“Didn’t you hear?” Veenu Sharma asked in between sobs.
“What ma’am?” Rishav was dumbstruck.
“Your friend, Siddhant…Siddhant Dalvi jumped off the roof of his house. He’s dead.” She said.
Rishav looked on in total disbelief. He remained silent for a minute or so and then finally, he felt his world come crashing down on him.
TWENTY-FIVE
Rishav slipped through the mass of white clothes and sad faces.
“Excuse me,” he said as he raised his hands over his head and tried to squeeze his lanky frame past the last of the mourners. As he went closer to the body, Rishav’s eyes widened in horror as Veenu Sharma’s words finally seemed to have struck him.
Fully draped in white, the body of Rishav’s first friend in Delhi High School lay there peacefully. Siddhant Dalvi. Siddhant appeared even more serene in death than what he was in reality. There seemed to be no inkling of the trauma that he had been subjected to prior to his death. The only signs that lay testament to his horror were the bruise marks all over his face that he had received at the hands of Suraj Singh. His mother sat right beside him, crying her heart out as some of their relatives tried consoling her.
Rishav stood there for a moment, blankly staring at the lifeless Siddhant. He was too shocked to even cry. It seemed just about a couple of days back when he had met a shaken Siddhant after the Suraj episode. Even then, Siddhant refused to divulge any details of the brutal assault; such was his commitment towards the school and the whole idea of its image being untarnished. Siddhant’s laughter echoed in his ears. It seemed ages since he last heard it, how he wished that he had spent more memorable moments with Siddhant. He wished that as friends, he had more chances to bright up Siddhant’s face with a smile. He looked on as the first traces of tears rolled down his eyes.
He remembered his first day in school and Siddhant’s move forward. He remembered being shown around the school and being told about its hypocrisies and double standards. It was ironical that the one who saw through all the superficiality was the one who had to end his life. It was ironical that Suraj Singh would soon be promoted to an administrative position.
Rishav shifted his long gaze from the body to his surroundings. He saw a number of familiar faces, including those who never cared for Siddhant when he was alive.
“How did you know him?” a man in his mid-40s asked Rishav politely.
“I am his friend from school,” he replied. “Rishav Sen, that’s my name.”
Rishav noticed the man’s expression change, “Oh yes, Siddhant spoke of you a lot. He was all praises about how you managed so well in a changing environment.”
Rishav barely smiled as the man spoke, “I am his maternal uncle.”
Rishav nodded, mumbling a faint, “Nice to meet you Sir.”
It seemed that the effect of Siddhant’s death had totally sunk in for his uncle. The gentleman seemed abnormally stable at the time of such a tragic moment. Some amounts of silence prevailed between the two, till the person broke it.
“He was very polite to his elders, he worshipped his teachers really. I wonder how he got into that fight,” he said.
It was hard to believe that Siddhant’s family was yet to know the real reason of the bruises that he had got in school. Or the real reason why he died, though Rishav didn’t know much about it either.
“I know it’s not the right moment to ask Sir, but erm…by any chance did Siddhant leave behind a note or something. Huh?” Rishav asked hesitantly.
The gentleman rummaged his pockets and took out a crumbled piece of paper, “I had to hide it from my sister.” He said, “It’d be great, if you don’t tell anyone we found this.” He stuffed the piece of paper into Rishav’s open palms in a hurry, lest somebody saw it.
“I have to make a move and organize for the ambulance that will take him to the crematorium,” the man said.
“He will be cremated today?” Rishav asked as he spent a minute straightening out the crumbled piece of paper. By the time he looked up to expect an answer, Siddhant’s uncle was gone.
Siddhant was void of a lot of things in his lifetime but what hurt Rishav the most was the fact that Siddhant always deserved more than what he got but he seldom complained. Siddhant was content and his death would turn out to be the decisive moment in someone’s life – Rishav Sen would finally get to feel the presence of a spine.
