G B Pant Hostel Agra

Back in the winter of 1979, when I, Dr. P.K. Gupta, stepped into Sarojini Naidu Medical College in Agra as a wide-eyed first-year MBBS student, everything felt like a grand adventure mixed with a dash of terror. The college was right there on Mahatma Gandhi Road, bustling with cycle rickshaws, street vendors hawking roasted peanuts, and the distant call of the muezzin from nearby mosques. But home? That was a good mile away—G.B. Pant Hostel, a massive three-storey beast shaped like a tuning fork, or maybe a giant Y, with its shorter “inferior limb” opening straight onto the noisy chaos of M.G. Road.

We freshers were all crammed onto the top floor, supposedly for our “protection.” There was this heavy iron grill at the staircase landing, meant to be locked at night to keep the seniors out. The idea was to stop the infamous ragging sessions that every medical college in India whispered about back then. “No seniors on thie third floor after 10 PM,” the warden barked during orientation. “That grill stays shut!”

But oh, what a joke that was.

One evening, a few weeks into the term, my roommate Prabhakar and I were hunched over our anatomy books under a flickering tube light when we heard the creak. Footsteps thundering up the stairs.

“Arre yaar, grill toh band hai na?” Prabhakar whispered, his eyes wide.

I peeked out the door. Sure enough, the grill was “closed”—but only halfway, leaving a gap wide enough for a determined second-year to squeeze through. And there they were: three seniors, grinning like Cheshire cats, led by this burly guy everyone called Bhaiya.

“Oye freshers! Intro do!” Taneja bellowed, banging on doors.

We all tumbled out into the corridor—about twenty of us nervous first-years in kurtas and pajamas. The grill was supposed to be our fortress, but it was always like that: partly open. Why? Because life didn’t stop at night. Guys were constantly slipping down to the bazaar for cigarettes, or heading to Sadar for a late-night movie at the old cinema hall. And no trip was complete without stopping at Sharma Tea Stall—that legendary spot just down the road, where the chai was thick, milky, and spiced just right, served with hot samosas that burned your tongue but warmed your soul.

“Senior ji,” one bold fresher ventured, “grill band hone wala tha na? Ragging nahi hogi…”

Bhaiya laughed, a deep belly laugh. “Band? Kaun band karega? Tum log khud toh neeche jaate rehte ho Raja ki Madi ke liye ya Dharkan Doodh Wale ke halwe ke liye! Hum bhi toh bhai log hain—bas thoda introduction chahiye.”

We ended up singing stupid songs, doing silly dances, and answering endless questions about our hometowns and crushes. It was humiliating, sure—standing there like fools while they roasted us—but in that era, it was almost a rite of passage. No one got hurt badly; it was more mental teasing than anything physical. And strangely, by the end, we were all laughing. Bhaiya even shared his cigarettes. “Kal se dost ho tum log,” he said, slapping my back. “But remember—next time, bring halwa from Dharkan for us!”

That grill? It stayed half-open all year. A symbol of how things really worked: rules on paper, but life—and a bit of harmless mischief—always found a way through. Those nights running to Sharma’s for adrak chai after a long dissection class, dodging cycles on M.G. Road, dodging seniors too… they made us brothers. Looking back, those were the days that toughened us up for the real world of medicine. Agra’s winter fog, the smell of fresh halwa, the echo of laughter through that Y-shaped hostel—I’ll never forget them.

Those first few months in G.B. Pant Hostel were pure survival mode. Every evening, as the sun dipped behind the old Agra rooftops, we’d trudge back from S.N. Medical College—tired, hungry, and praying that tonight the seniors would be too busy with their own studies to bother us.

The hostel gates loomed at the end of that long, dusty stretch of Mahatma Gandhi Road. Two massive concrete lamp posts stood like silent sentries on either side of the entrance, their bright white bulbs blazing even before dusk properly fell. To the homesick, terrified first-years, those glowing orbs didn’t look welcoming at all. They looked… well, anatomical.

One night, after a particularly brutal anatomy lecture on the male reproductive system (Professor Sharma had gone into far too much detail), a bunch of us freshers were sitting on the hostel steps, nursing cups of tea from Sharma Tea Stall and trying to shake off the day’s stress.

“Yaar, dekho na,” whispered Vinod, my batchmate from Kanpur, pointing toward the gates with a mischievous grin. “Woh do bade pote… bilkul GB Pant ke pote lagte hain!”

We all froze for a second, then burst into stifled laughter, glancing around to make sure no senior was within earshot.

“Pote?” I asked, pretending innocence even though I instantly knew what he meant.

“Arre bhai, scrotum!” he hissed, cupping his hands dramatically. “Do bade white gole, raat mein chamak rahe hain. Beech mein flag post khada hai… bilkul arrangement perfect hai!”

Rajesh nearly choked on his tea. “Shhh! Agar kisi senior ne sun liya toh kal subah humein sach mein pote dikha denge!”

But the name stuck. From that night on, whenever any of us had to walk back late—maybe after a movie in Sadar or extra hours in the dissection hall—we’d see those distant white lights glowing through the fog and feel our stomachs drop.

“Oye PK,” Prabhakar would mutter as we approached the gates, “GB Pant ke pote dikhe? Aaj ragging ka full moon hai kya?”

“Bas yaar, chup chaap andar ghus jaate hain,” I’d reply, quickening my pace. “Flag post ko salute maar ke nikalte hain, shayad seniors khush ho jaayein.”

Sometimes we’d spot a group of second- or third-years lounging right under those lamp posts, smoking bidis and waiting for fresh prey. The white light would catch their faces in sharp relief—predatory grins, eyes scanning the road for any lone fresher daring to return after 9 PM.

One particularly cold December night in 1980, I was returning alone from the library. The fog was thick, and those two white lamps appeared like ghostly orbs floating in the mist. My heart was pounding.

As I reached the gates, sure enough—three seniors materialized from the shadows.

“Fresher! Idhar aa!” one called.

I walked up, trying to keep my voice steady. “Ji boss …”

The tallest one, a guy we called Bulldog because of his build, flicked his cigarette and smirked. “Kya naam hai tera?”

“P.K. Gupta, .”

He looked up at the glowing lamps, then back at me with mock seriousness. “Achha Gupta ji, yeh do pote dekhe? Humare hostel ke famous landmark. Tum freshers log inko kya kehte ho?”

My throat went dry. Someone had ratted us out.

“Ji… lamp post?” I tried weakly.

The three of them roared with laughter. Bulldog slapped my back—hard. “Arre dar mat! Hum bhi toh pehle waise hi darte the. Chal, aaj introduction nahi, bas ek kaam—kal subah Dharkan Doodh Wale se garma garam halwa laana sabke liye. Deal?”

“Deal, senior ji!” I said, relief flooding through me.

As I hurried inside, I heard Bulldog call after me: “Aur haan, pote ko salute karna mat bhoolna!”

We laughed about it later, all of us freshers gathered in someone’s room, sharing the story. Those terrifying white lights, the silly nicknames born out of pure fear—they became part of our shared legend. By the time we became seniors ourselves, we’d catch new freshers whispering the same names and just smile. The cycle continued, but somehow, those glowing “pote” of G.B. Pant Hostel always watched over us, half menacing, half protective, lighting the way home.

