away. The dog left, but the name stuck. None of us were especially religious, so statements like, "Maine Bhagwaan ke tatton pe laat maari (I've just kicked God in the balls)" echoed carelessly in our corridor.
Coming back to the unlucky dog. As with most strays, Bhagwaan Das had floppy ears, and a damaged front leg, which resulted in it getting unfair amount of beatings. On top of it, Bhagwaan Das was an authentic dimwit. Despite having been kicked, slapped, its tail pulled, he would frequent our corridor like he was a long lost friend. The fucker even slept on the cushioned chairs, we kept in our balcony. On cold nights, it would curl up blissfully on our cushioned chairs, knowing fully well that he's a sitting duck for the first person that wakes up. In fact many times it were its shrieks that woke us up. The first person to wake up would see it lying on chair like some king of old times and hit him with belt or shoes or even bare hands if there wasn't anything around. Since the dog was retard, it would always try to escape through the armrest of the chair and get stuck there before its assailant dropped another couple of punches. We'd even come to think that dog was into BDSM, getting its dick hard by all those whippings. The dumbest part was its gullibility. If we offered as much as a morsel to it, it would turn extremely friendly, follow us around, not even pausing to remember the torture we subjected it to. A normal dog would have taken us for schizophrenic psychos and advised its brethren to keep distance from us, but for this retard, such capricious behaviour was absolutely normal.
That night, Sage, his latest but increasingly steady girlfriend, Sethji, S, Ganya came drunk (if there's an excuse to be presented) while I was in my room sketching the time away.
"Dhawan, bhosdichod, yeh kya chutiyaap kar raha hai (Dhawan, you cuntfucker, what the hell are you doing?)," Sethji shouted through my open door, irked to see me sketch. Any use of limb other than to pick up booze irritated him.
"Yeh gaypanti band kar, party karte hain (Stop being a faggot, let's party)," he yelled, even though I was sitting just 3 feet away. I smirked on the irony in Sethji's statement.
I accompanied Sethji to his room (which was next to mine), where music was blaring and the others were howling incoherently in varying states of drunkenness. Sage's girlfriend and Sethji were inveterate drunkards. No amount of alcohol could produce a slur in their voice or tremor in their hands. Sage, who doubled up as our bartender, seemed high but well in control. Sage's bar-tending skills were aimed to make his patrons dead drunk in shortest amount of time. His trademark drink was Chuttadfaad (Assbuster) - quarter rum, quarter whiskey and rest beer. Puke spots on Ganya's and S's shirts told me that they had fallen prey to Sage's atrocities already. Setting was perfect for me to be 'Drunk by Association' - act carelessly and foolishly, because everyone was too drunk to care. Sethji played 'Babydoll main sone di' on loop and in the redlight of Sethji's room we were flailing our limbs directionlessly. We all sucked at dancing, all except Sage's girlfriend (let's call her P, long names tire me). I've come to believe that girls are born dancers, so she was a norm rather than exception.
Suddenly we hear a plate crashing in the corridor. Ganya sticks his head out, takes a look and closes the door. His large eyes are red (more due to sleeplessness than booze) and he's smiling ear to ear.
"Bhagwaan gandgi faila raha hai, saale ki aaj gaand maarte hain (God's messing up the corridor, let's kick his ass)." Ganya says.
"Marni hai, to dhang se maarte hain (Let's do it properly then)," I tell them with a bit of seriousness, knowing that being the sober one, I could direct the play tonight. I asked everyone to get ragged T-shirts from their rooms and I slipped into my room to get my thick gym gloves.
While Bhagwaan cleaned the plates obliviously, everyone got the stuff ready. Sethji had a habit of purchasing chicken dishes from night mess, and leaving the leftovers in a corner of his room. Fungus would grow on whatever could rot, and the chicken bones would keep on bleaching. He used to rationalize that fungus kept the mosquitoes away. We found this logic too stupid to even question. We decided that P, who had never been mean to the dog, would go out and offer these bones to the dog. When she did, Bhagwaan became friendly immediately and started wagging its tail vigorously. We also came out. S too threw a bone to the dog, who lapped it up greedily. S then started petting the dog genially, and the dog lay down on its back exposing its belly inviting everyone to pet him, thinking that he was the star of the night. We obliged. The dog either didn't see the thick gloves I was wearing and the ragged t-shirts everyone was hiding in their back pockets.
The dog was lying supine and everybody picked up a spot to pet. I was scratching the dog's neck and chin. It seemed to like, as it stretched itself to be caressed more. Quickly, I grab the dog's muzzle, while S pins down dog's neck, strangling him. We both kept the pressure on, while Ganya tied dog's front legs together and Sage, its back legs. For an added measure, they also tied the bunched front legs with the back ones. I was worried that in their drunkenness, they would botch up, but they surprised me. All this happened with a synchronicity that gave dog no chance to writhe. Its limbs were so still that had it not been beating its tail about, I would have doubted if it was still alive. When the limbs were tied, S eased pressure on dog's neck and produced T-shirt from his back pocket. He had the most challenging task - to trap dog's muzzle. The dog was looking at me with large pleading eyes as I slowly started moving down the dog's nose and S started tying it with his T-shirt. Finally, I let go and we had Bhagwaan as static as a piece of furniture.
We stood around the dog, proudly inspecting our work. P, elated by the novelty of her deed lifted the dog from its tied limbs, assessing its weight. Then she started twirling so fast, with dog still in her embrace that we were afraid she'll throw it from the balcony and end our fun prematurely. Soon she got woozy and dropped the dog on the floor and it hit it with a painful thud.
"Bhagwaan, lagi to nahi? (Are you hurt god?)" Sethji mocked the dog, while kicking it in the head for a good measure. Both Sethji and P were least sadist of the bunch, and their sudden transformation astonished us. Maybe a bunch of suppressed closet sadists.
