Journey of an Ambivert : Chapter 2

              Chapter 2: Beers, Bells and Bangali Babas

    The first couple of months in the new 'City Cozy' hostel zoomed by at breakneck speed. Hostel life in the new city was a wild ride, unlike anything I'd ever imagined. Our hostel was a bustling hive with over 100 rooms, housing a raucous 250+ student population. Most rooms were crammed with triple-quadruple roomies, some double rooms, and a few lucky souls like me who enjoyed the luxury of a single room. My room boasted a giant window that showered me with sunlight at the crack of dawn—nature's alarm clock with a beaming smile.

   Initially, I battled a fierce bout of homesickness and claustrophobia. Once you were inside the hostel, there weren't too many options for entertainment. You had your room, a shared balcony for socializing, and a rooftop to give your clothes a sunbath. The clothes on the rooftop resembled a vibrant clothesline rainbow, and so did the motley crew of hostel dwellers. It was a boys' hostel, and it felt like a melting pot of college students from every nook and cranny of the North-Eastern part of India.

    Even in the throes of homesickness, a simple stroll to the balcony or a hangout in the common room was like a shot of joy serum, even for the most somber loafers on the planet. Any time of day, you could saunter to the balcony and spot a couple of wiry, borderline-malnourished dudes, talking and moping on the phone, probably with some girl they were trying to win over.

    Then there was this character on my floor who looked like a disheveled, runaway broiler chicken. With his spindly arms, unruly hair, and wearing bermudas that defied the concept of "fit," he'd carved out a unique persona for himself - the moniker bestowed upon him was "Lonely." I doubt anyone in the building knew his real name.

    Now, you might wonder, why on Earth was he called Lonely? Back then there was an underground track which was quite popular among the broken hearted youth of the state – "Emptiness" by Rohan Rathore. Our friend had adopted this song as his personal anthem; it was his ringtone, his morning alarm, and he played it non-stop throughout his day. The other boys, without missing a beat, tagged him with the nickname "Lonely", which he weirdly embraced. Every evening, like clockwork, Lonely would strut through the halls, subjecting us all to an endless loop of his theme song, the tunes emanating from his bermuda pockets. It got to a point where I had never been so thoroughly tired of a song in my entire existence.

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    My BBA escapade commenced in the hot and humid July of 2011. Ours was a modest-sized batch, with around 40 peculiar students. These folks were all hailing from the Humanities and Commerce background, except me, the science rebel of our group, thanks to my daring choice during the 12th Board exams. You see, little did I know that my science background would become a lifeline, especially in the first semester when we were hit with the Calculus and Integration bombshell. Yep, you read that right. Calculus in a Management course. It was a head-scratcher for all of us.

    The rest of the 2011 batch was fuming. They took up BBA to escape the clutches of numbers and equations, considering math their nemesis. Little did they realize that Math was about to play hard to get with them. Math wasn't planning to let them slip away that easily.

    Six months zoomed by, like an eager squirrel on caffeine. It was the dreaded end-semester exams in December. We had a total of six papers each semester, and one of them was Quantitative Intelligence, the math-infused monster. My batchmates dreaded it like a cat hates water, most of them failing the mid-semester test before. As for me, I had my fair share of struggles with the subject, but thanks to my 12th-grade Calculus experience, I was cruising through, scoring first-class marks. Unfortunately, the rest of the pack wasn't so lucky. They floundered miserably, failing to even hit double digits, with a couple of them securing a perfect 'Zero.'

    Our six semesters of BBA were a colorful blend of madness. But let's save the juicy details for another time. In this tale, I'll focus on what transpired toward the end of the sixth semester, a time when not a single of my buddies managed to clear the Quantitative Intelligence paper.

    Now, rewind to the end of the first semester exams. Us friends were reminiscing about the past half-year—college life, exams, and our grand vacation plans for the upcoming month-long winter break. We were a bunch of guys eagerly hunting for bus and train tickets to make the most of our time back in our hometowns.

