'The perfect Parle G'

Twenty hours, thirty one minutes and forty three seconds before the most memorable farewell moment arrived, I was involved in an animated discussion with my partners in crime in Room number 69 of the Crescent moon shaped building we called 'ADDA'. My talented special ops team of ultimate bhukkads and piyakkads was suggesting the greatest of ideas to stealthily complete my secret mission of smuggling a case of beer cans into our room. The best plan of the lot was suggested by Guru, whose idea was to tip toe my way in through the lowly constructed parapet conviniently located at the Northeastern corner of the campus. With Pandu gobbling up the last of the biscuits from the packet of Parle G strategically placed in the middle of the table, equidistant from everyone's reach, our discussion came to an abrupt halt with all the eyes in the room, turning towards the last piece of biscuit, loosely held between my index and middle finger, waiting for its holy dip in the concoction of water and tea leaves before finding its safe haven in my bread basket. Even before my brightest sensory neurons could devise a response to the situation, I could feel several hands tightening their grips around my wrist, their nails almost gnawing into my flesh, pulling my hand in every possible trajectory. My veins tried to pop out of my forearms, begging for mercy, unable to bear the stress. In the midst of all the power struggle, the biscuit decided to outsmart everyone in the room by diving into the cup of lukewarm tea with the precision of a trained diver, splashing tea all over the table.

The focus of the mission shifted from organising a secret party in the adda, completely towards who will buy a new packet of Parle G. In our adda, a packet of Parle G enjoyed the same importance as that of a briefcase filled with gold biscuits. Addawalas fought over these biscuits as if it was the sole component of their last meal. To add to its portfolio, it was the most versatile member of the adda family. It owned a lifetime membership of the tea table and was a basic necessity in every important strategic meeting like the one we were having, in company with the four cups who were its partners. Along with this, it was also an elite member of the unique club of midnight diners. With its popularity rising on a daily basis, its share value was multiplying by the second, to the extent that it started featuring as a side dish in whiskey parties as well. This adaptability brought it great fame amongst our addawalas.

Trying to draw everyone's attention back towards the secret party, I suggested that we get back to our initial discussion as it was the elephant in the room. Hardly did I realise that, all of the others were looking at a completely different species of elephant and it was I, who was the red headed stranger in the room. Their stares almost bore holes in my skin with the reaction powerful enough to almost throw me out of the meeting I had convened. 

It is only at this juncture did I realise the strength of this simple looking biscuit that was a part of our staple diet. The babyfaced little girl on the packet with her cute smile and clapping baby hands, begs a second look from any shopper in every departmental store. The biscuit in itself had the power to influence the greatest of decisions in our meetings and its veratility had already won a lot of hearts. Hence, it was a futile attempt to try to change the course of the roaring river in the direction of my liking. 'When you can't beat them, join them' is an old saying. So, I decided to pay heed to the great soul managing to push D'Souza out of his comfortable seat to ultimately accomplish the new mission of buying two packets of Parle G biscuits as a penalty for being the first one to open the just finished pack.

The next evening, we arrived at the farewell dinner with long faces as to not being able to attain proficiency at our chosen field of smuggling, courtesy to the derailed planning process of my special ops team. With the shore nowhere in sight, we decided to make do with the long farewell speeches and customary parting gifts on the special night, when a knock on my door after dinner, reinstated my lost belief in humanity along with a gesture forcing me to trust that our future is in safe hands. With a heavy heart and feet moving slowing towards the door, I sheepishly unlocked the 1940s iron latch only to find our juniors standing in front of me carrying  beer cans, smiling broadly at me saying, " Don't worry Ustad... You have trained us really well..."