Potato Chips

by Anshuman Mohan

  What I really missed during this time was my riding classes at the Tollygunge Club. The feeling of sitting astride a horse first thing in the morning, your eyes still clouded with sleep, is simply unbeatable. The Riding School at Tolly was not a small one. There were four arenas and a special jumping strip. The club regularly sent people to international, national and the state-level championships, besides hosting casual Gymkhanas biannually.

  I missed six classes in a row because of my stomach infection. Trapped at home, I kept imagining my horse waiting for me and really started to miss feeling the wind in my face. And I finally discovered the truth of the statement ‘absence makes the heart grow fonder’—when I went back to my riding class, I rode like I had never ridden before.

  I also decided in disgust that maybe trying to help people was not such a great idea. Had I not been trying to help Sameer out, I would never have suffered like this! As Courage the Cowardly Dog would have said, ‘Oh, the things I do for love…’

  The days of absenteeism from school took its toll on my studies. The unmerciful teachers loaded us with the usual pre-exam work. Everyone was trying to complete their syllabus and cram in a few more unit tests. As if we didn’t have enough to do already!

  Part of this campaign of last-minute, out-of-the-blue tests would be a project on ‘General Awareness’, announced our Moral Science teacher. It was supposed to contribute to a grade in our final report card. We were expected to ‘demonstrate’ any recent event that had had a great impact on us.

  I won’t lie and say that I was greatly interested in the project. I presented an uninspiring piece of bullshit that earned me a measly ‘C’. It was Sameer, however, who stole the show.

  He had made a special request that he make his presentation last. So at the end of everyone’s presentations, when he raised his makeshift curtain, we all applauded. A beautifully sculpted model of a train came into view. Made out of old shoeboxes, it had cut-out doors and windows and was even painted the right colours. It sat on a grey track and was passing over a bridge made of matchsticks and mountboard. Sameer had even placed tiny models of passengers inside the train. I could see them through the transparent ‘glass’ (cellophane) windows. It looked like there was a big crowd inside the train and some of the passengers were standing. Sameer, however, was nowhere in sight, and many minutes passed by with the class excitedly chattering about the model.

  As soon as the class started getting slightly restless, something rather alarming happened. With a mighty ‘BOOM!’ some chocolate-bombs which must have been concealed under the train exploded. The model rose a foot in the air and vast chunks of crumpled train and passenger body parts showered down on us. There was mayhem in the classroom. Some people started panicking, scared that a stray bomb might land on their laps.

  ‘This is Sameer Gupta reporting live and exclusive from Mumbai’s Bandra station.’ Sameer spoke in the tone of a seasoned news reporter, using a pencil box as a mike. ‘A large and powerful explosion has just ripped through the First Class bogie of train No. XY123 plying in the western section of the suburban railway network. Windows and ceilings have been ripped apart and many passers-by have been struck by flying shrapnel. There has been little or no response from the police and hospitals because of the heavy rains. However, the passers-by have shown an unusual degree of cooperation. A few of the injured have been rescued by them. It is not known yet how many people have lost their lives. But the damage is significant. As you can see, limbs are scattered all across the platform. We will soon be reporting further updates to this news. This is Sameer Gupta, signing off, from NDTV 24x7. 11 July 2006.’

  We wanted to applaud loudly, but we stopped when Sameer held up various placards bearing further headlines. ‘Seven blasts rip through Mumbai’s rail network.’ ‘Bombs concealed within cookers.’ ‘209 killed. 714 injured.’ ‘Bloodstained clothes. Motionless bodies. Chaos. Stampede.’

  And then he spoke again, his voice calm and serious. ‘The train was ripped apart. The bodies went overboard. Tears and blood were spilt. Today is 11 July 2007. Let us dedicate this day to the memory of those who lost their lives. Let us salute the never-dying spirit of Mumbai, where ordinary people helped the injured and carried the dead.’

  There was utter silence in the classroom. We were dumbstruck. We just looked around at each other, exchanging awed glances. Then Sriniwasan took the lead.

