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water in the bowl, and each one present, in turn, takes with both hands the little port glass he hands them, and swallows a shot of the diluted holy water. Sona replenishes his bottle with the remainder from the bowl, and screws on the cap. We have brought the holy Ganges with us.
    There must be some truth preserved in this ritual, a deep universal truth contained in its simple form, for didn’t even Einsteinsay that beauty lay in simplicity, and that simplicity was a prerequisite of truth?

    His roommate in Rutherford House was Shawn Hennessy, tireless worker in the radical cause, the first sight of whom had sunk all Ramji’s enthusiasm at moving into a place of his own for the first time in his life. Ramji had just fitted his newly acquired key into the door and swung it open. The song to Mrs. Robinson, on his lips, picked up from somewhere during the day’s registration travails, froze in an instant, for there stood in the middle of the room, somewhat startled, what could only be the co-owner of the room, looking back at Ramji’s curious, anxious stare. What have I got myself into, Ramji thought, is this a student at Tech or a bum? The guy could only be described as slovenly, in dirty, worn-out denim cut-offs, unbuttoned red and black checkered shirt, and old sneakers. He was broad, perhaps an inch or two shorter than the gaunt Ramji, with curly overgrown brown hair and a light, virgin beard on his angular face. He grinned, came forward, and the two shook hands.
    “Which do you fancy,” said Shawn, “the window or the phone?”
    The room had prominent bunk beds and two desks with chairs against the far wall that looked down from its fifth floor window onto the yard between the two parallel wings of the House. It was small and spare, and the walls were cold brick, but it had one item in it suggestive of pure luxury to Ramji: the black telephone. He was thrilled by it. In Dar, the whole street on which he lived had two or three telephones, and you had to go and beg a shopkeeper,money in hand, to be able to use one. Ramji quickly picked for himself the desk on which the phone stood, not caring that he would lose the window view. He got to take the lower bed, to their mutual satisfaction, and use the two lowest drawers of the dresser as added compensation for the phone on his desk. Thus they rapidly apportioned the room between them.
    A red-and-black poster, two feet by three, of the revolutionary Che Guevara in beret and beard was Shawn’s contribution to the decor of their room. Ramji stared at it awhile and nodded yes, he approved. It was somewhat stark but not unattractive, with a suggestion of daring and enigma. After some hesitation he brought out a khanga as his offering: it was a bright printed cotton cloth with a central motif of orange and green pineapples on a white background, surrounded by a green and brown border. A boxed message in black ran across it, saying, “Wayfarer, look back” in Swahili. It covered a good portion of the bare wall facing the beds, where he hung it with Shawn’s help. Shawn looked rather pleased with the effect. “Authentic Third World in Rutherford House,” he said, glowingly satisfied.
    Having finished their decoration, they sat down in their armchairs facing each other. Through the open window came the shouts of guys playing ball downstairs, the enticing smell of a barbecue, the heady sounds of rock music playing on a stereo somewhere. Shawn launched into politics.
    The War. Vietnam. What was in everybody’s mind here, it was there wherever you turned. David and Goliath. Villages destroyed, children napalmed …
    “You can work against it, you know,” Shawn said, gauging him. Ramji was a little dumbfounded by the barrage of words, the articulation, the certainty. “There’s a demonstration tomorrow at noon, why don’t you come? It’s organized by the SDS — Students for a Democratic Society — we have thousands of members across the country, we are in schools and