Although Shubho and I shared no social or cultural background, I developed a sort of bond with him. Despite our obvious communication gap, since he spoke in Bengali and I in Hindi, he became a part of my ‘very important people in my life’ list.
I wanted to be friends with him, but it wasn’t really possible. He had the full right to live life just like anyone else, but the fact remained that he was a marker’s son and I was the son of a member. How could I invite him to join me in the shamiana for a glass of lemonade after the game, like I would have done with any other friend? Though he was always well-dressed, wearing immaculate tennis sneakers, a white T-shirt and shorts, it just wasn’t the done thing to hang out with the ‘serving staff’. In the rarefied, colonial hierarchy of the club, with its mashed potatoes, made-to-order omelettes, free-flowing alcohol and foreign-dignitary visits, the well-clad golfers who littered the club would not even dream of offering refreshments to the caddies waiting to carry their branded golf clubs around! For most of the people who worked and played here, it would be plain wrong for a an exalted member’s son to befriend a humble marker’s son.
So I often gave the glorified hut a bunk and went straight home, afraid that Shubho might feel bad if he saw me chilling out there, aware that if he were to venture in, he might just be asked to leave.
Five
Back to the Grind
The days flew past. Except for my niggling sense of guilt and confusion for not being able to treat Shubho the same way I would treat my other friends, I had not a care in the world. But just as I was starting to feel as if I could live like this forever, reality came crashing down.
Oh, shit, the summer assignment! How could I have forgotten?
Tring! Tring!
‘Hello, Sameer? Have you started your assignment?’
‘Yes. Finished as well,’ came the reply.
I panicked and hung up.
Tring! Tring!
‘Hey, Ankit, have you started your assignment?’
‘Yeah. Finished yesterday.’
That nearly gave me a heart attack.
Tring! Tring!
‘Hello, Rohan. Don’t tell me you’ve finished your assignment?’
‘Started. I’ll finish in an hour.’
That killed me.
The next few days passed in a flurry of activity. I had no time for relaxation, games—or anything but the pointless assignment. Hours and hours of work. With my Egyptian project, I had set some standards that I wanted to adhere to. I wanted to be a consistent performer, not a fluke. I didn’t even have time to go and tell Shubho that my school was soon going to start and that I wouldn’t be able to play any more. I knew that he would wait for me, but it just wasn’t possible to contact him.
School reopened with a bang. Some changes had taken place during the holidays:
• Construction work had begun at the far end of the school. Nine trees had been chopped down. It became a standing joke that Mrs Mitra, the EVS teacher, was going to lead a rebellion.
• The entire school had been painted a sickly yellow.
• Our classes now sported pictures of Jesus Christ.
• Rohan had changed his hairstyle. He had probably got his hair cut in the US. It was also dyed a little bit. However, when he played and started to sweat, it turned the colour of catsick. No one was envious then!
• Sriniwasan looked like he had studied for long hours. He now wore thick glasses and looked like a professor.
• Santosh owned a new shirt which was spotless white. He looked happy.
Some things, of course, never change:
• Fair & Lovely hadn’t grown any taller.
• Ankit had managed to maintain his record of not doing his holiday homework, apart from the special summer assignment—I was the only murga in that department.
• My carpool reached late as usual and I was given ‘lines’ as a task.
• Madras-Calcutta had cleaned the teacher’s desk and chair—probably with their own saliva.
Some drab and boooring periods came and went while we eagerly waited for the break. We hadn’t had a chance to grill Rohan about his US trip yet. And we were eager to see what he had brought back for us. When the bell finally rang for break, we gathered around his desk. I quickly poured out the entire story of my trip. Thanks to Ankit, soon the entire class knew that Ruskin Bond had scolded me while half asleep.
