Lanky, gutsy and moody – these three words describe him the best. He was like a beanpole and I was a sort of Lilliput, standing next to him. He played snooker, roamed hostel premises with a cue stick and was a cigarette connoisseur. On the contrary, I pumped iron, scoured the library racks to glean books and was (and am) an avid reader.
A common cord connected us – both of us were gregarious. In spite of having 15 Iranian friends, he liked to be in our company – the 10 something Nepalis. And it was because of the gatherings in our room – for a jam up, a puff of smoke and a peg of whiskey.
Though all of his friends from Iran were teetotalers, he enjoyed sipping pegs of whiskey and puffing on cigarettes. During the drinking bouts, he used to twist his hips to the tunes of Bollywood songs and sway his arms listening Nepali folk songs. As the dusk would turn to dawn, drunk to the hilt, he uttered his favourite one-liner – “You guys are marvellous, f**k those hardliners!”
Though not a smoker, I liked his way of smoking and the round puffs of smoke hitting the ceiling. Not to mention, the congested room would turn into a luxurious lounge and the boys’ rants would seem to be an open concert.
As we interacted, our bonds grew stronger and we started sharing the secrets – of family, friends and philosophy. One day he revealed his true identity. He was son of an Iranian minister. His father was liberal and never stopped him from taking on risky adventures.
As a result, he was caned when he first took a glass of beer (I forgot how many times he was caned). Later, he had to spend his time behind bars for taking a peg of whiskey. But his father never stopped him. Instead he said, “Son, go to India, the largest democracy in the world and you will see what a democracy is.”
Gandhi had been an inspiring figure for his father and he always insisted him (my friend) to go to the country inspired by Gandhi and see the kind of freedom people exercised there. So, one day he packed his bags and set off for the destined land.
When he landed in New Delhi, he got to see the freedom – the everyday freedom of speech (he could utter those f-words and likes anywhere with no restraint), the freedom of pace (the cows and vehicles competing for the patch of road) and of course, the freedom to act (he could now gulp endless glasses of beer and pegs of whiskey without any fear of being caned or put behind bars).
Then came the real moment, as he says, when the true colours of democracy unfolded before him. One day he was smoking nonchalantly at front of the hostel gate and was caught in the act by the hostel warden, a short and stuffy man with henna dyed hair and beard.
The warden thought he would throw the cigarette and run away. But it didn’t happen. My friend continued smoking. As if the warden was a mere visitor to the hostel, he didn’t give a damn.
The warden was miffed. He demanded, “Do you know who I am?”
My friend replied, “No, so what?”
“I am the warden and I can suspend you for smoking in hostel premises.”
“But there’s nowhere written that I can’t smoke here. I am smoking and will smoke. So what?”
“It’s not written but you should know and follow the rules. Drinking and smoking is strictly prohibited here.”
“So what? Do whatever you want to do.”
Soon after, the Vice Chancellor got wind of the incident. Might be it was the warden who took it to him. The VC, influential and strict, was a man of morals. The warden won and my friend lost. He was required to submit an explanation.
So he drafted the reply. Starting with what his father had told him before he set off for India, his expectations and aspirations, what he found out in reality, he jotted down all. His last sentence quoted, “I was disallowed even basics of freedom and am fed food that is not even thrown at my dogs back in Iran.”
He copied the explanation to the Ambassador of Iran to India and even to the Prime Minister of India. Hilarious it was when we saw the Xerox copies of the explanation pasted around the hostel walls and college premises. In the meantime, as fellow friends, we sided with him. And thought – he was logical.
The same evening, a team from Embassy of Iran visited the hostel, to check on the facts mentioned by him in his copied letter to the ambassador. Unfortunately, the hostel food, which used to be good by local standards, was a mess. The chowmein served was not cooked properly, the chicken leg pieces still had blood clots and the plates were not clean, which never happened earlier. The team decided. My friend was right. The food served to the hostellers was indeed a dog food.
It was just the beginning of tussle between our college management and the embassy. My friend, a soft and kind person from inside though he looked snob from outside, intervened. He withdrew his admission and requested the parties not to get entangled in the unwanted debate. He had seen and felt much freedom in India than back in Iran.