*
Bindu Kalsi grabbed the folder lying closest to her and flung it across the room in a fit of rage. It crashed into the flower vase that adorned the bookshelf right in front of her.
Even before the sound of the class vase shattering into pieces could die down, she screamed out, “You morons did not tell me that Suraj had beaten up the Dalvi boy?”
Muskaan Kaur and Neeti Chopra stood silent, with their heads down like little school kids did when they were reprimanded by their teachers.
“And Muskaan, you had the audacity to write a false suspension letter? Under what pretext?” Kalsi shouted.
“BK…” Muskaan began.
Kalsi interrupted her, “And remember this, when you are addressing me, you are addressing this office, so I want to hear the word - ma’am, the next time you speak.”
Muskaan Kaur gulped her ego down the long esophagus and spoke again. “Ma’am,” she began. “What was done was done in the best interests of this institution, if news of Dalvi getting assaulted by a teacher was to be made public, it would only harm the school’s reputation and in a way, your reputation.”
Fumes came out of Kalsi’s nostrils as Muskaan continued.
“People fear Suraj Singh, not a single student will speak up against him. Do be rest assured about that and I got information that Dalvi boy was drunk when he died.”
Kalsi stopped fuming, “He was drunk?” She asked. “Who told you?”
“My sources,” replied Muskaan.
“Your sources?” Kalsi guffawed.
“From amongst those present at Dalvi’s funeral,” Muskaan added.
“Hmmm…” Kalsi nodded. “What’s the course of action then?”
“Simple, we stick by our official stand. Siddhant Dalvi was involved in a brawl and we add to that some family issues that drove him to commit suicide.”
“His father was the senior peon of our school for long. He even served my father, Mr. Chavan. We can’t do this to a DHS loyalist, we can’t defame his son,” Kalsi pronounced.
“Then you decide for yourself. What is more important to you – the reputation of your school and you or the image of a dead boy,” Muskaan smirked.
Kalsi remained silent for a while, “Fine, I trust your judgment. But this will be one final time, promise me Muskaan, you shall not take things into your own hands like this…ever again.”
“Yes, yes, for sure,” Muskaan replied in a hurry. “Now let’s talk about some other pressing matters, Socialact Wave, who are you inviting as the Chief Guest?” she asked.
Kalsi who was sipping her steaming cup of coffee, choked all of a sudden. “Socialact Wave?” she asked.
Both Neeti and Muskaan nodded.
“Are you sure we should host something like this? Right after the death of one of our students?”
“He’s dead na….” Muskaan replied. “Why do you want it to lay any bearing on what we do with one of the biggest events in our school calendar? Aren’t you forgetting our commitments to our sponsors and all the people like Veer Chauhan, who’ve donated so generously?”
Kalsi didn’t speak which gave Muskaan further incentive to go on, “Our official stand rubbishes the claim that Dalvi was beaten up by one of the members of our staff. So let’s not try being over-sensitive, alright? Socialact Wave goes on as planned.”
“I have my doubts Muskaan, surely the sponsors can be told that the event has been postponed?” Kalsi enquired.
“No, they cannot,” Muskaan seemed to have lost control and in an impulse spoke loudly.
Kalsi turned to face the large glass w
indow overlooking her lawn. She slowly turned to face the two ladies again. “Fine, Socialact Wave would be on as scheduled. Now for God’s sake, let me finish my cup of coffee in peace.”
Neeti and Muskaan took their final bows and quietly walked out of the office. Kalsi ensured that her phone was off the hook. She pushed back her chair and enjoyed little sips of the hot drink.
It seemed the story of Siddhant Dalvi was disappearing just like those wisps of steam coming out of her cup and vanishing in thin air.
TWENTY-SIX
Suraj Singh was in between one of his routine discussions on the actual value of pie when a phone call diverted his attention. “Escuse me children,” he said, as he moved to one corner of the class to receive the phone.
“Zi Muskaan madam?” he asked.
“Why aren’t you in my office yet?” she demanded an answer.