  ‘Let us stand in silence for one minute to commemorate the tragedy. Let us pray for those who were injured or lost their lives. Let us pay them our respects.’

  We all obeyed without question.

  The next day, I congratulated Sameer.

  ‘How could you even think that up, man?’ I whispered to him as Reebok lectured on and on about the Indian constitution.

  ‘Oh, don’t ask. I feel like my life is being ripped apart, just like that wretched train was.’

  I was shocked. I had thought that Sameer was probably feeling better by now. I simply hadn’t realized that his family’s separation was having such a profound effect on him. It was so ironic—Sameer was being congratulated for a project that he associated with his own life’s suffering.

  The loud clang-clang of the main bell broke in on my thoughts. Even Fair & Lovely appeared to have been bored with herself because she stopped mid-sentence and shut her book the moment the bell rang. All too eagerly, we mirrored her action and wished her ‘Good afternoon and thank you, ma’am’. Shoving our books into our bags, we ran out of the classroom.

  The usually empty front field was suddenly invaded by an army of white-clad ants. Unmindful of the heavy bags they carried, the ants joked and chatted and gossiped with glee—they were all headed for the same destination. The front gate. Once outside, the ants went their separate ways. Some walked towards the metro station, some towards the bus stop, some towards their carpools. Several pampered ones had the privilege of being taken back home in their private cars—it was the large number of these cars that choked up the entire knot between Short Street and Wood Street every day, making it next to impossible to navigate through the traffic.

  My carpool driver thought it a waste of time to start up the car and then get stuck in the jam, so we always left after the private cars. This usually took around half an hour, but we didn’t mind. It gave us the chance to loiter around, making mischief whenever possible. This after-school partying had its own charm—we were like escaped criminals wandering around the jail campus and creating a ruckus just for kicks.

  Spotting my carpool dada through the hullabaloo, I yelled, ‘Back in fifteen minutes’ and sprinted off before he could protest. Rohan was already in his black Honda City, reclining comfortably in the luxurious passenger seat. His car was almost out of the jam, so I just waved him goodbye. Stopping to chat with him would mean another few minutes’ delay for all the other cars behind him. I looked around and located Ankit. He was hovering around the panipuriwallah, his mouth positively watering. He waved me over and we chatted for a bit. We ate four phuchkas each and Dutched the cost.

  Business was booming all around us. The muri-man, the aloo-kabli-wallah, the guava-seller, the ice-cream guy— everyone raked in the moolah every day as soon as school gave over. The south Indian place next to the school was forced to serve according to a numbered system in order to handle the barrage of orders. Even the paan shop sold scores of soft drinks and biscuit packets during the rush. No one was particularly bothered about money—treats were the order of the season. You could grab a bite out of a complete stranger’s snack and he wouldn’t comment. All you had to do was say, ‘Dude, pass me some!’

  After a while, the private cars cleared and we headed back to our carpools. Just then, a large, open truck, full of people waving the flags of a political party, passed by. It was flanked by about a dozen motorbikes, three or four men on each of them. Every bike was adorned with the party’s flag. Somewhere, through a portable loudspeaker, someone was screaming away in Bengali, too fast for me to understand.

  W
e abandoned our masti and rushed to our cars, sensing the tension in the air. Our carpool driver seemed to know what was going on. ‘Didn’t you hear there is a strike tomorrow? That’s what they’re announcing…’

  We were shocked. A strike? Now? Just before the exams?

  ‘Is it about Nandigram again?’ I asked the driver.

  ‘It’s about the Tata Nano,’ said the driver. ‘That little car is causing a lot of trouble,’ he continued in rapid Bengali.

  Kolkata always seemed to be caught in the middle of some disturbance or the other. My parents had been discussing the politcal situation a lot, when they thought that Aditi and I were not around. From what I overheard, it seemed that the tension between parties and regular people was escalating constantly.

  What was right? What was wrong? I might be too young to judge, but I knew that violence could erupt at any moment. Kolkata was burning. And we were being toasted alive in the fire.

