Your Dreams Are Mine Now

by Ravinder Singh

  ‘I have been saying the same thing for the past two years,’ Prosonjeet added.

  ‘Are we now diluting our stand on this subject? Support some quotas and reject others? That’s hypocrisy, no?’ Madhab said. A few voices supported him.

  ‘It’s not like that, Madhab,’ Prosonjeet argued.

  ‘Then why are you vouching for sports quota?’ Madhab asked back.

  This time Rupali intervened to answer. She had already thought through all that she had to say. She began to speak in a composed manner.

  ‘Okay, so here are my thoughts. And as I said, we should hold a healthy debate on this and then follow what the majority believes in,’ she said. ‘Guys, we all need to understand why, as a party, we are against reservation. Because meritorious students miss out, right? Plus, there is the menace of students making fake OBC/ST/SC certificates to get backdoor entry, thanks to the corruption in our country.

  ‘In twenty-first-century India, should we continue to get privileges for taking birth in a particular caste and category? Doesn’t this whole system work against real merit? We all agree that it does and that is why we all are fighting against it. And our stand is that, for anything, the HRD ministry should abolish such quotas and rather endorse a category for economically backward students and sponsor their education. But here again, the admission should be based on merit. Students should not be differentiated on the basis of their caste but on their economical background— whether or not their parents are in a position to support their education. A poor student from a general category should deserve a sponsorship and not a wealthy SC student. But unlike other quotas, the sports quota retains the value of merit. This isn’t a quota that awards your fate of taking birth in a particular caste or sect of the society; it rightfully awards your ability to prove that you are better than others in the field of sports. You are not bestowed this privilege by birth, but you have to earn it. And this makes it a level playing field for all of us.

  ‘As a nation, other than the religion of cricket, we are so sports-deficient that in spite of a population of more than a billion people we only grab two to three medals in the Olympics. We need to support the initiatives to endorse sports and credit marks for it. In our fight to abolish the inept quota system, let’s not throw the baby out with the bath water.’

  ‘The real threat isn’t Arjun and his seasoned party members,’ Mahajan said as he finished consuming the last sip of his tea in Hanif’s drawing room.

  Hanif had called him to get a status update on the campus politics and see what needed to be done in the little time they had in their hand.

  ‘What do you mean? If they are not the real threat, who is it then? As per my sources, those students are going to stand for elections. Isn’t this true?’ Hanif asked in surprise.

  ‘Yes, your information is right. But those senior students aren’t the real threat—it is that first year girl,’ Mahajan revealed in a bitter and vengeful tone. His eyes narrowed in anger as he recalled his interaction with her. In fact, Mahajan brought Rupali into the conversation to serve two purposes—nipping the revolution of abolishing the quota system in the bud and punishing the girl who had put him in this position in the first place.

  ‘A girl from the first year?’ Hanif asked as he opened the box of paan placed on the table in front of him.

  ‘The one with whom I have some unfinished business!’ Mahajan said. His eyes were glued to the surface of the glass table in front of him.

  ‘Oh, you mean the same girl who got you . . .’ he stopped his sentence midway. He was very pleased—if there was another motive other than just politics, it was even better.

  Mahajan turned his head to look at Hanif. Hanif could see a mix of pain and anger in his eyes. ‘Yes. That same girl.’

  ‘Hmm . . .’

  ‘She has united a few key student groups in DU with her party. They now have a vast support base. And I believe she isn’t done. They will reach out to the remaining student bodies also in the coming days.’

  ‘What sort of student groups and bodies are you talking about, Mahajan?’

  ‘The music club, the theatre groups, for that matter, the entire cultural group, and not just at the college level. Things have now moved beyond a particular college. They are getting support from the entire university. The creative groups, through their events and shows, can become the voice of the party. They have a huge impact on their audience’s mind, even though they aren’t a part of the party. Not only this, my sources have updated me that she has got a lot of female students to enrol in their campaign. DU girls, so far, were not very interested in elections and voting. They are trying to sell the dream of more girl power in DU!’ Mahajan said, almost spitting the words out.

