Read Hope in Chains :: College

As soon as the train came to a halt, they rushed out and headed for the nearest water source. By the time Suresh reached the large washbowl, there were already people set around it on all sides. Like the spokes of a wheel, each had his arm stretched out towards the central faucet. The first one had the mouth of his bottle fitted over the nozzle of the tap and water was gurgling into his bottle at a good rate. The tap was one of those robust conical contraptions that needed to be held up to allow the precious fluid to run. If you let it go, it would jam down by default to stop the flow. Suresh joined the jostling crowd and finally got his turn at the water. No sooner had he got back to his seat, the air horns of the engine sounded and the compartment started moving. Just in time, thought Suresh; he had never liked the idea of being left behind on some unknown station with only the clothes on his back and, of course, his prize water bottle. The day waned and with it the temperature. They were nearing the metropolis of Madras (as it used to be called back then). As twilight came, they saw the green fields being replaced by a smattering of houses; soon, there was no green left. The buildings grew steadily taller and the man-made jungle of steel and concrete closed in around them. They soon passed the gigantic twin towers of the Basin bridge thermal power station, which in the days to come, Suresh would recognise as the one landmark that would tell him that the final stop was only a few minutes away. At about five to seven in the evening, the train slowed and crept into that vast cavern—Madras Central station. They joined the line of passengers in the aisle, with their airbags slung over their shoulders and their hands clutching suitcases. Soon, they were on the platform and walking towards the exit when a stout elderly gentleman waved out to Mathachen; as they came closer, the older man had Mathachen in a bear hug.

That must be Uncle Thambi, thought Suresh who had never seen him before. Uncle Thambi was Mathachen’s maternal uncle. Mathachen had told his son that Uncle Thambi was a bachelor, and now nearing seventy, he would in all probability stay that way. Dark in complexion, short of stature and built like a bulldog, his balding head held on to a sparse lot of hair around the periphery that fell over his ears and collar. He wore a faded brown jacket, which was a complete mismatch with his dark indigo trousers. With all this, and a round jolly face, Suresh could not help thinking there was something a little comical about him. “How was the journey?” he asked; his hoarse, high-pitched voice momentarily rising above the noise of the crowd that poured past them. “And this must be Suresh,” he added, turning to him and giving him a firm handshake. “Congratulations on becoming a medical student,” he said, adjusting his thick ‘soda bottle’ glasses as though to appraise him a little better. They followed Uncle into the main hall of the terminus. Suresh looked around him in wonder. Looking nearly as big as a football stadium, he had not seen anything quite like it. His eyes ran up the huge steel columns that reached high above and then gracefully branched away on all sides like a palm. These curving girders met their counterparts and supported a multiarched partially transparent roof that let in the subdued light of the sun. Its exterior was equally impressive.

The brick red facade was topped with a lily-white roof and a tall central clock tower reaching a height of 130 feet. This gothic structure built by the British almost a century ago had become an icon for the city. They soon found themselves out on the busy street. “It is quite nearby,” said Uncle Thambi. “We could have walked it if it hadn’t been for the luggage,” he added as he hailed down a cab. Within minutes, they were at Uncle Thambi’s place. He occupied the first floor of a rather run-down old building, with mildewed tiles and stained, faded whitewash that may have really been ‘white’ once upon a time. They climbed up a narrow, creaky, wooden stairway, whose steps were rough and worn down in the centre. It was a modest place—one large hall with a bedroom leading off at one end and the kitchen at the other. The wooden floorboards were chapped with age and the joints between them were plainly seen, although much of it was covered with an odd assortment of threadbare carpets. “Let’s get some dinner,” said Uncle Thambi as he moved to the window and bellowed out to someone on the street below, “Muniyandi!” And then, “MUNIYANDI!” much more loudly this time. “Yes, Sar?” came Muniyandi’s voice from a distance. “I want three chicken biryanis, and make them special.” “Why don’t you freshen up?” he told his guests, showing them to the bedroom. First Mathachen and then Suresh had a bath, and were back in the hall when Muniyandi came up with the food. Uncle Thambi took the packet from him and shoved a note into his pocket. “Keep the change,” he said as Muniyandi smiled with gratitude, turned on his heels and disappeared. He brought the parcels to the table, emptied the contents into a large tray.

He went to the kitchen and brought out three plastic plates, which he set before them. He ladled huge amounts of the biryani onto their plates, so much so that they had to hold out their hands over their plates to make him stop. “Eat well,” he advised as he stood beside them, “it’s the best biryani in Madras.” “Please sit, Uncle,” exclaimed Mathachen, “we will serve ourselves. After all, we are not guests.” As they ate, Suresh looked around at the mess the house was in. Uncle Thambi’s effusive hospitality lay in stark contrast to his utter lack of housekeeping skills. There were books, clothes, luggage and files untidily scattered about the place, with furniture of various shapes and sizes interspaced between them. It was clear that a lady had never been within the four walls of this abode. “It’s not much,” interjected Uncle Thambi as he saw Suresh looking around him. “But I have had the rent frozen for more than a decade, that’s why I am staying put. And it’s so nicely located.” “Why should I move anyway?” he added after a little thought. “I am comfortable here and work is nearby.” Suresh had gathered that Uncle Thambi did some petty business to keep the stove burning, but as to what exactly it was, he would never know. Dinner was over. Mathachen and Suresh helped with the dishes. Uncle Thambi talked and reminisced about old times. It was almost 11 pm when Uncle’s voice rose a pitch as he looked towards Suresh and said: “You better get some sleep,” indicating the one bedroom he had vacated for them. “You will have to get up at least at five to catch the morning train.”

