Thank You for the music

It was a class trip organised by the students. Since most of us were kept on a tight leash by our Dads, there wasn't much spare change to go into organising a gala event. Horrendous, our HoD turned the other way as he 'simply did not put up with such frivolity'. The batch had already had a class tour sponsored by the department which, according to Horrendous, was more than enough. So there we were, emptying out pockets and counting the change. Deciding to forego trips to the city and the occasional movie for one final class trip before the final exams. When you want something very badly, the entire cosmos conspires to bring it to you. Thus, despite the heavy cash crunch, we found hotels to stay and a cosy little mini van for transport, which not only contained the eighteen of us and our luggage, but also left space for Sanju's guitar and Chris' carry-along gym. We were off.

It was fun from the word go. There were no chaperones , just us classmates and our spirit. Soon after we left city limits, out came the beer bottles and the cigarettes. The girls in the batch - we were only six of us- did not complain. What the heck ? Minal was the first to finish the bottle, she outboozed the guys!!! Then of course, there was dancing and singing and hooting and heckling. Ever tried group dancing in a mini bus ? Each time the bus braked the lot in the aisle would fall back like a deck of cards onto the rear window - Paul first, on him Minal, on her Joe, on her Shiv, on him me, on me Tara, on Tara Sanju and on Sanju , the mighty Chris. We had to peel Paul off the window after that. We voted unanimously on Chris occupying the rear guard, as the man could easily bear our combined weight and more .

There wasn't one dull moment. When the dancing and singing stopped, we ate. When we stopped eating, we snoozed on each other's shoulders. There in that mini van, a couple of relationships blossomed. Romancing couples found ample time and privacy to engage in activities that romancing couples usually engage in. Sanju would play for them, ostensibly for all of us, but his songs were for them. Dedications came thick and fast, for Sanju was an awesome singer. He could weave magic on his guitar. Even Chris broke into a sonorous "Malaika, naku pende, Malaika" .Sanju had touched the hidden romantic in the hulking Kenyan. As quick as a wink of the eye, a day passed, then another, and it was time to head back. We partied twice as hard on the way back making the most of each moment before we reached Horrendous and our text books.

About 50 kms from the Univ, at five o'clock in the evening, our mini van's overworked, tired engine folded up. It clean quit on us. Considering the van was the only one we could afford on our babybootystring budget, it didn't really surprise us. What worried us, though, was the curfew at the Women's Hostel. Quarter to seven was the final cut off and if we made it later than that, there'd be hell to pay. We'd stretched the Warden's patience to the limit as well, you see, and it didn't help that she was Horrendous' wife . It was an unfamiliar route and we were quickly making and remaking plans to head home and fast. The locals told us about jeeps that ferried people . Off we went in search of them and whatwith the Cosmos and wanting something badly and all that, we found them. But it was nearing nightfall and the drivers were on their last trips. Sixteen of us found place in three jeeps, while Sanju and I were dumped into a cargo jeep along with baskets full of live chicken. We were the smallest and thinnest of the lot, so the logic was that we'd take the least space and cause the least damage to the poor birds on their way to slaughter.

The journey began. This time it was our jeep driver who sang along with Sanju and his guitar. Between the two of them they sang about love, friendship, Jesus Christ, nature and sex. "He may be drunk, but he sings great", says Sanju and then BANG. That was all I heard. I remember falling on the hard ground and rolling . I was rolling, hitting against things and rolling again. When the rolling stopped, there was only blackness. Blackness and pain. My arms were on fire, there was something poking painfully in my chest and my mouth was full of what tasted like blood. Terrible, torturous pain. Then as abruptly as it began, the pain ended . I could see nothing, feel nothing. But I could hear Sanju's guitar in my head, the tunes he strummed.

When I came to, the setting had changed. There was no road, no pain, I was on a comfortable bed in what looked like a hospital. There was no one near me. Just some machines and the whirring noise they made. The doctors came soon. They looked into my eyes, poked me here and there and took copious notes . I saw a familiar face at the door- Sanju. Probably waiting for the doctors to leave. He came in after they left and perched himself on a chair next to me. I wanted to ask him what happened, but I couldn't speak. He told me I had tubes running through most parts of my body, including my mouth. That there were some ten tubes he could see from where he sat. Apparently, I had been very badly injured. He showed off his immaculate self " Hey , lucky Me. Not one stitch ". The cheeky bastard. But I was touched he came. Sanju left after singing some of my favourite tunes. I must have recovered some after Sanju's visit because all my friends came trooping in after that. The docs had told them that I was never to be left alone. But it was Sanju and his music that relaxed me most. I'd wait eagerly to listen to his guitar.

One day some tubes came off. They said I could eat. They asked me to speak and to try and move my arms. They told me I was found unconscious with a fractured arm, a fractured jaw and two broken ribs that tore into my heart. Bad accident. I agreed. Apparently, there had been a two-day long surgery after which I was in and out of consciousness for a week. Many a time they thought they'd lost me. But then my heart would let out a feeble beat and they'd start working on me again. 'A miracle', my doctor said. "Its a miracle you held on ".

My friends kept coming to see me and kept my spirits high. But Sanju's absence worried me. When I mentioned it, my friends changed the topic or looked at the ceiling or just hemmed and hawed. I wanted to see Sanju and thank him for his music. I was sure it was his guitar that kept me pinned down on earth while I was unconscious. But I never saw Sanju ever again. For he had died in the accident - on the spot. He hit his head and bled internally to death. I remembered there was not a scratch on him when he came to see me. I should have been aghast when I heard about his death, strangely I wasn't. I was incredulous, of course. After all, I'd seen him, he'd talked to me, he'd sung for me. Vaguely as I could, I tried to pin down the days that Sanju had come to the hospital. They said I was unconscious all those days. In and out of consciousness. My injured heart would weaken and want to give up. Then he'd come and sing and strum his guitar and get it to beat again. So many times.

I got well, left the hospital, wrote the exams and miraculously passed. I couldn't throw my convocation cap in the air as I was still only on the mend. But everyday I doff my cap to the energy that kept my dead friend alive so I could go on to live. And everyday I say a silent prayer for the soul of my friend who must surely be singing wherever he is...........

[ this is not an autobiographical blog. neither is it fiction. the road accident, the trauma and the paranormal experience are real life experiences of a friend]