Potato Chips

by Anshuman Mohan

  After a few more weeks of this craziness, Mum kind of joined in. She became a religious fanatic. Wherever it might be, no matter how big a hurry we were in, if we came across a temple or a church or any place of worship at all, she made it a custom to stop the car or taxi, get out and pray to the patron god. From reading the Hanuman Chalisa to the Guru Granth Sahib to the Koran, she went into overdrive. And whenever someone tried to dissuade her from the madness, she said, ‘More things are brought about by prayer than the world thinks.’

  God, we needed a break!

  After some research, my father decided that a two-day outing was feasible. The options were limited. Eventually, we decided on a road trip to Kharagpur, a three-hour drive. We had seen advertisements for the IIT Spring Fest in the papers and, although my sister and I were keener on a trip to a beach and Digha was only a four-hour drive away, thanks to a lot of coaxing from Dad, we ended up at IIT.

  My father had this strange fascination with all things IIT. He had always dreamt of studying at one. Even though that dream had not been realized, Dad had remained unfazed. Perhaps he nurtured the dream of seeing me study there someday.

  As the cycle-rickshaw carried us through the massive wrought-iron gates, I marvelled at the fact that I was entering one of the biggest potato chips factories in India. Only the best of the best ever studied here.

  We booked a room at the alumni guest house, pretending that I had a ‘brother’ who had studied at IIT. Then we hit the campus, wandering through the grounds and auditoriums, watching the various competitions taking place. Whenever an IIT team won a contest, the onlookers huddled up, Indian-cricket-team style, and yelled, ‘KGP ka tempo high hai!’ There were food stands, games, fashion shows, rock music concerts and street play competitions. I really liked one play which involved the actors jumping on the judges’ table, waving a bloody knife at the audience and smashing a dozen eggs all over the place. In the end, however, they were disqualified for being ‘too direct’.

  Mum bought me a painted T-shirt which said ‘Future IITian’ in big, bold letters. I went back to the stall and got a large question mark painted below it. The last thing I wanted to be was another potato chips-packet. Although it was prestigious and glamorous in a geeky kind of way, and would definitely put me on the fast track to a sixfigure salary, I doubted if it was really worth the stress and pressure. Almost every month, one read or heard about a suicide at one of these super-elite institutes. All this processing to become super-masaledar potato chips made people fragile and wafer-like on the inside—I really did not want to end up like that.

  It was while we were chilling out at a fast-food joint called Veggies that Dad’s phone rang. He came back to the table after he’d finished the call, looking concerned. ‘It was a man who called himself JP,’ he said.

  ‘Who’s that?’ I asked. Hollywood movies had taught me to distrust people who only went by their initials.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Dad said. ‘God knows how he got our number, but it seems he is from Xavier’s. He says he can get your name on the admission list if we pay him two lakhs.’

  ‘What?’ Mum cried out.

  I was shell-shocked. How could this be? Did it mean that I hadn’t been selected in the first place? My test had gone so well. And after all that back-breaking effort…

  ‘What do you think?’ Dad asked.

  ‘No!’ I said vehemently. ‘Either I get in honestly, or not at all.’ I knew that I would never be able to live with myself if I cheated to get in.

  We were all very quiet when we reached Kolkata the next day. I was almost having a nervous breakdown. Dad tried to convince me that this JP was probably some smartass peon who had been given the sheet to pin up and was trying to con money out of people who were already on the list. But how could I be sure? I was in agony. The sleeplessness and tension that we had been trying to escape with our trip came back with a vengeance. And so commenced the scariest two days of my life.

  D-day had finally arrived. I woke up before dawn, feeling strangely fresh and relaxed despite the hour. Instead of being tense, I felt happy, somehow. I woke up my parents, rather inconsiderately, and just sat in their room, watching TV. My parents eventually convinced me to go to my room and just lie on my bed if I could not sleep. I couldn’t. I whiled way the time (I counted 13,964 sheep) until my alarm finally went off. I leapt out of my bed and did a little jig. I then woke the entire household for the second time. But this time, I ignored their pleas.

