My name is Mohan. This story happened when I was 19 years old. I probably don't have all the details exactly correct, but this conveys the essence of a relationship I had in my first year of college at Mumbai University in 2005. I have changed her name because if any of her family should stumble across this, they would have been very likely to recognize her. The rest is a true story.
Like the overwhelming majority of guys, I was a virgin when I got to college many years ago.
In that I admitted it, I was in the distinct minority.
Most of us set about assiduously to correct that deficiency. It was certainly on my to-do list, but I was so shy with girls it was a struggle to get a date, let alone get into a situation where sex was a possibility.
I would have concentrated on collegework anyway. While I had been a world-class underachiever in high school, the freshness of the situation motivated me to excel, and my first semester grade point was 3.85 despite taking time-consuming, honours chemistry and physics.
My disillusionment with the supposed freedom and openness of college life set in the second semester, climaxed by my cutting a final in a five-credit course to earn a grade point average of 2.2.
Despite this performance, or perhaps because of it, my parents allowed me to join a club in the 2nd semester of my first year. It was a small, bookish fraternity with the second highest grade point average in the Science community, including the Engineering dept.
For those of you not familiar with the joining process in Mumbai University, it is a milder version of NCC camp. The object is to harass, humiliate, degrade and generally make life miserable for the pledge class so they can form a bond by fighting a common enemy.
It works. The bonds forged can be very strong.
One of the weapons used by our actives was to require us to carry cigarettes for their use upon demand. This was both annoying and expensive since there were many more of them than us and, it seemed, most of them smoked.
I don't know how he came upon the method of our liberation, but Arjun, who smoked himself, was the one who disseminated the information.
"I've bought my last pack of Silk Cuts for those guys," he announced.
"And how did you manage that?" I asked.
"You alter them. Take out the cigarettes and mist them. They dry them on the radiator. They taste like dust."
"Did you try them?"
"Didn't you hear me coughing?"
"That's all we have to do?"
"Would I mislead you?"
I remember the conversation accurately because it was a game we played. How long can you keep up a dialog consisting only of questions? The first declarative sentence loses.
Arjun's contribution lifted our burden and restored our finances.
Clubs have parties where, I know you will be dismayed to learn, drinking alcohol is commonplace. So is bringing dates.
The actives had begun to notice I sometimes showed up alone. I thought they might be empathetic and take me under their wings to bring me out of my shell. After all, I was to be one of them in a very short time. Raktim was the one chosen to help me.
"At the next party, I expect you to bring Rekha."
"Rekha?" I feigned ignorance.
"Rekha the Randi."
Not possible! Of course I knew of Rekha the Randi. There were 4,000 students on this campus and at least 3,800 of them knew of Rekha. She, too, was a first year.
But she was hot and gorgeous and she had curves and legs and breasts, all of which and had been assembled with meticulous attention to detail.
That alone should have made it obvious that I was as likely to lift off the ground in flight as I was to get a date with Rekha. But, in addition to being an immensely desirable woman, Rekha had a reputation.
She reportedly adored sex. She reportedly enjoyed it with a wide variety of partners. She reportedly did not require an elaborate dating ritual before making herself available. All of the hottest seniors, juniors and second years lined up for a chance to go out with her.
In contrast to this physical goddess, I was 5'6", 62 kgs of flesh and bone. If I were lying down in the rain without my shirt, a considerable pool of water would have collected in the concavity of my chest between the bottom of my ribcage and where my pectorals should have been.
My body looked like Mahatma Gandhi's in the early stages of a hunger strike. Had you been able to obtain a picture of me with my arm around Rekha, the caption would have read, "What's wrong with this picture?"
I had trouble asking out girls who were attracting so little attention their faces might have been found on milk cartons below the caption "Have you seen this girl?"
Raktim was telling me to get a date with the no-second-place, most sought-after girl on campus.
"No way," I argued. "There is not the remotest chance I can get a date with her. You couldn't get a date with her."
