Of Malhar, milkshakes and a really weird rope - I

My very plain and sometimes painfully orthodox Bengali family ( the maacher jhol and jal khabo type, yes. Ah, stereotypes... ) once sat me down with themselves, to watch an entertainment special on Zee Bangla. As far as I can remember, apart from a really stupid tantrum involving homework and cheese, it was called Megh Malhar. And my mom, in a moment of coolness, said at the end, "Its just a bunch of old washed-up B-listers singing to save their already dead careers."

My mom, ladies and gentlemen. Takes after me.

Anyway, cut to circa 2006, a report in Mid-day spoke of a different, significantly younger Malhar, a sort of youth culture phenomenon, an icon of gigantic proportions. That was the first time I had heard of St. Xaviers' pre-eminent cultural festival. I seriously should've got out more. Oh well.

Now I'm not the worlds best authority on the subject of Malhar, this: http://malharfest.org/ will satisfy your trivial needs, if any. I am, however, all about the experience, and today was an experience.

So, Im in the middle of Saturday lunch, i.e. a leisurely eaten cuisine of rice, omlettes and mutter paneer when I get a call from VJTIan fourth year and Rolex enthusiast Srivathsa. What followed was mostly unintelligible to my ears - Metallica in the background does that - but I distinctly remember three seperate phrases: Quiz elims. Three thirty. Malhar. Malhar, people. I mean, St. Xaviers in my head sat on a pedestal reserved for the likes of Bart Simpson and James Hetfield. Did the Xaviers folk not work non-stop, April to August on the monstrosity that was Malhar? Did they not.....But I digress, again.

Fast forward to three pm, in the 2nd class compartment of a CST-bound train. As I went through my list of Oscar winners since 1928 ( Im such a nerd, really), a plethora of undiscernable thoughts swam through my head, which could only be summarised as, " Malhar baby! Finally here!". Fanboy glee, I must admit. I was mentally grinning all through the train journey and the eventual stop at CST station at about 3.27 Pm.

That, was where real life set in.

Now, people in Bombay, especially public servants, can rarely be classified as helpful. Nice doesnt even come into the picture. Trust me, I wouldve been the happiest if my next sentence was "But there are exceptions to this, some people are so sugary...". Turns out, there are none. Looks-wise, on a scale of 1 through 10, I would rate myself a 5, maybe a 6 if the light's good, but Im not toadlike, no. Why the sudden beauty lesson you ask? Because that's how people look at you when you ask 'em for directions. Like you crawled out of a pond. There's a very elementary reason for this: they're not getting paid for it. Duh. Realizing this, we took a cab, where people do get paid. We reached Xaviers a minute later. Touche, Bombay. Or not.

Looking at the hallowed (albeit, really small) gates of the Xaviers compound from across the road, Srivathsa came to sudden life, crossing the taxi-filled road like a madman, while I trudged about behind . The strong and silent type, thats me. Anyway, the security guys, one of whom looked like those SOAD guys, was apparently not happy with Srivathsa's I-Card. " Its been laminated ", he said in a neo-Westernized accent, which I later came to realize, that EVERYONE in Xavier's had. After a bit o' hustle ( Im Talking Black, foo ), they let us go on to our next treat: Being frisked. Touched all over. By guys. That's not how I want to spend my Saturday afternoon, believe me. But, well, security reasons, so, ok. Do your thing. What freaked me out the most, was that the guy spoke to me while checking my pockets. An excerpt:

Frisky: So, V-J-T-I huh?? hmmmmmmm, good.

Me: Yes. (In an undertone) Now please get your hand out of my back pocket when you say that.

We were pointed to the Information Desk by what looked like a normal person. Shirt, trousers, worn the classic way. An outcast, definitely. Information was again, Neo-American territory. ( NeAm from now on)I mean, talk normally, idiots, we're not paying you for the " Dude.." and the "Man...". We asked for room 25, and one of the NeAms led us to the quadrangle."Ok, its very simple", he said, " See that column there?? (he pointed to a column far left) . Behind those are the Hogwarts stairs. (Laughs). Go through the arches, you cant miss it. Cool? (he looked at me). Cool? (he looked at Srivatsa). Ok."

This guy should work in malls, near the bathrooms or something. You can never find bathrooms in malls.

When we finished assuring him that we were, infact, cool, we made our way to the Hogwarts stairs, pointed to by a really good-looking NeAm. Room 25 was an open-ended classroom, filled with people writing the quiz, or just looking plain bored. The sight made me mentally prepare my strategy in my head, while Srivathsa registered us. Finally, I thought. Bring it on, NeAms. I'll murder them, I'll go through them like the hot knife and butter thing. I'll....

"Excuse me, are you guys from VJTI?"

"Yes."

"Ok. Uhm, your invitations have been scrapped. Thank you."

If the two of us were on a daily soap, sound effects would follow this proclamation, which would then be topped off by the cameras panning over our shocked faces, one at a time. Scrapped?? A weird tangent to Orkut went off in my head, cut-off when the proclaimer, a NeAm with streaked hair and a nose-ring spoke again;

"Yeah."

Nice summing up.

By now , the "How may I help you" NeAms metamorphosed into a bunch of people who looked at us like we crawled out of a pond.. ( Wait, haven't I said this before somewhere??) Anyway, we felt like Fred and George Weasely, in the 5th book, without the broomstick part, with the NeAms bearing down upon us like a horde of angry Umbridges. Srivathsa called our college representative, while I looked around , avoiding direct stares for fear that they might just burn us alive. Apparently, as Srivathsa told me, there had been some "misunderstanding" with the NeAm supremos over the number of registrations from our college. So, well, the just cancelled all the entries. Great. A moment of silence, and Srivathsa asks me , "We're allowed to move around, right??" Right on cue, a couple of long haired NeAms tap us on the shoulder.

"Excuse me, the guys from VJTI right??"

"Uh, yes."

"Good, we're sorry but you'll have to leave the premises. We are here to escort you out of the gates."

The fairytale was definitely over, yes. We were coralled out of the gates, while the NeAms spoke on walkie-talkies like they were in a war movie, or like, Law and Order.

"Wayne, can you here me, WAYNE???"

"Wayne reporting."

"Im with the VJTI folk. Escorting them now, over."

"Roger that. Take them out the back, we dont want the gate clogged, over."

"Roger.""What after? They'll go home, wont they?"

"Well, yes. Lock the gates then."

Yes, I heard all of the military banter. It was very "Yay, look at us, we can talk through this, and other people far away can hear us. How hot are we!". The guy kept a firm eye on us, like a SWAT team on terrorists. Very embarassing. I felt like a convict, waiting to be escorted into a police van, to be taken to a destination removed from human occupation. Please continue. I'm enthralled by the attention. Really. Idiots. We made a few more calls to Paresh, which yielded nothing more than a strong desire to kick him in the nethers. Defeated, and hungry, we left.

But the real icing on this farce of a cake came later. About thirty metres from the college, a guy comes over to us and asks, "Which college??"

Not again. "VJTI.", we sighed.

He whips out a walkie-talkie and says, " The VJTI people are safely away, lock the gates. "

Somewhere, in the recesses of the college, the NeAm supremos were laughing.