Suresh and his father walked over a narrow path through the lawn and now stood and gazed at the hexagonal marble mausoleum erected in memory of the departed soul. His bust looked down on them in mute benevolence. The shining brass plaques below spoke volumes about his great foresight, lofty principles, patriotism and great generosity. By the time they finished a tour of the campus, the noonday sun was blazing down on them. They found Murugan, the taxi driver, faithfully waiting for them with their luggage safe in the boot. “Shall I leave you in the hostel and carry on, Son?” asked Mathachen. “Only then can I catch my train back.” “Fine,” said Suresh nonchalantly. They drove through the main gate, past the security folk, across the main road onto another avenue that served the smaller northern part of the campus. There were a few houses on each side and then they encountered this brazen signpost on the right side of the road. It said in large bold letters” THE MANSIONS OF THE GODS Enter herein at your own risk. Mathachen saw what was written and thought to himself, They are still medical students and already, they think they are Gods. 

The son had little to say; he hardly heard his father because he was looking down fretfully at his own little boy playing in the sand. “Papa,” he finally shouted at the old man, “why don’t you ask Ashok (the little boy) to go play inside; he has just recovered from a fever and look at him playing in the sun.” The grandfather became upset and shouted up to the little boy’s father on the roof, “What about me? I also had that fever and I am also standing in the sun, but you are not bothered about me. You are only concerned about Ashok.” “That is the way it is,” replied the man on the roof. “Love, like water, naturally flows downwards. One day, that little fellow I care about—your grandson—will care more about his own children than he will care about me.” 

The old man was right, thought Mathachen. They leave our circle to make ones of their own; that is the way it is. While such and other thoughts circled through his mind, the taxi reached the station. Murugan kindly held out the door for him. He must have seen the look on Mathachen’s face for he said cheerfully, “Don’t be troubled, Sar. He will be alright. I have brought many boys to college; they all grow up to be bright young men.” “Thank you, Murugan,” said Mathachen. “Give me your address and a telephone number where I can reach you, just in case I have to contact you.” And so they parted: strangers only a few hours ago, but now friends. Meanwhile, Suresh had long since reached his room. The sweeper had put his things down and beckoned him outside. “Those are the bogs,” he pointed out. “That is the dining hall. If you need anything, I or one of my other colleagues who look after the place will help you.” Indeed, Suresh could see it was well looked after, he was impressed. 

It was three stories high, pentagonal in shape, and made out of solid granite like few of the older buildings on the campus. Built at a time when people knew how to work with that stuff, long before steel and concrete took over. The structure had an opening where the road ran in and forked to form a loop that hugged the building all around its inside. Interspaced evenly in the space enclosed by the road stood five huge trees, one against each block of the pentagon. Its top branches towered above the highest floor for a good twenty feet or so. Suresh had never seen trees quite the same before; they said it had been brought from Australia. The centre of the space had a large circular pond with a pathway all around it. Radiating out from this path were six others that cut the lush lawns in-between them into sections like a pie chart. After settling into his room, Suresh locked it and sauntered confidently onto the driveway and towards the mess. Halfway there, he heard a faint scraping sound that drew his gaze upwards. Just in time to see a yellow bucket disappear back over the third-floor balcony. But not soon enough to avoid its contents that now drenched a good part of him. He looked up defiantly, but there was nobody to be seen where the water had come from. Instead, peals of raucous laughter rose above him from all around. He found quite a few of the inmates staring down at him. “Hey pisser, what are you looking up for?” said one of them who had a burly voice and a handlebar moustache. “I see that you have wet your pants. Put your head down and go back to your room in the slums.” That was what they called the section that housed the freshers. “Come to the room above the mess at 6 o’clock, and don’t get out of there before that.” Suresh slinked back to his room, changed into one of his older set of clothes and arranged his belongings mechanically. 

He was glad that his father had not stayed to witness this scene. When he had done all that he thought was necessary, he sat pensively on his bed awaiting his fate. He knew what was coming. They had different names for it—ragging, initiation or whatever. A knock shook him from his reverie. He found he had a roommate whose father had accompanied him there. He was a tall, lean, timid-looking fellow from Bangalore. His face reminded him of a mouse on a starvation diet. But he was a nice guy and once they got to know each other, they became thick friends. Ajit Shah was his name. 

Years later, he was one of the first to be let in on the secret when the crisis hit Suresh. The college offices closed at five and by half-past, most of the newcomers were installed in their rooms. At six o’clock, they heard a bell. It seemed they were supposed to go to the common room above the mess, and so they went. Seats were arranged in a tight circle for all sixty of them in the centre of the large hall and all around them stood their seniors. Some of them in the older classes looked really fearsome with stern faces, beards and bulging muscles. A tall hulk of a fellow stood up to address them. “You guys think you are great, huh?” He smirked, looked at them with disdain and went on, “Here, you are dirt, you are spirochetes—germs that need cleansing, a little baptism of sorts. So the next three days, you will do what you are told. Each of you will have a fag master from the final year and he will be your Lord and Master. Implicit obedience is the rule. Any disobedience or breach of code of conduct written on this wall will be met with punishment that will not be easily forgotten.” So saying, he pointed to a cardboard notice hanging on the wall and began reading: “When you meet any senior in the next three days, you will come to attention and salute him, saying, ‘I a first-year pisser, salute you, sir, my Lord.’ You will move from this posture only when the senior has passed by. “Every morning at six o’clock, there will be PT, which all will attend. “You will fulfil all your fag master’s requests. And so on and so forth went the rules. The next three days were difficult, to say the least. Some of them had one leg of their trousers cut off, others had one half of their moustache shaved away. Others were made to kneel in homage and recite vulgar poems. At the end of the three days came the grand finale.