Two Packets of Maggi

It was a regular evening in the hostel.
I was alone in the room—Abhishek, Rishi and Pankaj had slipped out to the back gate—when S1 walked in looking unusually restless.

“Bro… that 4th-year senior, Dheeraj, asked me to bring two packets of Maggi. What should I do?”

The obvious answer was simple: Go and get it. He was the only fourth-year senior in our hostel after all.
But we weren’t exactly known for doing the obvious. If anything, we were proudly, stupidly rebellious.

So I told him, “Today is fine… but if you bring it once, and it becomes a daily routine, you won’t enjoy your life, brother.”

That only made S1 more tense. Sensing it, I added,
“Do one thing—just stay in your room. Don’t go to the back gate. If you don’t go, how will you bring anything?”

Back gate used to close after 6 pm. Dheeraj had interviews and exams coming up, so maybe he didn’t want to waste time himself.
S1 waited in his room. Everyone returned.

At around 7 pm, Dheeraj came storming through the corridors looking for him.
S1 was summoned, interrogated, and grilled for defying a simple order.

But something was off. The seniors sensed it immediately—
S1 wasn’t capable of such bravery on his own.
Someone had backed him.

And they wanted to set an example.

Soon our names were called too—the esteemed residents of Room 114, Room 115, and Apurv, the unofficial tenant of 114.
We were lined up near the stairs. I was wearing a vest.

Dheeraj glared at me.
“Don’t you have manners? Standing in front of your seniors like this? Go wear a shirt!”

It was hysterical inside my head, but I kept a straight face. All of us did.

Eventually, they decided to drag us inside the room—public scenes could attract the warden, and none of us wanted that.

Inside 114, a whole panel of seniors assembled—Dheeraj, his 3rd-year roommate, and a couple of 2nd-year hitmen.
He shut the door dramatically and launched into a long monologue on discipline, respect, tradition, and how he worshipped his seniors and why the ecosystem must continue.

At the end of his TED Talk, he turned to me.

“All this rebellion… all this attitude… and all this for two packets of Maggi?”

Then he pointed to his roommate and looked straight into my eyes.

“Tu marega isko bol!”
(“Tell me—you will hit him, right? You came without a shirt also.”)

The correct answer was a polite “No, sir. Sorry, sir.”

But no—my curse was that I always tried to be memorable, even in the worst moments.

So I opened my mouth and said:
“Sir, inko maarunga ya nahi pata nahi… par abhi nahi maarunga.”
(“Sir, I don’t know whether I’ll hit him or not… but right now I won’t.”)

Silence.

Everyone’s face turned pale.
Dheeraj nearly combusted on the spot. He came close, placed his palm on my cheek and said,

“Agar main tujhe ek thappad maarun… toh kaisa lagega?”
(“If I slap you right now, how will it feel?”)

“Bura lagega sir,” I whispered.

“Mujhe bhi laga,” he said, tapping his chest.
(“I felt bad too.”)

I apologized sincerely, but the damage had been done. The room felt like a graveyard.

The 2nd-year seniors were stunned.
To break the tension, Rishi jumped in:

“Sir, he didn’t mean it. We all respect you. I actually admire you, sir.”

Dheeraj shot him a look.
“Tu rehne de be. You think I’m a fool?”

All this while, Apurv was standing quietly in one corner, wearing that trademark half-smile of his—pretending to listen, pretending to understand, pretending to exist. Throughout the lecture, Dheeraj kept snapping at him.

“Tu kya hasta rehta hai be hamesha? Mazaak chal raha hai yahan?”

(“Why are you always smiling? You think this is a joke?”)

“Stand properly!”

Apurv nodded seriously, as if he had finally understood the gravity of the universe.

Of course, he hadn’t.

We tried our best to not burst out laughing. Inside, all of us were screaming.

Then his eyes caught Abhishek and Pankaj—standing quietly in the corner in matching black t-shirts.

“You two are deadly, huh? Silent fighters?”

For the first time that evening, everyone laughed.
The atmosphere thawed.

Once the laughing died down, the seniors clearly laid out their expectations.
We nodded like obedient schoolkids.

Our “punishment” was simple—
Visit every senior’s room, wish them “Good evening,”
and after dinner, go to each first-year’s room and deliver a lecture on how to behave with seniors.

We went for dinner.
Rishi shook his head dramatically.

“Tu to pitwa hi deta be aaj… aisa kaun bolta hai?”
(“You almost got us killed today… who talks like that?!”)

We burst out laughing.

After dinner, we completed our rounds, wishing seniors like enthusiastic salesmen and advising juniors like seasoned professors.

Another day passed in the hostel.
Another ridiculous memory added to the growing list—
memories that quietly stitched us into one another’s lives,
forming bonds none of us realized would last a lifetime.