In Part 2 of Prof Dr Piyush Roy’s nostalgic campus saga, rivalries intensify, friendships fracture, and attraction simmers beneath youthful bravado, as a vibrant B-School cohort navigates ambition, romance, identity, and rebellion in an India standing at the cusp of cultural transformation.

Recap of Part 1
At a prestigious Pune B-School in 1999, newcomer Avinash enters a volatile world of ambition, attraction, class clashes, and campus politics. Amid freshers’ parties and fragile egos, the magnetic Anisha and charismatic Rahul emerge as irresistible forces, setting rivalries and romances dangerously into motion.

Coming back to Anisha, full-of-life, could be a tad fragile a tag to describe this girl of utter grit and incorruptible lure. Add to that a dash of peacock’s pride and ostrich’s stand-offishness, the concoction spelt combustion. Why did I use these words to describe her? That too in just two days of my knowing her. Well, she had a charming presence, coupled with a devil-may-care attitude that made her a darling of the guys and a cause of envy for the other members of the fairer sex. Yet, irrespective of the previous night’s failed rendezvous, Rahul had started boasting of winning her over by the end of the week. Could it be possible? After all, he had most of the girls in the class falling head-over-heels to be at least friend-zoned with him ever since his joining. The thought rattled me no end, irrespective of that unknown and undeciphered soft corner that I harboured for him, something smacking just a little short of an elder brotherly protection. Though factually he was the one who upped the scales right now in both age and experience, to me.

Rahul indeed was tough competition for the other guys in the class. So, while few of the little population of guys that remained – eight if one didn’t count Pam and Rahul and the 20 girls that made the combined student strength of the whole class – joined his side of the ‘unofficial’ Team-R, the majority pompously upheld the opposition deriding him and the girls as a corollary. Pam led this group, officially codenamed Team-P after its maverick leader Pam, who though had been gracious enough to bear the stud boy’s antics at his house.
“Few pegs down, the dumb ass will start making a fool of himself. Watch my words and check out the fun,” he had joked, through one more of that liberal refill into my glass.

“And with all the fun on the house, enjoy without inhibitions,” he invited, simultaneously introducing me to the others, Atul the loud-speaker, Amit the fuddy-duddy and Manish the Angrez (a Hindi sarcasm for someone hitched to the ways of the West). All of Pam’s original cocky euphemisms, which they did seem to take in their stride, even happily. I too couldn’t resist my curiosity and quizzed him of any inevitable adjectives coined for me. Pam thought for a second, looking me through – up, down, and up again – before declaring, “Yours will follow suit soon. Just let me know you better, I can’t think of anything for you on the physicality factor only, you seem to go deeper.”
It was a polite way of indicating that I was yet to be counted among the happening or the visible in my class.

Call it the unsolicited advantages of being a late joiner; it gave me an opportunity to weigh my options before aligning with any of the formed camps or forming groups in the class, unlike others, who had to make associations either as a chance fit or from first-formed camaraderie. I let the decision pass, waiting to be pushed to make one. If the push didn’t come to shove, I had hoped to bide my time, well and good – to being pals with all. But it didn’t take Pam’s ceaseless scrutinizing mind too long to sense my ambiguous functioning. The matter came to a head, when after one of Rahul’s hasty solo project presentations; I refused to join cause with Atul and Amit in asking some intellect-culling, tough questions prepared by Pam to embarrass the hassled guy further. I even pondered aloud my reservations against anyone else guiding my convictions – in class or outside; and let Pam know of my intentions of offering help to Rahul, whenever solicited, for his next assignment or presentation. Pam reserved his comments then, to whisper loud enough later for the sparse morning attendance at the canteen to hear, almost suddenly in between one of our alternate breakfast treats, “Got an adjective for you too baby. Finally!” – Avi (an easy abbreviation for my longish Avinash) the Diplomat!”

It wasn’t a compliment, coming perhaps with a warning to come out of the no man’s land and take a stand amidst the emerging Rahul and Pam camps. I gleefully dismissed the adage to Pam’s surprised discomfort, more so because right now, Anisha sitting five tables away with Rahul, had gathered all my attention, with her maiden singing efforts, continuing to be the object of mine and everybody’s concern.
And every time Rahul mock cuddled up to her, flinging his arm round her shoulders, and got cozy; someone just looked all over to prevent anyone from noticing how his whole existence had adopted a green hue.

Greener than even the new signboard of ‘Madhuban: A Garden of Eden,’ as they finally agreed to call it. The US-returned, younger son of the restaurant’s owner Mr. Dhirajlal Shah, had been forced to make a compromise after a really long ‘linguistic’ battle with his elder brother, over whether it should be called ‘A Garden’ or ‘The Garden.’ As regards Mr. Shah, he decided he would save his next generation of would-be hotelwallahs (or ‘reh·stuh·ruh·tha’/[restaurateur] as Manish would proclaim) from unnecessary and unwanted education abroad; when all they had to do is carry on the family business. He had had enough of reasoning with his younger ABCD (American Born Confused Desi) son, Manish, who was at loggerheads with his professional and cell-smart, numerology-addicted elder brother Manubhai over little formalities like whether it should be ‘A’ or ‘The.’ Not that the otherwise patient Manubhai had found any grammatical flaws with that seemingly ‘hep’ English add on, it was a purely numerology-dictated objection. ‘The’ spoiled the luck factor, the family numerologist had argued, with a liberal dose of planetary movements related jargon thrown in, to justify his high consultation fees, by Pune’s ‘the elders know-all’ standards. Manish had diligently argued, by using the word ‘the,’ it would mean it’s ‘the’ one (read ‘the’ only garden of Eden in the city and so on), the grammar freak in him had argued. But in India in general and with the business families in particular, elders still remain the decision-makers.

Now one would wonder why so much of a hullabaloo for Madhuban, (I will stick to its old un-anglicised name), just another restaurant. Well before Manish joined us through management quota, and prior to the addition of a new roof-top garden restaurant to Madhuban; it had been witness to countless love stories off our college campus, the tales of which had brewed far and thicker than Anisha’s now-cold coffee, as she took that last puff off her Marlboro Lights ciggy. Well that’s what the America-returned surprisingly non-smoking Manish would dismissively call a cigarette, be it the Monkey brand of down-market bidis or that classy Havana puffer.
Right now, he was gaping through one more of Anisha’s routine antics, waiting for another surprise, as she drowned the remnants of her last ciggy in the teacup turned ashtray. Manubhai was used to this sight, though not Manish, for Indian girls to him still meant the docile, salwar-suit clad impeccably sweet and always proper hausfrau material from Hum Aapke Hain Koun..!. Girls, who were good wife material, but not the girlfriend, a Rahul or Pam would like to sport on their arm, to avail a discount entry at 10 Downing Street – nothing political – just the suave initials of a trendy neighbourhood disc.
Still Manish went ahead and introduced himself to Anisha, who knowing of his ABCD status, decided to grill him straight on the subject to hers and the others’ muted glee. For little did this binge watcher of Hum Aapke Hain Koun..! – (he had seen its every evening show at the theatre, two weeks in a row through its ‘august’, August release in 1994, and whose present big excitement in life was the Diwali festival release of Hum Saath-Saath Hain) – know; that Anisha was never going to be his Madhuri Dixit, even if he acquired all the M. F. Husain paintings in Pune’s private collections!

To be continued next week…
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