  ‘Damn! Mahajan. This way we will be routed in DU. Don’t we have any students’ group on our side who are willing to support us?’ Hanif asked placing a paan inside his mouth.

  ‘There is one. It’s not an official group, but an unofficial one constituting the boys and girls who got admitted under various quotas. That includes the ones whom we helped get in through the back door. Arjun’s party is against the quota system. Clearly, they won’t be voting for them. Picking up from Arjun’s party, now other parties are also protesting against the reservation system. So they will definitely vote for us,’ Mahajan explained.

  Hanif took a few moments to absorb all that Mahajan had said. He then tried to think of all the probable ways to save the sinking ship of his party in DU. Later in the day he was supposed to meet the student union leaders and chalk out a strategy for the elections. But, for Mahajan, his right-hand man in DU, he had some sensitive and difficult tasks in his mind.

  ‘Then it’s clear what you should do. Polarize the atmosphere. Create tension between quota students and others. Instil fear in the minds of the students in the reservation category about what will happen if DU loses the quota system. Anyhow, in DU elections, only about 40 per cent of the entire student strength votes. The remaining 60 per cent isn’t bothered about elections. If we can get 95 per cent of the reservation-category students to come out and vote on election day, we will still have a chance. With no other party in favour of the quota, they will vote for us. But to push them to vote, you need to orchestrate a battle between them. Sell them the idea of fighting for their rights. And in this battle, if an OBC student is hurt and gets admitted in an ICU, it will only fuel the fire. The media will run a story—Dalit boy brutally attacked in DU. That will get our party the brownie points. You know what I mean?’

  ‘Of course!’ Mahajan nodded. He knew that in this short span of time only a sensational gimmick could work in their favour.

  As Mahajan racked his brains to break the bigger task into various smaller tasks, Hanif slid back in his comfortable chair and enjoyed his paan. As he savoured the flavour of it, he patiently waited for Mahajan to ask him questions in case he had any. But Mahajan was crystal clear in his understanding.

  The next time Hanif opened his paan-stained mouth to speak, he asked Mahajan, ‘But I am more worried about this first year girl . . . whatever her name is. How is she managing to get the support of all these groups?’

  ‘She is too smart for her age. At the cost of my image, the bitch has built her own. She won’t fight the elections. But she has cunningly trapped the party’s presidential candidate in the web of her love. That’s her level of smartness!’

  ‘Oh, so that guy Arjun and this girl . . .’ Hanif raised his hand in the air and moved his finger as if trying to connect the dots, when Mahajan nodded his head and said, ‘Janaab, ishq aur raajniti saath saath chal rahey hain.’ (Sir, love and politics are moving hand in hand.)

  Then they both became thoughtful.

  Suddenly, Hanif broke his silence. What he said next was going to change everything in Arjun’s life.

  ‘If a first year girl can control such senior boys, if she can send a cunning professor like you behind bars, just imagine Mahajan, what she will be capable of when she lands in third year
. . .’ He paused for a while to give Mahajan time to think. Then he slowly spoke, ‘. . . Saanp ko jitni jaldi kuchal do badhiya hai.’ (The sooner you kill off the snake, the better it is.)

  By then, with Saloni’s help, Rupali had also roped in Saloni’s boyfriend Imran, who was a key player in the college basketball team, to their party folds. That was the beginning of various sports’ clubs supporting Arjun’s party.

  ‘And I want to kiss you there, under your ear, behind your earring . . .’

  Her eyes are closed. Without letting him know, she touches herself behind her left ear. She is mildly trembling. In response to his sensuous voice, her voice now gets softer.

  ‘Then?’

  ‘Then I want to inhale your fragrance from your neck to the depression below your collarbone . . .’

  ‘Umm! But, I am . . . I am . . . not wearing any deodorant right now.’

  ‘I said, I want to smell you. Your body. Not the deodorant.’ ‘Ahh!’

  She runs her finger over her collarbone and wonders how her body smells. There is silence from her end.

  He gets worried. ‘Are you fine? Are you . . .’

