It was lunch break, the hour of my daily life I favoured most. It was when I was chewing my first morsel that I heard the voice. That voice was destined to boom around the general premises of my college for the next few hours.

I looked up from my food. The voice belonged to a fourth year student. I immediately felt a pang of pity for the unfortunate soul who had wronged him enough to force him to suffer the ultimate ignominy of stepping into a first year classroom in quest of revenge.

Which is why I was surprised when he climbed on to the lectern and began this rather interesting speech.

"We are fighting for all of you," he paused for effect, a la Vajpayee. I wanted to ask him who the 'we' were and why and in what manner they were fighting for us. But I swallowed these burning questions as he continued.

"We want all of you to please vacate your classrooms and walk out into the college gardens. This is part of our protest against the unfairness meted out to us in this college. We request you to kindly cooperate with us." His eyes added a very scary 'or else' to this seemingly polite plea.

A small voice from the backbenches actually dared to ask this firebrand what the strike was all about.

The firebrand -- I am positive he will be an MLA in the years to come -- exploded. His face contorted into an expression of unbridled anger at this display of ignorance and idiocy. Then he regained his equanimity, realising he could expect first yearlings to know only so much.

He cleared his throat and began a blistering monologue that seemed to have great meaning, if one could comprehend it that is. About five minutes later he paused, this time for good. He hoped we had managed to see the gravity of the situation confronting the students' body. I did not, but felt it was better not to say anything.

He strode purposefully towards the other classrooms.

The Malayalis in my class, used to a regular diet of strikes until they reached Chennai, squealed in delight. A few months ago, one of the first things one of them wanted to know was the number and frequency of the strikes in this city. When I told him there were no unions or strikes here, the ABVP supporter was crestfallen. A shadow gathered over his face and he began to wish he had never stepped outside Kerala.

The ABVP supporter was now leading a band of blokes who were stretching their arms and clearing their throats, ostensibly to throw stones at the laboratories while screaming slogans against the principal.

Some of the others, scared of the consequences of participating in the strike, began to move towards the laboratories and the library. But the ringleaders had anticipated such a reaction. A few blows were enough to send the 'brave ones' scurrying back to the field of battle.

I was determined not to do anything that would indicate my leaning towards either side, for I was not exactly sure what was going on. I went downstairs ensconced in a group of taller people.

What I saw there surprised me. I had gone to the gardens expecting to see microphones, red flags and protestors screaming derisive slogans against no one in particular, thanks to what I had seen on television and heard from my strike-loving Malayali friends. What I actually saw was a mass of humanity roaming around the gardens, enjoying themselves thoroughly.

In fact, all that was missing were the shamianas and chairs, which would have given the protest the appearance of a huge wedding.

Spotting some other first year kids who were playing cards, I asked one of them, "Say, what's all this about?"

He hardly turned his head from the game of poker that was going on to tell me he was not in the least interested; in fact, he considered it a heaven-sent opportunity to avoid being thrown out of the Physics laboratory for the third consecutive time for not possessing a record book.

I drifted towards another group that seemed like it was having an animated discussion on the goings-on.

Before I could say anything, one of them turned to me and asked, "I think the strike is because a third year student was mauled by a lecturer for whistling in the class. Do you?"

Before I could even open my mouth, another bloke with an air of importance said, "Of course not. Who will believe such balderdash except a three-eyed gargoyle like you? The strike has been called because the principal raised the price of samosas in the canteen."

Now, I personally knew that wasn't true because I had eaten one the same morning.

Before I could say anything, though, the two debaters had gone into an embrace and were providing a most interesting spectacle until a couple of the chief strikers intervened and begged them to maintain calm and amity. Their pleas were of no avail, but their fists had the amazing effect of instantly resolving the issue.

This was a bit too violent for me. I began to look elsewhere for company and spied the once-enthusiastic Malayalis huddled together in a group, all of them displaying long faces.

My friend, the ABVP sympathiser, seemed particularly disturbed. He kept muttering, "Ha! This is what they call a strike? Not one stone... Behave yourself or he'll never agree to our demands... Stupid college... Stupid state..." and other agitated phrases to the same effect.

Since he seemed rather shell-shocked by the general orderliness of the congregation, and I saw another chap wildly waving me over, I moved along. Now, I thought, now I would finally learn the motive behind this strike.

Before I could even open my mouth, he let loose, "See, I don't know what this strike is about and I don't care. Just tell this idiot here the Su-27 has a greater range than the MiG 29."

I gave up.

I knew now I would never know what the strike was about. As I settled down to discuss in detail the relative merits of the Flanker over the Fulcrum, I recalled the age-old adage, 'Ours is not to reason why…'

Siddhu Warrier also believes in another adage: Discretion is the better part of valour.

Illustration: Uttam Ghosh

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