Anti-social

When I asked the Supreme Editor to suggest an idea for a blog post, her first thought was related to the disappearance of one of my blazers, which was taken away by my older son when he went back to university after his winter holidays. She said that I could write something about hand-me-down clothes and recalled how, as a teenager, she would wear her father's, uncle's or grand-dad's kurtas to sport the intellectual "khadi" look.

I also sought the opinion of my younger son, who shall hereafter be referred to as the Junior Editor. He is a loyal reader and comes up with intelligent reactions, balancing candour with diplomacy. When he likes something, he says, "That was good". A neutral comment from him would be, "Well, you have expressed your point of view". And on one particular occasion, he came up with a monosyllabic yet brutally frank, "Meh". He is more interested in the nostalgic pieces I write because he is curious about how we led our lives as youngsters and, in the cryptic manner of a new age guru, said to me, "Delve deep into your past".

So, taking a cue from both Editors, this is about the memorable occasion when I first wore a shirt belonging to my father.

We had this annual thing in our hostel called a "social", where we would invite girls from Sophia College for an evening of dancing. Now, take a moment to reflect on this. On one hand, students of IIT, located in what was then a virtual jungle in the distant outskirts of Bombay. On the other, girls from one of the most elite ladies' colleges in the city who were so sought after that they were invited to social evenings almost every weekend by some college or the other. My guess is that the girls who volunteered to come to IIT treated the event exactly like a trip to the zoo, driven primarily by their interest in animal behaviour and a morbid curiosity to observe unusual and bizarre near-human specimens.

My parents were based in Bombay at that time and I used to go home every weekend. Sophia College was within walking distance of my residence. A bus was being sent from IIT to pick up the girls and drop them back after the social. A couple of other guys who lived in the same neighbourhood and I decided that we would also take a ride on the bus, to and from the hostel, so that we could attend the event and also spend time at home.

As a student of an IIT, sartorial elegance was never a priority for me. The very fact that we wore some clothes must have been a big relief for our professors. But an occasion like this was one where even we barbarians felt the need to show some passing respect for social mores.

I borrowed one of my father's shirts. It was shiny blue and had a high percentage of some synthetic material that gave it its lustre. I wore it with my only pair of Levis jeans (with the distinctive roll-up of the trouser legs). I honestly don't remember what footwear I chose for the occasion. I am sure it wasn't the rubber slippers that were an integral part of my IIT uniform. It must have been a pair of sneakers or maybe I borrowed my father's shoes. I sported an awful, straggly beard then and was too committed to it to think of shaving it off for just one evening. I did have a shower, though.

Here's the situation. An eighteen-year-old who went to a boys' school and then to an IIT, with virtually no prior contact with any female of the species, walks up to Sophia College to get into a bus with forty sophisticated, well-dressed, smart girls. It would be an understatement to say that I was overwhelmed.

I hope the girls who heard the guttural noise that emerged from my throat correctly interpreted the sound to mean "Hello". I sat next to a lass who appeared to me to be the least intimidating. I noticed that her shoulder was about four inches away from mine. That was the closest I had ever gotten to any girl. I don't know what I spoke about for the duration of the bus ride but she must have been busy making mental notes for her biology class about the vocal habits of the species Iitius boyus. At some point of time when the bus hit a pothole, I think I said something like, "It doesn't look like the shock-absorbers of this vehicle are too effective". She replied with a polite, "That's so technical".

The rest of the evening was a total blur as I did nothing more than try to unobtrusively lurk in some dark corner. Our hostel common room had been converted to a make-shift disco with strobe lights and loud music and it was easy for me to remain unnoticed. When some of my friends pushed me on to the dance floor, I bravely kept shifting my weight from one foot to the other. It was impossible to converse with my dancing partner above that din, so there was no need for me to try and think of anything to say. When we broke to have dinner on the lawn, I gave the girls more material for their term-paper on "The Knotting of the Larynx of the IITian Male and the Resultant Impact on Vocal Emissions". I must have spoken (assuming generously that we can classify my efforts as speech) with about four of the forty girls including the person who was unfortunate enough to sit next to me on the ride back.

When I returned home, my parents gathered from the shell-shocked look on my face that the social wasn't a great success. It is said that a person's attitude and personality are affected by the clothes he wears. I blame the shiny blue shirt.