    In the spirit of camaraderie, we decided to throw an epic end-semester party, inviting all our closest friends for a night of feasting and merriment. Date set, preparations in full swing, with alcohol and meat overflowing from the local markets, we opted for Pritam's PG as our party den. It had a spacious terrace and roomy chambers, perfect for an all-boys sleepover extravaganza.

    Speaking of Pritam, the poor guy was grappling with a rollercoaster of emotions. His first semester exams went awry, and on top of that, he had recently bid farewell to his beloved pet dog, Fluffy. But wait, that's not all. The cherry on the cake (or should I say thorn in the side) was the revelation that his girlfriend, Piyali, had apparently found a sidekick while working for an MNC in Kolkata. Rumor had it she was dancing the 'two-timing tango' with a colleague from the same company.

    Our well-meaning advice to Pritam was to confront his girlfriend about this dubious affair, but he was like a deer caught in the headlights. He had a track record of zero luck with the ladies, and the thought of confronting his girlfriend and potentially losing her was too much to bear.

    "What if she breaks up with me, man?"

    "What if she realizes she loves me later and dumps the new guy?"

    A whirlwind of insecurity swirled in his mind. My suggestion was simple: face the music and get it over with. Alas, he couldn't muster the courage.

    A week before the party, we gathered in the college cafeteria, discussing crushes, love interests, and other teenage musings. Enter Safiqur, the skinniest guy in our batch, with a mischievous glint in his eye.

    "You know, there's this Bangali Baba living a couple of miles from here. People say he's got some funky black magic mojo going on. Romance problems, money troubles, family drama—this guy has a solution for everything. Hey, Pritam, why not give it a shot?"

    We figured Safiqur was just cracking a joke, but before we could react, Pritam jumped in with unexpected enthusiasm.

    "I've heard of that Baba too, from the PG owner. He's new in town but already has a long line of people seeking his mystical help. They say he can actually solve problems, for a modest fee. My aunt mentioned black magic stuff when I was a kid, and it seemed to have some strange uses. Not a terrible idea to try, what do you guys think?" Pritam said, seeking our opinions.

    The talk of black magic triggered a cascade of memories and childhood tales. For nearly an hour, we shared stories, gossips, and spooky anecdotes. By the end of it, the decision was clear: Why not give it a shot? What harm could it do? Before leaving the cafeteria, after gulping down forgettable parathas, we decided that Pritam and Safiqur would venture to the Baba's lair the next evening to check out this so-called magical phenomenon.

    Saturday evening arrived, and we brought back crates of budget booze to ensure a legendary night. Each of us pooled whatever pocket money remained after booking bus or train tickets, which was just enough to secure a crate of beer. Our plan was ingenious: sneak the beer into the PG's kitchen to keep it chilled in the fridge and bribe the kitchen staff with promises of beer and fried chicken the next day.

    Pritam and Safiqur had already embarked on their mystical quest to meet the Bangali Baba, while the rest of us were immersed in back to back gaming sessions. As a self-proclaimed FPS gaming champ, I was crushing every round, making it look like child's play for my less-experienced comrades. The thrill of victory waned after a while—my opponents were no match to me 😀.

    Amidst the gaming frenzy, the doorbell chimed. Aditya, always the first to respond, opened the door to reveal Pritam and Safiqur, each holding a helmet, and Pritam clutching a mysterious red bag.

    Eager to share his triumph, Pritam burst into the room with unwavering excitement. "Look what I got, guys! I met the Baba, and he gave me this bell, painted in ominous red and black, along with a string. He told me to tie it to the tallest branch of a Bel Tree. Whenever the winds touch the bell, it'll ring, and my girlfriend's affections will be redirected from the other guy back to me in a heartbeat. Just needs to be the nearest and tallest branch of a Bel tree."

    The coincidence was mind-boggling. Bel trees weren't exactly a common sight in the city, yet there it was, a Bel tree positioned just a couple of meters away from Pritam's window. Was this a cosmic signal, a wink from fate? We would soon find out.

    Pritam's eyes sparkled, and his face lit up like a kid on Christmas morning. "Yes! But, uh, how the heck am I going to reach that tallest branch? That tree is like 30-40 meters tall."

