Potato Chips

by Anshuman Mohan

  ‘Make sure you go to Beverly Hills!

  ‘What will you eat there? They only eat fast food…’

  ‘Don’t run after girls in bikinis—you’ll still get Indian-style jhaar over there!’

  The questions and suggestions just kept coming. We gave him a lot of gyan about the places he was going to visit even though we hardly knew anything about them. We even planned his entire itinerary for him and gave him a list of things that each of us wanted.

  ‘Carry Fair & Lovely’s photograph with you,’ Ankit joked. ‘In case you miss her!’

  ‘Chup raho! Ma jaisi hai!’ Sameer scolded.

  We all laughed and I chucked a pillow at him. Soon, a full-fledged pillow fight had started.

  It was in the middle of this that I suddenly realized how different our lives were, despite the fact that we had become such fast friends in such a short time. I was going to Mussoorie, Rohan to the US, and Sameer to Kathmandu to attend his cousin’s wedding. Ankit would stay in Kolkata and kill time playing football at the Maidan. We had common interests and similar ideas about fun, but our backgrounds and lifestyles were vastly different. In all likelihood, our aims in life were also completely unlike each other’s. I felt a pang as I realized that we would be travelling very different paths in life later on, but I resolutely pushed the thought away. I had friends and we were having fun. That was all that mattered. Besides, I had a vacation to look forward to!

  The vacation was as fantastic as I had imagined it would be. Mussoorie is the most beautiful place in the world. The golden sunrise at dawn, the hills bathed in the colours of the rainbow, the narrow roads which snaked up and down the hills, hardly broad enough for two cars at a time, the lotus-eyed women and beautiful, shyly smiling children, the gardens, the ropeways, the waterfalls, the enormous snow-capped mountains in the distance—all of it was simply awesome!

  The flights to and back from Delhi were mind-numbingly boring. I occupied myself by repeatedly ringing the bell for the attendant and pretending to be asleep when she reached my seat, continuously reclining my seat back and forth and annoying the hell out of the poor souls sitting behind me, tapping a bald guy in front of me on the head and ducking under my seat when he turned to look, spilling my neighbour’s drink accidentally-on-purpose. Juvenile, I know, but a chap’s gotta do what a chap’s gotta do to keep himself entertained!

  I discovered that everyone in north India loves Himesh Reshammiya and agarbatti. From the car to the dhaba to the hotel reception—the sound and smell was enough to drive me insane. But north Indian food is the best. Hot rotis, generously buttered, and spicy curries and lassi— yum!

  I also learnt that it is NOT a good idea to not go to the loo before starting on a long car ride. Thankfully, this was not something I had to suffer myself—I learnt, secondhand, from my sister’s experience as we travelled the many miles to Mussoorie. Her face was scrunched up and her eyes were threatening to overflow with tears by the time we reached our destination.

  I realized how strongly attached I had grown to my new school in the short time that I had been there when we stopped in Dehra Dun to buy some Coke and altitude sickness pills. There were several guys dressed in a very smart uniform who were wandering about. They were, we discovered, students of Doon School, one of the best-known schools in India. My first thought on seeing them was that no matter how many movie stars or politicians the school could claim as its alumni, it just couldn’t compare with my alma mater, Xavier’s!

  We stayed at the Kasmanda Palace, one of the oldest buildings in Mussoorie and an exclusive heritage hotel. Awed by the grandeur of the place, I looked enquiringly at my dad. ‘This is to celebrate your admission,’ he said. ‘What do you think?’ My father had dedicated this trip to me, I thought in joy as I walked in through the grand entrance, feeling like a prince. Dad looked more cheerful than he had in a long time and Mum looked prettier than ever before. Later, once we had explored the palace thoroughly, I was finally able to express my feelings. Looking down at the magnificent view of the Dun valley nestled below us, I raised my arms in the classic Titanic pose and yelled, ‘Geronimoooo!’

  On our last day, my parents made one of my long-time dreams come true by taking me to Lal Tibba to meet Ruskin Bond. However, it was six in the morning and Mr Bond did not seem too pleased about gawking tourists barging in on him before he had even properly woken up. But I was ecstatic. Hundreds of people had interviewed him and got his autograph—but how many could claim the extraordinary honour of having been scolded by him for disturbing his peace? ‘YES!’ I cried in delight as we made our way out of his house and started on the long journey that would take us back home.

