Potato Chips

by Anshuman Mohan

  I wanted to be different. I wanted to lead. I wanted to belong. And I hated it, the feeling of not belonging, of being unwanted, invisible.

  When finally attention did come to me, it was not of the pleasant kind.

  ‘Redo?’ I exclaimed the day I was given back my first English assignment at St Xavier’s. ‘What on earth does that mean?’ It was an essay titled ‘Life as a cockroach’. We were going to be judged on the basis of this essay and I was hoping to be chosen to represent the class in the inter-class Albert Barrow Memorial Essay Competition.

  ‘Do it again, you doof!’ my partner muttered.

  ‘Yeah, I figured that out myself. But why?’ ‘I dunno. Ask her.’

  I looked towards the podium. Wassername was still presiding there in all her five-and-a-half-foot glory. With her steely eyes and unnecessarily colourful vocabulary, it would be difficult to argue with her. But I was totally fired up. Wassername rarely gave anyone more than five out of ten, but why on earth would she ask me to redo a paper?

  I mustered up all my courage and went up to the podium. She looked down at me and almost vaporized me with a glare.

  ‘Ma’am?’ I said in my sweetest voice. ‘Ma’am, I don’t understand. What should I do in this essay?’

  ‘Do as you are told,’ she said coldly. Her tone was like that of a very bored newsreader. I stared blankly. ‘REDO!’ she shouted, loud enough for the whole class to hear.

  I looked down at my essay.

  Life as a Cockroach

  I scuttled away from the kitchen door—the maid had finally noticed me and was now advancing, slipper in hand, to squash me to the ground, flat as a pancake. It was only by making a quick dive under a cupboard that I avoided death for the tenth time in the day.

  You would put this paper down if I told you that I spent the whole night resting on it, but—no… don’t do that, it’s not infected or anything! But I have to confront the truth—any human would react just the way you did. He would call me a pest. A dirty thieving, disease-spreading pest.

  However, my entire cockroach community—which is ten times larger than the world’s human population— will agree that all we do is help ourselves to your waste, your garbage. What can we do if our secondary granaries are so unhygienic?

  Nonetheless, you humans will always hate us cockroaches, no matter how much we justify ourselves. You were brought up to believe that we are evil. And you, in turn, have brought up your children on tales which always seem to depict us roaches as perfect fiends.

  Yes, I am a naughty brat. And many of my brothers and sisters are mischievous as well. But what about you? You’ve manufactured the deadliest poisons to give us gruesome deaths while all we’ve done is maybe scared you a little bit because we’re ugly.

  And this question always worries me—would you ever tear off a butterfly’s wings? Why does beauty have to play such an important role always? What about survival of the fittest?

  There were a couple of more paragraphs. Some philosophical stuff about inner beauty and all that. I knew that it wasn’t the best essay in the world. And maybe I wouldn’t be chosen for the competition because someone else in class had written a better essay. But did my essay really deserve a ‘redo’?

  I shrugged in complete bewilderment and went and sat down in my seat. Teething problem, I said to myself.

  It was only later that I realized what the real problem was. It was Moral Science, and Wassername was pacing around, making unsuccessful attempts to hammer values such as friendliness, obedience, honesty, etc., into our bored and tired brains.

  ‘INDEPENDENCE!’ she screamed and threw a piece of chalk at me, disturbing my pleasant mid-class siesta. ‘What do you understand by the term?’

  I mumbled something about 1947, British viceroys, and Lord Mountbatten.

  ‘I see! Is that all independence means to you? Doesn’t doing your homework independently mean anything to you? I know very well that your essay was not your work. It is ridiculous to suggest so. Your parents have aided you in this misdemeanour. They are really the ones to blame, spoiling their kids…’

  I stared in surprise. Wassername seemed to have forgotten that the essay had been classwork and I failed to convince her that I’d sat and done it in class, without help from anyone else. Instead, she basically called me a cheat, a liar, a copycat and a dependent, spoon-fed brat. My place was also changed from the second row to the last row, which not only hindered my work because I could not see over the many tall heads in front of me but also resulted in my utter and complete humiliation in front of the whole class.