    Enter Sanjay, our resident enigma and aloof spirit. "Well, you see, there's a bunch of rag pickers smoking downstairs. We can try asking one of them. I saw one of them helping the locals pluck betel nut from their garden the other day."

    Pritam embraced the idea, and without delay, the deal was struck. For a cool 100 bucks, the skinny guy was ready to ascend the tree, displaying monkey-like prowess. He swiftly tied the bell to the tallest branch within reach, ascending and descending the tree with astonishing agility. We watched in awe, witnessing a feat of human acrobatics.

    I couldn't help but wonder if this was some kind of prank.

    The guy descended, Pritam handed over the promised 100 rupees, and we all shuffled back into the room, eyes fixated on the bell, hoping for a sign.

    "So, what's the timeline here? How long before the winds do their thing and the bell rings?" I inquired.

    "Baba said it could happen anytime, day or night, no fixed schedule," Pritam replied, eyes glued to the bell.

    I offered reassurance, "Well, let's see what happens."

    As the evening wore on, our attention shifted back to video games, and the others tidied up the room, clearing the aftermath of our beer-fueled gathering. Time flew, an hour passed, and then Pritam's phone began to buzz.

    Pritam sprang to life, his excitement palpable. "Guys, shhh, quiet."

    He dashed out of the room, and we followed suit, curious to find out what happened. It wasn't long before we heard it—a sudden burst of wind, like a booming drumroll, heralding an unseen change. The previously silent bell started ringing frantically, shaking and vibrating. Leaves rustled in the nearby trees, and Pritam went berserk...

    "It's ringing, guys! Can you hear it? Look!"

    We huddled on the porch, eyes trained on the top of the tree branch. Although the pitch-black night obscured our vision, the sound of the bell resonated, much like the chime that greets you at a temple entrance.

    The winds gradually subsided, and as the temperature plummeted, we retreated indoors.

    "So, what now?" I asked Pritam.

    He pondered for a moment before replying, "I don't know, let's wait and see."

    We resumed our video game sessions, and the remaining gang finished up their cleaning duties. The night was still young, and a few friends decided to spend the night in Pritam's room, celebrating till the dawn.

    Hours passed, and then Pritam's phone buzzed again.

    He sprinted out of the room, returning after nearly an hour, face aglow with excitement. "Guys, Piyali called! She said she's been missing me, and she's coming to visit me next week on New Year's Eve. I confronted her about the other guy, and she tearfully admitted she was talking to him, but nothing happened between them. She realized it's me she wants and regrets her actions."

    We were dumbfounded, struggling to process what had just unfolded. The winds, which had paused, suddenly roared back to life, causing Aditya to jump in alarm. For a fleeting moment, I questioned whether there might be something to this black magic, but I quickly dismissed the notion as an overactive imagination. All this occult stuff was just nonsense, right?

    Aditya and I exchanged glances. We were the only ones who had to make our way back to our hostel in the middle of the night. The topic of black magic, combined with the eerie howling winds, made us slightly jittery, imagining the craziest scenarios.

    Aditya whispered, "Anup, let's go. Best to leave before it starts raining or something worse happens."

    I knew it wasn't the rain he was worried about. It was the black magic and the fear of some mysterious retribution for being unwitting participants in this strange event. I silently agreed, and we packed up, making a hasty exit, like two startled deer fleeing from the unknown.

    Aditya fired up his scooter, and I hopped on the pillion seat. The ride back to our hostel felt like an adrenaline-fueled escape from the Twilight Zone. Aditya's shaky hands gripped the handlebars, and I tried to distract him with casual chatter about mundane topics, desperately trying to keep his mind off whatever dark forces might be lurking in the shadows.

    "It's just a coincidence bro. Happens all the time. All these bangali babas are all scammers."

    In less than five minutes, we were safely back in our hostel garage. We parked the scooter, rushed to our respective rooms, and not a word was spoken. Exhausted from the day's events, I collapsed onto my bed, rapidly slipping into a deep slumber.

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    As the days unfolded, Pritam and Piyali were back together for a little while longer. But, as expected, their romance didn't withstand the test of time. The Baba's black magic, if it ever existed, had an expiration date, much like a forgotten carton of milk.