“Ma’am, extremely sorry ma’am. But I didn’t get the message.” He silently waited for her reply.
“I don’t care, if you love your job, I want to see you here in thirty seconds,” she curtly said before hanging up.
A phone call from Muskaan Kaur did what years of orders from Singhal and Kalsi couldn’t do – it sent alarm bells ringing in Suraj’s head.
Without much ado and without telling a soul about where he was going and why was he leaving the class halfway, Suraj Singh made a dash for Muskaan’s office.
In about a couple of minutes, when he finally reached, he found the office to be abnormally crowded. Class representatives of all classes in the Senior Wing had gathered around the small coffee table that stood in one corner of Muskaan’s room (Madhuri’s old room).
“Come in quick,” Muskaan said, gently rotating her chair from right to left.
The other teachers who were already inside the room were discussing things in hush voices but on seeing Suraj, all of them fell silent. Now the attention moved towards the lady in the green saree.
“As you may know,” Muskaan began. “We have a problem. And the solution to the problem lies in successfully organizing Socialact Wave.” This was followed by some murmurs that died down as soon as they started.
“Siddhant Dalvi’s death has shaken up the Principal,” she coughed. “And we all know who is responsible for it,” she looked at Suraj. “Nevertheless, I need to ensure that there is no unnecessary gossiping and wastage of time going on in this school because…” she got up from her seat and adjusted her saree. She sat down again, “the last thing I want is a God damn revolution in this school.” She clenched her teeth as she said it. “Is it understood?”
Everyone nodded. So, now we have the instructions for you, “There will be no subject teaching for the next couple of days till Wave officially gets over. The home-room teacher will stay with the students all day and ensure that none and when I say none, I mean none, is allowed to leave the classroom for any reason whatsoever.” Some more murmurs as she prepared to speak again, “It is a very sensitive situation for us right now, the Press will gobble us up if they get to know about this and any kind of new found unity amongst students will be catastrophic. Get the priorities straight, Socialact Wave is more important than your blessed lives.”
The teachers turned to face Ashish Dutta, the senior-most and the most respected teacher in the senior school. He weighed his words before he spoke, “Madam, I feel it is more advisable that we take some kind of action against Suraj…”
Suraj Singh got agitated on hearing this. So agitated that he shouted out an expletive, “What the hell bhenchod, Ashish bhai, yeh tum kya keh rahe ho?”
“What I say is correct, the outcome maybe worse you know? If we take some action against Suraj it will kill any kind of rebellious act that we are expecting…”
“Tch tch tch…Ashish, do as you are said. Please, my dear?” Muskaan pleaded in fakeness.
Ashish fell silent. “Is that all?” Muskaan asked.
The teachers were in a dilemma, they didn’t want to ask unnecessary questions and piss Muskaan off. On the other hand they knew how strenuous and crap-like it’d be to sit in class all day and be a watchdog for the students. Eventually, everyone agreed on principle that Muskaan’s instructions were worth being followed and they left her room like obedient school children.
*
Runjhun Sharma was having her usual hectic day at work in the clumsily built office of DNN-IGN News Agency, when her phone rang.
A journalist’s life was never void of phone calls and people who seldom understood the idea of ‘beats’ appeared to be the ones who’d call incessantly. At times the calls would be desirable, like information for really interesting stories that could grab a huge number of eyeballs while, at times the calls would be that of a lack-in-life call centre guy, ever readily wanting to get abused. Runjhun generally took charge of the Lifestyle and Entertainment Beat and when at times there was a dearth of journalists, she would be asked to take care of the Literature section too.
Strangely, the past few weeks had been mellow by her standards. There were lesser number of phone calls: wanted and unwanted. The Editor seemed to be in a chirpier mood, her love life had taken a plunge and she wasn’t getting hold of a single path breaking story that could bring the pandemonium back in her life again. And just when she was thinking of taking the rest of the day off, her phone rang. It was an unknown number but there was hardly any option other than to answer the call and find out the ‘mystery’ of the caller.