Next, Sameer told us about his Kathmandu trip. ‘You know, the airport there is sooo beautiful, it was like a museum. And wherever you go, you can see the Himalayas. I had actually forgotten that the Himalayas are in Nepal and not in India! We all stayed at amazing hotels because their currency is weaker than ours. I even played at the casino. I won twenty whole rupees!’ We were suitably impressed. He had bought some chhurpi—goat’s-milk cheese—there and brought a few chunks to share with us. We all bit into it eagerly. And spat it out with equal enthusiasm. It had no flavour and was hard as rock. But no problem, it would serve adequately as ammunition for our chalk fights.
Then came the centrepiece, the main attraction— drumroll please!—HRH Rohan the Great, Conqueror of the US, Captivator of Hollywood Actresses, told us of his exploits. He had slept through ‘The City That Never Sleeps’ due to severe jetlag. He had got lost in some gigantic shopping mall complex, broken a crystal piece in the Corning Glass Museum and had nearly gone over the edge at the Niagara Falls. The only place where he hadn’t messed up was Sin City itself—Las Vegas. It seemed that the USA-love fever had not infected him yet and he made fun of all the places he had visited. ‘How can you enjoy when all you get to eat is junk?’ Rohan complained. ‘I don’t believe I’m saying this, but I got bored of pizzas, salads and burgers.’ Carrying a backpack while sightseeing and eating meals on the run was apparently not his idea of fun.
To our utter disappointment, Rohan had not got us any presents. No original Nike or Adidas merchandise, no super-cool games or gadgets, no postcards from the places he had visited. He gave Ankit a Statue of Liberty crown, me the torch and Sameer the ‘tablet’. They were all made of a flimsy, light plastic the colour of rusted copper. What a cheapskate, I thought. One three-piece gift to be distributed among three people!
Ankit the Enthu snatched the stuff from us and put it all on. ‘I am the kachra Statue of Liberty,’ he proclaimed in a gruff Obama-style voice.
‘What the bloody hell is this? Did you find it on a street or something?’ we yelled at Rohan.
‘As a matter of fact, that’s the best quality maal I could afford. It’s all “Made in China” stuff. All the real stuff is made in China there. The counterfeits are “Made in USA”. Dollars are damn expensive, yaar.’
We didn’t buy that story.
‘Just shut up!’ I growled at him. I knew he was pulling our leg.
Soon, the bell for the next period rang and we hurried back to our places, hastily spitting out the gum we were chewing.
Our History classes with Reebok always seemed never-ending. The old buffalo insisted on telling us unimportant dates and intricate details about wars that were waged hundreds of years ago. Plus, according to him, every blinking incident that had ever occurred since the beginning of time had somehow led to World War I. What about the incidents that took place after the war, you might ask. They caused WWII, of course. It seemed to me that he possessed every encyclopaedia in the world and knew them by heart. His strange nickname had come about because he wore a Reebok tee to school every single day. He was tall, thin and fair and there was a rumour that he was of Italian ancestry. But man, the guy was strict! He always carried a wooden ruler with him and did not hesitate to land you a rap on the head. No one dared to whisper during his class. He didn’t mind if we dropped off to sleep. But talking, that was a crime worthy of any number of punishments! So the norm for us was to just sit at our desks and doze without worrying about anything—the worry would come two weeks before the exams.
Today was no exception. But suddenly, my sound mid-class siesta was distu
rbed by a very loud fart. From the sudden hush in the buzz that we could hear from the other class, I was sure that the boys there must have heard it as well. After a moment, we all burst into peals of laughter and pointed fingers at each other.
‘He did it!’
‘He did it!’
‘HE DID IT!’
The voices grew louder with every repeat of the statement.
‘Harsh, why did you eat so much Hajmola?’ I cried, leaping onto my bench and pointing at a plump boy. Everyone burst into laughter again.
Pretty soon, an acrid, filthy smell spread through the class and reached our nostrils. The entire class degenerated into utter chaos. Seeing the ruckus, Reebok lost his temper. A smart tap from his scale landed on the knuckles of everyone within striking range and cries of ‘ouch’ and ‘oww’ replaced the laughter. We sat quietly again, but everyone was on full alert for the rest of the period. Even Reebok seemed surprised by our sudden passion for History. All we felt, however, was a passion for finding out who had farted! And by the end of the period, every one was at the edge of his seat.
