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Afterwards Anuj couldn’t remember that night clearly. It all appeared in bubbles or disappeared in bubbles. He remembered standing in front of the five storey —Bentham House. The sun had set, and the sky had become dark blue with a golden lining.
It had become chillier, and Anuj felt his hands becoming cold—just a wee bit but not too uncomfortable. The worse thing was that he was the first one to arrive at the collection spot—as usual.
But people soon started trooping in. Anuj could meet most of his 150 strong classmates there, but it was all a whirl. He couldn’t recall how many he had shaken hands with and exchanged pleasantries. Later he also lost track of the number of pubs he’d visited that night and with whom. But—it was definitely above twenty and certainly not less than twenty.
He could only remember two or three over enthusiastic seniors who were escorting them to so many local pubs. His would-be classmates seemed excited. Most were just out of school, as unlike in India, they could join an LLB course in the UK without holding a Bachelor’s degree. They had also just reached their legal age, so they could drink happily ever after.
To Anuj, after a while, all pubs looked the same. The initial ones stood out—well mostly because they were the first ones to be visited. And the first impression is usually the last impression.
The pubs were dimly lit, and full of men gulping beer and watching football (or what the Americans call Soccer) on big LED television screens. Anuj heard a lot of “whoas” and “yeahs” whenever a goal was scored or missed.
All the bars had a “wooden” look, as they were made of real wood planks, which Anuj doubted very much. And all of them had women serving drinks. Anuj saw colourful bottles placed behind the bars—red, dark yellow, green, you name it. And the place smelled of, you guessed it, all kinds of alcohol.
“Participating in the pub crawl is free, you only pay for the delicious beverages,” the college brochure had announced rather breezily.
Anuj wasn’t keen on alcohol. In his university days in India, he’d tasted beer but didn’t much like its bitter taste. He had once tasted Champagne too with his food but the gases made him bloat somewhat and spoilt his appetite.
“Why don’t you grab a drink?” asked a senior.
Anuj scanned for the “correct drink” on the black board. This was quite like the normal school black board with the name of drinks together with their prices written with chalk. Every drink—non-alcohol or alcohol was priced between 5 and 10 pounds.
That’s so ridiculously expensive, Anuj thought.
“Hello! How may I help you?” said a blonde woman with a warm smile.
Anuj was going to say, “No, Thanks!” but he remembered something.
“Do you drink?” Dilip, his family friend, had asked him on the way to his home from Heathrow, on the very first day of his arrival.
“No, I don’t,” said Anuj.
“That’s a shame. In Britain, you have to drink. I know people in India would be quite horrified when they hear this. But in Britain, drinking is considered a sign of male bonding. That you’re trustworthy. If you don’t drink, nobody would ink a deal with you,” Dilip had declared.
“But I don’t like the taste of alcohol,” said Anuj.
“Fair enough. When I first came to Britain in the 1960s, I used to buy ginger ale. It is non-alcoholic, but it looks like beer. So when I would sip ginger ale, the Brits used to think I’m drinking beer. That was enough to persuade them to consider me trustworthy,” added Dilip.
“But take my advice seriously. Develop a taste for alcohol and you will have a great career in the longer run,” was Dilip’s parting advice.
“Do you serve any non-alcoholic drinks?” asked Anuj.
“We do. Would you like some cranberry juice?” asked the waitress.
“Cranberry?”
The waitress took out a bottle and showed it to Anuj. The juice looked dark red, like red wine.
“Okay, cranberry juice seems fine,” said Anuj.
“Yeah, sure. Would you like some ice too?” asked the waitress.
“Yes, please,” said Anuj.
The waitress put two ice cubes in the glass and filled it up with cranberry juice.
“There you go, sir. That’ll be five pounds,” said the waitress.
“Five pounds. Are you kidding me?” screamed a voice inside Anuj’s head. With that money, I can very well buy two bottles of this damned juice at that grocery shop in front of this pub.
But Anuj instead took out a green five pound note with the picture of a smiling woman wearing a crown—which should be Queen Elizabeth II—and handed it over to the waitress.
Anuj was on a limited budget. He’d come to London with just a few hundred pounds in cash. He had his father’s “supplementary” credit card alright but considered himself “responsible enough” not to blow it up on something as “unnecessary” and “wasteful” like a pub-crawl.
The cranberry juice had a decent balance of sourness and sweetness. But Anuj wasn’t enjoying his drink. He felt lonely in that big crowd. All by himself. With no one to share his “real” feelings. He smiled a lot but even that felt fake to him.
But most of his classmates seemed to be having the night of their life.
“Who can finish a whole bottle of beer in one go?” challenged a senior.
“I can,” volunteered a curly-haired boy.
