For other tales of Vinod Suri, the most disreputable friend I’ve had, please see this book’s

I cannot end these reminiscences of my college days without invoking three memorable escapades, all involving the notorious Vinod Suri (he of the unprintable nickname), the sixth person on the lawns of Allnutt South, who was the only one to opt out of joining the Foreign Service to aim for the Imperial Tobacco Company (now ITC Ltd). [Wodehouse fans will recall Suri’s resemblance to Ukridge!]
Soon after Ranjit Chib had smuggled both of us through a rear toilet door into the Gymkhana Club to join the Teenagers Dance, Suri, in lordly fashion, invited Nikhilesh and me to join him for a treat at the Club. Astonished that such a disreputable character should have secured access to, let alone membership of, such an exclusive Club, we questioned him closely and he assured us that it was all above board. So, one Sunday morning in January (or was it February?), Nikhilesh and I set out by No.9 bus from Miranda House to the Club. We furtively entered. No one stopped us. Suri was sitting at a table on the lawns with two empty chairs already drawn up at the same table. As we sat down, the waiter came up and enquired, “What would the sahibs wish to order?” Suri took charge. At his stentorian best and in a wholly bogus angrezi accent, he ordered, “Three orange squash, three plates chicken sandwiches and a plate of chips, please.” “Certainly, Sir, and would you please share with me your name, Sir.” At which, to our collective horror, Suri responded, “Ranjit Chib”! Even as the waiter departed, Suri said, “Let’s get the Hell out of here” and we bolted out of the gate.
Suri later explained that he had chosen Imperial Tobacco only because they had a factory in Saharanpur that he hoped to be posted to, from where he could become a member of the Dehra Dun Club that was affiliated to the Delhi Gymkhana and thus legitimize his use of the Club’s facilities. But that was for the future. For the present, he was still in college and had not been recruited by ITC any more than we had into the IFS.
The next episode began when Suri invited me to join a new-found “friend” of his to take us for a spin in a fancy car.  Soon after we set off, I discovered to my horror that Suri had introduced me to a petty criminal who was an expert at stealing hub caps which could then be sold in the markets around the Jama Masjid area. I cowered in my corner, seeing my IFS dreams going up in smoke as I was led to trial as an accessory before and after the crime. We entered the car park of the Gymkhana Club. Suri’s friend cried out as he leaped from the car, “My father’s car, yaar. He’s a bloody rich guy. Let’s steal his hub caps!” I froze till the friend cheerfully returned bearing four shining hub caps on which he was certain he would make a small fortune! The adventure ended without mishap, but I was shaken to the core. Imagine, what would have been the consequences if we had been caught?
The third incident grew out of a quarrel that Suri had with a fellow-Stephanian called Chaudhry whose family was in the construction business. Chaudhry recruited a local ‘goonda’ to physically assault Suri. I was alongside Suri as we ambled down Cavalry Lane one balmy evening. Suddenly, someone riding pillion on a scooter overtook us and as they did so, the pillion-rider held out his hand and struck both of us with the full force of a vehicle driving at 10mph/hour striking a barely moving object. We both reeled under the unforeseen (and utterly unwarranted) attack. By the time we returned to College a while later, we found ourselves College heroes, especially among the College toughs, led by Doraiswamy, because “outsiders” had hit two Stephanians (even if the two concerned were no particular friends of the college “dada”s). They threatened that when day scholar Chaudhry arrived next morning, they would “bash” him up for his temerity in hiring outside help to settle his quarrel with a genuine Stephanian. There was no lack of local boys to carry this threat to Chaudhry who lived in the vicinity of the college.
Next morning, as I was at my very early morning study session, a shadow fell across my table at crack of dawn. A human gorilla entered, thumping his chest, “I, Kapoor, of Sabzi Mandi. If a hair of my friend, Chaudhry’s head is touched, you’ll pay for it.” The whole hostel was asleep. No one would heed a cry for help, let alone come to my rescue. There was no alternative but bargaining for life and limb. “Look, I have nothing to do with the revenge that the college dadas are seeking. In fact, I have nothing even against Chaudhry. But I do object to his sending goondas to assault us on the street and sending you here to beat up an innocent bystander.” The gorilla seemed mollified. He asked me whether I would apologize to Chaudhary. I refused despite the physical danger in which I obviously was. “I just don’t like the man,” I clarified. At which the orangutan paused, scratched his head and said, “I don’t like him either.  So, let’s shake hands. And I promise you: any time you want anyone beaten or killed, just let Kapur dada know”; then, thumping his chest, repeated lest I forget, “Kapur dada of Sabzi Mandi” – and walked into the sunrise!   