  I was the first of the gang to get home. Sameer would be back in two days and Rohan would return only after another week. Ankit, of course, had been in Kolkata.

  Tring! Tring!

  ‘Hello, Aunty. Is Ankit there?’

  ‘Oh, Aman! So you’re back. How was Mussoorie?’

  ‘It was awesome, Aunty! You all should go there too.’

  Aunty called Ankit, but I had a sneaking suspicion that she stayed on the line with another handset. This, I have found, is a custom with many mothers. They hold their breath, clutch the mouthpiece and listen intently. I really can’t figure out what they mean by it.

  ‘Hi, dude! How’s life?’ I said, glad to hear Ankit’s voice again.

  ‘Great! How was the trip?’

  ‘It was amazing. The air was so fresh and crisp up there! I’m missing it already.’

  ‘You should be glad you weren’t here. It hardly ever rained and it was so hot that I nearly got heatstroke twice. I played a lot of football. I’ve tanned so much—I look like an African!’

  ‘Oh. By the way, I bought you a set of elbow and shin guards. Why don’t you come over?’

  ‘Actually, I can’t,’ Ankit said. ‘I was cycling and my chain came off and got stuck in the fender. I was thrown off. My knees are not in good shape—I skidded for about three feet on the road.’

  I promised I’d drop in and visit him. This sort of thing was not uncommon with Ankit, our rough-and-tough He-Man.

  I realized I was missing my friends. I ignored my mother’s attempts to make me unpack though she yelled her lungs out. She added beta at the end of every sentence she spoke in the hope that I would comply. It’s so typical of all mothers—outstation, they are heavenly sweet, but when we reach home, they turn into shrieking fiends! I turned a deaf ear to her demands, ate breakfast and took a short, cold shower. I left my clothes strewn about, said goodbye to my dad as he left for office and then got down to the best possible time-pass.

  From: rohan.hunk.soccer@yahoo.com

  To: aman.007@gmail.com

  Subject: Hi!

  Hi, dude, wassup?

  I’m chilling.

  US is kewl!

  Life here rox.

  Heat in cal sux.

  No pollution here.

  Tell u more l8r.

  How was trip?

  C u soon.

  This strange mail was followed by the most amazing pictures I had ever seen. Rohan wearing the classic white Elvis jacket and jeans, posing with Princess Diana. Rohan wearing the classic white Elvis jacket and jeans, posing with Julia Roberts. Rohan wearing the classic white Elvis jacket and jeans, posing with Angelina Jolie. Rohan wearing the classic white Elvis jacket and jeans, posing with Jennifer Lopez.

  I sent him an email in response.

  From: aman.007@gmail.com

  To: rohan.hunk.soccer@yahoo.com

  Subject: Congrats!

  Congrats on meeting all those celebs! Did u take their autographs too? They must be really sexy. Haha, u duffer!

  Meeting sculptures from Madame Tussauds must be very satisfying! Take more convincing pics next time.

  C u soon.

  PS: Learn how to model.

  Rohan was easily the wealthiest of the gang. Not that he discussed his father’s income with us or anything, but we could tell. Rohan’s father ha
d something to do with tea estates near Darjeeling. He came to school in a big car, threw birthday parties at chic restaurants and treated us to snacks at the canteen every second day. Of course, we would have been willing to Dutch the cost… but if it made him happy, who were we to complain?

  I looked at the second email in my inbox.

  From: sameer.bookworm@hotmail.com

  To: aman.007@gmail.com

  Subject: None

  Hi, Aman, how was ur trip? I’m writing this from a cyber café. The wedding went well. I didn’t like my kurta-pajama because it made me look like the groom! I went to Bhaktapur and had fun there. I could even see Mt Everest from my room!!! It is always covered in ice, but the mountains near it keep changing their colours all the time because of the snow.

  Bye. See you in three days!

  Sameer was a tall, well-built fellow who looked like he was in class twelve. He was actually a gentle giant who couldn’t harm a fly. His sense of humour was non-existent at times, but he was a good listener, a genuine friend and a big help to all of us. He was in all the teachers’ good books despite his involvement with us. He had been the class topper until Sriniwasan came along—now, Sameer stood second in class. He lived in an old haveli in Burra Bazaar. His was a huge joint family, consisting of countless uncles, aunts and cousins. He often told us how close he was to his grandmother who always pampered him and could take credit for a large portion of his portly frame.

