The Foot-In-Mouth Chronicles - Part 2

As more than three months have strolled by since Part 1 went live, it is only fair that all due apologies be tendered to the handful of good men and women who've believed I was AWOL. I attribute the hiatus to my recent proclivity towards this medical drama, which has had me pretty much under House arrest, inviting approving aaha's from a few enthusiastic and like-minded work colleagues and grumpy looks from a few other I-don't-care-about-you-and-your-House-minded academics. Anyway, like all rib-tickling sitcoms, we head forward. I feel duty-bound to cater to popular requests and persuasions that have come my way after Part 1. So, another day, another story, and another foot lands in the mouth.

********************************

March 2006.

I happen to be heading the college's Literary Club. My tasks as Secretary primarily involve delegation, but the fact that only a modicum of trusted juniors and batchmates show up under the working umbrella meant that the head of the club has to masquerade under multiple guises - that of the finance manager, inventory manager and sometimes poster-boy, as the situation demands. During one such occasion when I'm busying myself running glue over a poster, the Pharaoh saunters past, and in the process tips me off about an unscheduled appointment with The Goon, effective immediately. 

The Goon. Aah. Not good news.

The Goon calls the shots in my college. He currently heads the Division for Student Welfare, and is known to have a fearsome reputation. An intimidator extraordinaire, The Goon has a past record that boasts of smoking into a student's face thereby meting out a similar treatment in kind to the student, who had himself inflicted it upon an innocent fresher. The Goon had graduated from one of those TN colleges known for producing the vilest of rogues. A rendezvous with The Goon two days after he had entrusted me with the forgotten task of inviting a well known writer over was going to be pleasant by no means. 

The security guard outside The Goon's office finds a jittery young man sweating profusely. Two minutes later, I walk in, my kerchief dripping. Crackers are about to wreck havoc on me. Please just let it get over, God, I pray.

The Goon is poring over The Elements of Physical Chemistry by Peter W Atkins, making notes for his next lecture. He looks up questioningly as my footsteps carry across the room. In a sudden moment of confessionary instinct, I decide to break it to him. 

'Sir, I am sorry I couldn't get through to Mr. Writer. I was held up with my mid-semester exams.'

And I stand there.

'I told you to talk to Dr. Bhat about his contact details. Have you got the contact details at least?

'Yes sir. I have.'

'Fine, mail him today and get back to me.'

With this he goes back to Atkins.

At this point, I heaved and began to relax. No wait, relax would be a mild word. I over-relaxed. And I over-relaxed so much, that you'll see why this incident found its way here. The enthusiastic Secretary in me shot up.

'Sir, don't you think inviting the writer over during the tech-fest might not invite so much participation? I mean, we could have him over some other time during the course of the semester, and I am sure there would be a lot of students attending.'

You think he got angry there? Wrong. He was not just angry. He was raving mad. You don't say things like that to The Goon and get away with it. Nobody does. Even on their luckiest day.

'Who do you think you are?'

A drop of fresh sweat trickles down my forehead.

'Sir...'

'No, tell me this, who the hell do you think you are?'

Darn, he's gone to using 'Hell' in under five seconds. I advise myself, say Sorry and get out of here. Fast.

'Sir, I am sorry...'

'You think you're a Dada huh? Who the hell asked for your bloody opinion?'

Dada and Bloody. Another couple of attempts at diatribe against the uncouth Secretary. The growing rate seems exponential. Situation getting out of hand.

'I am sorry sir...'

'No! I am sorry I am wasting my time with juvenile fools who have no idea where to poke their bloody noses into!'

My mind goes, 'Juvenile?! Where have I heard that word?' By the time I manage to dig up the word's meaning he's let out a dozen more abuses. 

When my feeble attempts at apologising finally chunk his armour a good part of 20 minutes have trudged past. I walk out with a picture of Larry David prancing in my head, shouting three words out loud: Curb Your Enthusiasm.

Footnote: 

This incident happened when the Club was slowly finding its feet thanks to my batchmates and a few extremely reliable juniors. I learnt a lot from the experience of heading the club. Fellow clubbers with reasonably good brain cells might recollect the purpose served by the year-long stint during one of my job interviews. For the uninitiated, my revelation that went along the lines of 'I am the Club' to the tall IIM-A grad interviewer sealed the job ;) 

Part 3 shall follow in good time. 

 

Credits:

The three-month hiatus, Poets of the Fall and O'Hare, Chicago. And oh, The Goon as well. :)