Can I come in sir?

The middle-aged man in the room looked up from the book he was reading. God is Not Great: How Religion Poisons Everything.

I am here to take the resit exam sir. Pablo Paul. MIS0202. 0202. Oh. Yes. Resit. For the World Literature course.

Yes sir. Is this the right room? Number 77. Yes. Ah, yes. You’re three minutes late.

Sorry sir. I don’t know this building very well. The rooms don’t follow a sequence.

Yes. Not familiar with this building. I can, yes, see that from your attendance record. Yes. MIS0202. Only three classes last semester. Yes. Those too were probably proxy presences from helpful friends.

I am sorry sir. I wasn’t very well. Can we start the test?

Yes, yes. Of course. This is just a formality, as you probably know already. A resit. Yes, you need to pass all courses. Yes. I received a polite request from your department head already.

The middle-aged man didn’t sound well. He was dying, like everyone else. Maybe a little faster.

Here’s your question. Yes. And your answer script. Yes. You have 45 minutes.

How does the act of waiting emerge as a deferred temporal and ontological category in Beckett’s Waiting for Godot?

The student sat down to write. MIS0202. 3:36PM. Some grey clouds lurked lazily outside. The office smelt of stale apple rinds.

The middle-aged man started reading again. With a frown on his face. Christopher Hitchens. God is Not Great.

I am sorry sir I don’t understand the question. What are temporal and ontological categories?

Yes? Excuse me?

I do not understand what you want me to write. Oh. Yes. Have you read Waiting for Godot?

I know sir that it’s in the course. I know what happens in the story. I mean, in summary. The professor put the book down. Heavy sigh. The quiet clouds were thickening outside. You know what happens. Yes, good. In summary. Yes. So. What happens?

I, I mean, I read it from the internet. In my phone. Two men wait for another man. Godot. Who does not come. Twice. I, I mean, if you tell me what those two terms mean, I can write something.

The middle-aged man, the professor, stared, slowly began to cough. Tried to cover his mouth with his palms, his hands. Tried to move away from the young man. Tried to not infect. The other man, the resit student, sat on his chair and did not move.

Godot. Who does not come. Twice. Twice. Good.

Sir please tell me what ontological and temporal mean. If you let me, I can check in my phone in front of you.

Yes, yes. You see, yes. Write about that. Not coming. Twice. That’s what I want in this answer. Yes. Don’t worry about the two terms.

The young man, MIS0202, was now confused. Not knowing what to do. You want me to write an answer on Waiting for Godot?

The professor got up. With some difficulty. A small man. Balding. Slightly shaking. A slow, constant cough. Unwell. Walked to his table. Got a water bottle. Entirely empty. Walked back. Sat again. With difficulty.

Yes. No. I want you to write about waiting. For someone or something that does not come. Does not happen. Twice. Have you ever experienced that?

The young man looked surprised. He was 22. He hadn’t read many stories. Maybe a few in school where he had to. No philosophy at all. He was a back logger in an engineering institute who had to pass a humanities course to complete his credits. To get the final degree. He already had a job waiting. Pretty huge salary. A multinational online delivery company.

Sir, I don’t get what you are saying. I have read the summary of Waiting for Godot. I can write something if you let me. I just need a pass grade.

You will get a pass grade. Yes. Don’t worry. Just tell me about waiting. Have you ever waited for something that did not happen? Twice? No need to write. Yes. This is a formality anyway. Just tell me a story about waiting.

The 22-year old back logger kept sitting, started shifting his eyes from the professor before him. Flickering those across the books, the white board with weird things written on it.

Some words looked like drawings. Diagrams maybe. The wall had a kidney-shaped clock. Slow steady ticktocks.

Time passed. Quiet covered coughs.

There is something. I mean like what you mean. I think. But very different. I don’t know though.

Tell me.

I am not sure if this is the correct answer.

Yes. There is no correct answer. Tell me the story.

Not a story sir. Something that happened. Or happened and did not happen. Twice. Yes, good. Tell me. One more cough.

I grew up in a railway town. Very rough. Full of bad boys. Some of my friends smoked bad stuff. I didn’t. But I used to go with them to a place. A broken goods-train by the railway tracks. There we played cricket, learnt new swear words, smoked. Beside the abandoned bogies. There was a lot of grass. It was a forgotten train. Hadn’t moved for years.

Sometimes someone would hit a ball too hard towards the moving trains which would come in and go about 50 meters away. Beyond the bushes that covered the forgotten train. That person would have to fetch the ball then. Of course he would be out right away, having hit the ball towards the moving trains. Train out. That was the term.

Okay. Yes. How old were you then?

16-17. I probably went there for a year. Right after my physics tuition class which was in a building right by the railway tracks. The other boys would already be there smoking and starting the game. As dusk fell. I was called Mechanic in the group. As I wanted to study engineering. Every time I reached that space, somebody would say Mechanic Eshe Gechche. It meant Mechanic has arrived.

Yes. Okay. Funny.

One evening, I went there very angry. The physics teacher at the tutorial had insulted me very publicly. Called me an idiot. In front some girls who came from a good Anglo-Indian school right beside ours. They had laughed. I was mad. Very mad.

Yes. I see. Bad.

It was around 6 when I arrived. Nearing twilight, the game was nearing its end. I threw my bag and joined. Was asked to bat. We needed 15 runs in the last over. I hit a four and took another two. Several swear words meaning good as well as bad things about my mother were screamed at me. It was very normal. Mechanic is hammering today, someone said. It meant something vulgar by the way.