One night in February 1980 stands out like a scar that turned into a funny story over the years. It was a Friday, bitterly cold, with that typical Agra fog rolling in thick enough to swallow sounds. A group of us first-years—me (P.K. Gupta), Rajesh, Vinod, and two others, Mishra and Shukla—had sneaked out after dinner to watch a late-night show at the old Sanjay Talkies in Sadar. Amitabh Bachchan’s Dostana was running, and we couldn’t resist. We told ourselves we’d be back by 10:30 PM, before the seniors really started prowling.

Big mistake.

We got delayed—rickshaw puncture on the way back—and by the time we turned onto M.G. Road, it was past 11:30. The fog was so dense we could barely see ten feet ahead, but there they were: those two glowing white “pote” of G.B. Pant Hostel shining like beacons of doom in the distance.

“Yaar, aaj toh gaye,” Khurana muttered, slowing down. “Kukkar aur uska gang zaroor gate pe hoga.”

Sure enough, as we crept closer, shadows detached themselves from under the lamp posts. Five seniors this time, led by Kukkar and a lanky third-year everyone called professor because he wore thick spectacles and quoted Shakespeare during ragging.

“Freshers! Line mein lago!” Kukkar’s voice boomed through the fog.

We lined up like lambs, hands behind our backs, trying not to shiver—partly from cold, partly from fear.

Professor adjusted his glasses and peered at us. “To be or not to be… inside the hostel without introduction—that is the question. Aaj ka special program: Medical dress series.”

We groaned inwardly. This was going to be bad.

They marched us not inside the hostel, but to the small open ground just behind the gate, right under the flag post that we freshers secretly called the… well, you know. The white lamps cast harsh circles of light on the grass, turning the whole scene theatrical.

“Topic for tonight,”Kukkar boss announced, lighting a Charminar, “Courtship and Mating Habits of the Human Male—practical demonstration required.”

Rajesh whispered to me, “Bhai, aaj anatomy practical repeat hone wala hai.”

First, they made Mishra—who was the shyest among us—stand on a brick and propose to an imaginary girl. “Louder! She’s deaf!” they shouted as poor Mishra stammered, “Aap bahut sundar hain… main aapka anatomy dekhna chahta hoon…” We bit our lips to keep from laughing, knowing we were next.

Then came my turn. Professor pointed at me dramatically: “Gupta, you are a famous gynaecologist. Demonstrate how you will examine a female patient—using Shukla as your patient.”

Sanjeev eyes went wide. “Senior ji, mercy!”

“No mercy in medicine!” Bulldog roared.

They made Sanjeev lie down on the cold grass, fully clothed of course, and handed me a stick as a “speculum.” I had to narrate an entire pelvic examination in Hindi, complete with fake medical terms, while the seniors howled with laughter and corrected my “technique.”

“Arre, left ovary kahaan hota hai, idiot? Right side pe haath mat ghumao jaise rickshaw chala rahe ho!”

I was mortified, my face burning hotter than Dharkan’s halwa, but I played along—because everyone knew that the more you resisted, the longer it lasted.

Anand got the worst: they made him dance like Zeenat Aman from the Dostana song “Bane Chahe Dushman” while singing in a high-pitched voice. The fog muffled his off-key rendition, but not the seniors’ clapping and jeering.

Finally, around 1 AM, Bulldog took pity. “Bas karo, bechare thand se kaanp rahe hain. Last task—collective punishment. Kal subah 6 baje PT ground pe sab log. Twenty rounds, aur Sharma Tea Stall se chai-samosa for all seniors.”

We nodded vigorously. “Ji boss ji, bilkul!”

As they let us go, Professor put an arm around my shoulder—surprisingly gentle. “Darne ki zaroorat nahi thi, Gupta. Hum bhi yahin se guzre hain. Bas yaad rakhna—ek din tum bhi seniors banoge, aur naye freshers ko yeh sab sikhana padega. Tradition hai.”

We stumbled up the stairs to the third floor, half-frozen, half-relieved, collapsing into our rooms in fits of suppressed laughter.

“Yaar,” Rajesh said, rubbing his hands for warmth, “aaj toh sach mein GB Pant ke pote ne humein full darshan diye.”

We never told the warden, of course. And true to our word, next morning we were up at dawn, running rounds while the seniors watched from the balcony, sipping the hot chai we’d fetched.

That night became legendary in our batch—“The Dostana Ragging,” we called it. Years later, when we met at reunions, someone would inevitably bring it up, and Bulldog—who’s now a respected surgeon in Delhi—would grin and say, “Arre, woh toh bas pyar tha, bhai. Aaj kal ke bacche toh ragging bolke complain kar dete hain!”

But for us, it was the night the fog, the white lights, and a bit of harmless terror welded five scared boys into friends for life.

One monsoon evening in July 1980, the sky over Agra opened up like it was trying to wash the entire city away. Classes had ended early because the dissection hall roof was leaking right onto the cadavers, and we first-years dashed back to G.B. Pant Hostel soaked to the bone. The road was a river of mud, cycle rickshaws splashing water everywhere, and by the time we reached those glowing white “pote” at the gate, we looked like drowned rats.

We thought we’d escaped trouble. The rain would surely keep the seniors indoors, right?

Wrong.

As we squelched through the gate, laughing about how Professor Sharma had slipped on the wet floor and nearly fallen into a bucket of formalin, a voice thundered from the first-floor balcony.

“Freshers! Ruk jao! Flood relief operation shuru karte hain!”

It was Bulldog again, flanked by Kukkar and a new senior we called madam boss —because he was always looking in mirror and always wore his dress like he was about to march into fashion show. About eight of them in total, all dry under the balcony overhang, smoking and grinning.

We stopped dead in the courtyard, rainwater streaming off our hair.

“Line mein aao, gentlemen,”Kukkar ordered in his parade-ground voice. “Aaj ka programme: Monsoon Special—Jal Tarang Orchestra, on medical literature.”

We groaned. Ten of us first-years, shivering in wet clothes, lined up under the downpour while the seniors stayed nice and dry.

Bulldog explained the rules. Each fresher had to become a “musical instrument” made only of water and body parts. We had to produce sounds and play a full Bollywood song—perfectly in tune, of course.

Rajesh was first. “Tu jal tarang hai,” Professor declared. “Paani ko haath mein le aur play kar—song hai ‘Rimjhim gire sawan’.”

Poor Rajesh cupped rainwater in his palms and tried slapping it rhythmically while singing in a trembling voice. Every time he missed a beat, Captain barked, “Wrong note! Do push-ups in the puddle—ten!”

Vinod got designated as the “thunder drum.” He had to slap his wet thighs and stomach to create drum beats for “Aaj kal tere mere pyar ke charche.” The harder it rained, the louder he had to slap. His thighs were red by the end.

My turn came, and Bulldog pointed at me with evil delight. “Gupta, tu bansuri hai. Hollow body, breath control. Song: ‘Mohe panghat pe Nandlal chhed gayo re’ from Mughal-e-Azam. Romantic style, full expression.”

I had to stand straight, purse my lips, and blow air through my clenched fist like it was a flute, producing the most pathetic whistling sounds imaginable. The rain made it even worse—water kept getting in my mouth, and I was half-choking, half-whistling.