  Naturally, I dropped to below zero in the eyes of Wassername. I took it upon myself to write her a killer essay for the upcoming unit test and succeeded. She had no choice but to award me six out of ten and her strutting that day was reduced by a noticeable degree. But still she wouldn’t treat me the same way she treated the star pupils. And the other teachers also kept acting like I was some kind of outcast. Argh, why on earth do teachers have those staffrooom discussions?

  Mum noticed how I had become rather short-tempered and confronted me a few days later.

  ‘What is it? Why are you behaving so differently? Did your friends say something?’ she asked, her voice filled with concern.

  ‘No,’ I snapped. How could I tell her that I had no real friends?

  I became more and more withdrawn every day. I made excuses to not go to school and stopped trying to do well entirely. Why should I bother if there was no one to appreciate my work? What was the point? I started ‘catching fever’ regularly. This was actually very easy to do. Just stand under the sun with a piece of garlic under your armpit and—voila!—you shot up to about 102 F. Mum eventually figured out that I was faking it and put a stop to it, forcing me to drag myself back to school over and over again.

  When I received my first progress report at St Xavier’s, I nearly fainted. Ish, what a shame! I dug out the last report card I had received from Akshar, my old school, and compared this new one with it.

  Marks—all down by about forty per cent. I ignored that. I knew that once the rest of my life was back on track, my grades would improve automatically. What hit me hard was the social behaviour column.

  Akshar St Xavier’s

  Courteous, friendly child. Has to improve.

  Amiable, interactive. Disappointing, weak.

  Attentive, neat, confident. Can do better.

  Self-motivated. Careless, casual.

  Consistent, enthusiastic. Needs to put in more effort.

  It made me feel very low and desolate, but I figured out what would pep me up. It was like a flowchart:

  If I had friends I would like school.

  If I liked school I would like studying.

  If I liked studying I would find my old self again.

  If I found my old self again My problems would be khalaas.

  I challenged myself—within a week, I would make friends. Using time, money, patience and anything else that was necessary, I would ensure that I had many, many friends.

  I started lending out my precious game CDs and movie DVDs. I also gave people a ridiculous number of treats using my pocket money. But soon, I realized that this was not fetching me any friends—it was impossible to buy them. Most of the class didn’t even know me. I was just that kid whose stuff they could borrow or who would buy them chocolates, but I was still just that kid. I could have stood on my head and burped ‘Yankey Doodle’, and they still wouldn’t have remembered my name.

  I had to be diplomatic, strategic and smarter than the rest. I needed to impress my prospective friends and also the teachers.

  A couple of days later, while I was packing my bag for school, my eyes fell on one of the self-help books that Mum was so fond of. Under the title of the book was a quote.

  Winners don’t do different things. They do things differently—Shiv Khera.

  Inside the book was another one.

  Success doesn’t mean the absence of failures; it means the attainmen
t of ultimate objectives. It means winning the war, not every battle—Edwin C. Bliss

  I don’t know who Edwin C. Bliss was, but he sure made my life blissful! I realized that I would have to do extraordinary things using everyday situations. I was in class seven—it wasn’t very likely that I would suddenly have a chance to save someone from a car accident and be hailed as a hero.

  The words ‘do things differently’ kept echoing inside my head like a mantra. Yes, that had to be my goal. I couldn’t afford to wait for opportunities—I would have to take a chance. I would have to challenge myself and take advantage of ordinary, everyday situations to shine. Soon, I’d found the perfect opportunity.

  We had been assigned a project on the ancient Egyptian civilization. I would handle this with a difference, I decided. I would do something that St Xavier’s had never seen before. It was going to be a risk, but it would be worth taking.

  The rules laid out for the project were:

  1. Use an interleaved bootlace file.

  2. Cover it with brown paper.

  3. The text should be handwritten.

  4. Demonstrate text with pictures.

  I crushed the sheet of paper on which I had made this note and chucked it into the bin. I made new rules for myself.

