Page 85 - SAM CLUB DAY 2016 all pages.cdr

SAM CLUB DAY ‘16

Meanwhile, the score here is five games to nil, forty points to love in the sixth game. Coming into the present
third set (having already lost the two preceding sets), I realize that I might have got irrevocably behind in The
Game. If I don't make up, I will end up losing The Match! No smiles here, just bi er cringing. “The syllabus is
vast. The books are many. Oh, this deadweight!” (Same pinch. Di o!)

I wonder how it is that some mes a er dinner me, you can swoop into my room to talk, ask if I am in
possession of some par cular movie, or, what is the name of the melody which you happened to listen to on my

mobile phone, et al. You shuffle through the day's events and the problems, and slowly slide into our casual
discourse your plan to have a walk on The Other Terrace (that has earned the name of 'The Rendezvous' and
'The Stomping Ground')– something to pass the me. So a tête-à-tête under the moonlit sky, under the Orion,
ensues at the place which, if Rumour is to be believed, is your purlieu for conversa ons like these with anyone
agreeing to lend you a pa ent ear. Once there, you complain about your incumbent responsibili es. You
insinuate. And people (singing, whistling or just quietly passing by) sneak their heads in to see to whom the
close silhoue es on The Other Terrace belong. The people, you say, can't mind their own business. Then, with a
sudden insouciance, you resume your diatribe.

“Why did this godforsaken train have to stop here of all places? If it had halted at Pla orm Number 1, there
wouldn't have been any problems.” (We boarded the train from Pla orm Number 1 on our onward journey. I
remember that even then the infernal bags were a problem!)

I wonder how it is that you need a cortege to escort you on your travel home on leave. And if (God forbid) you
are returning alone, you call me up, at say.... an hour past midnight, and o andedly inform that your train is
arriving within the hour. It is late, you say. There is no one to pick you up at the sta on, you say. “Your bike has
petrol”, you assert or ask (I can't tell). I answer in the affirma ve. I collect the Key from the Inquisi ve Two-
Wheeler-Co-Owner and well, the following day, headlines have spread all over the place - Damsel in distress –
Brought back to The Hostel by Galahad.

“Porter! Porter! Where is a porter?” (Present, ma'am!)
I wonder how it is that I have come to being the bu of the rampant banter. That golden age of being
unencumbered seems like only yesterday. How is it that I am in this snare: this no-man's, yet every-man's land?
“Forty four degrees. Humid. God!” (Yes, it is all God's fault!)

I wonder how, while it is “en rely inappropriate” of us men to walk about in vests, it is “modern and adap ve”
of you to come outside in Those Hot Pants. You enjoy the liberty of picking whatever suits you from amongst our
lot, without such a trace of considera on as I would like. 'Veni Vidi...I chose as I willed'. You compare and
balance pros and cons. Someone's Ability to Swim might be pi ed against someone's Academic Ap tude.
Someone's Musculature and Strength against someone's Sense of Humour. But a sound judgement is not
guaranteed. It might be someone's Nothing against someone's Overall Excellence, and s ll the verdict could
come out against what the sense of any wise jury would see prevail. And then there is The Personal Space - a
panacea for all your problems, and an anathema to us. You can't seem to have enough of it. We can't have any of
it. The very fact that due to all this some men have been led astray to The Guitar, some to The Ghazal, some to
The Smoke and others to The Drink is painful. Isn't it?

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