  ‘RISE AND SHINE!’ I screamed, running through the house.

  I guess the chaos of the last few days had gone to my head and made me go completely nuts. Think Madagascar. Think Alex the Lion running after Marty the Zebra with those weird, electric-blue eyes…

  Not bothering with breakfast, we all rushed into our battered old car and tore through the deserted streets at top speed, ignoring traffic signals, ‘No Entry’ and ‘Restricted’ signs. The newspaper boys and milkmen were probably rubbing their eyes in astonishment on seeing us! After reaching the school grounds in record time, we bolted out of the car without bothering to lock the doors and scrambled in like a bunch of raving madmen. The guards at the school allowed us in, exchanging indulgent smiles with each other. They had obviously encountered similar behaviour before.

  The notice board in the reception-cum-lobby was the centre of attraction. It looked like every one of the eighty examinees had turned up with their mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, uncles, aunts and every other relative who had bothered to wake up at six in the morning. What was it with admissions and early mornings, anyway? I fought tooth and nail to get close to the all-knowing board. However, it was my sister (smaller size, enclosed spaces—you do the math) who reached the board first.

  ‘Bhaiyya!’ she screamed in a high-pitched voice, barely audible over the general hubbub. ‘ Bhaiyya! Ankit ka ho gaya!’

  ‘Scrap Ankit!’ I shouted back at her. ‘What about me?’ At that, the good-for-nothing fool held up her hand to her ear and pretended that she couldn’t hear me. But a few agonizing minutes later, she walked back to us, and it was official—I, Aman Malhotra, had been recognized as admission number 191/07 for the 2007–08 academic year at St Xavier’s Collegiate School, Kolkata.

  My mind went blank. Strangely enough, I did not feel any real joy. No jolt of adrenalin, no sense of five-minutes-of-paradise accompanied the results. I slowly scanned the crowd. All I could see were faces. Some looked happy, some complacent. And some had grief painted across them. I finally caught the eye of the person I was looking for. My father. Was that happiness in his eyes? Relief? Joy? Pride?

  My father is the best dad in the world. He had not been involved during the early stages of my admission, not because he was not interested but because he was ill. He was suffering form the unofficial disease of the decade— depression. My endeavour had actually been dedicated solely to him. It had been his dream to see me study at Xavier’s. I would have been perfectly happy and content in my old school, Akshar. The only reason I had been enthusiastic about changing schools—in fact, the only reason I had even complied with my parents—was because I wanted to contribute to Dad’s health. I wanted to make him happy, I wanted to see him become his old self again.

  I watched as my father, after a very long time, displayed some kind of emotion. He smiled, slowly at first, then grinned. Then he laughed, tears of joy streaming down his cheeks. I started laughing as well.

  Three

  Opening a New Folder

  My first few days at St Xavier’s were the most difficult of my life.

  Between the admissions and the first day of school, my mother took it upon herself to inform everyone we knew of my achievement. I am not exaggerating—she actually went and bought an STD card to call relatives living in far-off states. When they asked to speak to me, I did not recognize half of them. Our house started getting crowded with well-wishers—it was like some kind of mela, where I was the primary attraction. I was suddenly invited to silly parties with my ot
herwise snobbish cousins and almost all our neighbours came to see me. They didn’t even talk to me—they just sat and talked about me! I felt a bit like a newly imported exotic animal at the zoo.

  However, I did not feel particularly good about all this. Not that I did not enjoy the limelight—who would mind that? But every time I said thank you to a person congratulating me, I felt a pang of guilt and loss. What would I tell my teachers at my old school? ‘I just felt like a change’? How would I face my friends there? They would all consider my move an act of base treachery. Ankit would probably have a better see-off than I would—he had confided in most of his friends and they had all supported him. Obeying my parents’ instructions, I had told no one.

