Revolution Twenty20

by Chetan Bhagat

  I reached the STD booth close to midnight. I picked up the phone at 11:58 p.m. and dialled her number. I got a busy signal. I tried again but couldn’t get through. I made five attempts but the line was still engaged.

  ‘Let other customers call,’ the shopkeeper said.

  Fortunately, only one other person stood in line – a student waiting to call his mother in Guwahati to wish her a happy birthday. I waited patiently as he ended his call at 12:05 a.m.

  I rushed into the booth and called Aarti again. The line came busy. After several attempts the shopkeeper gave me looks of sympathy. He told me he had to shut his shop by 12:30 a.m. I tried calling many more times, at two-minute intervals, but to no avail.

  I don’t know why, but I decided to call Raghav’s house. It being a Friday night I knew Raghav would be home for the weekend. I hesitated for a second before I dialled his number. Of course, if the phone rang so late the whole house would be startled. However, my suspicions were right. The line was busy.

  I tried Raghav’s and Aarti’s numbers in quick succession. I could not get through to either.

  My good wishes for Aarti vanished as my excitement gave way to anger.

  Why did Raghav have to wish her at midnight? And do birthday wishes take so long?

  The shopkeeper tapped my booth window. ‘The police will harass me if I stay open any longer.’

  ‘Do you know where I can find an STD booth open?’ I said.

  ‘Railway station,’ the shopkeeper said. He switched off the lit sign.

  No auto-rickshaw agreed to go to the railway station at a reasonable price at that hour. If I ran I could cover the five-kilometre distance in half an hour.

  I reached platform 1 of Kota station at 1:00 a.m., panting after my five-kilometre jog. Even at this hour the station was bustling. A train arrived and the general-quota passengers ran for seats.

  I found an STD booth and called Aarti. This time the phone rang. I took a deep breath. My temper was not something I was proud of. I wanted to keep it under check as the birthday girl picked up the phone.

  ‘Hello?’ DM Pradhan spoke instead.

  ‘Hello, uncle? Uncle, Gopal,’ I blurted out, even though I should have probably hung up. After so many attempts I had to talk to her.

  ‘Oh, yes. Hold on,’ he said and screamed for Aarti.

  Aarti came close to the phone. I could hear her conversation with her father.

  ‘How much will you talk on the phone? Your friends keep calling,’ her father grumbled.

  ‘It’s my birthday, dad,’ Aarti said and picked up the phone.

  ‘Happy birthday, Aarti,’ I said, trying to sound excited.

  ‘Hey, Gopal! Thanks. That’s so sweet of you. You stayed up so late to wish me?’ she said.

  I also ran five kilometres and will walk back five more, I wanted to say but didn’t. ‘I’ve been trying to reach you for an hour.’

  ‘Really?’ Aarti said.

  ‘Yeah, the line was busy. Who were you talking to? I wanted to be the first,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, my cousins, you know in the US? I have my aunt there, no?’

  Her voice sounded overtly casual. Aarti forgot I had known her for eight years. I could sense it when she lied.

  ‘They spoke long-distance for an hour?’

  ‘What one hour? I spoke to them for two minutes. Maybe I didn’t place the phone back properly. Leave it, no. How are you? Wish you were here.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Yeah. Of course! I miss you,’ Aarti said, her tone so genuine that it was hard to believe she had lied to me ten seconds ago.

  ‘If you had placed the phone incorrectly, who placed it back correctly now?’

  ‘Gopal! Stop interrogating me. I hate this. It is my birthday.’

  ‘And you lie on your birthday?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Swear on our friendship that Raghav didn’t call?’ I said.

  ‘What?’ Aarti said, her voice loud. ‘Swear? How old are we, ten?’

  ‘He called, no? You were speaking to him. What’s going on between you guys?’

  ‘It’s my birthday. Can you not make it so stressful?’

  ‘You haven’t answered my question.’

  ‘It’s late. Dad is hovering around. Chat tomorrow on the net? After my college?’

  ‘I have classes,’ I said.

  ‘Sunday. Let’s chat on Sunday, around noon, okay?’

  ‘Aarti, just be honest with me. I value honesty a lot,’ I said.

  ‘Of course. Okay, bye now. Dad’s giving me dirty looks. Honestly!’