  Seven

  Weight, Pressure and Us

  Come August, we were snatched away from our pleasant dreamlands and dropped rather rudely into the real world. A planet of tests, exams, syllabi and cramming.

  There were two golden rules that had to be followed during the exams.

  1. The teacher is always right.

  2. In case of any dispute, disagreement or rebellion, the first rule is applicable.

  Life now was stressful for the studious, intimidating for the intelligent and downright scary for everyone else.

  However, the teachers seemed to be even more stressed than the students. Frantically, they attempted to cover up gaps in their teaching so far, using various methods and schemes. Some otherwise slowcoach teachers read at top speed, without pausing to explain, in this way managing to teach an amazing three chapters within a period. Some super-sly ones borrowed notes from the students of the other sections they taught. We were then given free photocopies of these notes, with the implied comment: ‘Shush about this incident, okay?’ Some great, illustrious and kind souls would give us ‘grace marks’ when correcting the papers for answers on topics they hadn’t taught. Some, of course, were two steps ahead of the rest. They gave away some of the questions from the actual paper under the guise of ‘tips and suggestions’.

  We all knew this sort of thing was probably against every rule in the education system, but we stayed shut about it. Who wants his head crushed by the class bully? Remember Golden Rule No. 2?

  In reality, a lot of the things that we were forced to study by the teachers made no sense to us. It felt like meaningless gibberish because we did not understand how knowing any of it was going help us. Or things were taught so badly that we did not understand them at all and would just cram blindly! As a result of all this, we were turning into nervous wrecks. And we were all sick. The symptoms were:

  • Repeated nightmares, in which we murdered the teachers in cold blood and then threw a cannibalistic celebration party and fed off their carcasses.

  • Splitting headaches, from the continuous bombardment of books and information.

  • Decreased appetite—we would rather choke on a hamburger than down another one of those colourless, good-for-your-head meals.

  The diagnosis—exam fever. I, for one, would have prescribed myself a holiday to recover. As I would often say, ‘Why study for exams? They are not about what you know, but about how much you can cram into your head the night before.’

  Ankit the Master Footballer was forced to sacrifice his games. He looked so out of place, sitting at his place and not running around, that many people stopped to enquire if he was unwell. He would say, in his shayarana andaaz, ‘I don’t like studying. I hate studying. I love learning. Learning is beautiful.’

  Rohan, however, kept up his reputation as a joker. Even during these ‘dangerous’ times, he could not refrain from joking about Fair & Lovely. ‘Staying up all night is a waste of sleeping,’ he would say in a deep, philosophical tone. ‘Waste of sleeping is a waste of dreaming. And dreaming is important because the more you dream, the better the chances that one of them comes true…’

  ‘… The students and staff have worked hard for the exams. We pray to you, O Lord, that their efforts be rewarded. Amen.’ Father Prefect concluded the special pre-exam prayer at the special pre-exam assembly.

  The exams started with a bang. Even the students who had a record for late-coming suddenly started reaching an hour early. Frantic revisions were the norm and many geniuses kept asking others difficult questions in order to make them feel less confident.

  A brief note on the art of cheating is now in order. I am going to try my level best to do justice to this great and revered art, but forgive me if I am found lacking.

  The fundamental principle of this wonderful art is total cooperation—and I don’t just mean that you should be great friends with the guys beside you and in front of you. You need a lookout who must warn you non-verbally about the teacher’s line of vision. You need ‘bridges’, guys from a different class who are usually ignorant about your syllabus—during the exams, usually students from two classes sit mixed together in the same classroom. They just pass the message on to the important guy, the great guy—the class topper. When the topper has the answer, the process is reversed.

  You must also know a little about the hand signals at Xavier’s. Basically, you just signal the question number and division and wait patiently for an answer.

  The use of cheat-sheets is also a very popular device. The idea here is this—you write down all the difficult bits of your syllabus on a tiny chit of paper. You can shove this up your sleeve, down the front of your shirt, in your underwear—absolutely anywhere you please. Some guys even write it on their handkerchiefs and have a peek while executing a ‘series of violent sneezes’.