  While I smiled in amusement, appreciating how each person’s writing style reflected his character, I could hear the usual post-holiday ruckus in the background. Namely, Mum yelling her lungs out, calling out instructions to everyone. There was this huuuge pile of tiny bottles in the middle of the dining table. From cheap skin talc to aloe vera and henna shampoos, there was every conceivable cosmetic in that stack. Portable shaving kit, toothbrush, dental floss, even small bottles of gin and vodka—you name it, we got it. Technically, it wasn’t stealing. We’d paid for the room after all. So it was perfectly within our rights to sweep away all the toiletries from the bathroom and call for two more bottles of everything. And instead of taking one apple from the buffet breakfast, we could take more… say, six? It was simple. They rip us off, we rip right back! Smuggling all this stuff out had been easy enough, despite the alarming increase in weight of all our suitcases. The real headache started when we returned home. All the ‘taken, not stolen’ items had to be sorted out!

  Our maid hadn’t turned up—she had apparently ‘misinterpreted’ our date of return and would only be coming back to work after another week. So we were stuck with three suitcases filled with stinky clothes and rotting home-cooked snacks. Worst of all, the house itself was dusty and unkempt, as if we hadn’t lived in it for a year rather than a week. As a result, my poor mother had been pushed into overdrive. And my sister was bearing the brunt of her frustration.

  ‘Aditi, don’t tell me that your head is aching. I’ve been telling you to drink your juice for the last hour and you’ve not listened to me. If you don’t eat anything, you’re bound to get gas. The point of this entire vacation was that it would make everyone feel rejuvenated, and here you are, making yourself sick…’ Mum’s voice rose in an angry crescendo.

  I knew that the yelling was going to turn to me soon. I hadn’t done any work either and my untouched glass of orange juice was lying around somewhere. Just as I started looking for something to busy my hands with, the darwaan came in and dumped a week’s worth of newspapers at my mother’s feet.

  ‘I’ll take care of these, Mum!’ I said, hurriedly shutting down the computer and pretending to be useful.

  I started with a postmortem of the newspapers. Skimming the headlines, looking through the sports section and cutting out interesting articles to pin up on my softboard. I also took out the pages with comics to devour later. But within fifteen minutes, I had managed to add to my mother’s ire. Someone had left the fan on and the entire room was now littered with large chunks of week-old news.

  As I ran around trying to gather the sheets up, I noticed that most of the news was about the appalling situation in Nandigram, a village in Bengal whose name I hadn’t heard of before. Curious, I collected the ‘local’ sections of all the newspapers. Ugly pictures stared up at me. The blank eyes of a dead farmer. A deserted street, signs of wreckage everywhere. Vandalized houses, their occupants missing. A group of teenage village kids wielding guns. Shocked, I hurriedly read through the articles.

  Over the last week, Nandigram had apparently become a battleground of sorts. The government had sanctioned some farmland in the area to a foreign chemical company, under the SEZ policy. The farmers and villagers had protested. This had led to repeated clashes with the police. Politicians, poets, writers, academics and artists had made various protests. However, one fateful night, the police had unleashed a torrent of terror, killing fourteen people and injuring and maiming many more. The police were also being accused of removal of evidence—they had allegedly disposed of many other bodies and not included them in the official count.

  I was speechless with horror. While I had been living it up in my dreamy world of hills and hotels, so much violence and terror had erupted so close to home! All of Kolkata was crippled by strikes and dharnas.

  ‘Back to your routine!’ screamed my mother before I could read any further. I didn’t dare reason with her in her current mood—she would find out about the situation soon enough.

  After my seven days in heaven, I had to go straight back to those horizontal grids that I called my life. I was expected to literally draw out a holiday timetable, making forty-five-minute slots for all the activities I was involved in. From ‘practise drums’ to ‘go cycling’ to meals and rest, every minute had to be accounted for. Although it was the vacation and studies would invariably take a backseat, I was all set to follow my holiday routine just as religiously as a real school timetable.