Yes. No need to get into those details.

Sorry sir. So then it happened. The ball came to me and I hit it hard. I actually wanted to hit my physics teacher. For insulting me so publicly. Before those good school girls. For calling me an idiot. I wanted to punch his face. I hit the ball instead. It flew on the wrong side, towards the trains. I was train out. Everyone was mad. Lots of swear words, this time only terrible things about my mother.

Yes. Go on. What happened next?

Naturally, I had to go and fetch the ball. The game was over, nobody won. Everyone was mad. Someone pushed me and kicked my behind before I was asked to get the ball.

Normally there would be an extra ball but on that evening, there wasn’t. I heard a matchstick slide across a box as I started walking towards the tracks.

Yes. Nice memory. Was it dark then?

Yes sir, almost 6:30. Though it was July, it was getting dark. The railtracks looked like snakes. They often do.

I had no idea where the ball was. I just walked towards some vague dark area. In any case, there wasn’t much hope of finding a green tennis ball in the grass as dusk was falling. But I had to look like I was making an effort. Or else they would beat me up.

Not a good group of boys, were they?

No sir. Ours was a rough railway town. And many of them had bad fathers who beat them very hard after they got back home. Sometimes they had swollen faces. Broken heads. Then they came to play and beat other boys. That’s how it worked.

Did your father beat you too?

The 22-year old backlogger sat silent for a few seconds. His story had suddenly stopped. Something seemed to have clogged his memory. The kidney-clock showed 4 o’clock.

Sometimes sir. But it was for my good, he always told me later. And almost never on my head. Not like the other boys’ fathers who beat them mostly for no reason. After they came back home drunk. We all lived in the same railway colony so we all knew. Sometimes the mothers cried too.

Okay. Okay. Continue the story?

Yes sir. So I was walking towards the tracks. Still mad. Sad. Actually feeling like an idiot. I wasn’t really looking for the ball. I wasn’t really looking at anything. Suddenly, something stuck my feet. I bent down to see. I tried to lift my leg. I couldn’t. My right foot. Was stuck in a frog. The switch point on the track.

Oh. Yes. Oh.

I stood there silently. Shocked. Too stunned to speak. To scream. I had known this to happen. But never to anyone I knew. I tried to say something. But couldn’t. Just stood there. Stuck to the switch. The boys back there didn’t know. They were smoking, not looking at me anymore.

I don’t know how long I stood. Stuck there. Then I saw a train coming. First a light then the sound. Then the shape. It seemed to be coming straight. I tried to scream. The boys were very far away. Behind the forgotten bogies. They had forgotten me too. The train came closer. Faster. I could feel the suction beneath my feet. Digging deep. Stuck to the switch.

Yes. Do you remember how your feet felt then?

Yes sir. Very cold. Ice cold. There used to be an ice-cream man right outside our school selling something we called lollypepsi. It was actually thick ice soaked with some cheap coloured syrup fixed on a stick. I felt like lollypepsi then. Thick ice stuck on a stick.

I remember I rattled like a matchbox when the train passed me. On the track a few feet away. There was a piercing sound which almost cut my heart but I also heard the stick hitting the matchbox before I left looking for the ball. Only it was much louder. Much louder. Like a bomb. Like a thousand sticks hitting a matchbox together. And like a knife cutting glass. All these sounds mixed together. In me. Everything was a sound. I was a sound. Very loud.

The student stopped. The professor coughed. The kidney-clock ticktocked.

By then the boys back there had started looking for me. Wondering if I had run away with the ball. I could hear Mechanic shouted from the grass which was quickly getting dark. I was still stuck. Stuck to a scream which didn’t come. The knife was still cutting the glass in my ears. I was the glass. Thick ice on a thin stick. A loose lollypepsi quickly melting. The right foot stuck to the switch. Like a shard.

Then there was another shake. Another train was streaming in. The light fell first, like last time. Then the sound grew. Like a shriek. Maybe it was my shriek. The suction started again. Like quicksand. The engine looked like a big red wave. I was wet with piss and sweat.

The second train cut my brain. It felt that way. It sliced everything between my ears open and then closed it again. I actually heard me getting cut into half and then standing as one. One swift swoop followed by a deep quick pop. Something snapped between me. I didn’t shake so much this time. I think I may have slightly smiled.

I stood there till I was shaken by the rough hands which had come to look for me. Under the post-twilight skies that make shadows stick. The switch had opened by then. Someone was trying to lift me off my feet. I was in air. Held by strong hands that smelt of weed. And then suddenly a funny thing happened. I saw something green and round from where I flew tall. I shouted with all the breath that was gurgling out then. There’s the ball there’s the ball, there’s the ball.

It was 4:15PM on the professor’s kidney-clock. The 45 minutes of scheduled time for the resit was formally finished.

Did your father beat you that evening? For coming home late? Yes sir, he did. This time on the head.

The professor pulled a form and started to write something. Then he paused and asked. One last thing. Were you waiting for the trains? The ones which did not happen twice? For the second one I did wait sir. That’s why I may have smiled.

The student left the office at 4:19 PM, he got an extra minute of grace. The professor scanned the form to the department head. The comments section had nothing in it. Pablo Paul passed with a C grade.

– Avishek Parui