  ‘Bye,’ I said.

  I walked back, trying not to cry.

  Wait till Sunday, I consoled myself.

  She never came online on Sunday. I spent two hours at the cyber café. Noon became one, and one became two. There’s only so much porn one can watch. I downloaded enough x-rated clips to open a video library. I couldn’t bear it anymore.

  How hard was it to deliver on a simple promise? I had done nothing but wait for Sunday to talk things out with her. She had suggested the time, not I. I wanted to vent my anger, but had no outlet.

  I kicked the CPU of the computer in frustration. The power went off.

  ‘What are you doing?’ The owner of the cyber café came running.

  ‘Sorry, I have a temper problem. I am working on it,’ I said and rushed out.

  I went to the STD booth. I called her home. Her mother picked up.

  ‘Good afternoon, aunty. Gopal here.’

  ‘Hello, Gopal,’ Aarti’s mother said curtly. Her husband might be the DM, but she had more attitude than him.

  ‘Aunty, is Aarti around?’

  ‘She left early morning with Raghav for Kanpur.’

  ‘Kanpur?’ I said, shocked. She had gone three hundred kilometres away from Varanasi with Raghav.

  ‘Yes, some festival at IIT Kanpur. Raghav is in the debating team. She’s also participating. Singing, I think.’

  ‘Okay,’ I said, wondering what question to ask next to get more information.

  ‘Anything important?’ Aarti’s mother said.

  Hell, it is important, aunty. I want to know if your daughter is having a scene.

  ‘Nothing urgent. They’ll come back tonight, right? The roads are not safe,’ I said.

  ‘Of course. She’s gone in the government car. With a security guard.’

  I wanted to post my own security guards next to Aarti.

  ‘Thanks, Aunty,’ I said.

  ‘Okay. You study. Then you can also be in a proper college and have fun like Raghav.’

  ‘Yes, Aunty,’ I said, reaffirming my commitment to join a proper college before I hung up.

  I checked my wallet. I had only hundred bucks left of my self-assigned monthly allowance of a thousand bucks. The month of November still had ten days left. I scolded myself for spending too much on calls.

  One moment I told myself not to chase her. Let her call or mail back. However, the next moment I could think of nothing but her. I had crazy mental conversations with myself.

  She couldn’t be dating him. She said she is not ready for a relationship. If she is, she will go out with me, Mr Optimist Gopal said.

  However, Mr Pessimist Gopal did not buy it.

  Okay, so Raghav has better looks. But Aarti is not so shallow. I have known her for a decade, Mr Optimist-me argued.

  Raghav also has better future prospects, Mr Pessimist-me said.

  But would she choose a guy just on the basis of his JEE rank? She is a girl, not a damn institute, said Mr Optimist-me.

  She finds him funny, Mr Pessimist said.

  She will even find jokers in the circus funny, Mr Optimist said.

  My head hurt as the two morons inside would not stop arguing. Girls have no idea what effect their wavering has on boys. I had to talk to Aarti. I wanted to shake her and make her talk.

  My temper flared again. I wanted to run to the Kota station and travel unreserved to Varanasi. I couldn’t thi
nk about Balance-ji or my percentile or the stupid Career Path.

  If Raghav did anything with Aarti, I would fucking kill him.

  I pressed the doorbell six times when I reached home.

  ‘Everything okay?’ uncle said.

  ‘I’m not going to fucking kill myself, okay?’ Shouting helped release tension.

  ‘What?’ he said, shocked by my language.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said. You don’t use f-words with your landlord.

  I didn’t sleep the whole night. I kicked myself for thinking about her so much.

  She is a liar, ditcher and heartless person, I told myself fifty times.

  She also happened to be someone I couldn’t stop thinking about. Love, officially, is nothing but a bitch.

  10

  We had a surprise test in class the next day – which went badly. In the chemistry class Balance-ji scolded me as I could not answer even a simple question. I didn’t give a fuck. I wanted to get hold of this girl.

  I ran to a cyber café after class. She wasn’t online. I did not know what to do. It would be way too desperate to call her again.

  I had a horrible week at Career Path. My results slipped to the eightieth percentile. Four-fifths of the class had done better than me. Career Path had a software that picked out students with the maximum improvement or deterioration. I featured in the latter.