"No, I probably couldn't. But you will if you don't want to be a pledge the rest of your life."
This was so unfair. Had they just chosen this task for their amusement? Or had they figured out the way to exact the maximum psychological impact? This was my worst fear, like Bachchan's rats in 1984. But I had to make the attempt.
Rekha lived in the next hostel. I went over there for lunch and saw her sitting alone by the window. That was not necessarily a surprising thing. It might not be every day that predators would descend upon her.
I started in her direction. My legs wobbled and I had to grab a chair for support. I took a deep breath. It didn't help.
My body temperature rose rapidly. Perspiration poured down my face. My shirt began to get damp and stick to my body. All my fluids must have been used to produce the perspiration, because my mouth was so dry my tongue stuck to the roof.
My heart rate increased to the point where it felt like it did when I was rushing toward the goal with a soccer ball just in front of my foot, trying to escape pursuing defenders. I hadn't eaten, but I felt nauseous. I took small steps to keep from stumbling or crumbling.
As I approached her table, my intention must have been obvious. A faint smile flickered across her lips and then flamed out. Her expression seemed to be saying, "Oh, good. Another one," without a hint of enthusiasm.
"Is it okay if I sit here?" I managed to get out.
"Sure. Why not?" Her voice was devoid of affect.
"I'm Mohan."
"I'm Rekha." She knew I knew. I knew she knew I knew.
A brief silence ensued. I wasn't very good at this. I had a conviction that silence was the enemy. I have since learned that it can be valuable and comforting. At that age I had to find something to say.
"This food isn't very good, is it?" I asked.
"It's okay. You have to eat something."
"I like the fries." Hamburgers and fries were at the top of the food pyramid in the college's canteens. I don't know whether it was from ignorance or capitalism.
"I don't eat them. They have too many calories."
It's impossible for me to eat too many calories, I thought.
"So that's why you're so thin," she said.
I guess I had thought out loud.
"How kind of you to point that out," she added. She had a nice laugh.
She shrugged. "That's just who you are. It doesn't have to be a bad thing."
"What's your honours?" De rigueur in a college setting especially for someone as conversationally challenged as I.
"History. What about you?"
"Let's see, it's spring so I think it's math."
Again that laugh. "You've changed honours?"
"I picked MU for music. By the time I got here it was physics. This term I changed to math. Who knows how many more honours I can rack up in the next three years?"
Oops.
Campus lore was that first year boys don't get to date anyone who has been here more than a year. First year girls get to date anybody they please. Occasionally that might include a first year. I had established beyond any doubt not only my bona fides as a first year but my naiveté as well.
"I love history. I love to learn about the sweep of what moves civilizations. I want to understand what impels people to make changes in their social structure."
"You sound so passionate. Maybe I'll have to take another look at history. In high school, history was dates and names and as interesting as watching air," I said.
"That's bullshit history.
"History is about what was important enough to move them to make changes; who resisted and why.
"The French Revolution took place after the American Revolution and before the end of that century. The exact date is not important. The general time period helps you know what forces were going on around them. What were the social pressures and conditions? What could have been so important that they took their lives in their hands to change the only system they ever knew; to change the only system their ancestors had known?
"That is what is interesting about history."
"Wow. You make history sound like fun."
"It is."
"I think this is the best lunch I've had since I got here."
"Oh. Are the vegetables tasting better?" Rekha teased.
I blushed. "No. It's the conversation. It's the company."
I'm terrible at maintaining small talk with women. I am exceptional at sincerity. I had better be. I'm very transparent.
"I have to agree with you. This is the best lunch I've had since I got here. I have to get to class now but can we do this tomorrow?"
"Absolutely."
"12:30?"
"12:30 it is."
It didn't occur to me until that evening that she had asked me for kind of a date. I quickly dismissed it. It seemed inconceivable.
What I did realize immediately after she left was that the rumours were untrue. They must have been started and perpetuated by some jealous coeds.
