The Picnic That Never Was

Origins of the Picnic

At its origin, the word picnic meant a ‘potluck,’ an entertainment at which each person contributed some dish to a common table. In contemporary usage, a picnic is simply a pleasure excursion where a meal is eaten outdoors, ideally in a beautiful landscape. It was this latter meaning that applied to the Three Hundred Batch, which, in the middle of its first year in College and following medical college tradition, decided on a ‘Batch Picnic’.

Leaders and Planning

In every batch of medical students, there are some clearly cut out to be leaders. Although the tendency to assume such roles in medical college has sometimes been unjustly attributed to the intellectually compromised, this was certainly not the case in the Three Hundred Batch. The small group of young men and women who were our batch leaders, as time would tell, were to become some of the best medical brains the country has produced. 

A destination for the picnic was established, the route decided, a fleet of buses booked, and the group leaders asked to collect the names of the would-be travelers. The only task that remained was to get official sanction for the trip from the Dean, a mere formality, or so we thought.

A Prior Incident

I have noticed a recent tendency in me to omit some vital details in my narratives. Let me rectify this promptly by stating that, owing to the trifling affair of one of our batchmates squeezing the genitals belonging to an ‘honourable senior,’ a second rag was imposed on us long after our usual rag period, described in some detail in an earlier narrative.

The fact that the incident took place when the squeezer was pickled to the gills and thus legally insane at the time, and consequently “did not know the nature or gravity of the act he was performing, or if he did, he did not realise it was contrary to the law,”would have gotten him off the hook for murder under McNaughton’s Rules. Unfortunately, this law did not apply to squeezing genitals belonging to seniors. Nor did a plea of absence of mens rea (the intent to squeeze the balls) mitigate the circumstances in this instance.

Opposition from the Seniors

This unpleasant incident, that took place after the Law-Medical cricket encounter, unprecedented in the annals of the College, left an estrangement between us and the senior batches, who indubitably enjoyed the backing of the ‘authorities.’ Unbeknownst to us juniors, lobbying the Dean by the seniors against the proposed picnic had steadily gained ground. We were thus taken by surprise, astounded, flabbergasted, and staggered, when the Dean summarily dismissed our request and banned the picnic.

Timely resort by an unsuccessful party in a lawsuit or administrative proceeding to an appropriate superior court, empowered to review a final decision on the ground that it was based upon an erroneous application of law, is one of the best things provided for in Law, an ass though it is. The ‘superior court’ in this instance was the highly respected Vice Chancellor of the University of Ceylon, Sir Nicholas Attygalle. Irreverent chaps referred to him by an uncomplimetary Sinhala epithet that elucidated the complete deprivation of hirsuite appendages on his crown.

Selecting the Delegation

In world affairs and commercial establishmets it is well known that when it comes to high-powered negotiations, the team chosen for the parley must be selected with great care. Similar consideration was therefore given in choosing the group to represent the appellants, the Three Hundred Batch.

When such opposing camps squabble and summits teeter on the edge of disaster, every detail of the pow-wow, including the choice of venue, demands careful thought. Our current dire straits were no different. Deciding where to meet the VC proved tricky. Different schools of thought emerged. One suggestion was to approach him at his office at ‘College House,’ the university headquarte rs on Thurstan Road. This idea met with swift rejection. It was reasoned that, should senior Arts undergrads, ubiquitous in the vicinity, spot a group of mere freshers, medical faculty freshers at that, wandering the precincts of the university high command, there was a distinct possibility of a further, third rag.

The girls’ suggestion that we visit his residence with a cake and a basket of flowers for Lady Attygalle was dismissed on economic grounds. The least harebrained of the remaining proposals was to have Lalith Mendis, our in-house artist, inscribe our plea artistically on a scroll and present it to the VC, tied with a colorful ribbon. After many discussions, during which tempers occasionally flared, it was finally decided to meet him personally on one of his weekly visits to the College. 

With our battle plan set, we busied ourselves with preparations, each secretly hoping our expressions would convey calm dignity rather than panic, and our words persuasive power rather than foolish flattery.