  1. Creative presentation.

  2. Innovative and interesting.

  3. Clearly understandable.

  4. Do the same thing differently.

  I would show these bigshots once and for all what new things a new boy from a small school could do.

  I wondered for a moment if what I was about to do was wise. But then, what did I care? I had nothing to lose, anyway.

  Here is how I went about doing Project Egypt.

  First, I typed out a letter. This was addressed to me, an official at the Archaeological Survey of India, and had been sent by the Archaeological Survey of Egypt. The Egyptians had supposedly uncovered a new tomb at the Valley of the Kings and wanted to employ my expert services to deduce the identity of the mummy. I printed this out and sealed it in an envelope. I also stamped it with an ‘official’ Egyptian seal.

  Then I Googled pharaonic history and read up much more than what was expected from us for the project. I printed out some of the more interesting info and put it into a file labelled ‘Reference’.

  After that, I called up three travel agents.

  Tring! Tring!

  ‘Hello?’ said a gruff voice. ‘This is SOTC.’

  ‘Hi, I am Mrs Malhotra,’ I said in a falsetto I had practised beforehand. ‘I want to make a trip to Egypt, maybe during summer. Could you please help me with the details?’

  The overeager man on the line asked me to pick up pamphlets on the ‘wide range of offers’ from his office.

  ‘Sure,’ I screeched. ‘I’ll send my son Aman over to pick them up tomorrow.’

  Two more calls and one ‘collection’ trip later, I was the proud owner of an armload of beautiful, glossy pictures, loads of info and the knowledge that I had pehnaoed topi to three of the most reputed travel agents in town.

  Next, I got hold of loads of craft material from my sister and made a passport with a visa and a boarding pass. I also made several long lists of tools, instruments and cameras that I would ‘need’ for my ‘research’.

  Then, using all the information I had, I made a file with short notes and interesting facts about Egypt. I wrote about all the Ramseses, the hieroglyphics, Khufu, Tutenkhamen and the temples of Luxor and Karnak. I described the amazing pyramids and obelisks and did a study of the Nile, then and now, with a special mention of the Aswan High Dam.

  As the finishing touch, I loaded everything into a box, which I covered with fake rexine to make it look like a suitcase. Once I had added a handle, a lock and a baggage tag, it looked like a typical tourist/businessman’s bag.

  After several hours of elbow grease, I had a spanking new project on Egypt!

  On the day of submission, I travelled to school with my suitcase. I began to experience the magic even before reaching our destination since my co-carpoolers were curious about what I was carrying. I told them and immediately we started chatting—something that had never happened before. However, it didn’t help when they all warned me that I was going to get a jhaar. The same thing happened with my classmates as well.

  ‘Submit your work,’ announced Reebok, the History teacher. ‘In order of your roll numbers, you will come up to my desk and give in your files.’

  ‘… No. 22, No. 23…’

  I went up to him as my number was called and placed the suitcase on his desk, the handle sticking up. Since he was sitting down, it blocked his view of the class.

  Cocking his head to one side and peering around the box, he said, ‘Is this some kind of joke? Where is your bootlace file?’

  ‘Inside this, sir,’ I said, my voice ringing out for the whole class to hear. Reebok was still glaring in confusion, so I tapped the box and handed him the key to the lock. ‘Inside,’ I said again.

  The whole class giggled and Reebok grabbed the key from my hand savagely. Grinding his teeth in anger, he was about to throw the key into the dustbin when I shouted, ‘Sir, stop!’ My words came out in a rush. ‘In my old school, we were taught to be creative. You may not like this, perhaps, but I wanted to show you…’

  ‘So you are trying to teach the teacher!’ Reebok yelled.

  ‘No, sir! If you want just the file, it’s inside this box. But, sir, I wanted to do the same thing differently…’

  ‘Baap re!’ said a student behind me. ‘You! Stand up,’ ordered Reebok. ‘Sir… I…’ he stuttered. ‘I was only saying that this was quite a good idea.’