This woman was physically sensational. She had a lovely sense of humour. She was very intelligent and passionate about knowledge. Jealousy would be entirely justified if she was the competition.
Like the overwhelming majority of guys, I was a virgin when I got to college many years ago.
In that I admitted it, I was in the distinct minority.
Most of us set about assiduously to correct that deficiency. It was certainly on my to-do list, but I was so shy with girls it was a struggle to get a date, let alone get into a situation where sex was a possibility.
I would have concentrated on collegework anyway. While I had been a world-class underachiever in high school, the freshness of the situation motivated me to excel, and my first semester grade point was 3.85 despite taking time-consuming, honours chemistry and physics.
My disillusionment with the supposed freedom and openness of college life set in the second semester, climaxed by my cutting a final in a five-credit course to earn a grade point average of 2.2.
Despite this performance, or perhaps because of it, my parents allowed me to join a club in the 2nd semester of my first year. It was a small, bookish fraternity with the second highest grade point average in the Science community, including the Engineering dept.
For those of you not familiar with the joining process in Mumbai University, it is a milder version of NCC camp. The object is to harass, humiliate, degrade and generally make life miserable for the pledge class so they can form a bond by fighting a common enemy.
It works. The bonds forged can be very strong.
One of the weapons used by our actives was to require us to carry cigarettes for their use upon demand. This was both annoying and expensive since there were many more of them than us and, it seemed, most of them smoked.
I don't know how he came upon the method of our liberation, but Arjun, who smoked himself, was the one who disseminated the information.
"I've bought my last pack of Silk Cuts for those guys," he announced.
"And how did you manage that?" I asked.
"You alter them. Take out the cigarettes and mist them. They dry them on the radiator. They taste like dust."
"Did you try them?"
"Didn't you hear me coughing?"
"That's all we have to do?"
"Would I mislead you?"
I remember the conversation accurately because it was a game we played. How long can you keep up a dialog consisting only of questions? The first declarative sentence loses.
Arjun's contribution lifted our burden and restored our finances.
Clubs have parties where, I know you will be dismayed to learn, drinking alcohol is commonplace. So is bringing dates.
The actives had begun to notice I sometimes showed up alone. I thought they might be empathetic and take me under their wings to bring me out of my shell. After all, I was to be one of them in a very short time. Raktim was the one chosen to help me.
"At the next party, I expect you to bring Rekha."
"Rekha?" I feigned ignorance.
"Rekha the Randi."
Not possible! Of course I knew of Rekha the Randi. There were 4,000 students on this campus and at least 3,800 of them knew of Rekha. She, too, was a first year.
But she was hot and gorgeous and she had curves and legs and breasts, all of which and had been assembled with meticulous attention to detail.
That alone should have made it obvious that I was as likely to lift off the ground in flight as I was to get a date with Rekha. But, in addition to being an immensely desirable woman, Rekha had a reputation.
She reportedly adored sex. She reportedly enjoyed it with a wide variety of partners. She reportedly did not require an elaborate dating ritual before making herself available. All of the hottest seniors, juniors and second years lined up for a chance to go out with her.
In contrast to this physical goddess, I was 5'6", 62 kgs of flesh and bone. If I were lying down in the rain without my shirt, a considerable pool of water would have collected in the concavity of my chest between the bottom of my ribcage and where my pectorals should have been.
My body looked like Mahatma Gandhi's in the early stages of a hunger strike. Had you been able to obtain a picture of me with my arm around Rekha, the caption would have read, "What's wrong with this picture?"
I had trouble asking out girls who were attracting so little attention their faces might have been found on milk cartons below the caption "Have you seen this girl?"
Raktim was telling me to get a date with the no-second-place, most sought-after girl on campus.
"No way," I argued. "There is not the remotest chance I can get a date with her. You couldn't get a date with her."
"No, I probably couldn't. But you will if you don't want to be a pledge the rest of your life."
