So Tuesday morning at school, when I sat at my desk during the zero period, I was feeling distinctly queasy. However, no one could have anticipated what would happen during the break.
For the first time in living memory, Sameer had brought something that was not downright delicious—a slightly burnt Mac-n-Cheese, a kitchen disaster from Aunty. So we compensated by buying a samosa each from the ever-reliable canteen—Rohan’s treat. Back in the classroom, Rohan started with his jokes again. This was another side-effect of Rohan’s admission mission—in an effort to get over all the tension he was facing at home, he treated us to a non-stop volley of jokes during every free period. This time, it was something he had got off some website.
In a high-pitched falsetto that would have made an opera singer proud, Rohan started speaking.
They walked the lane together,
The sky was covered with stars.
They reached the gate in silence,
He lifted up the bars…
He paused for effect. At that point, however, Ankit gave Sameer and me a contemptuous look and walked off, his eyes red.
‘What’s up with him?’ Rohan cried. ‘Hey! He’ll miss the punch line!’ Shrugging, he continued.
She neither smiled nor thanked him,
Because she knew not how.
For he was just a farmer,
And she a Jersey cow!
Leaving Rohan to laugh at his own joke, Sameer and I rushed off after Ankit. We found him just outside the classroom.
‘Ankit, what’s up with you? Why did you walk out like that?’ I asked.
‘Why the bloody hell did you tell him?’
‘What?’ said Sameer.
‘You guys told him about my sister!’ Ankit yelled. ‘We all promised to keep mum and you still told him!’
‘Dude, I swear we haven’t told him a word!’ I protested.
‘What makes you think we told him, anyway?’ Sameer asked.
‘If you guys haven’t told him, then how the bloody hell does he know? Did he read your minds?’
‘How do you know that he knows?’
‘What? Does he sing romantic songs every day, then?’ Ankit said, his voice cracking.
‘It wasn’t a romantic song. It was a stupid joke.’ ‘Yeah! You ran away halfway. You missed the punch line.’
‘What nonsense! I heard the whole damn song.’
We repeated the whole joke in unison, then explained the part he had missed. However, he refused to listen at first and thought that we had invented the last four lines ourselves. When he finally understood, he got even madder.
‘So you’re calling my sister a cow? And her boy-boy-boyfriend a-a-a farmer?’
‘Oh, shut up. You’re impossible!’ I said.
Rohan suddenly appeared. ‘Dude!’ he said, ‘what are you guys talking about? Tell me. I won’t tell anyone.’
But Sameer had also begun to doubt me by now. ‘Maybe you did tell Rohan…’
‘Sameer, you don’t know the half of it,’ Ankit said. ‘At your place, Aman and Rohan were calling your mother an elephant and a mammoth. I heard it from the loo when you’d gone to fetch water for Dadi’s morning pills.’
Rohan and I exchanged worried glances.
‘Yeah! You guys think you can call anyone anything you like!’ Ankit continued.
Sameer did not look angry. He just looked shocked.
‘Oi! We didn’t mean it like that,’ I said. ‘It was just a joke…’
Sameer still didn’t say anything. Ankit glared at me and Rohan. Rohan just stood there, like he was part of the scenery. I needed backup, but Rohan was just staring into space. Finally, he said, ‘I know nothing about all this. It was just a joke.’
‘Cut the crap, people! Just stop this stupid conversation,’ I begged.
‘Don’t drag me into all this,’ said Rohan. ‘Sameer, sorry about… whatever happened.’
‘Ankit, I swear I DID NOT tell him!’ I said. ‘Sameer, uh-uh-uh… sorry.’
The bell rang, interrupting the fight.
That day, after school, no one waved the others goodbye. We had been divided into two groups. Sameer and Ankit— the Insulted, Rohan and me—the Insulters.
