Hostel Life at St. Xavier's College, Bombay

HOSTEL LIFE AT ST. XAVIER’S COLLEGE, BOMBAY.

1961-1965

My life at St. Xavier’s College Hostel in Mumbai (then known as Bombay)  from 1961 to 1966  was one of the highlights in my life.  It was a period for significant personal growth. For the first time in my life, I came to a realization that everything depended on me for my survival.  I had to assume all the mundane but serious responsibilities that were taken for granted when I lived at home.  For example, I was responsible to do my own laundry, and to budget my life around the restrictive allowance that was offered to me each month by the more-than-generous Government of India through a Commonwealth Scholarship that they bestowed on me. . There was nobody to fuss over me, and I had to pull myself by my bootstraps to develop the kind of independence that only materializes with a carefully planned-out existence. 

Very fortunately, a Goan gentleman catered for meals that were taken in the Hostel Restaurant. Romeo was the caterer.  His main purpose was to maximize his profits, by shortchanging the students. A true and fervent capitalist!!   The quality of the food was very poor and certainly did not reflect value for the money that he received each month from close to a hundred and fifty students.  In fact the food was very poor and nutritionally inadequate.  Furthermore, Romeo was very stingy and would not allow the students an extra slice of bread unless they paid for it.  “Some more bread, please Sir” from Dicken’s novel almost seems like a replay.

My friend Koonjan Ramadhar, a bright and very imaginative student from Trinidad, and one of my closest friends in the hostel felt that something had to be done to bring the food in line with what was being served in other hostels around the city.  Both of us had first hand experiences of the quality of food at Elphinstone College Hostel that we thought was very good.  But this was possible because the Hostel Mess was run on a cooperative basis.  There was no profit motive, and all the money collected by students who managed the kitchen, was sunk into food for the benefit of the students. 

Feelings against the food and the general attitude of the caterer were running very high at St. Xavier’s College Hostel.  It was finally decided that the caterer had to go.  But how this was to be done, was a matter of establishing a workable strategy.  There was a small minority of students who felt that this should be done through negotiations, drawing in the Hostel Superintendent into the discussions and explaining that the students were about to handle their own affairs.  The majority of students, however, were of the opinion that negotiations were going to be a pretty long drawn out process, (so much for the democratic process) and they did not see that there would be any support from the administration to have the caterer replaced by totally inexperienced students.  The final decision was that we were going to force the caterer out by adopting purposeful violence as an expression of our frustrations.  This violence was to be directed towards the property of the caterer rather than the management and this was emphasized over and over again at the conspiratorial meetings that were held in whispers in the dead of night..

The blueprint for revolution was steadily being mapped out.  Students were organized into groups with specific disruptive functions.  For example, one group was responsible for turning off all the lights in cafeteria at eight at night on the day of the revolution.  Another group was to rush into the kitchen and destroy all the hardware such as dishes, plates and the like.   Yet another group was to create pandemonium by overturning all the tables and chairs in the cafeteria.  A few students were to keep guard just in case anything untoward happened outside the cafeteria that might thwart the revolution.  They were also to raise the alarm if the police arrived so that the students could get away.  We did not foresee this happening since all the damage was to take place in not more than ten minutes.  It was highly unlikely that the Mumbai police would arrive when they were most needed. 

A friend from the University Hostel, Nurdin Karimjee,(another Zanzibari) who had much experience in organizing the restaurant at his hostel, volunteered his service and cooperation no sooner had the revolution become a success,.  He was already working on the details to replace all the hardware that the hostel restaurant would need.   This was no mean feat since the Hostel Mess was divided into three sections: vegetarian, non-vegetarian and Muslim food in keeping with India’s policy of catering to the needs of its citizens of different religions.  Then again, the students would have to come up with funds in advance to buy all the hardware such as plates, “talis” (metal plates) and all the other equipment that was needed to make the restaurant functional.  A quiet vote was taken about this, and there was general agreement that this money would be forthcoming.  The die was cast.

August 25, 1963 was the date set aside for the big event.  At seven p.m. students began entering the restaurant.  There was unusual silence as the students took their places.  Romeo, the caterer was there at his desk, and he seemed rather apprehensive about so many students entering the dining area at the same time, when generally students trickled in for dinner.  His expression demonstrated that the whole scenario was out of character, and that perhaps something might be in the works.  But obviously the intentions of the students were a well-kept secret, and so he did not know what to make of the changed scene.  It was obvious that he could not have believed that the students were rushing in because of his food.

