Silence
An Unexpected Day at My Beloved IIT
Author’s Note: I’m sharing a story I wrote about twenty-five years ago, around the year 2000. This is a work of fiction, though the setting is real. Aravali Hostel at the Indian Institute of Technology, Delhi will always hold a special place in my heart — as will the friends I mention in this story. I dedicate it to Daku, Ajju, and Aggu — it’s not their real names, but they’ll know when they read it.
I sincerely thank you, the reader, for taking the time to read this story.
- Pankaj B. Gupta
“Thud.” The sound of the newspaper hitting the floor woke me up. I took a deep breath — what a fine morning. The air felt fresher than it had in weeks.
For the past month, I’d been bedridden with a severe viral fever. At first, I ignored going to the doctor, but when things got bad, my friends dragged me there. The medicines finally worked — though they took their time. It had been so long since I’d seen a morning this bright. I thanked God for my recovery, and for my friends who helped me through those miserable days. I promised myself I’d make it up to them somehow.
Lying on the bed, I drifted into memories — my school days, my friends, my teachers, those half-hour classes, those endless waits for the last bell, coming home to food, playing in the evening, and falling asleep in my mother’s lap. Those were the days. Then came college — my dream realized: the Indian Institute of Technology Delhi. I had worked hard for it, got in two years ago, and had two more to go. Who knew what the future held — higher studies, a job, or something else entirely? Life felt uncertain, yet full of promise.
Being a Sunday, there were no classes. I decided to read the paper and go for a walk. I brought the newspaper inside, lay back, and began to read — but the words blurred. I could see the letters, the lines, the paragraphs, yet couldn’t make sense of them. I tried again, harder this time. Nothing. Maybe it was the medicine making me drowsy. I tossed the paper aside and turned on my small music system.
Indian classical filled the room — serene, flawless. What a peaceful morning. But then I suddenly realized — it too peaceful.
No laughter, no doors banging, no chatter from the hostel corridors. Just birds outside and silence within. At 10 a.m., that was impossible. The hostel was usually alive by then.
Curious, I got up and stepped outside. The hallway was empty. No Aggu, no Ajju, no Daku, no Eku, — no one. Some rooms like that of Eku were locked; others like Aggu’s stood open. I peeked into Aggu’s room — everything normal except for his absence. The same with every other open room.
I went to the food mess. Food was laid out, steaming hot, but not a soul around. The silence felt wrong — heavy, unnatural. I began to feel uneasy. Maybe the hostel had been evacuated? A bomb threat? An emergency?
I walked to the parking lot. Bikes and scooters were parked neatly, but no guard in sight. My unease grew into fear. I followed the narrow earthen path to the main road — and froze.
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Cars, buses, trucks, scooters — hundreds of them. All still and motionless. No people inside. Like a photograph of a busy highway.
My heart pounded. “Hello!” I shouted. No response. I walked faster, eyes darting from vehicle to vehicle. Nothing moved. No one in sight.
Panic took over. I ran — through the streets, past markets, past shops. Everything was there. The shops were open, money lay on counters, for me to take!, but it was not what I wanted. Rather, I would have given all that money just to talk to another living being.
I grabbed a red Maruti car parked on the road and drove. Delhi’s roads stretched endlessly before me, choked with frozen traffic. I drove for hours, circling the city four or five times. Exhausted, I returned to the hostel, trembling.
I wandered back toward my room. Ajju’s door was locked from the inside.
“Ajju! Ajjjjju! Wake up! Ajju!” I shouted, pounding on the door. Waking that sleeping beast was never easy. It took motivation, persistence, and a fair bit of courage to get him out of bed on a holiday. I, being a nocturnal creature myself, rarely slept much — but Ajju could sleep through an earthquake. I did not succeed.
Then there was Daku — Daku the Great, as we called him. He was an artist to the core. His paintings had a professional touch, though he would never have any in his room, he would just give them away. You know that saying, “I’m not rich enough to buy my own paintings”? That was him exactly. His room was a glorious mess — splashes of color everywhere, canvases piled high, brushes soaking in jars, and the faint scent of turpentine in the air. Yet somehow, amidst all that chaos, there was beauty.
As I walked into his room, I saw the painting he had been working on for many days. Strangely, the painting was lying unprotected — he would never, ever leave his work like that. Maybe he just forgot! was that possible? On the table was a card he seemed to have made himself, and on top it was written “Get well soon.” For whom was that card? I opened it — inside, it was half finished. It was addressed to somebody whose name started with “P,” but I could not read it clearly. Was it for me?
I walked out after carefully covering the painting. As usual, Eku’s room was locked from the outside. He was rarely in the hostel. I looked from the window, his room was the only one that looked fancy and untouched, as if it belonged to a guest.
“Ajju, Ajju, wake up! Ajju. Please! Ajju.. Please!” I banged on Ajju’s door again.
Giving up, I entered Aggu’s room — Aggu the Artist — my mind numb, all Aggu’s sketches neatly displayed in his room, but no sight of him.
The silence deepened. Loneliness, I realized, is far more terrifying than ghosts. You can’t see it, can’t fight it — it simply swallows you whole. Everything looked normal, yet nothing felt real. It was like playing hide-and-seek and suddenly realizing no one else is playing.
In a real game, if you can’t find anyone, you can give up and announce you’re going home. But in my case, everyone seemed to be playing hide-and-seek with me — and I couldn’t go home. Home was frightening too.
I wandered outside again, drained and numb. My feet carried me without purpose. Then, a sight — a telephone booth. I froze — this was my one hope. Coming back to my senses, I hurriedly picked up the receiver and began dialing. I tried many numbers — my friends, my relatives, my sisters — but it seemed nobody was at home.
Finally, I dialed my home number. Someone picked up. Oh, thank God! I could hear my mom’s voice. “Hello, Mom,” I said. But she couldn’t hear me. “This irritating phone,” I thought. I shouted louder, but she still didn’t respond. I called again and again, but in vain. I could hear her voice — faint, sad, and weak — and it broke something inside me.
Completely exhausted and crushed by solitude, I sank to the ground. For the first time, I prayed. “God, help me. Is this a dream?”
A calm, distant voice answered, “No, my child. Last night, in my court, you could not make it to Heaven.”
