Grewal came back to his chair. Patel took his clothes off. Grewal turned to his cronies for ideas: ‘What should we do with these stick insects?’ They came up with suggestions: a dog race, ballroom dancing, a bodybuilding competition. Grewal didn’t like any. ‘What about a human train?’ he offered, sounding excited. The cronies seconded the proposal. Within minutes, the five of us were chugging round the room, each bogey holding the penis of the bogey behind. Patel, the steam engine, was at the head of the train, holding his palm to his nose, the curve between his forefinger and thumb pressed vertically against his pouting lips, the thumb tucked under his chin. When Grewal wanted the train to go faster, he used his hockey stick to whack Chandy—the guard van—across the buttocks.

I met Feroz while having dinner in the college mess. We happened to be sitting next to each other. He asked me my name. I replied adding the mandatory ‘sir’ to the answer. He immediately asked me not to do so. He said he didn’t believe in ragging juniors, and found the whole thing absurd and unnecessary.

Feroz was from an army background and had spent several years in a Simla boarding school. He was clean-shaven and soft-spoken. A delicate chin underlined his intelligent, inquisitive eyes. He spoke so softly one had to strain one’s ears to hear him. He also displayed a childlike propensity to burst into giggles at the oddest of times. When I gave him my full name he wondered if I was related to a famous historian. I said I happened to be his son. Feroz smiled.

He wanted to know if the ragging had been bad. I said something non-committal like ‘Yeah. It’s okay.’ He said he had heard that things were pretty awful in college this year. ‘It’s all right. I come from a pretty rough boys’ school—I can take care of myself.’

‘And anyway,’ Feroz said, pointing out the light at the end of the tunnel, ‘the Freshers’ Welcome is less than a month away. Things will settle down after that.’

After dinner Feroz invited me to his room. We walked through the crowded main corridor—the nightly slave market—where unsuspecting juniors were picked up by seniors for next to nothing. I was grateful for Feroz’s company. When the slave lords called out to me, he asked them to stay away.

Feroz was studying for a master’s degree in a predominantly undergraduate college. He had completed his bachelor’s here and then decided to stay on. He liked the college that much. He was a historian, which is how he had heard of my father.

As a MA student, Feroz had been allotted a large room. From my first-year perspective, it looked fancy and luxurious. Such a big room and all to oneself! I suddenly wished I was older.