The boy inserted the stem of a funnel inside his mouth and the seniors poured the beer all in one go.
The boy drank all the beer in one big gulp and then screamed, “I am a Muslim. I am a Muslim,” with great joy, jumping up and down.
Everyone laughed and cheered.
The student crowd went from one pub to another paying for drinks all the time. Anuj got tired. How may cranberry juices or something similar can you drink? He wasn’t feeling adventurous enough to try the more expensive, alcoholic beverages. So he started hiding in a corner, away from the gaze of other students.
Every beer cost around 7 pounds. So if you visited 20 pubs and paid for a beer every time, it would come to around 140 pounds. That’s insane!
Anuj felt his energy draining out. What was happening to him? When his classmates were having a high why was he having a low? He wished for the party to get over. He wanted to get back home. Desperately.
The pub-crawl was over at around 8:00 p.m. in an unknown location. The night sky had become orange due to the clouds reflecting the city lights. Anuj didn’t know the way to get back home. The only way he knew was through Euston Square.
So he had to ask his way to get back to Euston Square. It took him nearly an hour just to locate the metro station. Oh sorry—the tube station. London looked like a different place during night time. All the streets looked the same. All the buildings looked the same and Anuj couldn’t tell the difference between one street and the other. Or maybe he was too tired (and stressed out) to notice the difference.
After taking a few wrong turns and asking for directions multiple times, he finally made it to the Euston Square tube station. It was 9 p.m. and the station looked deserted. No one was around.
Anuj passed through the fare gate doing the same ritual he did in the morning. He came across two signboards—“Westbound” and “Eastbound.” In the morning, he’d seen different directions—“Northbound” and “Southbound.” But now it was a completely different story. How confusing?
He saw a man passing by wearing a dark suit.
“Excuse me, sir, I need to travel to Finchley Road. Will that be westbound or eastbound?”
That was such a stupid question. What’s wrong with you?
The man looked puzzled.
“I don’t know. Why don’t you look at the map?”
See I told you.
“Take the westbound train,” said someone else and Anuj was grateful for the advice.
He took the stairs, moved to the platform and boarded the first westbound train that arrived. In the morning he’d counted the number of stations and there were only three. He recognised the names “Great Portland Street” and “Baker Street.”
I am in the right direction.
Then he heard the driver’s voice, “Passengers travelling to Chesham, Amersham and Uxbridge should alight here and change for the Metropolitan line.”
What was that? Metropolitan line. The name sounded so familiar. That rang an instant alarm bell. The doors closed, and the train started moving again.
In two minutes, he had reached “Edgware Road.” Now this was crazy when he was expecting to reach Finchley Road!
“How do I reach Finchley Road?” asked a flustered Anuj aloud.
“Finchley Road? This is the wrong train darling. You should alight here and go back to Baker Street and take the Metropolitan Line,” the old lady sitting next to him said with a smile. Her voice was comforting.
Anuj was about to alight, but the doors closed and the train started moving.
“The next station is Paddington,” said an automated voice.
Anuj looked worried.
“Oh, don’t worry. You can also change from Paddington and take the correct train. Take the eastbound train to Baker Street and from there take the northbound Metropolitan line,” said the lady.
She was trying to sound helpful. But the more she spoke the more she confused him.
The train reached Paddington, and the doors opened. Anuj ran. He saw the eastbound platform on the other side. He climbed up the stairs, moved in the opposite direction and climbed down to board the oncoming eastbound train.
He then got down at Baker Street and looked for the Metropolitan Line. With waves of panic engulfing him, he found the right signboard and followed it. He again came across two platforms—“Northbound” and “Southbound.”
What did the lady say? Was it northbound or southbound? He couldn’t remember.
And then suddenly it dawned on him. In the morning, he’d taken a southbound train, so it was logical to take the northbound train back home. He moved to the northbound platform and took the next Metropolitan Line train to Finchley Road. He was the first one to get out when the train reached Finchley Road.
Anuj came out of the tube station and was relieved to see some lights glittering above the hill. Red double-decker buses were moving to and fro on the busy Finchley Road.
“Phew—I’ve finally made it,” Anuj muttered under his breath.
He took the underground passage to cross the road and then climbed up the hill. He felt a few droplets falling on his hair but enjoyed the sensation. Rain had returned to London after a dry day.
He quickly walked up the hill towards Netherhall, punched the password to open the double doors and entered the House.
Ah—that stylish visiting room and that familiar tick, tock, tick sound of the clock.
Strangely, he found the ticking of the clock so soothing this time.
Great! Anuj had survived his second day too in the UK.
But figuring the London underground system, he sighed, was worse than any treasure hunt.