“Arre, kya bakwaas bansuri hai!” Captain shouted. “Anarkali ko seduce kar raha hai ya mosquito bhaga raha hai? Phir se!”

The others were made into tabla (clapping wet armpits), manjira (clicking teeth), and even a “ghatam” (one guy had to pat his wet belly like a pot).

We stumbled through the entire song—splashing, slapping, whistling, singing off-key—while the seniors clapped sarcastically and shouted corrections. The courtyard echoed with our ridiculous orchestra and their laughter. Lightning flashed overhead, perfectly timed with Vinod’s “thunder.”

After twenty excruciating minutes, we were blue-lipped and shaking. Finally, Professor took pity. “Bas karo, bechare hypothermia hone wala hai. Last performance—group item. Sab log milkar ‘Yeh dosti hum nahi todenge’ gaao, full volume, with actions.”

We belted it out, arms around each other’s shoulders, jumping in the puddles, voices cracking but surprisingly heartfelt. Even the seniors joined in from the balcony on the last chorus.

When we finished, Bulldog leaned over the railing. “Achha perform kiya, baccho. Ab jaao, garam chai peeke aao. Aur haan—kal subah Sharma Tea Stall se adrak wali chai aur bhutta laana, monsoon ke mausam ke liye.”

We ran upstairs, dripping all the way to the third floor, collapsing in the corridor in hysterical laughter once the doors were shut.

“Yaar,” Mishra gasped, wringing out his shirt, “aaj toh hum sach mein orchestra ban gaye. Bansuri Gupta—naya naam hai tera!”

Even now, whenever it rains heavily, someone from our batch will message the group: “Rimjhim gire sawan… time for Jal Tarang rehearsal?” And we all crack up remembering that soaked, shivering, utterly ridiculous night under the watchful white lights of G.B. Pant’s famous “pote.”

It was humiliating, freezing, and completely absurd—but damn, it made us feel alive.

There were two wings of hostel corresponding to the two arms of tuning fork connected by the connecting wing which had the iron grill shutters to keep out the senior students to avoid ragging in the middle which descended into a marble staircase . Must have looked stately in its prime. One of the wings had foreign students from Africa or Mauritius and remote are like Sikkim and Andaman staying so was called a foreign wing. The foreign wing had English speaking boys and being outsiders were rarely ragged. The others were not so fortunate. Sanjeev sharma named our wing as CIA wing and correspondingly the other was named as kgb wing. The prime objective of both wings was to spy on girls hostel and unfortunately kgb wing was the clear winner in that regard. Humanise add dialogue make interesting

The G.B. Pant Hostel really did look majestic once, I suppose—back when its paint was fresh and the marble staircase gleamed instead of being stained with paan spits and muddy footprints. From the air (or so we imagined), it spread out like a perfect tuning fork: two long parallel wings joined at the base by a shorter connecting corridor. That corridor was the heart of the building—wide, high-ceilinged, with a grand marble staircase sweeping down to the ground floor like something out of an old Raja-Maharaja palace. At the top of those stairs, on the third-floor landing, stood the famous iron grill shutters—thick, black, and supposedly lockable—to protect us innocent freshers from the nightly invasions of seniors.

Of course, as we already know, those shutters spent more time half-open than closed.

The two wings had their own personalities right from day one. The left arm of the fork (if you faced the road) housed a mix of students from far-flung places: tough, quiet boys from Sikkim with their sharp features and woollen caps even in Agra’s summer; a couple of chain-smoking lads from the Andaman Islands who spoke Hindi with a strange lilt; and a lively bunch of African and Mauritian students on government scholarships—tall, deep-voiced guys who played football barefoot and called everyone “brother” in flawless English.

Because of them, that wing quickly earned the nickname “Foreign Wing.” The seniors rarely bothered them. Maybe it was the language barrier, maybe the unspoken rule that “foreigners” were off-limits, or maybe just the fact that those guys looked like they could handle themselves. Whatever the reason, the Foreign Wing slept peacefully.

We, on the right wing, were not so lucky.

One evening early in the session, Sanjeev Sharma—our batch’s resident comedian, a lanky Delhi boy with a permanent smirk—stood dramatically in the connecting corridor, surveying both wings like a Cold War general.

“Gentlemen,” he announced to whoever was listening, “I hereby declare this strategic division official. Our wing—full of sneaky, intelligent, capitalistic spies—shall henceforth be known as the CIA Wing!”

Rajesh, leaning on the grill, asked, “And the other one?”

Sanjeev pointed grandly across the corridor. “That one, with its silent, mysterious comrades from distant socialist lands and Africa—clearly the KGB Wing!”

We howled with laughter. Even a couple of Mauritian guys passing by grinned and one shouted, “Ey mon, we not KGB, we non-aligned movement!”

But the names stuck instantly. CIA Wing versus KGB Wing. And soon, the rivalry had a very specific, very teenage objective: who could get the best view of the girls’ hostel.

The girls’ hostel—Sarojini Naidu Ladies Hostel—was across a wide open maidan, maybe two hundred metres away, separated by a boundary wall and a row of eucalyptus trees. From the ground floor, you saw nothing. Second floor, a few windows if you craned your neck. But the third floor? Paradise.

The KGB Wing had the clear advantage. Their rooms at the far end faced directly toward a corner of the girls’ hostel where the balcony lights stayed on late and clotheslines fluttered with mysterious garments in the evening breeze. Binoculars (borrowed from the physiology lab) made regular appearances there.

Our CIA Wing? We had enthusiasm, but geography was against us. Our windows looked more toward the road and a blank wall.

One night, after lights-out, Sanjeev gathered a few of us in the corridor—me, Rajesh, Vinod, and Mishra—whispering like we were planning a moon landing.

“Comrades of the CIA,” he said in a terrible American accent, “intelligence reports indicate the KGB has superior surveillance capabilities. We must counter this imbalance.”

“How?” I asked, already regretting it.

“Operation Balcony. Tomorrow, we borrow the longest ladder from the hostel mali, prop it against the connecting corridor roof, climb up, and establish a forward observation post.”

Rajesh snorted. “And when the warden catches us?”

“Plausible deniability. We’re… stargazing. Medical students need to study astronomy too.”

The next evening, we actually tried it. Four of us sneaking the ladder up the marble staircase—clanging every step—while trying to shush each other. We got it onto the flat roof of the connecting corridor, hearts pounding, and climbed up one by one.

The view was… disappointing. Trees blocked everything.

From the KGB Wing balcony opposite, we suddenly heard clapping. Four African guys and a Sikkimese boy were watching us, laughing.

“CIA very bad spies tonight!” one of them shouted in English. “KGB has better angle, brothers! Come join us—we share binoculars!”

Sanjeev stood up theatrically on the roof. “Never! The Cold War continues!”

But we climbed down defeated, and the next day Sanjeev negotiated a truce: occasional joint operations, shared intelligence (meaning shared binoculars), and mutual defence against seniors.

The iron grill in the middle rattled as someone from the KGB Wing pushed it open. One of the Mauritian guys strolled across with a smile.

“Peace treaty?” he offered.

Sanjeev shook his hand solemnly. “Détente achieved.”

