He's Leaving Home

"Dude, lets go to Pakistan."
"Now? It's a little too late."
"Everybody's there. Last night at Pak."
"Sarkar's cutting tomorrow?"
Silence.
"Fuck. Yes. Sarkar's cutting tomorrow... Vipul also!"
"They're there right now. Let's go."

And so, Surd and I, on my bike rushed to Pak - to consume, one last time, the tea that kept me sane for three years. As I drove, helmetless, past policemen, I remembered the first time I went there, with Bailey, on the day before the CPC one mid-term (a night that would culminate in four of us standing in the middle of the Cauvery hostel quad screaming, "Takwani!!") and being fascinated by how a place this extraordinary in atmosphere could be tucked away in a quiet corner of Bangalore for this long.

For three years, four days a week on an average, Sarkar, Vipul, Spandan and myself with Singla, Senti, Amit, VP and other junior and senior visitors discussed life there over countless cups of chai and Classic Milds. And on that last night, when I reached Pak, I was overwhelmed by nostalgia. I somehow never thought that my non-smoking, vegetarian self could ever be so attached to a place that mainly serves young, dead animals and cigarettes to go with the chai! The days I didn't go there felt strangely empty. The days Sarkar and I didn't come back at 12.45 and sign in the gate three register as The Pope, or Simi Rose, or James Bond (with roll no 007), I usually sulked around the hostel like a little kid who had just lost a game of hide and seek.

Finally, the moment arrived. I had to leave Pak (officially called Gangondanahalli) for the last time in my life. I walked up to Ayub - the guy who makes the chai - and thanked him for the best chai in the world. Without warning, he hugged me and said, "Jab Bangalore aaoge, idhar zaroor aana!" That's the first time I realised that I was not only finishing law school, but also leaving Bangalore for some time at least.
***

"Ok. I have to cut now. If I stand here longer, I'm going to cry."
"Don't cut now."
"You don't understand. I can't stand here."
"Go."
"No. I'll stay."
"Just five minutes."
Then it happened. I had to cry once, and I did.
"Made me stay here for five minutes just so that you see me cry, didn't you?"
***

Bong and I sat on one of the metal cots in the hostel on the second floor. Tuts was blasting "New York Nagaram" from his room. Senti slept through it like a child. Jags and Surd nailed gin and Sprite. Mishra and Arun - each more drunk than the other - played a pointless game of badminton in the quad.

My last moments in the hostel were spent like this - on a cot on the second floor, high on gin, with various kinds of smoke whirling around me giving me the feeling that I had spent most of my time at a whiskey bar.
***

The room was almost spotlessly clean. The table had some assorted items left for whoever moved into the room next year (That would be Cheena). There was a pillow lying around, which was to be donated to CCL for the kids. After five hours of intense packing, I looked back at the empty room. Just last evening, it was home - everything from toothpaste to hair conditioner, cane chair, desktop, music system, book rack, survival fluids, bread and cheese, deodorant, Arun, Geek. When I left, it was empty. The new guy had to come in and start from scratch. Actually not. I left him my posters, shaving foam, and an extension cord - a good start.
***

Just before I left, we engaged in our only act of vandalism - behind the door, we wrote the last line of the judgment that law school passed on us - "There will be no orders as to costs."
***