  ‘This is not acceptable,’ Shishir sir, Permutation guru and partner in Career Path, said.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ I said.

  ‘You are not in bad company, I hope.’

  ‘I have no friends. There is no company,’ I said truthfully.

  ‘Get some then,’ Shishir sir said. ‘You need some friends in Kota to cope.’

  I looked at Shishir sir. He seemed young and genuine. ‘I know how hard it is. I am a Kota product myself.’

  On Sunday I went to the cyber café again. As usual, no email. However, she came online in five minutes.

  A part of me resisted. I initiated the chat anyway.

  GopalKotaFactory: Hi.

  She didn’t respond for two minutes. I sent another hi.

  FlyingAarti: Hi Gopal.

  She had not called me Gopi. It did not seem normal.

  GopalKotaFactory: Are you upset?

  FlyingAarti: I’m Fine.

  A girl’s ‘I’m Fine’, especially with capital F, is like an ‘icebergs ahead’ sign for a ship.

  GopalKotaFactory: Can we chat?

  FlyingAarti: Only if you don’t yell at me.

  GopalKotaFactory: I’m sorry I did that day.

  I also wanted to add that she ditched me last Sunday on chat. I wanted to ask why she went to IIT Kanpur with Raghav. However, if I came on too strongly she would give me the silent treatment that could kill me. First and foremost, I had to get information out of her.

  GopalKotaFactory: You know my temper problem. I am working on it.

  FlyingAarti: It’s fine. Apology accepted.

  I found it strange that I ended up saying sorry when she owed me an apology. Is it ever the girl’s fault? The good thing about chatting on the internet is that you can control your impulses. I took a couple of deep breaths and typed something neutral.

  GopalKotaFactory: So, what’s up?

  When in doubt, stick to open-ended questions.

  FlyingAarti: Not much. College is busy. Made some friends. Not many.

  GopalKotaFactory: Any special friends? ☺

  I had placed a strategic smiley after the question. It hid my intense curiosity and anger.

  FlyingAarti: C’mon, Gopi.

  There, my nickname was back. Her mood had lightened.

  GopalKotaFactory: It’s okay. Tell me. You won’t tell me? Your best friend.

  FlyingAarti: I don’t know. You get so upset.

  My heart started to beat fast. I typed one character at a time.

  GopalKotaFactory: Tell, tell. Let’s hear it ☺☺☺

  I overdid the smileys just to make her feel comfortable enough to talk.

  FlyingAarti: Well, there is someone special.

  A rusted iron knife jabbed my chest. I fought the pain and typed.

  GopalKotaFactory: ☺

  FlyingAarti: You know him.

  GopalKotaFactory: ☺

  FlyingAarti: Very well, in fact.

  GopalKotaFactory: Say who ☺

  FlyingAarti: Mr BHU, who else?

  The knife was now slicing through my heart. I clenched my teeth hard.

  GopalKotaFactory: Really? ☺

  Keep breathing, keep up the smileys.

  FlyingAarti: Yeah. He’s mad. Mad stupid Raghav!!! He trapped me.

  GopalKotaFactory: So … you guys close?

  FlyingAarti: Kinda.

  I couldn’t keep up the smileys anymore.

  GopalKotaFactory: Kinda?

  FlyingAarti: Shush. Don’t ask all that.

  GopalKotaFactory: You’ve done it?

  FlyingAarti: How cheap, Gopi. No, not yet.

  GopalKotaFactory: Meaning?

  FlyingAarti: Meaning almost … Oh, don’t embarrass me.

  GopalKotaFactory: What the fuck?

  FlyingAarti: Excuse me???

  GopalKotaFactory: I thought you are not interested in that stuff.

  FlyingAarti: What stuff?

  GopalKotaFactory: You said friendship is all you wanted. With me. With anyone.

  FlyingAarti: Did I? I don’t know. It just kinda happened.

  GopalKotaFactory: How did it kinda happen? You just kinda removed your clothes?

  My temper had returned and taken over my remote control.

  FlyingAarti: Watch your language.

  GopalKotaFactory: Why? You someone pure or what? Behaving like a slut.

  She didn’t respond. I continued.