That stately old building, with its marble stairs and grand design, had seen many things over the years. But I doubt it ever witnessed a colder war—or a quicker peace—than the one fought between the CIA and KGB Wings of G.B. Pant Hostel, all for a glimpse of lights across the maidan on quiet Agra nights.

I’m Dr. P.K. Gupta, proud occupant of Room 236 on the third floor.

Sunday was the one day the clock didn’t bark at us in G.B. Pant Hostel.

Room 236, third floor, faced west, and on Sundays the two windows stayed wide open. A massive peepal tree stood guard outside, its leaves shimmering in the cool December breeze while a parliament of birds held their morning concert. The rest of the week we’d bolt out at dawn, half-asleep, sprinting to the cycle stand for the mad dash to the dissection hall. But Sunday? Sunday we stayed buried under razais like hibernating bears.

“Arre yaar, paratha-omelette lao!” Raju shouted from his bed, voice still thick with sleep.

Within minutes the mess boy appeared with a steel tray: two fluffy aloo parathas, a folded omelette glistening with ghee, and a steaming glass of adrak chai. He placed it on the rickety bedside table like he was serving royalty.

Mukesh, already sitting up, grinned. “Bhai, today we’re not moving till the sun is properly up. Deal?”

“Deal,” I said, tearing into the paratha. “First bite tax—whoever speaks next has to go fetch water.”

Silence for exactly four seconds.

Raju broke it. “Water lao, yaar.”

We laughed, crumbs flying everywhere.

By eleven we were properly awake and restless. The ritual began: room-hopping. We drifted from Raju’s room to Mukesh’s, then to the seniors’ corridor, trading gossip, borrowing magazines, arguing over whose turn it was to buy cigarettes.

Then came the high point of the week—Sunday special mess lunch. They charged double, but nobody complained. The moment the bell rang, the entire hostel thundered down the stairs like a herd of hungry elephants.

We piled our plates high: crisp pooris, spicy kachauris, paneer dry veg that actually had flavour for once, fragrant pulao, thin papad that cracked like fireworks, and—best of all—a bowl of gulab jamun swimming in syrup.

Mukesh took one bite and closed his eyes dramatically. “Yaar, if I die tomorrow, at least I’ve tasted heaven today.”

Raju nudged him. “Don’t die tomorrow. Tomorrow is Monday. Dissection hall. Cadaver smell. Die next Sunday.”

Evening found us at Sharma’s tea stall near Dhakkan crossing. The old man knew our order by heart—four cutting chais, extra strong, with a plate of bread pakoras.

“Beta, aaj picture dekhoge?” Sharma ji asked, wiping a glass.

“Bhagwan Talkies, seven-thirty show,” I said. “Some new Amitabh flick.”

He chuckled. “Late aayoge to Pant ji ke pote guard duty pe honge. Phir ragging shuru.”

We groaned in unison. Pant ji’s grandson was legendary—strict as a warden, sneaky as a cat.

After tea we headed to Safari in Raja ki Mandi for dosa. The place was packed, sizzling tawa sounds everywhere, smell of sambhar thick in the air. We squeezed onto a bench, ordered three masala dosas and one plain for the “diet-conscious” Raju.

“Diet-conscious my foot,” Mukesh muttered. “You ate four gulab jamuns.”

“Shh, let me live the lie,” Raju whispered.

Movie was everything we hoped—action, drama, one-liners we’d repeat for weeks. When it ended at eleven, we pedalled back slowly, hearts light, stomachs full, the cold night air slapping our faces.

At the hostel gate, sure enough, there he was—Pant ji ka pota, torch in hand, peering suspiciously.

“Late entry, huh?” he growled.

We put on our best innocent faces.

“Sir, reel got stuck,” I lied smoothly. “Technical fault. Whole theatre waited.”

He stared hard, then sighed. “Chalo, andar jao. Next time early.”

We slipped past, stifling laughter till we reached the stairs.

Up in 236 again, windows still open, the peepal leaves rustling softly, birds long asleep. We collapsed onto our beds, replaying the day in whispers.

“Best Sunday ever,” Mukesh murmured.

Raju yawned. “Till next Sunday.”

And outside, the old tree stood quiet witness to another perfect, lazy, delicious hostel Sunday gone by.

Life on the third floor was never quiet. The corridor smelled of old wood, cheap phenyl, and the occasional whiff of someone’s clandestine cigarette. Doors were always half-open, music leaked out, and someone was perpetually shouting for a borrowed bucket or a matchbox.

Let me take you room by room.

Room 232: Manoj Gupta and Bhutani.
Manoj was the eternal optimist who believed every exam was “doable in one night.” Bhutani, quieter, spent hours staring at his notes as if they might rearrange themselves into answers. Every evening Manoj would poke his head out and yell, “Bhutani, chai bana raha hoon—aa ja!” and half the floor would materialise for tea and gossip.

Room 233: Khurana and Raj kumar Agarwal).
Khurana was the organised one—his side of the room looked like a showroom, mine like a cyclone hit it. He’d wake up at 5 a.m., switch on the tube light, and I’d groan from under the blanket, “Khurana, bijli bill hum dono barabar baantenge na?” He’d laugh and reply, “Doctor sahab, padhoge tabhi to bill baantne layak banoge.”

Room 234: Shamim and M.P. Yadav.
Shamim’s infectious laugh could be heard three rooms away. M.P. Yadav, the serious UP-board topper, balanced him perfectly. Late at night you’d hear Shamim teasing, “Yadav ji, itni mehnat karoge to topper ban jaoge, phir hum jaise aalsi logon ko kaun entertain karega?”

Room 235: Sanjeev Sharma and Shalabh.
Sanjeev was the foodie—always experimenting with the mess curry by adding Maggi masala. Shalabh, tall and soft-spoken, was the official mediator whenever arguments broke out over whose turn it was to sweep the corridor. “Arre bhai log, shanti rakho,” he’d say, and somehow everyone listened.

Room 236: Bahukhandi and me (P.K. Gupta).
Bahukhandi was my roommate for most of the stay—calm, studious, and remarkably tolerant of my habit of studying with All India Radio playing full blast. We had an unspoken pact: he got the window side, I got the side nearer the door so I could escape quickly when the warden did his rounds.

Room 237: Poswal and Harish Vishwakarma.
Poswal had a booming voice that carried down the entire wing. Harish, the artist among us, covered our corridor walls with charcoal sketches during idle hours. Poswal would boast, “Dekho Vishwakarma, warden aaya to tumhari drawing pe hi latak jayega!”

The original CIA wing extended downwards:

Room 231: Satish Sharma and Sunil Sharma (Meerut).
The two Sharmas from Meerut were inseparable—people just called them “Sharma duo.” If one was missing, the other knew exactly where he was (usually the canteen playing carrom).

Room 230: Bansal and Sunil Kumar (Ghaziabad).
Bansal was the strategist—always planning group studies that somehow ended in antakshari. Sunil from GZB provided the comic relief with his perfect mimicry of our professors.

Room 229: Mukki and Sabby.
The coolest corner of the floor. Mukki’s tape recorder blared Kishore Kumar at full volume on Sundays, while Sabby negotiated with the mess boys for extra parathas. “Bhaiya, thoda pyaar daal do aaj ke aaloo mein,” he’d plead.