  Two sets of pristine white clothes arrived at the house a week after the results. With a heavy heart I threw away my old uniform—a cheery yellow T-shirt and a pair of denim shorts—and embraced the clinical new one. An enormous shiny silver water-flask, more appropriate for traversing a desert with than carrying to school, was purchased. A large green bag also appeared at my study table. ‘SPITT’ it proclaimed in bold letters. When I told my mother that she had purchased a shady bag, she said that SPITT was a new, upcoming brand. I was not convinced.

  Mum also pinned a long list of dos and don’ts to my softboard. All the things it said, I agreed with in theory, but it all went haywire when it came to execution. Before I could say ‘Xavier’s’, all the dos had been ignored and the don’ts had been done.

  Warning 1: Don’t pick a fight.

  I had promised my mother I wouldn’t be like Mamata Banerjee, but I returned home black and blue on the very first day of school. So what if I was a new boy, ragging wasn’t allowed, right? Right?

  I had gone to the toilet to pee. It was lunchtime, so the place was jam-packed and stinky. I stood behind three others in front of a urinal, trying to control the urge. The only thing that was left for me to do was cross my legs and start jumping up and down! After what seemed like ages, my turn came. I was just about to step inside when someone cut ahead of me.

  ‘Oi! I was here first!’ I shouted.

  The guy just shrugged. He took his own sweet time, didn’t flush, then turned around. I let out an involuntary gasp. The chap practically had ‘SENIOR’ tattooed across his forehead.

  ‘What happened?’ he said in a menacing tone. ‘Are you in a hurry or what?’

  I ignored him and went over to another urinal which had just become free. I was just about to pee when he kicked me in the rear, throwing me off balance. I almost crashed into the urinal! Turning around, I saw the bully walking towards the door. He hadn’t washed, of course. With a short leap, I launched myself at him, hoping to wrestle him to the floor. Fat chance. He picked me up like a fly and started tickling me. My already full bladder was threatening to explode and I was getting really worried that I would embarrass myself in front of everyone. But he let me go just in time. Later, I found out that he was the athletics captain of the school. Not the best person to be enemies with.

  Warning 2: Don’t argue with the teachers.

  Although I had promised Mum that I wouldn’t, this did become a favourite pastime of mine those first few days. Be it Physics, Chemistry, Biology or Maths, I had my personal panga with each one of my teachers. However, my nemesis was Wiggie, who taught English Language.

  From the day she first came into class, she had her eyes on me. I could feel the evil vibes from her. And with a subject like English, it was impossible to complain. No matter what I did, ‘There is always room for improvement in English,’ she would sternly say.

  And the fact that she obviously wore a wig didn’t help either. Once, it started to wobble in class and I was the only one to notice it.

  ‘What do you find so funny, new boy?’ she said.

  ‘Nothing, ma’am,’ I said, lying through my teeth, trying hard to control my giggles.

  ‘What is it? Tell me.’

  ‘Nothing…’ I said, stealing a glance at her upper forehead. Unfortunately, she caught me at it.

  ‘You!’ she shrieked and gave me a ‘task’

  I had to write out:

  I will not laugh unnecessarily in class.

  I will not laugh unnecessarily in class.

  I will not laugh unnecessarily in class.

  … five hundred times.

  For the record, Wiggie then excused herself, went to the loo and adjusted her wig. However, with every class, the tasks just kept coming.

  Warning 3: Don’t eat non-veg food.

  It wasn’t my intention to suddenly turn into an omnivore, but…

  Shaibal and Shoaib had seven bucks each, but an egg roll was for twenty. They asked me if they could borrow six bucks off me. But I only had ten for lunch.

  ‘Arrey, no problem, dude,’ they said. ‘We’ll give you one-third!’

  ‘Umm, okay,’ I said. It would have been impossible to tell them that my mum had told me not to eat eggs. I would have become the laughing stock of the school!

  I actually liked it. Other than the fact that it was fried in stale oil, it was quite nice—like paneer.

  The egg rolls turned into omelettes, which then turned into chicken patties, and so it went. In a short while, the canteen dada started hailing me as a popular customer with a fondness for Chicken Manchurian and egg fried-rice.