The bell rang and we hurriedly started investigating. ‘Did you eat baked beans for breakfast?’ I asked Sameer.
‘Nope.’
I skipped over to Sriniwasan.
Suddenly, Rohan called us together and explained. ‘It was me.’
‘Ish!’ I made a face. ‘What, is your stomach upset from all the junk?’
‘No, you fool!’ Rohan said. ‘It was a P-R-A-N-K.’ He was speaking slowly, as if we were all several marbles short of normalcy. ‘The smell and sound were both pranks. What, do you think I only bought that Statue of Liberty stuff? I kept a farting pillow on Harsh’s seat and the fatso nearly burst it with his butt. Then I used a dung bomb for the smell. Fancy or what?’
‘Cool!’ we said in unison, thumping Rohan on the back. I had only ever dreamt of visiting prank shops and fooling everyone.
‘Now, we are moving to Plan B,’ Rohan said. ‘I’m going to embarrass that pig so much that he’ll never dare to bully anyone again.’
We all yearned to assist him in this mission, but Rohan forbade us from doing or saying anything. ‘This is my day,’ he said, with a wicked smile and an evil laugh. ‘Muahahaha! Muahahaha!’
The next period was F&L’s. The class stood respectfully at attention as she clicked in. We wished her good morning, then sat down and started rummaging for our Biology books. The moment Harsh sat down, however, he let out a yell and stood up again. All eyes turned to him. And as if on cue, Rohan sprang up.
‘Ma’am, he has some brown, sticky substance spread all over the seat of his pants,’ he announced in a loud, disgusted voice.
‘It’s shit!’ yelled Harsh’s closest neighbour. Soon, the entire class was in chaos all over again. F&L restored order to the class with some sharp words, but everyone gave Harsh funny glances and kept snickering until she gave him permission to go wash up. She was grimacing herself.
At the end of the period, the entire class gathered around Harsh and teased him until he was close to tears. He ran out of the class and we laughed in delight. Harsh was a terrible bully who was always making the junior kids cry. It was good to see him suffer the same fate.
‘It was a samosa,’ Rohan said gleefully. ‘I put it on his bench when he was stood up to wish F&L. This prank stuff from the US is good, but I’m telling you, bro, sometimes, desi maal is the best…’
The next day, however, was not a good day. Harsh had cribbed to Father Prefect and brought his parents to school with him. We spent the whole day being lectured by all the teachers and writing lines while Harsh made faces at us and smiled smugly.
It was good to be back in school. However, even while playing these pranks and hanging out with my friends, I was all too aware of how I was missing out on my morning tennis sessions with Shubho. The momentary fun I had from these silly pranks was nothing compared to the deep satisfaction I received from sweating it out in the sun and feeling my muscles burn. I missed watching Shubho play his beautiful game, unconcerned by anything else, enjoying life.
All the time, the guilt of not having told him I was going back to school ate at me.
Six
Manmade Disasters
‘Where?’
‘Ballygunge.’
‘So that’s good, no? It’s a better locality. Less traffic, less noise—’
‘No. Nothing is better! I was born here. All my cousins, uncles, aunts… they all live here. What is the point? I already have a home. Why would I need another?’
Sameer’s life had suddenly taken a sharp turn and I was worried about him.
‘Did they have a fight?’ I asked.
‘I dunno. Mum and Dad never tell me anything. They just came home and announced that we were moving.’
‘You won’t leave school, will you?’
‘I don’t think so. Dad was in Xavier’s too. I’ll probably remain here.’
‘What about Dadi? Where will she go?’
At this, Sameer nearly started crying. ‘Six months here and six months there.’