At eight p.m. sharp, the lights went off and there was total darkness all around us.  All that I could tell is that there was a whole lot of screaming and shouting and missiles in the form of chairs, flying all over the place. Plates went flying in all directions causing a medley of sounds that seemed like music to the disgruntled students. For fear of being hit, I took refuge under one of the tables.  Romeo was nowhere to be seen.  He had taken flight.  In approximately five minutes, the damage was done, and all the students rushed to their respective rooms.  After a further ten minutes, police cars came screaming into the compound just outside the dining area, while students sat at their desks in their rooms peering sideways out of their windows to take in the scene.   The Police were aware that something had gone terribly wrong, but were unable to make any arrests.

The next day Father Superintendent, Fr.Garcia Nieto, a Spanish Jesuit, called a meeting to discuss the events of the previous night, but none of the students would admit that the students had collectively pulled the place apart.  Father Superintendent knew that this was not about to happen either, but cautioned us that since the cafeteria was destroyed we were on our own.   At this stage, we put it to him that since the caterer was not coming back again, (and we hoped that Father would tell him that we did not want him back,) we would put into motion the creation of a cooperative mess. For a week or so, students were inconvenienced and had to eat their meals somewhere else.  Nurdin and a group of students went out shopping with a long shopping list.  Some of us hired cooks and waiters and before you knew it, the Hostel Cooperative Mess was born.  It took a couple of weeks to iron out the kinks in the system, and after this was done, it was a pleasure to see students enter the cafeteria with smiles on their faces.  Needless to say, the food had improved a whole lot, and the menus changed every day in order to give students a greater variety.  This Cooperative Mess became our legacy at St. Xavier’s College and has been in operation until the present day.

Life in the hostel followed a routine.  Students were expected to be in their rooms before 9 p.m. every evening.  At nine on the button, Fr. Superintendent walked up the corridor while the students stood outside their doors and greeted the priest goodnight. It resembled roll call very much like San Quinton Prison where inmates were required to stand outside their cells to indicate that they had not made an escape.  Students who were not at their doors were asked to explain their absence the following day.  Since I was a married man, Fr. Superintendent let me have a key to the main door and allowed me a free run of the hostel.  I was not to tell any of the hostelites that I had a key in my possession. 

When students came in after nine o’clock the only way that they could gain entry into the hostel was by scaling the drains that took rainwater from the roof to the road level.  This was a very precarious and dangerous operation.  However, students soon became experts in the art of breaking in.  It came to a head when one day a student came in late and scaled the wrong drain.  He climbed right up to the second floor and tried to negotiate the balcony.  Unfortunately, his legs were too short.  He missed it and fell the whole two floors landing heavily on his behind.  When this happened the noise was clearly audible to the students who were either studying or sleeping, and the boy who fell could be heard moaning.  Very fortunately, not a bone was broken, and students could be heard saying very unsympathetically: “Hey Joe, not this drain…..the other one…you jerk!”  Joe got up and scaled the other drain successfully this time.

Just before exams, one could cut the atmosphere in the Hostel with a knife.   Stress levels were very high and so were frustrations experienced by students who were not quite prepared to take their exams.  As soon as it got dark, students would throw empty bottles across the corridor and this would continue for at least an hour.  I could never understand the psychology behind this.  One theory was that it was being done by students who did not want the other students to concentrate on their books.  They hoped that the shattering of glass would shatter their nerves.  Fr. Superintendent never left his room when this happened, nor did he make any attempts to stop this juvenile practice.  This practice continued unabated for the four years that I lived in the hostel.