I felt bad. For him and his career. He could have earned a Master’s degree and taken back with him the inspiration from India. He could have debated with his father back in Iran about Gandhi, the largest democracy called India and freedom. But it was all gone. Gone in a puff of cigarette.
A common cord connected us – both of us were gregarious. In spite of having 15 Iranian friends, he liked to be in our company – the 10 something Nepalis. And it was because of the gatherings in our room – for a jam up, a puff of smoke and a peg of whiskey.
Though all of his friends from Iran were teetotalers, he enjoyed sipping pegs of whiskey and puffing on cigarettes. During the drinking bouts, he used to twist his hips to the tunes of Bollywood songs and sway his arms listening Nepali folk songs. As the dusk would turn to dawn, drunk to the hilt, he uttered his favourite one-liner – “You guys are marvellous, f**k those hardliners!”
Though not a smoker, I liked his way of smoking and the round puffs of smoke hitting the ceiling. Not to mention, the congested room would turn into a luxurious lounge and the boys’ rants would seem to be an open concert.
As we interacted, our bonds grew stronger and we started sharing the secrets – of family, friends and philosophy. One day he revealed his true identity. He was son of an Iranian minister. His father was liberal and never stopped him from taking on risky adventures.
As a result, he was caned when he first took a glass of beer (I forgot how many times he was caned). Later, he had to spend his time behind bars for taking a peg of whiskey. But his father never stopped him. Instead he said, “Son, go to India, the largest democracy in the world and you will see what a democracy is.”
Gandhi had been an inspiring figure for his father and he always insisted him (my friend) to go to the country inspired by Gandhi and see the kind of freedom people exercised there. So, one day he packed his bags and set off for the destined land.
When he landed in New Delhi, he got to see the freedom – the everyday freedom of speech (he could utter those f-words and likes anywhere with no restraint), the freedom of pace (the cows and vehicles competing for the patch of road) and of course, the freedom to act (he could now gulp endless glasses of beer and pegs of whiskey without any fear of being caned or put behind bars).
Then came the real moment, as he says, when the true colours of democracy unfolded before him. One day he was smoking nonchalantly at front of the hostel gate and was caught in the act by the hostel warden, a short and stuffy man with henna dyed hair and beard.
The warden thought he would throw the cigarette and run away. But it didn’t happen. My friend continued smoking. As if the warden was a mere visitor to the hostel, he didn’t give a damn.
The warden was miffed. He demanded, “Do you know who I am?”
My friend replied, “No, so what?”
“I am the warden and I can suspend you for smoking in hostel premises.”
“But there’s nowhere written that I can’t smoke here. I am smoking and will smoke. So what?”
“It’s not written but you should know and follow the rules. Drinking and smoking is strictly prohibited here.”
“So what? Do whatever you want to do.”
Soon after, the Vice Chancellor got wind of the incident. Might be it was the warden who took it to him. The VC, influential and strict, was a man of morals. The warden won and my friend lost. He was required to submit an explanation.
So he drafted the reply. Starting with what his father had told him before he set off for India, his expectations and aspirations, what he found out in reality, he jotted down all. His last sentence quoted, “I was disallowed even basics of freedom and am fed food that is not even thrown at my dogs back in Iran.”
He copied the explanation to the Ambassador of Iran to India and even to the Prime Minister of India. Hilarious it was when we saw the Xerox copies of the explanation pasted around the hostel walls and college premises. In the meantime, as fellow friends, we sided with him. And thought – he was logical.
The same evening, a team from Embassy of Iran visited the hostel, to check on the facts mentioned by him in his copied letter to the ambassador. Unfortunately, the hostel food, which used to be good by local standards, was a mess. The chowmein served was not cooked properly, the chicken leg pieces still had blood clots and the plates were not clean, which never happened earlier. The team decided. My friend was right. The food served to the hostellers was indeed a dog food.
It was just the beginning of tussle between our college management and the embassy. My friend, a soft and kind person from inside though he looked snob from outside, intervened. He withdrew his admission and requested the parties not to get entangled in the unwanted debate. He had seen and felt much freedom in India than back in Iran.
I felt bad. For him and his career. He could have earned a Master’s degree and taken back with him the inspiration from India. He could have debated with his father back in Iran about Gandhi, the largest democracy called India and freedom. But it was all gone. Gone in a puff of cigarette.
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