Proud to be a Hindu

 

In today’s India, there is a lot of discussion around Hindu. Shashi Tharoor has written a book titled, “Why I am a Hindu.” This has left me stunned, startled, aghast, stupefied, confused, shocked, rattled, paralysed, dazed, bewildered, surprised, dumbfounded, flabbergasted, confounded, astonished and numbed. How dare he? 

To be a proper Hindu, you have to go to Hindu. Like I did.

 

I was all of sixteen and, as Mr. Hardeep Puri, hon’ble Minister said about himself in the self-same situation, “with nothing more than a school certificate and an application form in my hand.” It was the best of times as the crazy cut-offs had not kicked in then; it was the worst of times for a small-town boy overawed by the bright city lights, barely able to speak English and dreading the ragging in the hostel.

 

Soon after entering the hostel, we were marched in before the seniors. And the indoctrination started. First, we had to introduce ourselves and then spell our names – in CAPITAL LETTERS! Then, we had to learn and recite the Hindu namaz. Only after adequate proficiency in this, we were introduced to the virgin tree. I think, during my first year, Protima Bedi who visited for a show was chosen as Damdami Mai for the Valentine Day obeisance. Then we had to go to Miranda House to lose the gaali exchange with the girls and come back sheepishly. Only after two months of this baptism by fire and ice would we graduate to Freshers’ Night and be bestowed the notional keys to the Lovers’ Lane, that mysterious place unknown to singles and the faculty.

 

In Delhi University, all gents’ hostels were out of bounds for girls except in Hindu where girls were (unofficially) allowed up to 8 PM. Whether they were actually allowed after that, well, don’t ask and I will not tell.

 

In the hostel, there was an institution called Dhan Singh. Nothing escaped his gimlet eye. At the beginning of the month, each hosteller had to declare whether he would have veg or non-veg dish for the month. That dish was controlled. Any extra helping was charged. A veg optee having a non-veg dish or vice versa was charged extra. So, in proper Hindu tradition, the attempts to beat the system were many and varied. But old Dhan Singh, in just one cursory glance, could always, ALWAYS, unerringly make out who was doing what “funny business” and swoop down with a register to sign. After some time, we all gave up trying to outsmart him. We feared him but he was also the best part of our lives. He was our “winter of despair;” he was also our “spring of hope.”

 

Beneath that no-nonsense exterior, Dhan Singh had a hidden font of generosity, helpfulness, diligence and care. Somehow, he knew all the problems of all the 200 hostellers and would act as friend, philosopher and guide. I was trying to work my way through the fees and bills and would be sometimes late rushing back from my part-time job/s in the evening. Despite the mess hours being strict and Dhan Singh enforcing them strictly, he would make sure that a plate was kept for me, hidden. I had never asked him for the favour nor told him about my financial situation. When we applied for the IIMs and some other places, we had to send stamped self-addressed envelopes so that the institutes could inform us about the interview call. This was critical communication but the call letters came by ordinary, non-registered post and used to get misplaced sometimes. It was Dhan Singh who advised us to send unstamped envelopes so that the postman would chase us with the letters to collect the penalty. That way, all of us lucky ones never missed an interview call.

 

Many of the wall magazine write-ups and limericks immortalised Dhan Singh in lyrical prose and lively poetry. There was a mixer with Miranda girls. The notice gave the date, time, other details and concluded, “Come one, come all; there will be music and Dhan Singh.”

 

There was strict sorting of the students, based on their hip quotient. The usual categories were Sheetal Billi, Sampoorna Billi, Moti Billi and Raheesh Billi, meaning Cool Cat, Total Cat, Fat Cat and Ash Can Cat. Inter-‘cat’egory migration was possible, but after great effort.

 

In my final year, we were once rudely woken up at 2 AM in the night with a lot of commotion, shouting and fisticuffs. All of us went to investigate. We found that some of the students were bashing up the mess supplier. Apparently, for all those years when we were happy to opt for non-veg, the supplier had been palming off dog meat as goat meat. Some of the students had found out and had hauled him in for a punch-up. No wonder, batch after batch of the pass-outs turned out to be so dog-matic.

 

There was the famous Jai Singh dhaba which has been the key component of much of the country’s post-Independence governance. Sustained by its nourishing Bun-Andaa, hundreds of students from three institutions went on to crack the civil services. If ever a proper survey of the premier government service holders is conducted, it will be seen that a disproportionately large percentage of those brains were nurtured in their formative years by a healthy diet of the Jai Singh dhaba Bun-Andaas. There was the chargesheeted Sher Singh, with a rumoured 12 murders to his credit. He somehow managed an admission in Hindu and terrorized the whole university for a while. Then he fell in love and tried to be a lady-“killer,” with tragic consequences. All this and more, for another day.

 

With so much of rich, assiduously ingrained experience under my belt, I am proud to be a Hindu(ite). Shashi Tharoor can’t be. He went to some other college. Stephen’s or something. So, how dare he?