In many ways, it was odd—although we still sat in class the way we had been sitting all year, we didn’t speak any more. So if Rohan or I wanted to know what the next period’s homework was, we couldn’t ask Sameer and ‘photocopy’ his exercise book. We had to go all the way around the class to Sriniwasan, convince him that it was the last time we wanted help from him and then get his exercise book.
Eleven
Comprehend and Analyse
Rohan was easily having the most stressful time post our fight. He was now going for three different tuitions, each one four days a week, because of his preparations for admission into Doon. Although he had bailed out on his parents the last time, they were determined to get him in this time. His mobile was confiscated and he was forced to surrender even his beloved XBox 360, his laptop and his Gameboy Advance.
But Rohan wasn’t taking any of this lying down. He was a fighter. In retaliation, he started a kind of non-cooperation movement against his parents. He would make strange demands for food, such as Italian for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Then he would eat only a couple of mouthfuls and walk away from the table. He developed a strange, springy kind of walk—he would thrust out his chest, pull in his stomach and glide over the floor like a ballet dancer. He called it his Doon Walk and he used it only in front of his parents.
All the practice question papers that Rohan’s parents had arranged for the admission test went ‘missing’ one Sunday night and the charred remains were later found inside an antique vase. He also ‘lost’ his tuition bag which had all his reference books and practice copies. Then he spilled some coffee on a tutor’s new dress, accidentally-on-purpose. The old hag got so angry that she decided to stop teaching him.
One day, Rohan got a question paper, which his mother had downloaded and he had ‘solved’, to school. He wanted to discuss it with me. Pre-separation, Sameer would have been the candidate of choice for such nerdy work, but now he was stuck with me.
For the composition question, he had chosen the option where one had to write an essay starting with ‘I couldn’t bear his rudeness…’ The essay was about how rude his parents and tutors had been to him—after all, he argued, it was rude of them to pack him off to boarding school when he had no desire to go.
The second question asked that he provide synonyms for some words. This was how he had answered:
a) hollow—empty, cavity (The feeling when your parents go to a party and leave you at home to study.)
b) advancing—improving, coming towards you. (The admission test date for Doon is advancing.)
c) erased—rubbed off, obliterated (All my creativity and happiness have been successfully erased.)
By this time, my eyes had glazed over. Rohan could very well have discussed his paper with a wall. I was just sitting there while he was jabbering on and on and on. But he kept poking and prodding until I was forced to pay attention to his paper again.
The third question required him to pick the correct spelling of the words ‘disappoint’, ‘successful’, ‘embarrass’ and ‘accommodation’ from three given options. Rohan had circled the correct choice and then drawn stick figures beside each to signify its meaning. The diagrams were quite elaborate and labelled in great detail. Each one showed the figure labelled ‘Rohan’ being tortured while the ones labelled ‘Mum’, ‘Dad’ and ‘Nakul’ sported smug grins. Every ‘answer’ of Rohan’s was aimed at conveying to the examiners that he was not interested in admission.
This was pretty much the way things had been ever since the fight. Sameer and Ankit had started to hang out together, leaving Rohan to bore me to death with his incessant cribbing and complaining. Every morning, Ankit would walk into class, dump his bag and run off to play football, ignoring my cheery wave. Sameer would come in, throw me a venomous look and
sit at his desk with the latest Anthony Horowitz.
I hated to admit it, but I was really missing Ankit’s ridiculous football chitchat and mimicry of the teachers. And, of course, I was missing all the academic help from Sameer. And since Rohan had gone from super-cool prankster to whiny baby, period after gruelling period passed without any relief. We had not played a single prank on any teacher since that fateful day. What bugged me most was that Madras-Calcutta seemed overjoyed by the situation. They were revelling in the freedom of not having their hands full and kept leering at the four of us.
Something had to be done. Or else, I was going to snap.
