When we used to come from Madras for our vacations during our college years, (in the early and late 70s) we naturally looked at Hyderabad as a place where we could be pampered by the parents and as a party place where many of us classmates from school got together and celebrated life.

While chips and coke and maybe a bottle of Old Monk rum were bare essentials, one of the key ingredients of the parties was naturally a group of girls. As many as we could convince to party with us. Most of the girls were willing as long as we respected their parents’ deadlines but understandably they could not attend all the parties for the fear that their parents branded them wastrels etc. So we invited girls by rotation.

This group today, that group tomorrow. In fact we had a couple of girls we labelled as spare parts. They would be invited only when the ratios of boys to girls were getting alarmingly skewed.

One girl among the gang was unique. She was studying at Women’s College, Kothi and used to live in the hostel attached to that venerable institution. Getting her to come out meant we had to resort to strange stories and untruths. Strange calls were made ostensibly from her ailing aunt, her dying uncle, her visiting from the USA cousin and so on. But whatever we did, her cut off time was 9 pm.

And most of the time we respected that deadline and arranged parties accordingly.

But one day the mood at the party was swinging and no one wanted to leave, nor let her go. So the party went on till the early hours and this girl stayed on.

Only when the first rays of dawn hit her face did she realise that she was in for trouble. Expulsion from the hostel and rustication from college was imminent. The girl broke down and the party came crashing down with her spirit.

For some strange reason her tears touched a chord in my heart and I decided that something dramatic was called for. I had to swing into the rescue.

Having just passed out of Hyderabad Public School khaki shirts were never in short supply. So I rushed home, grabbed a khaki and borrowed my father’s car. I returned to the party venue and told the girl to get into the car.

She was still sobbing but I brooked no nonsense and literally bundled her into the vehicle. I made her sit in the back seat, still sobbing. And I, in my khaki uniform took the wheel.

I drove to Kothi, into the Residency (Women’s College) and drove straight to the warden (or whoever was in charge those days). I walked in, confident and told the lady that my young mistress was distraught at the loss of her uncle and had been in no position to return to hostel the previous night. Her father and mother had now instructed me to hand her over to the authorities and were in any case waiting for a call confirming that all was well.

The combined effect of the driver look and my acting prowess did the trick. The lady fell for the story hook, line and sinker. She gently walked up to the car and led my ‘ward’ to her hostel and signalled that I could go, and that everything would be taken care of.

That is when the girl, our friend came up with the masterstroke I shall never forget. She stopped sobbing, she stopped walking. She turned around and gestured for me to come close to her. And when I did, she tipped me two rupees. This sealed the whole transaction.

The girl went on to the hostel and graduated as time went by. My khaki shirts became too small for me as I discovered the new girth of adolescence. And I qualified to write in my resume, that my first job was that of a driver.