We were a bit of unsure about what we could do with the captive. Bhagwaan must have been imagining the worst since it had pissed all over the floor.
"Saale yeh kya kiya (God, what have you done)??" I asked Bhagwaan Daas rhetorically, while slapping it and pushing it onto the floor into its own piss. An idea struck me.
We filled as many buckets we could manage with water and brought them to the corridor. We blocked the balcony drains with rolled newspapers (none of them from my room) and emptied buckets on the corridor floor, spreading it wide.
One end of the corridor terminated in a wall, and at this end we formed a pyramid of empty buckets. Each one of us would get one shot to decimate this pyramid by sliding Bhagwaan onto the wet floor. Since the dog weighed some 15 Kg easily, we all needed a long run up before we could launch it. We would run some 20 steps, holding Bhagwaan from the middle rope (the one joining front legs and back legs) and throw it forward just before the floor got slippery. And in drunkenness (by association in my case), the direction was never perfect. The dog would swerve towards the side wall and hit other obstacles before it reached the buckets. We were about to find out if a retarded dog can suffer brain damage. The game ended when Ganya's shot swerved the least and dislodged the rightmost buckets, bringing down the pyramid.
We took the stock of dog now. It's eyes were shut tight, difficult to pry open. Its heart was beating rapidly (not that we knew how fast stray dogs' hearts usually beat), and its tail (the only body part that was erstwhile moving) was motionless. It was either passed out or pretending to do so, but the stray was too gullible to pretend, so more likely the former.
"Kya karein ab? (What should we do?)," S asked.
"Chhat se faink dein? (Shall we throw it from the roof?)," I suggested only half jokingly, ready to do the honor if they showed even mild interest.
"Saale gaand maarni hai, jaan se nahi (Fucker, we don't want to kill it.)," Sage intervened, his conscience still intact.
Ganya, who was until now relishing in his recent victory, shot off, clearly with something on his mind. In the meanwhile we tried to wake Bhagwaan up by shaking it furiously. Sethji suggested that we should shock him as they show in the movies. None of us trusted ourselves with electricity, so this was out of question. P suggested that we should set fire to dog's tail to see if it was pretending. Sage, without a second thought, stubbed the cigarette he was smoking, on dog's tail. It still didn't move.
Meanwhile Ganya came a large Cello dustbin with swing lid, which was a major attraction for all prowling dogs. This bin was about a meter in height, and cylindrical in shape. Ganya had to carry it from the first floor, because our floor didn't have one. Someone on our floor had destroyed the dustbin and hostel authorities never bothered to replace it. The dogs used to look for food in these bins by intentionally toppling them, scattering all the mess onto the floor. What better revenge than throwing Bhagwaan into this bin.
With its limbs still tied, we dumped the dog into the bin. S yanked open the T-shirt that covered dog's mouth before we taped shut the swinging lid (so the dog couldn't escape.)
"I want to hear him cry." S reasoned.
"Agar balcony se phenkein, to kutte ko lagegi? (Will the dog be hurt if we throw the dog from balcony?)," I tried to incite them again.
"Chup kar, jaan se hi maarke rahega (Shut up, you won't let the dog live)," Sage chided me again.
"Acchha seerhiyo se faink dete hain, lagegi bhi kam aur housekeeping waale kal sambhal bhi lenge (Lets throw it from stairs then, will hurt it less and house keeping staff will manage it tomorrow)," I tried to reason. This opportunity to hurt the dog was too dear to pass.
"Accha idea hai," Ganya seconded me.
We placed the bin vertically (as it normally stands) on the edge of a flight of 11 stairs. S, a good footballer, kicked the bin so hard that it flew the entire flight of stairs before it hit the floor. The dog howled more in fear than pain (or maybe the other way round). Its screams filled the entire floor.
"Meri baari (My turn)," I said as I placed the bin horizontally, primed for rolling down the next set of stairs. I too kicked it hard and it rolled down the stairs while the dog continued to yelp in fear. We all took turns to roll the trash basket until we reached the ground floor. Bhagwaan's screams were getting tiresome and somewhat boring.
"Chalein, daaru bhi khatam karni hai (Shall we go now, there's booze to finish?)," P asked.
"Ek aakhri cheez (one last thing)," I exclaimed. I picked up the bin from the floor and ran with it to the first floor, while others waited on the ground floor to see if I wanted to roll it down the stairs again. Instead I threw the bin from the first floor to the lawn flanked by the hostel block from all sides. As the basket hit the floor, Bhagwaan's howls turned into agonizing shrieks that lasted full half hour, before a kind security guard freed the dog from the bin. By this time all of us were in Sethji's room, where 'Baby doll' resumed again, but we were too tired to flap our limbs. The old monk opened and Sethji poured each of us a peg, and we all reminisced our favorite parts of the incident, having a good laugh at Bhagwaan's expense.
It was about 1:30 A.M. when I retired to my room. I woke up at 5 AM with a strong urge to piss as one has on cold nights, and a strange dream that someone was scraping at my door. I made my way to the washroom in half sleep and relieved myself. With the washroom door still swinging behind me, as I stepped outside, I saw that Bhagwaan had been following me to the toilet. Its limp had worsened and I saw a streak of blood dripping from its ears. I tried to hush it away by stomping my foot on the floor, but it continued approaching me with the determination of a fearless retard. Nervously, I jogged into the other direction, and took a longer way to my room (Our hostel block was rectangular, with toilet in the corner). Ferocious as the dog seemed, it was too fucked up to run after me. Locking myself into my room, I listened to the pawing that I thought I had dreamt, well into the dawn...
