Chapter 2: The Hostel Anomaly

I used to be just a regular college student.

The type who borrowed notes before exams, dared friends to add extra mirchi in Maggi, and slept through the temple’s morning aarti blaring next door. Gaming, though, was my real adda.

Most days, I jammed “Perfect Gunfight” with my roommates.

Our hostel room was a tight squeeze, Dhoni and Virat posters peeling from the walls, Ganeshji’s small statue perched next to our tangle of mouse cables. The constant clatter of mechanical keyboards and shouts of “Arey bhai, cover de!” made our floor infamous across the hostel.

That day after class, I dragged a few roommates online for squad games.

The corridor buzzed with life—someone arguing with the mess wala over aloo vs gobi, the warden on his rounds, muttering about ‘discipline’. I ignored it all, eager to lose myself in the game.

But after one round, I knew something was off.

My eyes darted around—maybe the net was lagging, maybe someone had disconnected the router again for a movie download. But the ping was fine. It was the players who seemed… broken.

How did my friends become such noobs overnight?

I watched, stunned, as Sunil—our clutch king—struggled just to move his character. His fingers mashed the keyboard like he was wearing mittens.

We were playing on Desert Black.

The map’s name itself was a running joke—Desert Black, where all dreams go to die under a fake desert sun. But today, it felt like a warning.

The enemy, on offence, rushed B straight from spawn.

No caution, no plan. Just total Mumbai local train energy, crowding B like they were late for the Virar fast.

Even with money, they didn’t throw a single piece of utility.

Not a smoke, not a flash—like a school picnic, not a ranked match.

They dry-pushed, AKs in hand, spraying like mad while running.

I almost felt bad. Their bullets went everywhere—one guy even shot his own teammate by mistake. Someone giggled in the corridor outside.

I held B tunnels, pre-threw a molly, and mowed them down—five-man spray transfer.

The digital scream of five opponents dropping was sweeter than Amul ice cream in May. My hands did a mini victory dance, and for a second, I thought about touching Ganeshji’s feet for luck.

My roommates couldn’t hold back:

“Wah bhai, kya mast play tha!”

“Arre, full OP, Arjun!”

“Bhai, yeh nade kab seekh liya?”

Sunil, who always teased my grenades—“You throw like my dadi, bro!”—just stared, open-mouthed, like I’d become an esports god overnight. Sushma peeked in from the next room, rolling her eyes, but you could tell she was impressed. For a moment, our room was a mini stadium.

At first, I thought Sunil was pulling my leg about my usual potato nades.

Everyone remembered when I flashbanged myself in a clutch. The canteen boys still teased me about it.

I laughed it off, shot back, “Bas, aaj nimbu-mirchi ka kaam ho gaya, luck full on hai!” The room burst out laughing.

But next round, I set up to hold A doors.

Wiping my palms on my shorts, heart thumping, I lined up my crosshair. Second round pressure always hits different.

I asked the hostel rep for a pop-flash from behind.

He was our nade guy. If anyone knew their utility, it was him. I trusted him.

But he just blinked at me:

“Huh? Pop-flash from behind? Kya bol raha hai, yaar? Mujhe nahi aata.”

He looked dead serious, not even joking.

Blank face, a little scared—like I’d asked him to solve a triple integration problem out of nowhere. I checked if he was muted. Nope, just genuinely clueless.

Now I was the one speechless.

Was this some prank? Was everyone gaslighting me? No one was laughing. My palms grew sweaty—like when the principal caught us bunking.

Just hug the wall at A long and jump-throw a flash, yaar. Isn’t that basic?

Every Indian gamer worth their salt knows that move. Like eating biryani with your hands.

How could he forget something so simple overnight?

Was this mass amnesia? Had the mess food finally short-circuited everyone?

But the match was heating up—no time for lessons.

The bomb was ticking, round timer running out, and the temple next door’s chant grew louder. No time for tutorials now.

I improvised, bouncing a flash off the wall myself.

Not perfect, but sometimes you just have to jugad your way through.

As the flash popped, I turned and peeked.

The four attackers were literally covering their eyes, running like headless chickens.

One spun in circles, another crouched and fired at his own feet. The whole thing looked like a baraat after the lights go out—everyone bumping into each other, total chaos.

I flicked my mouse—four instant headshots.

My hand moved on its own, possessed by every gully cricket champ’s spirit. Bullets found heads before I could even think.

Only one enemy left.

My heart raced. “Yeh toh full filmy scene hai,” I muttered, half-laughing.

Holding the angle, I shoulder-peeked and spotted him camping behind A doors.

He was so nervous, his crosshair pointed at the floor. Even my mother could’ve tapped him out then.

One tap, another headshot. Round over.

The digital applause in my headphones mixed with the clang of utensils from the mess below. My hands shook. I grinned, quietly.

The enemy called timeout instantly.

My roommates whistled. Someone in the corridor shouted, “Arjun OP!”

But as everyone cheered, Sunil’s knee bounced under the desk, his lips pressed tight in frustration, while someone in the corridor muttered a quiet, “kya bakwaas hai yaar.”

I felt a chill. Something big had changed, and it wasn’t just our team.