    But the story of the Baba didn't end there. Remember how I mentioned that my fellow batchmates struggled with the Calculus subject? Well, looking at Pritam's intriguing romantic interlude, albeit brief, they decided to approach the Baba, hoping for a miracle to help them conquer the Calculus beast. This was our final semester, and they needed to pass this subject by hook or by crook, or their BBA dreams would be shattered.

    I found myself back in Pritam's PG, where I'd spent a significant chunk of my time during our three years of BBA. With my exams passed, I was focused on preparing for the CAT exams, hoping to secure a seat in one of the top management institutions in the country.

    Pritam and Safiqur informed me of their impending visit to the Baba, and they asked if I wanted to join.

    "Hell no, guys! Good luck with all that nonsense…"

    Pritam handed me four pieces of paper and requested that I write down the name of the subject on each one. The Baba instructed them to bring the name of the subject on paper along with a 100 rupee offering.

    "If it works, great. A hundred bucks is a small price. What do we have to lose?" Pritam rationalized.

    "Sure, no harm in trying. Good luck. But it's your subject, so you write it," I replied.

    "But your handwriting is way better. Come on, bro, just write it for us," Pritam pleaded, handing me a black pen.

    "Alright, alright, Black Magic and a Black Pen. Good luck with that," I muttered, obliging his request.

    I wrote "Quantitative Aptitude" on the four pieces of paper, one for each of Pritam's friends. There was a little mistake I made, but I'll reveal that in due course.

    Off they went to the Baba, handing him the pieces of paper. He performed some standard black magic rituals, sprinkling colorful water on the papers before returning them. The instructions were simple: place the papers back in their books and await the exam day.

    On the day of the exam, my friends were nervously confident, or perhaps confidently nervous. They hadn't prepared much, given their complete lack of understanding of the subject. They had asked me to teach them math, but teaching Calculus to students with a humanities background was like introducing fish to a desert. Despite my best efforts, the task was beyond challenging.

    After the exam, they wasted no time, rushing to the wine shop to grab a beer each, planning a small celebration that night. They invited me, but I declined, having my fill of Bangali Baba adventures.

    On result day, Pritam and co. eagerly awaited the outcome. And what do you know? They all failed, miserably. Again! The heartbreak was real, contemplating the wasted three years—time, money, effort—all down the drain. The realization that their academic careers were hanging by a thread weighed heavily on them.

    When Pritam called to share the news, I was at a loss for words. I had my Quantitative Aptitude book open at the time of his call. Just after hanging up, I began scribbling something in the book when it hit me.

    "Wait a minute, what did I write on those four pieces of paper? I distinctly remember writing 'Quantitative Aptitude,' but the actual name of the subject was 'Quantitative Intelligence.' I screwed up a single word. Could they have failed because of this tiny mistake I made? Oh no, oh no!" Panic surged through me, my heart skipping a beat.

    Around 7 pm, I found myself at their place. Pritam, Safiqur, and some other batchmates were gloomy, unsure of what to do next. How would they break the news to their parents? The realization that three years of their lives were on the line cast a somber shadow over the room.

    However, I couldn't bring myself to reveal my error. Could it really be that my spelling mistake had this kind of impact? I assured myself it was all silly, just a coincidence, and dismissed the idea that some vague black magic could influence someone's destiny. I focused on cheering them up and offering support in their difficult moment.

    The turn of events, though, soon took an unexpected twist. The University decided to remove Quantitative Intelligence from the syllabus starting next year. Furthermore, they showed mercy to the previous batch, including my friends, deciding to pass them all with first-class marks.

    When Pritam learned of this news, he immediately dialed the HOD of our department. "Ma'am, is it true that the University is scrapping Quantitative Intelligence?" he practically yelled into the phone.

    The HOD confirmed the news, leading to a wave of jubilation among Pritam and the gang. The somber month of sulking gave way to spontaneous happiness and exuberance. And when emotions ran high, whether in moments of joy or sorrow, they knew where to turn—the nearest liquor store. In the 3 years of BBA, they had never been a moment of day-drinking. And if there was ever an occasion for it, none could beat that day!

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