The room opposite mine was occupied by a blind student.  He was always in darkness during the day and night.  His loyal friend was an Irani student called Noshir.  To me Noshir was an angel in disguise.  He looked after this blind student as though he was his own son.  He would accompany him down for all his meals and sit beside him every single day. One day I invited Noshir to my room and asked him a whole lot of questions about himself.  He was born in Iran but since he came to India as a child, he went through the educational system in India.  I discovered that both his parents had abandoned him and that it was his adoptive parents, who were quite ill, were paying for his education. He explained to me that he might have to leave college since his adoptive parents were finding it increasingly hard to support him.    After this initial chat, I began to wonder whether I could get Noshir some kind of financial relief.  It struck me that since he was born in Iran, he could easily be considered a foreign student.  As a foreign student he might be eligible for a Commonwealth Scholarship such as the one that I was on.  I had to have some proof,  that Noshir was from Iran.  Very fortunately, he told me that he still had his old outdated Iranian passport that brought him to India.  This was all that I really needed.  I wrote a long letter of application to the Ministry of Education in New Delhi explaining to the Secretary that Noshir was in very bad need of financial assistance or else he would have to drop out of college.  I thought that the letter was worthy of sympathetic consideration.  Could the Government of India grant him a Commonwealth Scholarship?  Noshir signed the application, enclosed a copy of the old passport to prove that he was from Iran, and he mailed the letter.  A couple of weeks later, Noshir knocked at my door and asked whether he could talk to me.  He explained to me that it was very important that he bought a bottle of good Indian whisky for a friend who was celebrating his birthday.  Since the State of Maharastra was a prohibited area for liquor, the only clients who could buy alcohol from the Government stores were foreigners who were issued with a license to buy five bottles of alcohol a month.  Since I had a license, I told him that I would be happy to take him to a liquor store and buy him a bottle if he had the money.  We trotted to the liquor store and he picked up India’s finest whisky called “Black Knight”.  When we left the store, Noshir turned to me, tears in his eyes and announced.

“George, I don’t know how to say this, but I bought this bottle for you”.

“Come on Noshir.  You cannot afford expensive stuff like this.  All I did was write a letter for you.”

“Now comes the important news George.”  He put his hand in one of his pocket and pulled out a letter from the Ministry of Education in New Delhi.  Noshir had secured a Commonwealth Scholarship and it would be retroactive from the beginning of the year.

We looked very strange hugging each other on the main street, but it was certainly a very happy event for both of us.  It was at this time that I discovered that God reveals himself in many ways, but most of all, as a compassionate God.

After Nurdin Karimjee had organized the Hostel Mess and got it going on a firm footing, we sat down to discuss his financial status in Mumbai.  Nurdin, who was a boy from Zanzibar, was being supported by his father who ran a perfume business in Zanzibar.  When I told him that I was on a Government of India Commonwealth Scholarship, he asked me whether it would be possible at this late state to obtain one of these scholarships.  Once again I wrote a letter on his behalf that would move the devil to tears.  In two weeks Nurdin received his scholarship much to the jubilation of all those who had come in contact with him through the Hostel Mess fiasco.  Nurdin remained on this scholarship until he completed his Masters program.

Within a couple of months of my arrival in Bombay, my son Neil was born in Zanzibar.

I rushed over to Fr. Eddie D’Cruz, the Principal of St. Xavier’s College to let him know about this.  Fr. D’Cruz invited me to the rectory to drink some Mass wine to toast the occasion.  I shared the news with my dear friend Eutic Fernandes in Bandra but kept the news away from my hostel friends who did not know that I was married, still less that I had two children back home.  I kept this a secret on the promptings of the Principal.  I guess that local culture did not look kindly on married individuals seeking an university  education.

It was impossible to live in the hostel and not be involved in the problems that other students experienced and were not able to solve. One morning I had a knock at my door and in walked a student who asked whether I would be able to help him. Asgar was his name.  Like many of us, he was from Africa as well.   I naturally asked him what his problem was.  Apparently for a week or so, whenever he urinated he found traces of blood.  He thought that the problem would go away on its own, but he now discovered that clear blood instead of urine kept flowing.  I naturally got very concerned about this so I phoned a doctor that I knew at Breach Candy Hospital.  Dr. Clive Martin, a resident surgeon, instructed me to take Asgar immediately to Bombay Hospital which was just around the corner from our hostel.  We were to see Dr. Mehta who was an urologist.  Dr. Martin was going to call ahead.  When we got to Bombay Hospital, we were directed to Dr. Mehta’s office.   Dr. Mehta examined Asgar and asked him a few questions.  He then advised him that he better make arrangements to spend at least a couple of days in Hospital.  I assured Asgar that I would go back to the hostel and get him a change of clothes.  An X-ray was ordered immediately.  In about forty minutes, the X-rays and blood test results were placed in Dr. Mehta’s hands.  The diagnosis was that Asgar had a tubercular wound in one of his kidneys. This was also determined by other tests that were conducted to obtain an accurate diagnosis of Asgar’s condition.   Treatment started immediately.  Asgar was given an injection with many to follow.  After the first injection, however, the bleeding stopped completely.  Asgar spent a couple of days in hospital, and I popped in to see him several times a day.  When he was discharged, he was directed to Dr. Mehta’s office and given the sobering news.  Asgar was to take a shot of an anti-tubercular serum once a week for a year.  He was to report to the outpatient department and would be given his shots.  At this stage, both Asgar and I were quite worried about how much the treatment received so far might cost.  Dr. Mehta smiled and told Asgar that he was also a student at one time and that he knew that money was always in short supply.  He declared that the treatment was free and that his follow-up treatment would also be free.  In a country where there was no social medicine this was like winning a lottery.  We thanked Dr. Mehta for his kindness and took off.  I did tell Asgar, however, that we had to give him a gift to show our appreciation for his kindness.  We bought him a very attractive pen and pencil set and returned to the hospital to make the presentation.  Dr. Mehta was very pleased with the gift, (or at least the thought behind it) and did say that he appreciated the thought a whole lot.  Asgar continued his treatment for a year and was then declared free of the tubercular infection.  He continued his studies and went on to obtain a first class in his B.A.  He then read for the bar and became a lawyer.   I last heard that he was a practicing lawyer in Ontario somewhere.

