Nowadays ragging ranks right up there with molestation or drug-dealing in terms of heinous crimes, but back in the 70's it was a relatively harmless getting-to-know-you exercise. Granted there were exceptions but in general it was a mild form of bullying which provided an opportunity for seniors to suss out juniors and separate the mice from the men, as Steinbeck may have said. Enthusiastic freshers who acquitted themselves creditably when asked to deliver Romeo's immortal lines to a neem tree or compose and deliver a love letter to the Biology professor (who was just about biologically feminine) were assured of recognition as "made men", if not campus heroes. Those who displayed initiative by departing from the script were automatic choices for the debating and dramatics society: a passport to wine, women and cultural festivals.
Ragging was considered a semi-sacred rite of passage and wide-eyed juniors exchanged notes on sadistically inclined seniors as well as smartasses who could be taken down a peg or two. Considerable emphasis was laid on the art of walking the fine line between being cheeky and submissive. In hindsight, these guidelines were far more useful in later life when dealing with bosses, subordinates and peers than economics lectures.
My alma mater, Loyola College, was run by a bunch of austere Jesuits who clung grimly to the "life is stern, life is earnest," mantra. Their idea of a wild time was mango duet ice cream on Sunday or a visit to Marina Beach followed by a matinee show if they really wanted to kick up their heels. Somewhere in the late 70's, a sleepy-eyed, frizzy-haired young man from Kochi joined the hostel and was inevitably nicknamed Poodle. He came in for more than his fair share of ragging and being a pleasant, good-natured fellow, he did as he
was told without rocking the boat.
Unknown to the rest of us, a particularly malevolent senior, Chellapa, had it in for Poodle, owing to a business dispute between their fathers in the Malayalam soft porn industry. The mists of time have dimmed my recollection of the details: maybe Poodle's pop had lured the elephantine heroine away with a more lucrative offer or clogged up the distribution channel with pirated copies, but passions had clearly run deep with the feud passed on to the next generation.
The first inkling for Poodle that hostel life was not going to be a bed of roses was when he was forced enact the striptease sequence from the blockbuster, "Her Nights." Advertised shamelessly as a "Shows all, Tells all,sexorama" kind of like the Encyclopedia Brittanica, but with sound effects and Technicolour, the paper thin plot dealt with the travails of a well-nourished starlet, played by Silk Smitha, trying to make it in the big, bad world by romancing a series of inexperienced lads while emitting grunts similar to the mating call of the hippopotamus. Suffice it to say that Poodle's impersonation of "Silk", replete with canine hairstyle, brillo-pad chest hair and knock knees was a sellout.
Eventually the sadistic Chellapa was forced to admit defeat since his victim, far from being embarrassed, exhibited the enthusiasm of a Vegas stripper when asked to perform. "Shameless fellow, put on your clothes and bugger off," muttered his baffled enemy after his fifth attempt at humiliating Poodle fell flat. "Try it in canteen at lunch time, boss. Then we'll see what he's made of," advised Gunaseelan, Chellapa's henchman. Pressed for an encore, our hero obliged but all of a sudden the buzz, "Princie's coming," swirled through the canteen. Our feared and revered Principal, Fr X, of the flowing beard, swirling cassock and grim manner, his antenna a-quiver for any form of monkey business was on the
prowl.
"Put your clothes on," ordered Chellapa, casting anxious glances at the entrance door. "Hurry up, you bloody fool," urged Gunaseelan, while Poodle feigned deafness. "Put them on for God's sake, I beg of you," pleaded his desperate tormentor as Fr X strode the last few steps to the huddle of students clustered around the gyrating belly dancer. "But Chellapa Sir, you only told me to take them off, Sir," declaimed Poodle in a penetrating stage whisper that would have made Naseeruddin Shah proud…