And then there was the small but legendary “KGB wing”—the two rooms that felt like a secret society:

Karanveer Ahluwalia (posted to Andaman—everyone joked he’d be guarding the Cellular Jail someday), Pawan Agarwal (destined for Sikkim—already practising how to say “Namaste” in Nepali).

Naidu, the self-appointed “boss” of Africa zone, held court with his booming Telugu-accented Hindi. Arun Kapoor and C.K. Malhotra were the quiet intellectuals who actually read the newspapers. Rakesh Mishra and Anil Sharma formed the mischief duo—always planning pranks that never quite worked. A.P. Chaturvedi and Anand Sharma rounded off the group, usually found debating politics till 2 a.m.

Those cramped rooms, thin mattresses, and shared bathrooms somehow housed not just students, but lifelong friendships, endless leg-pulling, late-night Maggi feasts, and the shared dream of cracking the civil services.

Even today, whenever any of us connect, the first thing we say is, “Yaad hai third floor ka woh corridor…?” And the stories begin all over again.

Here’s the updated version with the KGB wing fleshed out properly. I’ve kept the CIA wing section exactly as before and expanded the KGB part with more colour, personality, and plenty of authentic hostel-style dialogues that capture the late-night banter, leg-pulling, and the slight air of mystery we attached to that small “secret” extension.

I’m Dr. P.K. Gupta, proud (and occasionally chaotic) occupant of Room 236 on the third floor of G.B. Pant Hostel, Agra.

Let me take you room by room.

Room 232: Manoj Gupta and Bhutani.
Manoj was the eternal optimist who believed every exam was “doable in one night.” Bhutani, quieter, spent hours staring at his notes as if they might rearrange themselves into answers. Every evening Manoj would poke his head out and yell, “Bhutani, chai bana raha hoon—aa ja!” and half the floor would materialise for tea and gossip.

Room 233: Khurana and Raj kumar Agarwal
Khurana was the organised one—his side of the room looked like a showroom, mine like a cyclone hit it. He’d wake up at 5 a.m., switch on the tube light, and I’d groan from under the blanket, “Khurana, bijli bill hum dono barabar baantenge na?” He’d laugh and reply, “Doctor sahab, padhoge tabhi to bill baantne layak banoge.”

Room 234: Shamim and M.P. Yadav.
Shamim’s infectious laugh could be heard three rooms away. M.P. Yadav, the serious UP-board topper, balanced him perfectly. Late at night you’d hear Shamim teasing, “Yadav ji, itni mehnat karoge to topper ban jaoge, phir hum jaise aalsi logon ko kaun entertain karega?”

Room 235: Sanjeev Sharma and Shalabh.
Sanjeev was the foodie—always experimenting with the mess curry by adding Maggi masala. Shalabh, tall and soft-spoken, was the official mediator whenever arguments broke out over whose turn it was to sweep the corridor. “Arre bhai log, shanti rakho,” he’d say, and somehow everyone listened.

Room 236: Bahukhandi and me (P.K. Gupta).
Bahukhandi was my roommate for most of the stay—calm, studious, and remarkably tolerant of my habit of studying with All India Radio playing full blast. We had an unspoken pact: he got the window side, I got the side nearer the door so I could escape quickly when the warden did his rounds.

Room 237: Poswal and Harish Vishwakarma.
Poswal had a booming voice that carried down the entire wing. Harish, the artist among us, covered our corridor walls with charcoal sketches during idle hours. Poswal would boast, “Dekho Vishwakarma, warden aaya to tumhari drawing pe hi latak jayega!”

The original CIA wing extended downwards:

Room 231: Satish Sharma and Sunil Sharma (Meerut).
The two Sharmas from Meerut were inseparable—people just called them “Sharma duo.” If one was missing, the other knew exactly where he was (usually the canteen playing carrom).

Room 230: Bansal and Sunil Kumar (Ghaziabad).
Bansal was the strategist—always planning group studies that somehow ended in antakshari. Sunil from GZB provided the comic relief with his perfect mimicry of our professors.

Room 229: Mukki and Sabby.
The coolest corner of the floor. Mukki’s tape recorder blared Kishore Kumar at full volume on Sundays, while Sabby negotiated with the mess boys for extra parathas. “Bhaiya, thoda pyaar daal do aaj ke aaloo mein,” he’d plead.

And then there was the small but legendary “KGB wing”—just two rooms tucked away at the far end of the corridor, which we dramatically called the KGB extension because the allotments sounded like foreign postings.

That corner had its own vibe: dimmer lights, more serious discussions, and an unspoken rule that you only entered if invited (or if you were carrying Maggi).

Karanveer Ahluwalia—posted to Andaman—was the tall, sardonic Sardar who walked around in his patka even at 2 a.m. Someone would inevitably ask, “Karanveer, Andaman jaake Cellular Jail mein duty lagegi kya?” He’d shoot back without looking up from his notes, “Haan bhai, tum logon ko wapas bhejwa dunga agar interview mein fail hue to!”

Pawan Agarwal, allotted Sikkim, was the soft-spoken guy who already knew half the geography of the Northeast by heart. Every time someone complained about Agra’s heat, Pawan would grin and say, “Tum log yahan garmi se mar rahe ho, main to Sikkim jaake oxygen enjoy karunga. Tum sabko postcard bhejunga—‘Wish you were here… not!’”

Naidu—the self-proclaimed “boss” of Africa zone—held court like a king. With his deep Telugu accent and commanding presence, he’d declare, “Africa mera hai, full continent! Tum log chhote-chhote state leke khush ho.” Rakesh Mishra would immediately counter, “Arre Naidu boss, Africa mein posting mili hai ya safari tour? Wahan giraffe ke saath photo khinchwa ke aana!”

Arun Kapoor and C.K. Malhotra were the intellectual core—always buried in The Hindu or India Today. If you passed their door at midnight, you’d hear Malhotra saying, “Kapoor, yeh economic survey ka data samajh nahi aa raha,” and Kapoor replying calmly, “Arre tension mat lo, interview mein poochhenge to bol dena—‘Data is dynamic, sir.’”

Rakesh Mishra and Anil Sharma were the official pranksters of the KGB wing. Once they hid Naidu’s alarm clock in the water tank. The next morning Naidu roared down the corridor, “Kaun kiya yeh sab? Africa jaake bhi tum logon ko nahi chhodunga!” Mishra innocently asked, “Boss, alarm kyun chahiye? Africa mein to sher ki daaDh sunke uth jaoge!”

A.P. Chaturvedi and Anand Sharma rounded off the group—usually found debating politics over endless cups of tea. Chaturvedi would argue, “Bhai, coalition government hi future hai,” and Anand would retort, “Nahi yaar, strong majority chahiye warna sab lut jaayega.” Their arguments would go on till the mess boy shouted from downstairs, “Chai khatam, uncle log so jaao!”

The KGB wing felt like a different world—more mature, more worldly, and definitely louder after midnight. We CIA folks would sometimes sneak over just to listen to their tall tales of future postings, mock fights over who got the “best” cadre, and the inevitable group singing of “Yeh dosti hum nahi todenge” when someone’s result anxiety peaked.

Even today, whenever any of us connect, the first thing we say is, “Yaad hai third floor ka woh corridor… aur KGB wing ki woh raatein?” And the stories—and the laughter—begin all over again.