  Warning 4: Don’t dirty your uniform.

  I had laughed when I saw this one. What did my mother expect me to do? Roll around on the ground between periods?

  But I wasn’t laughing, a few days later, when I marched out with the rest of the class into the sweltering May sun. I looked at the loose, dry dirt with some trepidation. I ploughed the toe of my shoe through it, starting a mini-sandstorm. It was PE class and I was the only one without a mat—the school had a limited supply and our class just happened to have an extra student. Me.

  Before the class, during the tiffin break, everyone except me had gone to the activity coordinator’s room and duly borrowed a mat each. Now they spread them out, in perfect rows and columns, and stood beside them. At a signal from the PE coach, Mr Paanwallah, everyone lay down on his mat and started doing sit-ups.

  I went up to Mr Paanwallah and explained my predicament—I was new and had not known about the mats.

  ‘What?’ he asked, spitting on the field. Little drops of red gunk stained my spanking white shoes. I winced.

  ‘Sir, I don’t have a mat.’

  He gave me an easy solution—‘Do it on the ground.’

  I complied, embarrassed, and rolled around like a pig about to be slaughtered.

  From that day on, I swore, I would be the first to get myself a mat. But I always either forgot or was the last one to go looking for one. So, thrice a week, I rolled on the ground.

  Warning 5: Do your homework on time.

  On time? I couldn’t even do it in the first place.

  Not that I didn’t try—I paid full attention in class while the rest of the boys seemed to be dozing with their eyes open. When the teacher asked us, ‘Who didn’t understand?’ my hand would be up in a trice. The teacher would then exhale slowly, furiously, and proceed to tell me the whole thing again, making each word a sentence. I didn’t dare tell him or her that he or she was not making any sense and should chuck his or her mugged-up notes and explain in plain English. Soon enough, I gained a reputation among the teachers—they thought I was an arrogant little know-it-all who was just wasting their time.

  Was I the only duffer? No one else seemed to have any problems at all in class. Just let them finish the work at home and kazam!—it would turn out perfect. It didn’t take me too long to figure out that they all had back-ups at home. They would just nod their heads in class and then get a tuition teacher to teach it to them all over again.

  Warning 6: Try to showcase your talents.

  But how? I was trying my best, wasn’t I? Teething problems, my mother said. Hah!

  Do you call it a teething problem when the class topper becomes an insignificant
nothing? When a certificate holder becomes a nobody? When the teacher-charmer becomes the teacher’s victim?

  To hell with the academic side, even my extra-curricular activities were suffering. I had varied hobbies—tennis, riding, drums and so on. Drums, in this school, were apparently noise. And there were no horses or tennis courts.

  Warning 7: Make friends with the do-or-die types.

  Apparently, they would influence me better.

  I spent the first ten days of school looking for these people. But around me, I could only see dogs—dogs of different breeds, who formed different packs.

  First, there were the Great Danes. These were people with big personalities. Popular, smart, loved by all. It was impossible to find fault with them. And there was no way that I would gel with their group. I had neither the personality, nor the charm. And honestly speaking, it didn’t look like they wanted to offer me any space in their midst.

  Then there were the Alsatians. They were the leaders— competitive, always first. They were like a bunch of kings in a crowd of commoners. They were full of energy and zest and always sure of themselves. I dumped them because I wasn’t like them. Had they known of my existence, they would probably have dumped me too.

  Next in line were the wild hounds, fierce and mean. They were the ones who bullied others and cheated the most during exams. Scheming and sly, they had an almost criminal temperament. Yet, they were popular and powerful because they were good orators and excellent sportsmen. My conscience would not have allowed me to join this group, even if I had been welcomed with open arms.

  Last, there were the Chihuahuas—the insignificant nothings. They were complete dabboos and people treated them as if they were transparent or something. Anyone could have tossed them a biscuit, and they would have been happy at the attention. This was the last group I wanted to join. Yet, almost by default, it was this group that I was slotted into by everyone else.