Suresh slept well that night. He woke up with snatches of a dream lingering in his mind and then fading away. It had something to do with bounding up a beat-up old wooden staircase. Suddenly, the steps in front of him vanished and he was free-falling into space. They were at the central station by six o’clock in the morning. The burden of their luggage slowed them down. Uncle Thambi walked confidently in front, swinging his arms widely as though the place belonged to him. This time, it was a short two-hour journey by the east coast railroad that got them to the town of Marivanam. Then a 20kilometre taxi ride towards the Bay of Bengal and the little town of Sevur, where Suresh would spend the next eight years of his life. A time that would change him from a boy to a man, acquainted with the toils and trials of life. The town itself was nothing to write home about. It was naturally divided into four quadrants by two roads. The fourlane highway running south and the other smaller one, almost at right angles to it, going due east towards the sea.

Most of the commercial and official buildings were in the north-eastern segment along with a temple and school. Shops and houses lay densest at the central intersection and become sparse towards the periphery. It would have stayed an unknown junction between the two roads had it not been for the huge campus two kilometres away. For this reason, this village had outstripped the others around it and stood tall beside them like a conspicuous tree that, alone among its neighbours, had hit on a water source. “This is Sevur town,” said the driver as the taxi crossed the intersection. “The college is only two kilometres from here, Sar,” he added confidently, having ferried any number of newcomers to this destination. “The place is very high tech, Sar,” he informed them. “Just like Madras. You can see any number of boys and girls in pairs.”

At this, Mathachen looked anxiously at his son and smiled a little to himself. Just after the town, they saw, in the distance, the first of many multi-storied buildings rise above the millet fields on either side of the road. There seemed to be more of them on the right or southern side of the road. Later on, Suresh would find this was true because 75% of the land was on the south side of the campus. The small portion on the north accommodated a playing field, the men’s hostel and a few residential blocks. Most of the students were rich kids with motorbikes and branded clothes, who could easily pay a sizeable donation and the sky-high fees. But there was a percentage given to the government, to be filled on the basis of merit. These had only to pay nominal tuition. Suresh had gotten in through this scheme and so had to pay only about 10% of what the affluent had paid for a management quota seat. The system was not without its benefits. It had a good side to it as well since the government would never have had the capital to put up this huge medical complex, which was helping some poor patients and providing doctors for the masses.

Is it admissions, Sar?” asked the driver. “Yes,” replied Mathachen. “Then we will go to the administrative block,” asserted the driver. They drove up to the main gate of the south side of the campus, where they were stopped and questioned by the security people. Mathachen quickly fished out the admission order from his briefcase and stuck it out to one of them, who had one look at it before waving them through the gate.

They turned into the parking lot of an impressive threestorey building with a brown marble facade. “Murugan, please wait here,” said Mathachen before he strode towards the entrance with Suresh in tow and his precious briefcase clutched tightly in his right hand. Money that it contained was not his prime concern, but Suresh’s original certificates. They entered the foyer and turned right under a sign that said ‘Registrar’s office’. There was another one written in paper underneath, which said ‘Admissions’. The receptionist ushered them to room number six where they met the registrar’s secretary. After a perfunctory glance at the papers, she gave them a broad smile. “Congratulations,” she said as she stretched out a thin hand to Suresh. “Take these there, and they will tell you what to do,” she added, pointing them to a side room. There they sat opposite a senior clerk who took in the originals and gave them a receipt for the same. Numerous forms were signed by father and son in all the right places. “Here is your challan,” he said, giving them a coupon with a tear-off portion. “This is for your tuition fee that has to be paid in the State Bank on the opposite side of the road. Keep the counterfoil carefully. Here is a letter to the men’s hostel warden. Best wishes!” he ended and got up to see them to the door.

The bank was not difficult to find. They paid the fees and the counterfoil went into Mathachen’s briefcase. “I will keep it,” he told his son, “in case you lose it.” With that exchange of money, Suresh’s admission was now secure. You could see Mathachen’s face lose some of its creases as his tension ebbed away. They walked out of the bank building into the bright sunshine outside. Mathachen was all smiles and he had a spring to his gait. “Let’s have a look around the campus,” he suggested. “Sure,” said Suresh, shrugging his shoulders. They walked along the road further east and came to the gate of the hospital. It was as elaborate as the one that guarded the college campus. But this one had more traffic plying through it. Haggard patients with their precious files, harassed doctors with their stethoscopes and white coats, autorickshaws, cars, ambulances. The larger entrance was for the vehicles and the smaller gate for pedestrians. The security fellows had things in control. They watched in amusement as a hapless pedestrian walked through the broadway meant for vehicles. The man had crossed onto the road before the guards realised what had happened. Two of them rushed after the man with whistles blowing. They made the poor fellow retrace his path back through the gate and then he was herded towards the pedestrian path. “Ha! That was good,” chuckled Mathachen. “I am sure he wouldn’t do it again.” They wandered around the corridors and walkways, looking at the tall multi-storied specialty blocks. The hospital was separated from the college by a high and robust wall with barbed wires running along the top. There was a single gate that allowed people with bona fide IDs to cross between the two parts of the campus. Mathachen hadn’t any and Suresh had not gotten his yet. So they had to go back out onto the road again before they went back into the college campus.