I’m Dr. P.K. Gupta, proud (and occasionally chaotic) occupant of Room 236 on the third floor of G.B. Pant Hostel, Agra.

Let me take you room by room—this time with the voices that still echo in my head.

Room 232: Manoj Gupta and Bhutani.
Manoj was the eternal optimist who believed every exam was “doable in one night.” Bhutani, quieter, spent hours staring at his notes as if they might rearrange themselves into answers. Every evening Manoj would poke his head out and yell, “Bhutani, chai bana raha hoon—aa ja!” Bhutani would grumble from inside, “Manoj, kal prelims hai aur tu chai pe chai pila raha hai!” Manoj’s instant reply: “Arre bhai, caffeine se yaad aata hai—ek cup aur, phir Spectrum kholte hain!”

Room 233: Khurana and me (Raj kumar Agarwal ).
Khurana was the organised one—his side of the room looked like a showroom, mine like a cyclone hit it. He’d wake up at 5 a.m., switch on the tube light, and I’d groan from under the blanket, “Khurana, bijli bill hum dono barabar baantenge na?” He’d laugh and reply, “Doctor sahab, padhoge tabhi to bill baantne layak banoge. Utho, Laxmikanth revise karte hain!” I’d mumble, “Ek ghanta aur… dream mein Manmohan Singh se mil raha hoon, economy poochh rahe hain.”

Room 234: Shamim and M.P. Yadav.
Shamim’s infectious laugh could be heard three rooms away. M.P. Yadav, the serious UP-board topper, balanced him perfectly. Late at night you’d hear Shamim teasing, “Yadav ji, itni mehnat karoge to topper ban jaoge, phir hum jaise aalsi logon ko kaun entertain karega?” Yadav would shoot back without looking up, “Shamim, tu entertain karta rahega jail mein—current affairs nahi padhega to yahi hoga!” Shamim: “Arre jail bhi chalega, wahan to free roti milti hai!”

Room 235: Sanjeev Sharma and Shalabh.
Sanjeev was the foodie—always experimenting with the mess curry by adding Maggi masala. Shalabh, tall and soft-spoken, was the official mediator. One day Sanjeev announced loudly, “Aaj mess ki sabzi mein Maggi masala daala—ab khane layak hai!” Shalabh sighed, “Sanjeev, warden ne suna to bolenga yeh sabotage hai.” Sanjeev grinned, “Arre bhai, national integration—mess ka UP style aur Maggi ka Chinese style!” Whenever fights broke out over sweeping duty, Shalabh’s calm voice would cut through: “Arre bhai log, shanti rakho—main kar deta hoon aaj, kal tum log.”

Room 236: Bahukhandi and me (P.K. Gupta).
Bahukhandi was calm, studious, and remarkably tolerant of my habit of studying with All India Radio playing full blast. One midnight, warden’s footsteps echoed in the corridor. I whispered urgently, “Bahukhandi, light off kar!” He hissed back, “PK, tu radio band kar pehle—Vividh Bharati sunke warden ko lag raha hoga disco chal raha hai!” We had an unspoken pact: he got the window side, I got the side nearer the door so I could escape quickly during rounds.

Room 237: Poswal and Harish Vishwakarma.
Poswal had a booming voice that carried down the entire wing. Harish, the artist, covered our corridor walls with charcoal sketches. Poswal would boast while admiring a new drawing, “Dekho Vishwakarma, warden aaya to tumhari drawing pe hi latak jayega!” Harish would retort, “Poswal, teri awaaz sunke pehle warden darwaza tod dega!” Once Poswal shouted across the floor for a pen, and Harish yelled back, “Le le, par autograph mat maangna—IAS ban gaya to!”

The original CIA wing extended downwards:

Room 231: Satish Sharma and Sunil Sharma (Meerut).
The inseparable “Sharma duo” from Meerut. If one disappeared, the other knew: “Arre kahan gaye Satish?” “Canteen mein carrom maar raha hai—bol raha tha strategy revise kar raha hoon!” They’d return together arguing, “Bhai, striker galat maara tune!”

Room 230: Bansal and Sunil Kumar (Ghaziabad).
Bansal was the master planner. He’d announce, “Aaj group study—GS Paper 2, sharp 8 baje!” By 8:30 it turned into antakshari. Sunil from GZB, the mimicry king, would suddenly imitate Bihari professor: “Beta, polity mein separation of power bahut important haiii!” and the whole room would collapse laughing. Bansal would plead, “Arre yaar serious ho jao,” only to join in the next song.

Room 229: Mukki and Sabby.
The coolest corner. Mukki’s tape recorder blared Kishore Kumar every Sunday. Sabby, the negotiator, would sweet-talk the mess boy: “Bhaiya, aaj aaloo mein thoda pyaar daal do—pyaaz zyada, mirch kam!” When the food was still bad, Mukki would declare, “Chalo, collective hunger strike!” Sabby: “Hunger strike nahi, direct strike—mess manager ke office pe!”

And then there was the small but legendary “KGB wing”—just two rooms tucked away at the far end, which we dramatically called the KGB extension because the allotments sounded like foreign postings.

That corner had its own vibe: dimmer lights, more serious discussions, and an unspoken rule that you only entered if invited (or if you were carrying Maggi).

Karanveer Ahluwalia—posted to Andaman—was the tall, sardonic Sardar. “Karanveer, Andaman jaake Cellular Jail mein duty lagegi kya?” He’d shoot back, “Haan bhai, tum logon ko wapas bhejwa dunga agar interview mein fail hue to!”

Pawan Agarwal, allotted Sikkim: “Tum log yahan garmi se mar rahe ho, main to Sikkim jaake oxygen enjoy karunga. Tum sabko postcard bhejunga—‘Wish you were here… not!’”

Naidu—the “boss” of Africa zone: “Africa mera hai, full continent!” Rakesh Mishra: “Arre Naidu boss, Africa mein posting mili hai ya safari tour? Wahan giraffe ke saath photo khinchwa ke aana!”

Arun Kapoor and C.K. Malhotra, buried in newspapers: Malhotra: “Kapoor, yeh economic survey ka data samajh nahi aa raha.” Kapoor: “Arre tension mat lo, interview mein poochhenge to bol dena—‘Data is dynamic, sir.’”

Rakesh Mishra and Anil Sharma, the pranksters—after hiding Naidu’s clock: Naidu roaring, “Kaun kiya yeh sab? Africa jaake bhi tum logon ko nahi chhodunga!” Mishra: “Boss, alarm kyun chahiye? Africa mein to sher ki daaDh sunke uth jaoge!”

A.P. Chaturvedi and Anand Sharma debating politics: Chaturvedi: “Bhai, coalition government hi future hai.” Anand: “Nahi yaar, strong majority chahiye warna sab lut jaayega.” Till the mess boy shouted, “Chai khatam, uncle log so jaao!”

Even today, whenever any of us connect, the first thing we say is, “Yaad hai third floor ka woh corridor… aur CIA aur KGB ki woh raatein?” And the stories—and the laughter—begin all over again.

I’m Dr. P.K. Gupta, proud (and occasionally chaotic) occupant of Room 236 on the third floor of G.B. Pant Hostel, Agra.