  GopalKotaFactory: Can you tell me why? Because he has a JEE rank?

  FlyingAarti: Shut up, Gopal. It’s a very special bond between him and me.

  GopalKotaFactory: Really? What makes it special? Did you give him a blow job? Where? In his hostel or in Kanpur?

  She didn’t respond. I realised I had said too much. However, you cannot undo a line sent on chat. And I did not want to fucking apologise again.

  I kept waiting for an answer.

  After three minutes a message flashed on my screen: FlyingAarti is offline.

  I refreshed my screen. I had another notification: FlyingAarti is no longer a contact.

  She had removed me from her list.

  ‘You need to extend your time?’ the café owner asked me.

  ‘No, that won’t be necessary, not for a long time,’ I said.

  The day Aarti cut off contact with me was the day I stopped doing my daily practice sheets. I no longer went to the cyber café either. Instead, I hung out every night at the roadside Chaman chai shop near my house. Students, teacups in one hand and worksheets in another, occupied the one dozen wooden benches. I didn’t bring any reading material to the shop. I sat there, killing hours, watching the crowd and nursing cups of tea.

  One day I ran out of money to pay for my order.

  ‘I am sorry,’ I said to Chaman, the shop-owner, ‘I will bring the cash tomorrow.’

  Someone I didn’t know stepped forward and handed the shopkeeper ten bucks. ‘Chill,’ the newcomer said to me.

  ‘Oh, thanks,’ I said.

  ‘Bansal?’ he said, as he collected the change.

  ‘Career Path,’ I said. ‘I’ll pay you tomorrow. I forgot my wallet at home.’

  ‘Relax,’ he said and extended his hand. ‘I’m Prateek. From Raipur.’

  His stubbled face made him look more like an artist than an IIT aspirant. ‘Repeater?’ Prateek said.

  I nodded.

  ‘Quitter,’ he said.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Tried Kota. Didn’t work. Still hanging around here to get some peace.’

  I laughed. ‘I had AIEEE 50,000. I think I may have a chance if I try again.’

  ‘Do you want
to?’ Prateek said.

  I kept quiet. We sat down on the wooden stools outside the shop.

  ‘You look like you are on the verge of becoming a quitter,’ he said.

  ‘I’m fine. A little low. The next installment at Career Path is due. My father doesn’t have much cash on him.’

  ‘Go back,’ Prateek said. He lit a cigarette and offered it to me. I declined.

  ‘I can’t. All his hopes are pinned on me. He’ll borrow money and send it.’

  Prateek dropped his head back and blew smoke towards the sky.

  ‘I had reached the top twenty-five percentile,’ I said, to justify my existence in this place.

  ‘Had reached? You are still doing the course, right?’

  ‘I slipped in the past few weeks.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Nothing.’ I sipped my tea.

  Prateek drained his cup and ordered another. ‘Is it a girl?’ he said.

  ‘I don’t even know you. I’ll pay you your ten bucks. Stop probing,’ I said.

  ‘Chill, man, I am only making conversation.’ He laughed and patted my shoulder.

  I kept quiet. Images of countless boat rides with Aarti passed through my mind. How I rowed with my bare hands. How she used to massage my palms afterwards … I flexed my hands, remembering.

  I hate her. But I miss her.

  Prateek smoked two cigarettes without uttering a word.

  ‘It is a girl,’ I said grudgingly.

  ‘Left you?’ He grinned.

  ‘Never came to me.’

  ‘Happens. We are losers. We don’t get things easily. Marks, ranks, girls – nothing is easy for us.’

  ‘Yeah, everyone takes us for a ride. From Kota classes to the bitch back home,’ I said.

  ‘Bitch, eh? You seem like a fun guy.’ Prateek high-fived me.

  ‘I better go home.’

  ‘We don’t have a home. We are like people stuck in outer space. No home, no school, no college, no job. Only Kota.’ He winked at me.

  Prateek studied at Resonance, as a second-time repeater. He had become a quitter the first time, and even now he had almost given up. We became friends, meeting at Chaman’s every night.

  One day the tea didn’t seem enough. Mr Pulley had thrown me out of his class.

  ‘So what if he asked you to leave. It’s not like a real college,’ Prateek said.