  So the next day, guided by my timetable, I woke up at six-thirty to the tune of my alarm clock. I was due for a game of tennis with my coach Tapan Sir at seven. A while later, therefore, I found myself jogging onto the tennis courts of the Kolkata Tennis Club, lugging my huge Wilson Tour kit bag. Unfortunately, the courts were deserted when I got there. There were neither members nor ball boys, nor even a coach or marker to play against. I jogged, did my warm-up excercises, played against a wall and practised serving a few times—all very unsatisfactory attempts to kill time.

  It was then that I met Shubho. Not that I hadn’t seen him earlier—I had just never bothered to get to know him. Tapan Sir had been my marker ever since I could remember. He was a bit on the short side, but was an energetic and cheerful man. He wasn’t a pro, but he knew his game well. He had even picked up some Hinglish and often called out ‘Good game!’ or ‘Perfect shot!’ or ‘Try harder!’ in response to my playing. Shubho was Tapan Sir’s son. He was short, dark and tough looking. I had always found it rather irritating that he hung around the courts all the time while a game was on.

  ‘Would you like to play with me?’ he asked, his voice sweet and soft in startling contrast to his tough-guy appearance.

  I looked at him, my nose in the air. I had never really seen Shubho play. Although he was the marker’s son, he never ball-picked as was customary. He was always just mooching around the court.

  ‘Oookay,’ I said without enthusiasm. I had nothing better to do, anyway. He probably wanted to knock the balls back over the net after I had served. Many ball boys had been trained to use a racquet to throw back the served ball since it saved time. So I went over to my side and served flat out. It was a good serve and I was sure Shubho wouldn’t be able to reach it.

  ‘Wham!’

  I was momentarily stunned as the return came. I ducked instinctively, hoping to dodge the ball. I hadn’t even seen it after Shubho hit it. It had obviously landed perfectly. (0-15).

  I served. Shubho returned with a crosscourt. I retaliated, hitting towards the other side of the court. He ran to the ball at ama
zing speed. I had anticipated a hard shot and had moved back. Shubho tapped the ball, making it land just before the net. I couldn’t reach it. He had disguised his drop-shot!

  The points came thick and fast. Rather, they went. Shubho didn’t play your average game. He played with his mind. He had no detectable pattern, though he made me run and reach out for each return. (0-40).

  Shubho served. I lobbed it over his head, taking advantage of his height. He ran back and, by some magic, hit it. The ball landed on the line. I hit the ball very hard, down the line. Shubho couldn’t reach it.

  So that was his weakness. I smiled to myself. Tire Shubho out using my height advantage, then hit a winner. It wasn’t the best of strategies, and mostly ineffective, but it was the only chink I could find in an otherwise impregnable armour.

  A very tiring half-hour later, we walked back. The game had been interrupted by the court in-charge who told us that we weren’t allowed to play any longer at a stretch— other members were waiting by now. I had been thrashed by Shubho. He had defeated me six games to one, a very embarrassing defeat indeed. He was at least three years younger than me! I shook hands with him like a proper sportsperson. He seemed fresh, I was exhausted. Even my brand new Wilson bag and racquet seemed to mock me— Shubho had used his father’s half-broken racquet. I walked out of the court feeling utterly hopeless and frustrated.

  The next seven days were a blur. I was bored enough to actually miss school. However, the highlight of every day of the week was my morning tennis sessions. I’d get up before the alarm could coax me to do so, get ready and rush to the club. Shubho would be waiting, having unofficially taken over his father’s job and become my resident tennis companion.

  Shubho taught me lot, but not in the conventional sense. Technically, all he did was play against me and thrash me every day. He didn’t even give me pointers or advice. But playing against him taught me to love the game. Playing wasn’t a burden for him. After every winner, his face would break into a smile. At every loss, he would go all glum as if he were feeling actual physical pain. When he hit a huge winner, biceps and triceps contracting and expanding, it was as if he was celebrating his freedom. The freedom to do what he liked. When he ran all over the court, somehow hitting balls that did not look humanly reachable, it was as if he were laughing at my rigid, immovable, grid-like timetable. And when he stuck the ball deep into my court, forcing me to give him a volley—which he then swatted away like it was a fly—he was all power, all fury, all beauty. He was free as a bird and he was celebrating life, living every moment of his game to the full.