But the real excitement—the thing that kept our blood pumping between endless chapters of Laxmikanth and Spectrum—was the covert operations conducted jointly by the CIA and KGB wings. The target: the Girls’ Hostel across the road. Objective: intelligence gathering on daily life, fashion updates, and, of course, any dramatic incidents that could spice up our otherwise bland existence.

The KGB wing ran the show, but they had one priceless asset embedded right in our CIA wing: Sanjeev Sharma of Room 235. Officially a foodie who experimented with Maggi masala, unofficially he was the hostel’s prime jassoos. Sanjeev had legitimate cover—he had a cousin or some distant relative in the girls’ hostel mess staff—so every evening he’d casually stroll across, collect “provisions” (read: latest gossip), and return like a returning spy with classified dossiers.

By 10 p.m., the entire third floor would gather in the KGB wing’s corner. Doors ajar, lights dimmed, voices hushed. Sanjeev would take centre stage, clear his throat, and begin narrating the day’s intelligence in the most gripping style—complete with sound effects, pauses, and exaggerated expressions.

We’d all lean forward, hungry for details.

One story, though, became legendary—the one that caused the biggest stir in our monotonous lives. Sanjeev told it at least five times, each version slightly more dramatic than the last.

“Arre suno suno,” he began one night, eyes wide, “aaj to full-scale operation fail ho gaya girls’ hostel mein!”

Apparently, a second-year girl named Meena Gupta—tall, fair, always seen in that blue salwar-kameez—decided to make a grilled sandwich late at night. She borrowed an electric toaster from the common room, plugged it in her room, loaded it with bread, cheese, and tomato, and then… got distracted by a phone call from home.

“Toaster chalta raha,” Sanjeev continued, mimicking the sizzle, “bread jalne laga, smoke nikalne laga, aur Meena ko pata hi nahi chala! Suddenly alarm baja, warden ki chappal ki awaaz gunji, girls chillane lagi—‘Fire! Fire!’”

The whole corridor erupted in muffled laughter and gasps.

“Phir kya? Meena ne toaster kholne ki koshish ki, haath jhal gaya—minor burns on fingers and forearm. Hostel mein full chaos! Warden ne ambulance bulayi, aur Meena ko seedha le gaye… angrezi ke zamane ke ward mein—Lewkis Ward!”

(Lewkis Ward was our dramatic name for the old, colonial-era burns ward at S.N. Medical College—named after some long-forgotten British doctor. To us, it sounded like a war zone.)

Sanjeev paused for effect. “Do din tak Meena wahan admit rahi. Bandages lage hue, glucose chadh rahi thi. Ab to poora girls’ hostel usko hero maan raha hai—‘Toaster Martyr’ bolke tease kar rahe hain!”

Naidu from KGB wing boomed, “Arre Sanjeev, yeh confirmed intelligence hai ya tu masala daal raha hai?”

Sanjeev raised his hand like taking an oath: “Boss, 100% confirmed! Mess wale bhaiya ne khud bataya. Kal Meena discharge hoke aayi hai—ab toaster pe permanent ban lag gaya girls’ hostel mein!”

Shamim shouted from the back, “Bhai, ek grilled sandwich ne poora hostel jala diya—yeh to better story hai than any James Bond movie!”

Rakesh Mishra added, “Ab to humein bhi toaster khareedna padega—practice ke liye!”

The whole gathering burst out laughing. For days afterwards, whenever mess food was bad, someone would sigh dramatically, “Yaar, grilled sandwich hota to abhi jal bhi jaate, par excitement to aati!”

Meena Gupta’s toaster misadventure became third-floor folklore—the incident that briefly turned our boring preparation days into something straight out of a spy thriller (with Sanjeev Sharma as our very own, unbeatable field agent).

Even today, when any of us old-timers connect, after the usual “Yaad hai third floor ka corridor?”, someone inevitably asks, “Aur woh Meena Gupta wali toaster fire story… Sanjeev ne kitni baar sunayi thi yaar?” And we all crack up all over again.

The Great Baba Ji Misadventure at SN Medical College

It was 1979, and I, Dr. P.K. Gupta, was a fresh-faced first-year at SN Medical College in Agra, still finding my footing in the chaotic world of med school. Agra was a whirlwind—new faces, new rules, and the ever-looming threat of ragging. Luckily, I had a secret weapon: my cousin, Dr. Vandana Bansal, a third-year student from our hometown of Saharanpur. Vandana was everything I wasn’t—smart, savvy, and mature beyond her years. She was practically a legend in the girls’ hostel, and for a fumbling fresher like me, she was a lifeline.

But oh, how I managed to turn that lifeline into a comedy show.

It all started with a box of Bengali sweets. My parents, ever the traditionalists, had handed me a tin of rasgullas before I boarded the bus to Agra. “Deliver these to Vandana immediately,” my mother instructed, her tone leaving no room for argument. “They’ll spoil in this heat!” So, there I was, stepping off the bus that evening, the tin tucked under my arm, heading straight for the girls’ hostel with a mission.

Now, the girls’ hostel at SN Medical College was a fortress. A stern chowkidar guarded the entrance, his job to bellow the name of whichever girl a visitor needed to see. Every time I’d visited before, this chowkidar would tilt his head toward the roof of the hostel and the sky and yell, “Vandana Bansal Baba!”—two, three times, like a ritual chant. I don’t know why, but in my head, I’d concocted a wild theory: there was a Baba ji living on the hostel roof, some mystical guardian watching over the girls. Maybe he was an old sage with a flowing white beard, clad in a lungi, wielding a stick to shoo away stray monkeys—or, worse, lassos (those sneaky boys trying to flirt). I’d been reading a book called Babas of India, full of tales about ascetics who lived in graveyards or stood on one leg for years. A rooftop Baba guarding the girls’ hostel? It didn’t seem that far-fetched.

This theory wasn’t helped by my friend Bahukhandi, a fellow fresher who’d taken it upon himself to be my personal moral compass. Bahukhandi was the kind of guy who’d scowl if I put my feet on the table in the hostel’s visitor room or tried to sneak a peek down the corridor. “P.K., behave yourself!” he’d hiss, his eyes narrowing like a disappointed schoolteacher. “This isn’t Moreganj!” Honestly, his lectures were worse than ragging. So, this time, I decided to ditch him. “I can handle this myself,” I muttered, striding toward the hostel alone, sweets in hand, ready to summon Vandana.

Big mistake.

When I arrived, the chowkidar was nowhere to be seen. Maybe he was on leave, maybe he was napping—who knows? The visitor room, a cramped space with a five-seater sofa and a rickety centre table, was occupied by a senior couple deep in conversation. I hovered awkwardly outside, catching snippets of their chat. The guy was going on about Hitler and the Holocaust, his voice dripping with gravitas. “Dr. Mengele performed these atrociousexperiments on the Jews,” he said, while the girl nodded, muttering, “Really?” every few seconds, her eyes glazing over. I was getting bored, the tin of sweets was getting heavy, and there was still no chowkidar.

So, I took matters into my own hands. I stepped back, craned my neck toward the hostel roof, and hollered, “Baba ji, Dr. Vandana Bansal ko bhej do!” Once. Twice. Thrice. My voice echoed through the courtyard, loud enough to wake half of Agra. Nothing happened. No Vandana, no Baba ji, just silence—until the couple in the visitor room stopped mid-Hitler and poked their heads out.

