Every second morning, the pump’s motor would conk out in a cloud of dense smoke, and the 60-odd denizens of the hostel would be left staring at each other with bleary eyes, unwashed faces and straining colons.

One way to ensure good hygiene was to draw water from the pump’s open well in our backyard, like the fair maidens in our villages. Another was to steal others’ water and use it like there was no tomorrow. Public opinion leaned heavily in favor of the second option, but the laws of demand and supply meant that there were too many good-for-nothing water-pinchers trolling the hallways and too few full buckets to go around.

One morning, as Ravi was hauling two big buckets of fresh hand-drawn water up the staircase to his second-floor room, his colon and mouth urging him to complete his journey quickly, albeit for different reasons, a loud shout pierced the low-pitched morning hubbub.

“Raviiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii. PH-O-O-O-O-NE!”

Ravi didn’t need to contemplate. This must be a call from Deogarh.

In those days, STD calls were prohibitively expensive, so there was not a moment to lose. Ravi left his two bucketfuls on the staircase landing and raced down to the phone.

“Hello, kaun?”

No answer.

“Hello …. Hello?”

No answer yet again.

Ravi thought about this for a second. “Hmm… lagta hai phone cut gaya hai.”

He turned around and headed up the stairs. And, you guessed it, the buckets were gone!

When IITG’s contingent participated in the 1997 Inter-IIT Sports Meet, no one expected much in the way of achievements. But the suspense was still there… would we repeat Kapil and Co’s 1983 feat at Lord’s?

The team directly responsible for the most food intake, travel expenses and track suit investment was, of course, the football (soccer) squad. Apart from the fact that a football team has a big headcount, there were two huge reasons for this:

1. Maneesh
2. Dwivedi

But IITG was a well-funded institution, and no one would begrudge the effort if the team made a passable show.

The team’s performance was largely lacklustre, except for one amazing individual feat that became the talk of the Hauz Khas campus and the surroundings, all the way to Ghaziabad, for a few days.

Hua yoon ke Dwivedi was our star defender. On his substantial shoulders rested the equally substantial responsibility of shielding our goalie — who wasn’t worth his salt anyway — from the ferocious forwards of the opposing team.

As anyone who has seen him play football can imagine, Dwivedi didn’t get much “alone time” or “bonding time” with the ball. He saw a little bit of it here and a little bit there, but before he could strike meaningful conversation with the much sought-after beauty, some other suitor would play spoilsport and make off with her, leaving Dwivedi to watch the love affair from afar.

In short, Dwivedi did not get the chance to shine that he’d been waiting for.

Then, during the dying minutes of the game, something astonishing happened. The ball came bouncing Dwivedi’s way, and no other soul — teammate or opponent — was in sight! So, had Dwivedi’s finest hour finally arrived?

You bet your sweet little behind it had. And he kept his tryst with destiny.

As the ball sped towards Dwivedi, he created room for his signature kick. Maybe the uniform and cleats would be worth something in the end. With alacrity not seen in footballers till then and ever since, he raised his kicking foot, put some Gabdu power behind it, swung it through the air, missed the ball completely, forced his trailing foot to follow its kicking buddy, and landed in the grass on his sweet little behind!

The fortunate few who saw it were speechless. They had seen The Gabdu delivering The Kick. It was a defining moment in their heretofore worthless lives, one that they would relate to their grandchildren someday.

The rest of us, the losers who missed history as it was made, had to content ourselves with recounted tales of that memorable day.

Chabs (to a group of fans): …toh mera bus miss ho raha tha–

Amateur Grammarian Ozair: Abey, “meri bus”.

Chabs: OK, meri bus. Haan, toh meri bus miss ho raha tha–

AGO: Saale, “ho rahi thi“.

Chabs: Chup kar bey. Ek hi baat hai.

AGO: Ek hi baat nahin hai. Hindi mein masculine aur feminine verbs alag-alag hotay hain. Same with adjectives.

Chabs (somehow containing himself from punching this irritating Ozair in the face): Achchha? Aisa baat?

AGO: “Aisi baat”.

Chabs: Saale, teri toh… Achchha toh tu bata. Tera chaddhi ya teri chaddhi?

AGO (confused with the direction of conversation): Um… meri chaddhi.

Chabs: Teri chaddhi? Teri chaddhi! Bas, toh tu larki hai!

This fact was not lost on us. His faithful roommate, the 6′ 1″ giant Maindu (or Tarra, if you prefer), however, was blissfully unaware of 5′ 7″, 55kg Bhikhu’s trait.

It is well known that Maindu had/has some tastes and habits which, for want of a better description, put him in the gender-neutral zone. Bhikhu, taking leave of his senses one evening, decided to pick on Maindu because of these qualities of his.