Being recognized by your peers as being a senior among them did present some rather hilarious situations.  One of the hostel dwellers was a boy called Teddy Shirali.  He had reached the age when his hormones were playing overtime.  He wanted very badly to take a girl out on a date but had no luck dating.  One evening the hostel telephone rang and Teddy picked it up.  At the other end came a sexy voice asking him a whole lot of personal questions which Teddy was very happy to provide.  Finally the girl asked whether he would be interested in taking her out to the movies.  Of course, Teddy was beside himself with excitement and asked where he could pick her up.  She said that she lived in the hostel at Sophia College.  Teddy rushed to my room and asked whether it would be possible for me to accompany him to Sophia College.  What Teddy did not know is that the girls at Sophia College preyed on the naïve first year students at St. Xavier’s College and that this whole charade was nothing more than a put on.    Teddy begged me to help him out, and there seemed to be nothing that I could do to convince him that he was being had.  Furthermore, that evening, I was to go to my cousin Jules Lobo’s wedding at Woodhouse Church in Colaba.  Teddy would not take no for an answer and being the father figure that he mistakenly took me to be, kept begging me to say yes.  Finally I told him about my plans and explained to him that I would take him by bus to Sophia College and leave him there since I had to go in the opposite direction to the Church.  Once again I tried to convince Teddy about the stupidity of this move, but Teddy would not be convinced.  The girl from Sophia had obviously cast a spell on him. Some of them were very smooth talkers.

Dressed in a suit, I accompanied Teddy to Sophia College.  When we got there we were ushered into the waiting room.  As you can well imagine, we waited and we waited but nobody came.  We did hear in the background all kinds of female laughter, and I for one knew that it was for two idiots perhaps only one idiot who were not smart enough to understand that they were being had.  At this stage, I wanted to strangle Teddy for the humiliation that he and I were being put through, but I finally told him that we had better leave.  I could see the disappointment written all over Teddy’s face, but I was quick to remind him that I was the one wearing the suit and could easily be identified by the mysterious caller as the sucker.  Poor me!  What if word got to Africa?!  Poor Margaret would have gone ballistic.

In my third year at the hostel, I was elected President of the Hostel Common Room.  As President, I was expected to organize entertainment for the hundred and fifty resident students.  This entertainment could take the form of magic shows, debates, ping pong tournaments and invitations to guest speakers on issues of the day.  The most important function, was to organize the yearly Hostel Dance.  This might have been simple enough but for the fact that there were some complications in the plans.  What made it difficult was that more than a quarter of the students knew no girls that could accompany them as partners to the dance.  It therefore fell on the President to arrange from somewhere, girls that were willing enough to accompany our boys.  I phoned the principal of Sophia College, a Nun, and asked her whether she could help out.  She was very cooperative and explained that she would put up a circular with the hope that the girls would be forward enough to go to the dance accompanied by someone that they did not know.  We managed to get thirty willing girls.  I called a general meeting and was able to get exactly thirty students who showed any willingness to be accompanied by a girl.  I also emphasized that I wanted these thirty boys in the Common Room the following day to teach them some basic manners when they were out with these girls.  They were required to dress in a suit, hire a taxi and pay for it; and above all, accompany the girls back to Sophia College after the dance.   I had all kinds of commitments from them.  However, after the dance, I was left with at least fifteen girls who were conveniently abandoned by the boys.  It became my responsibility to arrange for taxis to take them home.

 (Hostel Life .taken from the Autobiography of Ives Pereira entitled, “Homeward Bound”. . a seven hundred page odessey. Unpublished.)