“Arre bhai, kisko bula raha hai?” the guy asked, his eyebrows shooting up.

I held up the tin of sweets like it explained everything. “Vandana Bansal! I’m calling Baba ji to send her down!”

They exchanged a look, half-confused, half-amused. “Baba ji?” the girl repeated, stifling a laugh. Before I could explain my rooftop sage theory, a few girls appeared at the parapet above, giggling and whispering. Then, out stormed Arun Lata Grover, along with a dark girl who looked like sister of Dr Veer Bahadur Singh Dhaka, the notorious senior who beat Professor Malviya. She seemed a senior with a no-nonsense vibe. “Kya chahiye? Kisko bulana hai?” she demanded, hands on her hips.

I started to stammer out an explanation, but before I could finish, Vandana herself appeared, her expression a mix of exasperation and barely contained laughter. “P.K., what is this nonsense, tum apne tashreefon ka tokra phir le aye?” she said, ushering me into the visitor room. A little bit confused I uttered, “ nahi mithai ka dibba laya hun”. The other girls scattered, their giggles echoing down the corridor. Inside, Vandana was fuming—but in that controlled, Vandana way. “Why didn’t you bring Bahukhandi? Bahut mature hai woh,” she said, jabbing a finger at me. “You, on the other hand, create scenes everywhere!”

“I thought there was a Baba ji on the roof!” I protested, setting the sweets on the table. “The chowkidar always says ‘Vandana Bansal Baba’ when he calls you!”

Vandana’s eyes widened, then she burst out laughing, a rare crack in her composed demeanor. “Baba? P.K., that’s just how he talks! There’s no Baba ji on the roof! What, you think we’ve got an aghori up there chasing away monkeys?”

I tried to defend myself, mumbling about Babas of India and rooftop sentinels, but Vandana was having none of it. “You’re hopeless,” she said, shaking her head as she pried open the tin of rasgullas. “Next time, bring Bahukhandi. He’d never make a fool of himself like this.”

Word of my “Baba ji” fiasco spread like wildfire. The next day, I asked a senior, Sanjeev Yadav, if there was really a Baba on the roof. He snapped, “Main kya, warden hoon jo mujhe pata hoga?” The whole hostel was in stitches for days. Bahukhandi, when he heard, just gave me that look of his. “P.K.,” he said, “you’re a walking disaster.”

But Vandana? She never let me live it down. Every time I visited after that, she’d greet me with a smirk and a single word: “Baba ji.” And somewhere, in my imagination, that lungi-clad, stick-wielding rooftop Baba still stands guard, chuckling at the fool who thought he was real.

I’m Dr. P.K. Gupta, proud (and occasionally chaotic) occupant of Room 236 on the third floor of G.B. Pant Hostel, Agra.

Our third floor was the lively heart of the hostel—the young blood preparing for mains and interviews. But the building had its clear hierarchy.

The middle floor belonged to the seniors—guys who had cleared prelims long ago and now treated the hostel like semi-permanent headquarters. You’d see Ajay Khanna striding down the corridor like he owned the place, Sunil Arora buried in optional notes, Wardhan boss (everyone just called him “boss”) organising cricket betting pools, Taneja from Saharanpur with his unmistakable loud laugh, Kukkar boss who could fix any electrical gadget in minutes, and Ansari who spoke little but commanded respect the moment he entered a room.

The real power centre, though, was the ground floor—home to the super-seniors, the legends who had been around for years. They rarely attended classes, never stepped into the mess and their food was Sen to their room by mess servants and the occasional “Mess ka khana? Hum logon ke liye nahi bana”), and lived what we secretly envied as a royal life. Their rooms were off-limits to us juniors. Meals came from outside—biryani parcels, chicken rolls, sometimes even full tandoori platters delivered by cycle-rickshaw boys who knew exactly which back entrance to use. Evenings meant dim lights, cigarette smoke wafting up the stairs, and the occasional clink of glasses. Booze flowed freely, and stories of their “connections” in the academy circulated in whispers.

Key residents down there: R.D. Singh (the quiet strategist), Arun Agarwal (always on the phone with “sources”), Veer Bahadur (built like a wrestler, voice like thunder), Dhaka boss (the undisputed king—rumour had it he’d been posted twice already but deferred to stay back and “guide” batches), and a few other bosses whose names we barely knew but whose presence we felt.

There was even an assistant warden’s flat on the ground floor, but he seemed to exist only on paper. The real authority was with these super-seniors.

We third-floor folks wisely kept our distance. “Ground floor mat jaana after 9 p.m.,” Manoj Gupta would warn newcomers. “Wahan se cigarette ki badboo aur boss logon ki awaazein aati hain—seedha dar lagta hai.”

The ground floor also housed the common room where the warden held occasional meetings—result announcements, fee reminders, or lectures on “discipline.” We’d file in nervously, sit on those creaky wooden benches, and listen to the warden drone on while Dhaka boss lounged in the back corner, arms folded, smirking.

The middle floor, on the other hand, had the prized table tennis room. That’s where Sanjeev Sharma (our master jassoos) and Mukesh were permanent fixtures. Bat in hand, Sanjeev would smash the ball and shout, “Yeh smash Meena Gupta ke toaster jaisa hai—full jalega!” Mukesh would counter, “Arre Sanjeev, table pe khel, espionage baad mein!” Half the floor would gather to watch, place imaginary bets, and forget current affairs for an hour.

But the ground floor bosses weren’t always untouchable. One incident shook the entire hostel.

Late one night, shouts erupted from below. We peeked over the staircase railing to see a sweeper—poor Ramu, who’d been cleaning our floors for years—cowering while Dhaka boss and Veer Bahadur towered over him. Apparently, money had gone missing from one of the royal rooms. In the heat of the moment, someone landed a punch—Ramu’s nose started bleeding profusely.

Within minutes, all the sweepers gathered in protest at the gate, threatening to go to the police. “FIR karwayenge!” they shouted.

Panic spread. The warden was nowhere. Finally, Dr. Hari Gautam—one of the more responsible seniors from the middle floor—was woken up and rushed downstairs in his kurta-pajama. “Arre bhai log, shant ho jao,” he pleaded with the sweepers. “Ramu ko hospital le jaate hain, ilaaj karwayenge, aur jo bhi hua uski compensation denge.” He turned to the bosses: “Dhaka ji, Veer Bahadur ji, aap log bhi thoda calm ho jaiye—kal subah baat karte hain.”

After tense negotiations, money was quietly handed over for Ramu’s treatment, apologies were muttered, and the threat of an FIR dissolved. Ramu returned to work a week later with a bandaged nose and extra caution in his eyes whenever he passed the ground floor.

We on the third floor discussed it in hushed tones for days. “Boss logon ka gussa…” Poswal shook his head. “Hum to upar hi safe hain.”

That was G.B. Pant Hostel in all its layers—third floor full of dreams and Maggi, middle floor with table tennis and seniority, and ground floor with its shadowy royalty, cigarette haze, and occasional eruptions that reminded us why we stuck to our own corridor.

Even today, when we reminisce, someone always says, “Yaad hai ground floor ke boss log… aur woh Ramu wala incident?” And we laugh nervously, grateful we survived those years on the relatively safer third floor.