The rows of old shop houses were pitch dark and dead silent except for the sound of crickets. The sign by the bridge clearly said:
Dilarang Memancing Di Atas Jambatan.
Amaran Keras Daripada Majlis Daerah.
But two figures stood perched over the railing with their fishing lines in the water below. Beer bottles stood in a black plastic bag beside their feet.
Mike looked at his watch. It was 2.15am. It had been his first week of university life and the earliest he had gone to sleep was at 4.30am. With his elbows on the railing, he rested his chin in his palms and tried to sneak in a nap.
Mike had been warned about the ragging among Indians in government university hostels, but he never expected it to be this horrible. Every night it was a different group of seniors, being told to perform acts which no parent would want to see their son doing.
Memories of stripping down to his underwear and dancing to the percussion-heavy Tamil hit ‘Pokkiri Ponggal’ the night before came to mind. Mike shuddered.
“Sleepy already, macha?” Sureish asked in Tamil.
“No, senior.” Mike stood up straight.
Macha?. For the past week, Mike and his fellow freshies had been addressed simply as “dei p*ndek” (and no, it’s not ‘pendek’). It was either that or their customized nicknames (which for the sake of common decency and Mike’s dignity, I will not reveal here). Looked like Mike was starting warm up to Sureish.
Sureish was a final year Mechanical Engineering student. When Mike had first seen him on campus, his first impulse was to turn and run the other way. Sureish was tall, had shoulder length hair and a goatee. Plus he was from Klang. Those are enough signs to know this was an Indian dude you should avoid at all cost.
“Your Pokkiri Ponggal performance yesterday was the bomb, da,” Sureish said. “I haven’t seen a freshie that sporting since… my first year.”
They both smiled knowingly.
“You can ngam with me, macha. We same kepala.” Sureish continued. After a week of ego abuse, Mike felt his smug self again. “If in KL you wanna go clubbing next time, gimmie a call. I know people in Bangsar.”
“Thanks, senior.” Mike replied sheepishly. He knew better than to spoil that moment of male bonding with chatter. He took a swig of Heineken. And so did Sureish.
The night had begun with Mike and two of his friends being ‘orientated’ by second-year seniors. Mike was doing the breast stroke on a concrete floor when Sureish barged in and told Mike to come with him. Turned out one of Sureish’s many hobbies is fishing and he decided to hire a sidekick that night to keep him company.
Sureish reeled up his line to reveal an empty hook. The bait was gone.
“Stupid fish,” he chided. “They’re fucking with us tonight.”
“Wanna leave ah, senior?” Mike was really hopeful. Three hours on their feet and all they had to show for it was an empty pail and half a plastic bag of worms. And his head felt like it weighed a tonne.
“Your fathers are all hookers! (it sounded cooler when he said it in Tamil)” Sureish yelled into the water below. He dumped the remaining worms into the river. Through sleepy eyes Mike watched and wondered what must be going through the worms’ minds. He was getting tipsy.
He reeled up his own line and finished off the rest of his beer. Finally, another day of this week in hell was coming to an end. Or so he thought.
Sureish kick-started his Yamaha 125Z. Mike picked up the fishing rods, the pail and his helmet. In his state of mind, took him a moment to figure out which one was supposed to go on his head – the helmet or the pail. He staggered over and hopped on the bike behind Sureish.
“Let’s go for a massage,” Sureish said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to do in a dodgy small town at 3am.
“Massage?” Mike chuckled. He thought Sureish was pulling his leg.
“Yeah, it’s open 24 hours.” Mike’s eyes widened. “The tauke is a cool fella. I’ll introduce you.”
Moving at 90km/h, Mike wondered if he could jump off the motorcycle and make a run for it.
* * * * *
to be continued...