In September 1960, I went to the flea-bitten Capri cinema in Dehra Dun to see a film, The Bachelor of Hearts, about a young German undergraduate at Cambridge, and emerged intoxicated by the incredible beauty of the University but, even more, by the bevy of nubile young women who swarmed around the young German! I was absolutely determined to get to Cambridge next year following my own graduation from St. Stephen’s. However, I did nothing more practical towards this end for the next few months and continued with my wayward ways of academic study and generally lolling around Allnutt South when I was not rehearsing my small part as the pedantic teacher, Holofernes, in The Merry Wives of Windsor that the college was staging that year.
Then, in the Christmas break, I bought myself a sheaf of aerogrammes and assiduously wrote to every college at Cambridge and Oxford that I had heard of seeking admission. Several of these colleges did not even exist! And most did not care to reply. Of those that did, all but two said they had no place. The two that did not reject me outright were both at Cambridge, Caius (pronounced, in the meaningless way the English have, as “Keys”) and Trinity Hall. They both stipulated that I might write to them again if I got a first in my upcoming BA Hons exam.
A first?! What an impossible qualification for someone as casual about academic study as I was. Nevertheless, either I would lose the Cambridge houries forever or I had to get a first. And so, for the first time in my life, I buckled down to it, even foregoing my daily shave to save time and throwing myself into making up in the two terms that remained all that I had not cared to absorb over the past two years. I gave up all debating and acting, and while I made the occasional contribution to the satirical rag that Sarwar Lateef had started, Kooler Talk, my time was thoroughly taken preparing to follow in the footsteps of the Bachelor of Hearts.
I also discovered my personal eccentricity. I could not keep my eyes open after dinner, but I could wake up early. So, while the others were raising Cain in the hostel corridors, I would go to bed, and while the rest of the world slept, I would wake at four or five in the early dawn and devote myself to revising my lecture notes and reading the recommended texts. In consequence, no one saw me studying.
Moreover, I invented a way of summarizing arguments in favour of any proposition with an acronym formed by the key letters of the arguments. I did the same with the arguments against; so, about a dozen alphabets, easily learned by rote, took care of alI that could “be carried in one small head”. I also discovered that I had to give myself over to pleasant distractions like P.G. Wodehouse in the hours just before the exams or else I would get muddled in the head. This meant that as we walked to the exam hall, my tense companions would be struggling with last-minute “mugging” while I would be bursting into little peals of laughter as M-minute approached. This, I later learned, had a most demoralizing effect on the competition. I, on the other hand, felt on top of the subject as I took on each of the eight papers. I particularly enjoyed rising to the challenge of the essay topic, “The Concept of the Margin”, on which I poured out the distilled essence of what I had learned of the “dismal science”. There was only one moment of profound anxiety. I remembered after I had handed in one paper that I had forgotten to enter my roll number. To my intense alarm, the invigilator would not return my answer paper for me to do so. Fortunately, he relented. I heaved a sigh of relief. I had done well, I felt, but would I get the coveted first?
My final exams over, I took myself off to Calcutta for my first adult holiday. Vinod Suri had landed himself a job with the Imperial Tobacco Company, which paid him the enormous salary of Rs. 2000 a month besides a huge flat in tony Middleton Row, just behind posh Park Street. He promised a good time for all at his expense. He was as good as his word – astonishing, as in our experience he rarely was! – and we went around the cinemas, tea rooms, restaurants, and bars, humming the hit song of the season:
I’ve kissed some girls in Naples,
I’ve kissed them in Paree,
But the ladies of Calcutta
Do something to me!
As for the return journey to Delhi, he said the travel department of his company would take care of the booking as he himself would be travelling with me in the same train – albeit by first class A/C. Typical of him, he did not vouchsafe to me that the travel desk had told him they would make bookings only for close female relatives of ITC executives. So, he casually told them he needed the booking for his sister. When, therefore, we fetched up at the station, I was horrified to find that I had been booked into the ladies’ section under the name of “Miss Suri”. There was no alternative to getting in and braving it out. The other ladies, of course, kept looking at me askance and whispering among themselves. The train lurched forward and picked up speed. The conductor fetched up and demanded to know what I was doing in the reserved ladies’ section? The ladies around were agog with the expectation of an unfolding scandal. I decided that whipping up indignation was my only way out. Raising my voice, I said, “My mother is German and has given me the German name, Mitz. You bloody Railway-wallahs always spell it as ‘Miss’. Find me another seat and I’ll move. But this is all your fault, not mine!” The conductor retreated. The mood altered and cheering broke out. The ladies loudly insisted I could remain as the fault was entirely that of these useless railway officials. I had one of the pleasantest journeys I’ve ever made with the ladies sharing with me the delectable eatables they had brought on board. I discovered the lady next to me, Romola Ray, a teacher at Loreto College, Calcutta, was going to London that autumn for further studies and as I was hoping to also go to England, that made for a strong bond as the train chugged its 36-hour way to Delhi. I had beaten Suri at his game!