  You can also write down the problematic question number on the question paper and put it on your bench. The ‘wise guy’ behind you will see the question and prod you on your back to deliver the answer.

  TRY THESE TECHNIQUES AT YOUR OWN RISK! If the people around you do not cooperate, you will not succeed. Don’t crib to me if you get caught or expelled or something!

  Independence Day came, just before a bunch of very difficult tests. Never before had I looked forward to it with such gusto! At least it would be a break from studying constantly. We were supposed to go to school to attend a flag-hoisting ceremony. I ran in, just on time, and stood respectfully at attention while the tricolour was hoisted on the makeshift pole. Spying Rohan, Ankit and Sameer in the distance, I wrestled my way to them.

  After the national anthem and a few patriotic songs by the teachers and students, we started to shuffle towards our respective classes. Suddenly, there was an announcement. Siddhu and Sohan—Flatterer & Flatterer Pvt. Ltd—were going to present a surprise song. They went up on the pedestal and boldly dedicated the song to Fair & Lovely, who ducked out of sight at the mention of her name. Sohan sat at a synthesizer and Siddhu took the podium, mike in hand. The two of them stunned us all with their hitherto unsuspected skills and superb timing and coordination. Throughout the performance, a bunch of stupid goons waved giant-sized tricolours from side to side over their heads. It took us a while to realize that the music was a little too perfect and the singing a little too good. By the end of the performance, the whole school could tell that Sohan was hitting the keys with the synthesizer turned off and Siddhu was only lip-synching. They were the laughing stock of the school. Though, I must say, I appreciated the ‘patriotism’ they showed, even if it was only to impress F&L.

  Afterwards, we were made to assemble in our classrooms. We were expected to wait there till three o’clock. It was only ten and many boys, headed by Sriniwasan, had brought their next-exam books and notes with them. The rest of the class had plans to slip away after some time and go home. And then, suddenly, god knows what came over me—I decided to show everyone my true saffron, white and green colours.

  ‘Guys!’ I yelled like a buffoon. ‘Let’s dedicate this day to PATRIOTISM
!’

  There was silence in class. All eyes were on me. I figured I had their complete attention and almost began a rendition of Nehru’s 14 August ‘Tryst with Destiny’ when the entire class burst into peals of laughter.

  ‘Hey, Aman,’ laughed Rohan. ‘Let’s decorate a car with the tricolour, buy a patriotic songs CD and put it on at full blast. Then you can drive around town, singing praises of the motherland.’

  ‘Here is Manoj Kumar reborn! Bharat Kapoor’s disciple!’ someone else declared.

  ‘Mere desh ki dharti… mere desh ki dharti sona ugle, ugle heere moti…’ sang Devansh.

  ‘Ae merey vatan ke logon…’ piped up Dhruv in a squeaky voice.

  ‘Let’s go watch Munna Bhai part two. Then you can practice Gandhigiri,’ shouted someone else.

  ‘Let’s go for a Dandi March! Park Street to Digha!’

  Not to be outdone, more and more people kept coming up with outrageous statements.

  I sat down, rather annoyed at their stupidity and lack of understanding, when Siddhu the Flatterer commented, ‘Hey, Aman! Call up 107.8 FM and tell them how you feel!’

  ‘There’s nothing funny about this,’ I scowled.

  ‘No… I know! Bunk patriotism, we’ll celebrate INDEPENDENCE! We’re independent, right? We can do as we please!’

  ‘Let’s go watch an ADULT movie!’

  Everyone burst into laughter.

  But I didn’t laugh. I found the class’s attitude rather cheap and ridiculous. After all the booing, I didn’t even dare to explain myself further.

  If only Rohan, Sameer or Ankit would tell them that I actually enjoyed patriotic plays, that I had read Freedom at Midnight several times over. If only they knew that my favourite poem was ‘Sarfaroshi Ki Tamanna’ by Ramprasad Bismil and my favourite movie was Rang De Basanti, that I actually travelled to the Royal Calcutta Turf Club year after year to watch the army celebrations of Vijay Diwas on 16 December…