Sameer had always been very close to his grandmother. He was the apple of her eye. Dadi was an extraordinary person. Ever since the death of her husband, she had been on her own. Sameer had told us that she had been heiress to a massive property, but it had all been lost over the years. She was old now, but if you looked at her, you could see clearly her courage and the spirit of mischief she must have possessed in her youth. Sameer often spent his evenings discussing the day with Dadi and she knew everything there was to know about him. It seemed a pity that this wonderful old lady was going to be tossed around like a volleyball based on the whims and fancies of her sons.
I could see the pain in Sameer’s eyes. Although his enormous joint family often had conflicts and differences, he had always ignored them and counted on his relatives, especially Dadi, for support. This split would shatter him. I hoped and prayed that at least his studies would not suffer. But first things first—my buddy needed some cheering up.
‘Chal, yaar,’ I said. ‘Let’s go get you a treat. What about CCD?’ I had been saving up my pocket money for ages, all for this one moment of bliss—a perfect, yummy, sizzling brownie from Café Coffee Day.
Sameer looked at me, clearly tempted.
‘Relax, yaar,’ I said. ‘My treat. We don’t have to Dutch it.’
That convinced him. ‘Okay, whatever,’ he muttered.
This worked for me. Sameer did not have a sweet tooth. So while he would jabber away, pouring out all his troubles to me, I would indulge in a large, gooey, chocolate-sauce drenched walnut brownie with ice-cream all by myself. At the end of the outing, he would feel lighter and I would feel satisfied.
Once, I had gone into CCD alone. Hardly had I ordered, than I noticed the row of my carpool friends. They looked at me, pranced about and mouthed, ‘Waiting for your girlfriend?’ over and over again. Needless to say, the brownie tasted like shit that day. Getting a takeaway was not an option either. I had tried it once and someone had whisked the large and painfully colourful box out of my hand only ten metres away from the coffee shop. I’d spent the better part of five minutes chasing the miscreant around, but I’d lost him eventually in the crowd. Even going with Rohan or Ankit was not a good idea. Although the CCD guys would give us a fork each (duh!), we would usually have a fork-fencing tournament across the plate, fighting over who got the largest share of ice-cream and brownie. And then, one or more of us would refuse to pay, saying that we didn’t get enough. After that, it was usually a mad rush to the door, with the last person inside coughing up the cash!
Nope, Sameer was definitely the safest bet when it came to taking someone along to CCD—provided he was in a cooperative mood. This time, he wasn’t exactly amiable. Just when weere about to enter CCD, he declared that he wanted a dosa at Delights.
‘Dude, how can you compare the two? You’re insulting CCD!’
‘I don’t care. I prefer a dosa.’
&
nbsp; ‘Dude, I don’t mean to be mean, but look at your paunch,’ I protested. ‘The dosas that you order have so much oil and ghee. Ugh!’ I executed an exaggerated retch.
‘So? That’s the way I like them. Besides, do you think the brownie will have any less butter, or sugar?’
I was speechless. I finally admitted defeat—I couldn’t tell him that I hadn’t actually expected him to eat anything, could I? Sameer the Dieting Expert had won the war with his wonky calorific logic.
So we—rather, he—ate the batter of rice and daal spread out on a filthy tawa and smothered with ghee, butter, oil and onions that the south Indian chef had, in a moment of inspiration, called a ‘peppar’ dosa. Paper dipped in grease would have been a more appropriate description! Unfortunately, even the little bit that I ate did not agree with me. I just could not keep all that ghee down! I puked all through the metro and auto rides home, then developed a major case of the runs. Curse Sameer, I thought. He clearly had a much hardier digestive system than I did.
I had to sit near the loo all of the next day, alternately puking and shitting. This extremely smelly exercise continued through the day. I couldn’t eat a single meal since my mouth tasted like vomit and I couldn’t even sleep because I had to keep waking up and running to the loo! I was forced to miss school for the rest of the week. Though, to be honest, I didn’t actually miss it.
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