Rohan was the first to act. Midway through the zero period one day, he marched towards the softboard and pinned something up there. The class couldn’t make out what it was from where they were sitting. Only Siddhu, Sriniwasan and Sohan had the liberty to run around the classroom. Exercising the power of his position, Sohan went up to the board and read what Rohan had written. Then he called Siddhu over. Sohan whispered in Siddhu’s ear, after which they started laughing, shared a high-five and then resumed their monitorgiri with renewed vigour. I was dying of curiosity by now.
The moment the bell for break rang, the entire class ran towards the softboard. The scrap of paper pinned on the board said:
GET WELL SOON, ANKIT AND SAMEER.
Love, Rohan and Aman.
Everyone laughed at it, though no one else found the ‘card’ as funny as Madras-Calcutta. They were overjoyed because it confirmed in writing that the four of us weren’t the best of friends any more.
‘Why the bloody hell didn’t you ask me before you put that damned card up?’ I yelled when I caught Rohan alone.
Rohan, as calm and composed as ever, did not answer.
‘And what bad timing too! Both those stupid jokes of yours have got us into so much trouble.’
Still no answer.
After reading the ‘card’, Sameer and Ankit had become even more peeved with the two of us. It had been an enormous misunderstanding at first, but Rohan’s attitude had confirmed Sameer’s and Ankit’s worst fear—that we felt no remorse and it had all been deliberate.
The next day, I sat at my computer, trying my very best to frame a fitting email of apology for Ankit and Sameer. I had decided the previous day that it would be near impossible for me to confront either of them face-to-face and email would be the next-most-effective method.
Dear Sameer, I’m sorry about the other day. I didn’t mean any of…
I scrapped the mail. It was too cheesy and irritating.
Hey, Ankit, how’s life, man?
Look, dude, I swear, I SWEAR I did not tell him.
I scrapped that as well. If he were to believe me, he would have done so by now.
After I’d filled the trash box with failed mails, I had do make do with a free ‘sorry’ e-card. The card was actually a series of slideshows which portrayed a sad yellow smiley saying sorry to
This was, however, not the first time I was sending a ‘sorry’ card. It was not the first time I had been misunderstood and blamed for something that was not my fault. And it hadn’t been something as minor as a fight between friends on that occasion. As a matter of fact, the misconception had reached such a stage that I had been threatened with a week’s suspension and the confiscation of all my previous certificates at my old school…
I had been watching a particularly interesting episode of ‘Biker Build Off’ on Discovery Travel and Living when the phone rang. Damn, I had thought, trying to ignore it. Why hadn’t the blasted caller called three minutes ago, during the commercial break? However, the caller persevered and the phone just kept ringing. Finally, I put the TV on mute and grabbed hold of the receiver.
‘Hello.’
‘Hello? Aunty, can I speak to Aman?’
‘I am Aman, birdbrain!’ People kept ‘mistaking’ my voice for a woman’s on the phone those days. I knew my voice hadn’t broken, but I personally felt that they did it on purpose to annoy me.
‘Pradyuman here,’ the caller said, a smirk in his voice.
‘Yeah, yeah, bolo, Pradyuman.’
‘Y’know that Physics test that was announced last week?’
‘Yeah, it’s tomorrow. It’s on Heat, isn’t it?’
‘Oh. Heat? Okay, that’s what I wanted to confirm.’
‘D’you want to ask something else?’ I was in a hurry because I could see that the winner of the episode was going to be announced.
‘No… So what are you doing?’
‘Oh, shut up!’ I said and hung up. If things had reached ‘wassup’ levels, there was obviously nothing important left to say. I put the receiver off the cradle so that I wouldn’t be disturbed again.
Despite all my hurried efforts, however, I missed the ending. Disgusted, I went to my study table and read through the chapter on Heat. It was actually quite easy and had been taught to us two weeks ago. A few numerical problems later, I went back to watching TV again.
The next day, before the test, everyone was tense. Last-minute revisions were going on, blank sheets of paper were at the ready, pens were neatly arranged and we were waiting with bated breath.