  Up came another hand. It was Ankit. ‘Sir, sorry for the interruption,’ he said. ‘But I think you should take a look at Aman’s project. I come from the same school as him and his projects were always great. Once—’

  ‘Shut up!’ Reebok cried. He was angry and frustrated. Two students were standing in support of my outrageous project! By then, though, the box was open and he had started fiddling with my stuff. He looked pretty engrossed.

  ‘Sir, please let us see it too,’ said Sameer. He was one of the class toppers. He was ordered to stand as well.

  Just then, the bell rang for lunch. The class remained totally silent as Reebok continued to study my work. It was only when the boys from other sections started peering in, curious about the suitcase, that Reebok looked up, locked my suitcase and marched out with it. Siddhu and Sohan dutifully collected the rest of the projects and ran after him.

  I didn’t know what Reebok thought of my project or what he would tell the other teachers, but my classmates had formed quite an opinion. ‘You shook him up, man!’ yelled one guy. ‘Good work!’ said another. ‘Kya guts hai!’ cheered someone else.

  That day, the class took notice of me. And the reward for all my efforts was three new friends—Rohan (the first speaker), Sameer and Ankit. Almost immediately, school seemed to become a more pleasant place. I didn’t totally adjust and become part of the Xavier’s family in a second, but at least I had made friends with whom I would be able crack jokes, exchange ideas and chill out, friends who admired me.

  Four

  Lines and Angles

  The friendship between Rohan, Ankit, Sameer and me deepened over time. We hung out together, bunked classes together and, of course, got into trouble together. Owing to our frequent phone calls to one another, even our parents became part of the whirlwind that our friendship was and got to know each other. We started going to one another’s houses, even though we lived in different parts of the city. Sometimes, we even stayed over at night. That was how I found myself travelling down Southern Avenue to Ankit’s place a few days after the ‘drums’ incident.

  Ankit was a short, dark chap from a Punjabi family. His dark complexion was in stark contrast to that of his folks—it was probably from playing football for hours under the sun. Ankit was the ultimate football fan. The English Premier League was the programme of ch
oice in his room and the walls were plastered with posters of his heroes—Pele, Ronaldo, Zidane, Ronaldinho and Beckham. We called him ‘Baichung’ when we played football and he was also revered as the undisputed encyclopaedia of all things football. When he wasn’t actually playing, he spent hours trying to master various versions of the FIFA computer games.

  Ankit had an elder sister, Anoushka, who was studying in second year at Loreto House. She was one of those uber-cool ‘toppers’ and Ankit took a lot of help from her in his studies and his stuff was always a cut above ours. Provided it was a home assignment, that is! We were sure that Anoushka Didi was responsible for this and we teased him mercilessly about this, yelling, ‘Not fair!’

  When I reached Ankit’s house, it was deserted as promised. Ankit’s parents and Didi were away and so we had planned a slumber party to celebrate the beginning of our summer vacations. Rohan and Ankit had already started their celebrations without me and were madly playing FIFA 2010. Sameer was lounging around, flipping through a magazine.

  ‘Cheers!’ we cried in unison, clinking our glasses of ‘booze’ (Coke and Mirinda) together. We planned to spend the entire night in sleepover mode —making prank calls, ringing the doorbells of the neighbours and running away, ordering pizza on other people’s behalf… that kind of thing.

  ‘Wow!’ I exclaimed, jabbing Rohan in the ribs a while later.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell us before?’

  We had played loads of games and watched a lot of TV before having dinner. Now the room was in near darkness and we were all hunched together on Ankit’s bed. Rohan had just announced that he was going to the US the next week.

  ‘Will you go to Orlando? Sameer asked. ‘That’s where all the action is, you know. Be sure to go to Disneyland!’

  ‘Will you go to Manhattan?’ Ankit asked.

  ‘What about Times Square?’ I chipped in.

  ‘Will you see where Marilyn Monroe lived?