  ‘And then?’ she interrupts.

  ‘Hmm . . . And then I am going to tickle your collarbone with my tongue!’

  ‘Ouch! Ha . . . Ha . . .’

  ‘You are enjoying this, aren’t you?’

  ‘And then?’

  She doesn’t want to have a conversation.

  ‘Well, on my way my tongue gets distracted and moves to your bra strap. I have to run my tongue above it. I am going to lick it.’

  She sighs, intoxicated with pleasure.

  ‘But I am . . . I am . . . not wearing anything that has a strap.’

  ‘So what are you wearing, then?’

  ‘Only a T-shirt. Nothing with a strap.’

  ‘Just a T-shirt?’

  ‘No! I mean . . . Yes! A T-shirt and shorts.’

  ‘Well then, I will pull the T-shirt down your shoulder.’

  She pulls it down. Her shoulder is bare.

  She takes a second to catch her breath. The pitch of her voice gets weaker again.

  ‘Then?’

  ‘I slip my other hand under your top and hold your waist.’

  ‘Oh God!’ she whispers.

  ‘. . . My fingers crawl up the arch of your slender waist and move towards your stomach.’

  Her other hand is busy holding the phone, so she leaves the stretched neck of her T-shirt and reaches out for her waistline. She runs her fingers in sync with Arjun’s words.

  ‘And then?’

  ‘I can see your navel now.’

  ‘Oh!’ she gasps.

  A few seconds pass and no one speaks. The silence itself has turned sensual with possibilities.

  ‘Aren’t you going to say “and then”?’

  A moment passes. She is trying to absorb it all. Meanwhile, a debate has erupted between her heart and her mind. Should she draw a line? And, if so, when?

  Her heart wins the battle.

  ‘And then?’ she asks softly.

  His heart beats faster.

  ‘I want to kiss you there, Rupali. In the depths of your navel. I want to run my tongue inside the moist skin of your belly button. God! I so want to do it right now . . .’

  Her fingers automatically crawl down to her navel. They trace a sensuous circle around it and her forefinger slips into the depression of her belly button. She continues to listen to Arjun who is still saying something.

  ‘. . . I want to blow a warm puff of breath into it. And I want to blow it far above your stomach.’

  With her finger she draws an imaginary line above her navel. The moment her fingers meet the baseline of her top, her eyes open. Arjun is still continuing to talk.

  This time her mind wins the battle.

  ‘Alright. Stop!’

  She catches her breath and takes a moment to calm down.

  ‘What happened?’

  A couple of seconds pass.

  ‘I can’t just . . . I . . .’

  ‘Are you embarrassed? Did I embarrass you?’

  ‘No, you didn’t. I am not embarrassed. But I guess I am shy.’ Again a moment of silence passes between them.

  ‘Hmm . . . it’s fine.’

  ‘I am sorry, Arjun.’

  ‘Hey! It’s okay. Relax.’

  ‘You hate me. Don’t you?’

  ‘I love you.’

  His words bring her comfort. She is feeling lighter and more open about it.

  ‘But I loved all that you were doing, even though it was all in my imagination. Just like magic.’

  ‘Well then, why did you stop me in the middle?’

  ‘Hmm . . . I don’t know. Maybe because as much as I enjoyed the imagination part of it, I was also conscious of your presence, even though you are only on the phone. I mean . . . I . . . don’t know exactly. I guess . . . I guess, I enjoyed the virtual you, but then the fact that the real you was able to listen to me and that I was reacting to your voice . . . sort of interfered with my thoughts. Am I making any sense?’

  ‘Wow! That’s so complex. But anyway . . .’ he laughed.

  ‘Listen, I don’t want to sound like a hypocrite. I accept that I enjoyed it. But then . . .’

  ‘Ha ha. Chill, girl! I know you aren’t a hypocrite. So stop justifying yourself.’

  ‘Hmm . . . Maybe I will need some time to open up.’

  ‘So shall I call you in half an hour?’

  ‘Arjun!’

  ‘Okay. Okay. Relax.’