“Hi, Runjhun Sharma, DNN-IGN,” she said the moment she picked up the call.
“Hello, erm, Runjhun right?” the voice asked.
“Yeah, that’s right. Runjhun, this side,” you could feel the smile in her voice.
“Hi Runjhun, I got your number from your sister. I’m Rishav calling from DHS.”
“Hey Rishav, no wonder you know my sister, same class?”
“Not really, sections are different,” he replied.
“So tell me, how I can be of help to you?” she asked politely.
“See, it’s hard to tell it to you on the phone but I’ll try to explain it to you as quickly as I can. Ask me if you don’t understand anything.”
“Go on, I’m all ears…”
“Well, you heard about the recent mishap, the suicide of the DHS student named Siddhant Dalvi?” he enquired.
“Who hasn’t? Of course I did, sad thing to hear that he got drunk, pretty depressing life he had huh?”
“That’s not it, that is not the story. I’ve tried telling this to others but there’s some kind of restriction imposed in school which is really making it hard to communicate.”
“Oh c’mon, it’s the age of Facebook, surely you can’t sell such excuses,” she chuckled.
“It’s something serious and perhaps I have too much on my plate already to take a conscious effort into solving this crisis. So I sought help from real people with real impact. And it led me to you,” he completed.
“That’s interesting, so what’s the catch?”
“There’s a lot of malpractices going on within the walls of DHS and it must be made available to the common public. Also, Dalvi’s death wasn’t suicide. Even if it was, people are being forced to take it at face value. A couple of days back, Dalvi had been assaulted by a teacher with strong political clouts. School refused to take action against him, that humiliation plus whatever he had sustained all throughout his stay drove Siddhant to a point of insanity. That’s what killed him, he jumping off from the roof was just the tip of the iceberg,” Rishav sounded exasperated at the end of it.
“I see, but clearly you are in the wrong beat. The crime beat might…” she began.
“No, no. I am in the right beat. It took me long to convince myself to trust you. I can’t do it all over again with someone else you see. I know how you can pull off this story without requiring any support from other beats.”
“You know? How?”
“Socialact Wave, a largely popular music event will be held day-after. You cover it under entertainment. Then you
can write an article on how the school is ‘celebrating’ the death of a student.”
“It sounds interesting, though I am not sure if that’d be enough to make enough of a case against the school.”
“Listen to me, I have more really. I can give you details of how alcohol is being provided to inmates of the school hostel- And that too, under the full knowledge of the warden. I can also tell you about how the Principal is deliberately appearing to be unaware of the large scale hypocrisies in and around her. I can provide you with a lot of information, but you first write about how the school doesn’t care about its’ students, drag in the assault and subsequent suicide of Siddhant. Bring in the lies of the management and the tightlipped stands that stink of double standards,” he could rant on and on.
“Okay, okay. Chill dude, what are you, some anti-DHS encyclopedia or something?” she asked.
“No, I am just one pissed off Head Boy, who can chuck his badge a million miles away and never ever think of it.”
“What the fish!” Runjhun exclaimed. “You are the Head Boy and you are ready to do all of this?”
“Yeah, I am. Anything for my friend; I will provide you with passes for Socialact Wave. Please, please make sure the story is hard hitting.”
“I can’t promise anything, you know, it all depends on what my Ed perceives of my story.”
“She’ll like it,” he replied confidently.
“You think so?” she asked.
“I know so,” came the reply. “I will get in touch with you day-after. Please do be there, one of those few occasions when you can stand up for a good cause. They don’t come everyday in your life.”
“I will, I will,” saying this, Runjhun Sharma hung up.
TWENTY-SEVEN
The early morning Delhi smog almost engulfed the Delhi High School campus as a lone figure walked past its entrance and was on to the concrete lane that led to the Boys Hostel in almost no time. Once he crossed the glaring eyes of the Hostel warden’s security guard, he broke into a sharp jog and moved towards the Hostel entrance.
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