This was so unfair. Had they just chosen this task for their amusement? Or had they figured out the way to exact the maximum psychological impact? This was my worst fear, like Bachchan's rats in 1984. But I had to make the attempt.
Rekha lived in the next hostel. I went over there for lunch and saw her sitting alone by the window. That was not necessarily a surprising thing. It might not be every day that predators would descend upon her.
I started in her direction. My legs wobbled and I had to grab a chair for support. I took a deep breath. It didn't help.
My body temperature rose rapidly. Perspiration poured down my face. My shirt began to get damp and stick to my body. All my fluids must have been used to produce the perspiration, because my mouth was so dry my tongue stuck to the roof.
My heart rate increased to the point where it felt like it did when I was rushing toward the goal with a soccer ball just in front of my foot, trying to escape pursuing defenders. I hadn't eaten, but I felt nauseous. I took small steps to keep from stumbling or crumbling.
As I approached her table, my intention must have been obvious. A faint smile flickered across her lips and then flamed out. Her expression seemed to be saying, "Oh, good. Another one," without a hint of enthusiasm.
"Is it okay if I sit here?" I managed to get out.
"Sure. Why not?" Her voice was devoid of affect.
"I'm Mohan."
"I'm Rekha." She knew I knew. I knew she knew I knew.
A brief silence ensued. I wasn't very good at this. I had a conviction that silence was the enemy. I have since learned that it can be valuable and comforting. At that age I had to find something to say.
"This food isn't very good, is it?" I asked.
"It's okay. You have to eat something."
"I like the fries." Hamburgers and fries were at the top of the food pyramid in the college's canteens. I don't know whether it was from ignorance or capitalism.
"I don't eat them. They have too many calories."
It's impossible for me to eat too many calories, I thought.
"So that's why you're so thin," she said.
I guess I had thought out loud.
"How kind of you to point that out," she added. She had a nice laugh.
She shrugged. "That's just who you are. It doesn't have to be a bad thing."
"What's your honours?" De rigueur in a college setting especially for someone as conversationally challenged as I.
"History. What about you?"
"Let's see, it's spring so I think it's math."
Again that laugh. "You've changed honours?"
"I picked MU for music. By the time I got here it was physics. This term I changed to math. Who knows how many more honours I can rack up in the next three years?"
Oops.
Campus lore was that first year boys don't get to date anyone who has been here more than a year. First year girls get to date anybody they please. Occasionally that might include a first year. I had established beyond any doubt not only my bona fides as a first year but my naiveté as well.
"I love history. I love to learn about the sweep of what moves civilizations. I want to understand what impels people to make changes in their social structure."
"You sound so passionate. Maybe I'll have to take another look at history. In high school, history was dates and names and as interesting as watching air," I said.
"That's bullshit history.
"History is about what was important enough to move them to make changes; who resisted and why.
"The French Revolution took place after the American Revolution and before the end of that century. The exact date is not important. The general time period helps you know what forces were going on around them. What were the social pressures and conditions? What could have been so important that they took their lives in their hands to change the only system they ever knew; to change the only system their ancestors had known?
"That is what is interesting about history."
"Wow. You make history sound like fun."
"It is."
"I think this is the best lunch I've had since I got here."
"Oh. Are the vegetables tasting better?" Rekha teased.
I blushed. "No. It's the conversation. It's the company."
I'm terrible at maintaining small talk with women. I am exceptional at sincerity. I had better be. I'm very transparent.
"I have to agree with you. This is the best lunch I've had since I got here. I have to get to class now but can we do this tomorrow?"
"Absolutely."
"12:30?"
"12:30 it is."
It didn't occur to me until that evening that she had asked me for kind of a date. I quickly dismissed it. It seemed inconceivable.
What I did realize immediately after she left was that the rumours were untrue. They must have been started and perpetuated by some jealous coeds.
This woman was physically sensational. She had a lovely sense of humour. She was very intelligent and passionate about knowledge. Jealousy would be entirely justified if she was the competition.