  After talking for a while she hangs up the call. She turns in her bed and looks at the table clock. It’s 6.30 a.m. There is still some time before she has to get up. She then stares at the vacant bed on Saloni’s side. She had left for her parents’ house the night before to attend a get-together. She thinks about how her roommate’s absence has allowed her a private romantic moment with Arjun.

  Then she begins to recall her conversation with Arjun. The way her Arjun was in the process of sketching his desires on the canvas of her body. Exactly in the same sequence. She closes her eyes and touches herself again. She imagines Arjun by her side, and in her bed. She imagines him sliding her T-shirt up. She imagines her hand to be Arjun’s hand. She imagines Arjun seeing her body.

  And this time, she doesn’t stop in the middle.

  Twenty-Four

  When dusk fell, the roads of north campus dipped into darkness that was then bravely battled by the glowing yellow streetlights. There was an unusual breeze blowing. It appeared that at any moment it could take the shape of a dust storm. The sky was cloudy, but not cloudy enough to forebode rain.

  Outside her college campus, Rupali walked alone on one of the roads that led to where Arjun was supposed to pick her up from. He was supposed to take her to his home for an early dinner that he himself had cooked for her. Except for a few students she crossed on the way, the road was quite empty.

  Wanting to look her best and on Arjun’s request, she wore the salwar suit that she had worn on her first day to college—a pink kurti with white churidar. She had rarely worn the set and even ten months later it looked as if it was brand new. Rupali wore a pair of new silver earrings, the glitter from which sparkled on her cheeks. Her sandals were white, matching her dupatta which time and again caught the gentle breeze. As she waited for Arjun, her excitement building up within her, she raised her wrist and sniffed it. Saloni had lent Rupali her perfume and every time she smelled it, she felt happy and thankful about it.

  ‘Try it, babes. It will hypnotize your man!’ Saloni had said. Rupali smiled as she recalled those words. She smelled nice. Just then, from behind her, a fast-moving van abruptly came to a screeching halt right beside her. The door slid open. Two men jumped out of it, grabbed Rupali by her arms and pulled her into the car. The doors of the van closed just as quickly. The driver accelerated the vehicle and for a brief moment, the tyres rotated extremely fast and threw up some dirt from the road. Then, in a flash, the van sped
away from that stretch of the road.

  It all happened in the blink of an eye, giving absolutely no time to Rupali to even react. Even before she could shout, even before she could retaliate or understand what was happening, Rupali was inside the moving van with all its doors locked.

  On the dimly lit street, a few students checked with each other if what they had just seen had actually happened.

  Rupali’s first reaction was to scream. She screamed her heart out. Simultaneously, she tried to reach out for the handle of the sliding door of the van—but in vain. She was not strong or quick enough. The guy on her left immediately overpowered her and pulled her back. Rupali struggled again, but could not move her hands by even an inch. Instead, the same guy pushed her arms behind her back and tied them with a rope. Rupali screamed even louder and, gathering all her strength, she tried to lift her body and push herself away from them. But caught in between two guys she had nowhere to go. All she could do was keep struggling and screaming. She tried to look for people on the road. She wondered if her shouts would grab someone’s attention—anyone’s attention. But the windows of the van were tinted and the van was swerving from one side to another, so it seemed very unlikely.

  With her heart pounding, Rupali looked around her. Besides the two guys on the back seat, two more men sat in front. One of them was the driver. Rupali could not see their faces clearly, but she was sure that she hadn’t seen any of them before. However, from their shabby clothes, body language and little bit of conversation, they appeared to be local goons.

  The moment her brain registered what had just happened with her, and understood the horror of the situation, she panicked. Her breathing became heavy. In an effort to calm herself down she took stock of the situation she was in. She was bleeding from her right ankle that had got hurt when the two men had pulled her inside. Her feet had been dragged against the edge of the van. The strap of her right sandal had torn off. Her arms, where the men had dug their fingers to lift her up, hurt terribly. There were specks of dirt on her white dupatta, which was now haphazardly stretched across her neck.