A small crowd had gathered to watch shikaari Bhikhu in action.

Bhikhu: Tarrey, tujh jaise loge mardon aur aurton ki duniya mein survive kaise karte hain?

Maindu: Chup %$^@!

Bhikhu: Batao na, batao na. Tum logon ka IIT mein alag se quota hota hai kya? “Boys: 50%, girls: 40%, Tarra-types: 10%.”

Maindu: %^@& ab main tujhe nahin chhodoonga.

Maindu chased Bhikhu for a bit, then picked him up and hoisted him above his head like Dara Singh.

Bhikhu (whimpering with genuine fear): Abey utaar de, utaar de yaar. Gir jaoonga. Tu itna lamba hai, yahan se giroonga toh mujhe chot lag jaayegi. Sorry, … SORRY!”

Maindu: Ab toh bakwaas nahin karega?

Bhikhu: Nahin karoonga merey baap! Ab toh neeche utaar de.

Maindu put a fairly chastened Bhikhu safely down.

Bhikhu inspected his bones and joints, made sure he was still in one piece, then addressed the onlookers, pointing towards Maindu. “In logoN mein badi taaqat hoti hai.”

During the 1998 inter-hostel sports meet (our intramurals), the first- or second-round draw pitted an M.Tech student — I forget his name, and perhaps that’s just as well — against the formidable Coffee.

The M.Tech students’ hostel used to be at the other end of the city – a 45-minute bus ride from the chess venue which, luckily for Coffee, was his own hostel.

On the day of his game, the M.Techie rode a bus to the game venue (Coffee’s hostel). He was prompt, and he was prepared. Coffee, however, was anything but. He was busy sleeping off the effects of a late-night game of Transport Tycoon in his room. Someone frantically woke him, announcing that his opponent was already champing at the bit. It was a matter of the hostel’s pride! Would Coffee let us down by being a no-show?

A bleary-eyed Coffee stumbled into the common room. Silence descended over the hostel as the game began. After all, the Sachin of chess was playing.

After scarcely 2 minutes — roughly around the third move — Coffee did something unexpected: he looked at the M.Techie. “I wouldn’t make that move if I were you. Tum chaho toh wapas le sakte ho.”

The Matka was stunned. Was Coffee playing mind games with him? After all, Coffee was his opponent, not a coach. Then why the friendly advice?

He tried to figure this out, second-guessing Coffee for a bit. Then he declined Coffee’s offer.

Coffee had to do what he had to do. Within 1 or 2 more moves, he delivered the Matka a checkmate and returned to his room, eager to resume his interrupted sleep.

The Matka got on another bus and took a 45-minute ride back.

Every year, around April 1, the general alertness level would rise to Code Orange. Each guy knew that if he wasn’t watching his own back, his very trusted friends — those whom he could entrust his life to otherwise — would subject him to unspeakable humiliation and horrors.

The more prominently a guy figured in the hostel, the higher stood his chances of being jacked by his friends. By this rule, Ishi was definitely in everyone’s cross hairs.

Around eveningtime, a little birdie whispered into Ishi’s ear that his pillow, dependable possession of his that it was, was in trouble. A few friends were hatching the reprehensible plan of hiding raw eggs inside it.

Ishi is a smart and resourceful guy. He decided that these scum must be taught a lesson.

At dinner, he openly dared people to trick him, warning them that if anyone messed with him, the consequences would be bad.

As it turned out, the consequences were bad. For Ishi, that is. But we must wait a little for that.

After dinner, as a few clutches of students stood by expectantly in the hostel mess, ears tuned to the sound of eggshells cracking in Ishi’s room, in strode Ishi himself, a smug and triumphant smile on his face. In each hand, held forth on display like a trophy of war, was an egg! Looking around and making sure Anupam, Samya and their cronies heard him clearly, he gave both eggs to Dhruv, the mess caretaker, and asked him to make an omelet!

Then, in plain view of everyone, Ishi ate the omelet, commenting on how good it felt to eat two eggs bought with someone else’s money. Anupam and gang were eating their hearts out.

Or were they?

When Chintu, Ishi’s roommate, returned to the room that night, he saw Ishi sitting up in bed, a gloomy look on his face.

“Kya hua Ishi?”

“Abey yaar, main jaanta tha ye sab merey takiye mein ande rakhenge. Letne se pehle maine takiye ke andar jhaanka aur 2 ande nikaale. Uske baad hi main leta.”

Chintu couldn’t see any problem with that. “Toh phir problem kya hai?”

“Oye takiye mein 3 ande thay.”