Being called a bitch helps to steady my mind.

Someone far more savage than those who stand before me now had after all, called me 'bitch'. I had been beaten senseless at that time, a bitch assaulted almost to death! If I could have survived that, I tell myself, I can survive everything.

My first day at Jaypura University!

I had been warned that the rag would be severe and had tried to prepare myself for it. There is no way to avoid being ragged; it is something to be endured and then forgotten; one more torturous obstacle to overcome on the way to my goal.

I had convinced myself that, having faced so many tragedies and setbacks in the past, I could survive one more test. How was I to know it would be like this? At this moment I only want to run away but lack the courage to do even that.

I had prayed for mental strength to meet this challenge. I had hoped too that my native place and my parents' poverty would endear me to the seniors. I am from the South and I had heard that this would count as a point in my favour. I am poor too; even these 'champions of the downtrodden' would not believe how poor I am.

But no one seems to care.

The physical proximity of the seniors terrifies me. I had not expected so much anger and aggression from them. They seem to really hate us and I can't understand why. We are just like them, only one year younger. Where is the crime in that? They seem intent on bruising our bodies just as they crush our spirits. I hate it when they press so close to me as I stand on the bench. I can smell their stale breath and feel the spray of spittle on my hands as they jostle each other just inches away from me. It makes me feel ill.

I can't bear it.

'My name is …' a treacherous tongue chooses this most terrifying moment to rebel against me. Panic stricken, my mind begins to scream:

Say it, say anything! Just don't get noted or you'll be singled out later.

I am standing on a bench before a crowd of seniors, all of them shouting obscenities. The tables and chairs in the canteen have been pushed aside to make room for the introduction ceremony. The freshers are huddled together in a corner behind me, afraid to speak to each other, all waiting fearfully for their turn. I feel perspiration bead my forehead as I strain to speak. My hands, clasped tightly before me as if in prayer, begin to shake.

I feel my vocal chords straining with effort but the words will not come.

'Nama kiyapang, b&aumlautlli,' a bearded fellow holding a foot rule yells above the general hubbub. 'Umbata katak n&aumlautdda?'

State your name, bitch. Don't you have a mouth?

'My name is Sujatha Mallika. I'm from a village called Angunuwewa. My father is a farm labourer and my mother is a housewife. I am an only child.'

The lies flow easily, one after the other, like rainwater pouring off a c&aumlautdjan roof.

The questions and jeers rain in from all around.

'So after one look at you, your father gave up having any more children?'

'Why did you come here? Why didn't you go to Dubai as a domestic servant?'

'Why don't you work in the city as a prostitute?'

How can I answer these questions? I feel my eyes beginning to smart and bite my lip to control myself.

The bearded senior raises his hand and the noise subsides. He asks:

'In which courses have you enrolled?'

'Arts. Department of Sociology and Mass Communication.'

'What school did you attend?'

'Maha Vidyalaya, Tanamalwila.'

'Are your parents sending money to support you?' the bearded fellow demands.

'No. They have no money to send. I hope to get a Mahapola Scholarship.'

That, at least, is true.

'What will you do if you don't get Mahapola or a bursary?' a heavily built girl asks from the rear.

'I will have to give up and go home,' I say bravely, knowing that I have scored a point. I sense that they have lost interest in me; for the moment.

'Umba b&aumlauth&aumlautpang. Eelanga satha geneng,' the beard yells.

Get down, you. Bring in the next creature.

One by one trembling newcomers are made to climb on the bench and introduce themselves. Those who are better dressed than the others, or have studied in a school in Colombo, are herded to one side. The others are sent to my corner.

The safe corner for the 'have-nots'!

A boy with a severe limp is next. As he comes up to the bench one of the seniors calls out:

'Moo nondiyek ney? Madamakata d&amacronnna thibun&amacron.'

Isn't this fellow a cripple? He should have been put in a home.

The boy tries to climb on the bench but is unable to do so. When he places his crippled leg on the bench, it doesn't have the strength to lift him up. When he tries to lift his good leg, the weaker right leg buckles under his weight and he has to grab the bench to stop from falling.

'N&aumlautgapang, b&aumlautlligey puth?. N&aumlauttthang umbey anith andath kadanav?.'

Climb up, you son of a bitch. Or we'll break your other leg.

The boy finally sits on the bench, folds his left leg under his body and tries to push himself up with the strength of his arms. The seniors jostle each other to get a better view of the spectacle, laughing and jeering as they watch.

'Ok&amacron minihekkda, panuwekda? Balapanko badag&amacronna h&aumlautti.'

Is this creature a man or a worm? Look how he crawls.