Although not a misogynist, the VC was not swayed by demure females, nor was he a respecter of arrogant advocacy. His decisions were not, and could not be, influenced by sentimentality. To put it plainly, he was an autocrat, the embodiment of power. Hence it was agreed, with all the solemnity of a war council, that power must be met with power.

With the strategy firmly decided, we each assumed our roles, practiced our most commanding expressions, and tried not to look like a local Club fifteen taking on the winners of the English Rugby League.

We were confident that our reasonable appeal, courteously presented, will motivate him to overrule the senseless and illogical decision of the Dean. 

The small group chosen to confront the Vice Chancellor was headed by Heather Knower. Built more along the lines of the Queen Mary (the Luxury Liner, not the Monarch) and standing at her full height with her ample breasts thrust forward, she resembled on that crucial day, a Scandinavian female wrestler on high doses of steroids.

The Meeting with the Vice Chancellor

If my memory serves me right, it was on a Wednesday morning that the Vice Chancellor paid his weekly visit to the medical faculty. Chauffeur-driven, his Mercedes-Benz pulled up to the rear entrance of the administration block, where the Dean as expected,   opened the door for him. Dressed in a starched, immaculate white China-silk suit, he stepped out with a fresh cigar in his mouth, which was immediately lit for him by the Dean.

The Vice Chancellor didn’t digress from his routine that morning, as our little group stood a safe distance away from the Dean. Having had his cigar lit, he proceeded to the Dean’s office. Even Emperor Nero, walking past the Christians huddled together awaiting their turn with the wild animals in the Roman Coliseum, would have bestowed at least a cursory glance in their direction. The VC, however, walked past the group, making no eye contact with any of us. A quiet sense of evil pervaded the surroundings.

A few steps into the building, Heather, looking all pumped up, hissed, rather than whispered, “Sir.” If it registered as words spoken to him, which it should have, the Vice Chacellor gave no sign, carrying on with our delegation close on his heels. Realizing that we were about to brazen out with the Vice Chancellor, the Dean tried to block the link-up, moving from one side of his boss to the other like Rudolf Nureyev performing a pas de deux, admittedly, not anywhere as elegantly nor with any of the poise.

The Outcome

At this juncture, the narrator was reminded of the poem Horatius, the legendary Roman hero who ‘outspoke.’ One of our gang too, outspoke: “Sir, we have come to ask permission for the batch picnic.” Without missing a stride, in the manner of an Olympic equine show jumper, the VC said, “I have banned it.”

This is where history will judge the next speaker as having done something injudicious. He continued, rather harshly, with the misconceived idea that a statement made with some clout would bring a more positive result: “Sir, we would like you to reconsider your decision.”

In high-powered discussions between nations or corporate bodies, I’m told, great efforts are made to understand the nature of one’s opponent prior to the date set for negotiations. Much research is said to be undertaken to determine his mental make-up, the psychology of the man. We had only been in medical college for a few months, and with academic work up to our eyeballs, we had no time to do research on the VC’s mindset. Had we done so, we would have known that once he made up his mind on a matter, he wouldn’t change it. It would have dawned on us that he only had the resilience of a pappadam.

To continue the narrative, the VC spun around on his rear heel like Kumar Sangakkara executing the perfect hook shot. His facial expression forestalled analysis: it was neither a rictus of pain, nor did he seem to be tortured by flatulence. Without a glimmer of sympathy, he bit the cigar with his incisors, reminiscent of Clint Eastwood in one of his more macho roles, and with a grin so menacing that it would have made a disturbed Rottweiler look like a purring cat, he shouted, “Get out.”

In courts of law, I’m told, even famous advocates, when they hear a phrase, or sometimes just a word, from a formidable judge, know that further advocacy is a waste of time. Dispirited, the advocate glances at his crest-fallen client, and the look is sufficient to express the sentiment: “We’ve lost.” That was the look Heather gave the rest of us.

Retreat and Reflection

Without a word, heads down, we withdrew to the boys’ common room to drown our sorrows with a tea-punt, imagining what a blissful event the picnic might have been, booze, fun, and safely beyond the reach of authority. The chronicler is unaware of what the girls did.

 We had already begun to learn that in Medical College, anticipation was often far kinder than reality.