Ten minutes later, I found myself staring alternately at my blank sheet of paper and then at the blackboard. The last few minutes had been an absolute blur. The teacher had come in, greeted us, then written ‘Physics Test: Light’ on the board. I was sure it was a mistake—the test was on Heat, right? I looked around the class. Everyone looked thoroughly unperturbed. I caught Pradyuman’s eye—he looked mad as hell and was staring at me as though he was going to explode.
There was nothing to be done. I had prepared myself for a test on Heat and I was looking at questions on Light. Anyway, there was no harm in giving it a shot—I had nothing to lose. I searched through my memory, trying to recollect the lesson that we had been taught just a week ago. While I was sweating it out, I saw Pradyuman at the teacher’s desk, his finger pointed at me. ‘Hey, don’t look at me,’ I wanted to say. ‘This is killing me too!’
After the disastrous test, I was called to her desk by the Physics teacher.
‘Why did you tell Pradyuman the wrong syllabus?’ she asked, her voice sharp as a dagger
‘No, ma’am, I didn’t mean to. Even I studied the same chapter. It was a misunderstanding. I heard the wrong chapter name when you called it out.’
‘Tell me, Mr Malhotra…’ Uh-oh. This was a surefire sign that I was in a LOT of trouble. No teacher called me by my last name otherwise. ‘Why did you tell him the test was on Heat when I had clearly stated that it was on Light? The two are in no way related! I am sure that you studied the correct chapter. I hope you know that I despise such unhealthy competition.’
‘Ma’am, I swear, I did not do it on purpose!’
‘Okay, so you’re saying that you studied the wrong chapter as well?’
She looked through the papers and found the one she was looking for—mine. She read it and then put a line through it all.
‘This, Mr Malhotra, would have earned you a nineteen out of twenty. However, I will give you a zero. Pradyuman will sit for a separate test next week.’
I was amazed. I hadn’t realized that my memory of what had been taught in class could be so accurate. But what it had effectively done was support the teacher’s theory that I had cheated by telling Pradyuman the wrong syllabus and studying the correct syllabus myself.
Pradyuman had been like a rougher version of Sriniwasan. He had joined the school in class one, a year after most of the class had. His father had been transferred from Bangalore to Kolkata and he had joined midway through the academic year. He was sincere and obedient while I was fun-loving—people had every reason to sympathize with him and not me. The two of us often competed to represent the school at inter-school quizzes and debates. The contest between our school and the other schools was not important as the competition between Pradyuman and me. T
his had often led people to believe that we shared a very unhealthy, cut-throat-competitive relationship, but this was not the case. I hardly even knew Pradyuman and I only competed because I wanted the honour of representing the school for myself.
I had no way to defend myself to the Physics teacher—I was in the wrong. I had made an error, but even that was impossible to prove because I had scored good marks in the test without studying for it. All the students in the class ganged up against me and I felt very lonely and desolate. Things came to a head during the next Physics class. The teacher called me out and directed me to the principal’s office.
‘Ma’am,’ she said, addressing the principal. ‘This is the boy I told you about.’
‘So, umm…’ The principal looked questioningly at me.
‘Aman, ma’am.’
‘Yes. Aman, why did you do such a shabby thing?’ What followed was an argument that I had already had with almost every teacher who taught us—Pradyuman had taken it upon himself to be all bechara and shit and had cribbed to every teacher who had the time and patience to listen. God knows what namak-mirchi he had added to the story while doing phusphus in their ears.
‘Get your parents with you tomorrow,’ the principal said, peering at me through her pince-nez. ‘This is very serious.’
I sighed. Calling your parents to complain about you is possibly the most effective way of demoralizing someone that has ever been devised. It shatters your self-confidence, shames you in front of your classmates and can even convince your parents that you are a big fat dunderhead.
The next morning, court was in session.
The Bench: The Honourable Justices, the Principal and the Founder of Akshar
Potato Chips Page 11