The bench wobbles dangerously as the boy straightens himself; he is upright at last. I see that his face is covered with perspiration and his spectacles have misted up. Despite all this he seems calm and unafraid, ignoring the taunts of the seniors crowding around the bench.

'Ado nondiya, kiyapang umbay thorathuru,' the bearded fellow calls out.

Cripple, tell us about yourself.

'My name is Mithra Dias. I studied at Royal College in Colombo. My father works in a bank. I have been admitted to the Faculty of Management Studies & Commerce.'

The perfect victim!

Mithra Dias is neatly dressed, he has been to a good school in Colombo and his father is a bank official.

In addition to all these negatives, he has a serious physical disability.

I am relieved that the seniors have found a victim to amuse themselves with. It means that, for a little while at least, they will leave me alone. Just the same I can't help feeling a twinge of pity for the wretched fellow on the bench.

I have seen the effect weakness seems to have on bullies. When Pincha's white cow gave birth to a calf that couldn't walk properly, the village dogs sensed its weakness immediately. Although there were many other calves, a pack of dogs harried the disabled one, day after day. In the end, despite all the efforts of its brave mother to drive them off, the dogs tore the little animal to pieces.

I can't bear to watch another spectacle like that. I look down and try to shut my ears.

It had been drilled into my mind at an early age that my only chance of escape from poverty is through education. The long hours of study by the light of a bottle lamp, the endless weary miles on foot along a forest road for tuition classes, and the pleas to other children for textbooks they no longer needed had finally won for me good results at the A level examinations. Looking back it seems as if those were the easy task. It was the prospect of being ragged, of being physically in thrall to unknown men and women that had terrified me. I had wanted to give up university, and very nearly did. My friends had thought I was mad. After all, they said, while it will be unpleasant, thousands of other students have endured ragging and survived.

They didn't understand that it is different for me.

It was Father Basil who convinced me that I had to go through with it. He reminded me again and again of the life plan I had prepared with so much care. He told me that only I could turn it into reality and now it was up to me to follow through. Father Basil knew of my problem, for he was the only one in whom I had confided. He understood but would not make allowances for my terror. He finally convinced me, after many weeks of counselling, that I had, in some deep hidden recess, the courage to face up to the challenge. So here I am.

Now I am not sure that I have made the right decision.

The crippled boy is still being interrogated. The bearded leader has his foot on the bench. He jerks his foot from time to time, making the bench wobble. The poor fellow has to flap his arms desperately to save himself from crashing to the ground.

The seniors think this is very funny.

'Is your father also a cripple? Is this a family disease?' one fellow asks amidst general laughter. 'No,' the boy answers calmly, 'I had polio when I was a child.'

A group of seniors tell those of us standing in the 'have-not' corner to follow them. The 'have' group, standing in the other corner, are told to stay back for further questioning; and insult.

They make us stand in formation as we did at school assembly. Nalini, a girl I had met at the registration desk that morning, is next to me. She is a Buddhist but has studied at a Christian convent in Galle. She has lied to the seniors about her school and has got away with it for the moment.

A dark-skinned girl with protruding teeth gives us our instructions.

As from now, all seniors are to be addressed as jesta uththamayo; august seniors. There is to be a very strict dress code, but when the dark girl goes on to describe it, I want to cry. As a form of harassment they want all the girls to dress; exactly as I am dressed already.

Everyone is to wear a gamey gowma, the village gown, a loose single-piece dress made of printed cotton material that comes down to the ankles. Rubber slippers are the only permitted footwear, no shoes or sandals. Jewellery is not permitted and hair is to be worn in two plaits, held in place by ordinary rubber bands.

I squirm with shame as some of the others look at me and smile knowingly. My white frock with little pink flowers nearly brushes the ground and I am proud of my new Bata slippers. As for jewellery, I have never owned any.

The boys are also given their instructions. Shirts to be worn outside the trousers and no belts are allowed. Rubber slippers, of course, and hair cropped short.

The midday meal is served in the main canteen.

I am feeling ill after standing to attention in the sun, listening to the 'august seniors' lecture us on how we are to conduct ourselves during the rag. I am thirsty, hungry and terrified that I will faint!

We quench our thirst at the tap meant for washing our fingers. We are then instructed to pick up a plate each and form a queue. We move slowly past a crew of kitchen staff serving rice and curries directly from cauldrons placed on a counter.

Some lecturers have come into the canteen and happen to stand close to us. I want to kneel on the floor and worship them because their appearance compels the seniors to move off. It is as if a foul odour has been blown away by a sudden breeze.
I see the crippled boy Mithra in the queue. He seems distressed and his clothes, crisp and white when I had seen him earlier, are now stained and crumpled.
