Defendant: Me
Counsel for Defence: My Mother, Daughter of an LLB Plaintiff: Pradyuman Krishnaswami
Counsel for Plaintiff: Mrs Issue Maker, Physics Teacher
Case number 123832 of the Akshar Court of Justice, Aman versus Pradyuman, began at 9:00 a.m. sharp.
I stood at my kathghara, head held low, feeling remorseful. However, I hoped that my lawyer had read my file thoroughly and would argue my case well. I had full faith in the bench, trusting it to make the correct judgment. I also knew that the opposition was strong. If I lost my case, the punishment would be a week’s suspension from school and an immediate seizure of all my previous credentials. In short, it would classify as ‘serious’ punishment. As for the plaintiff, he would be granted a retest and the world’s sympathy would be with him.
Pradyuman’s side of the story was neatly presented to the judge.
‘Does Aman have anything to say regarding this?’
My case was weak. My lawyer pleaded half-guilty and asked for mercy on grounds of unintentional oversight.
However, the pivotal point of discussion was this—had I done it on purpose?
In answer to this, my lawyer referred the bench to old records and references that were in my favour. But this did not prove my innocence. My getting nineteen out of twenty ‘without studying’ was turning out to be very problematic.
At this, my lawyer took a radical stand. She challenged the court—‘Give him a test on any lesson taught recently and he will do well. He has a good memory, is attentive in class, is intelligent…’
She had a point. I was actually not the kind who would study hard before a test. I almost always relied on my memory of what I had studied before.
The confidence of my lawyer and her speech won the bench over.
The Final Verdict
Defendant: Baaizzat baree kar diya jaay!
Plaintiff: Retest
The incident ended with no hard feelings, but I knew that Pradyuman and I could never be friends. There was always a strange formality between us.
After I sent the stupid e-cards, I prayed to god that there would be no such problem between Sameer, Ankit, Rohan and me. This time, I had neither the energy nor the confidence to fight a case. I would simply have to find a way to make life better again. At the moment, life for the four of us was anything but rocking.
Ankit had lost it after the discovery of his sister’s ‘affair’ and the subsequent ‘revelation’ to Rohan. Rohan was busy with his numerous back-breaking tuitions and was exhausting himself further by waging his stupid non-cooperation battle against his parents. Sameer’s results in the first semester showed an unbelievable drop in percentage—a direct result of his being forced to move house.
The only person whose life seemed to be good was Shubho. While the rest of us slogged it out in school, he played tennis, pursuing his dream, doing what he wanted to do. I knew it was silly of me to think this, but given the current crappy state of my life, his appeared a picture of absolute bliss. Our lives were obviously better than his since we were studying in a famous school while he was a class-four dropout who was getting no education whatsoever— but the fact of the matter was that he would never, ever become just another packet of potato chips.
He knew all there was to know about his own world. He rattled off tennis stars’ names like they were his next-door neighbours. Just tell him the name of even a moderately successful tennis player and he would tell you his current ranking, give you a biography of the guy and even tell you what racquet the fellow used. It was an experience in itself—watching him talk about tennis. From Andre Agassi to Novak Djokovich, he knew them all. The more I learnt about him, the more Shubho amazed me.
‘How do you know all this?’ I asked him in my broken Bengali.
Shubho just shrugged. I guessed that he got all his information second-hand—the sports section of a discarded newspaper, a snatch of a radio announcement, a match telecast glimpsed at a store. For the hundredth time, I wished I could help him in some way.
Ever since I’d seen him at the tournament, I’d begun to look at Shubho in a different light. When I played with him, I knew that he was just toying with me, hardly hitting the ball at all. It was very frustrating, watching him play half-heartedly against me, even if it was meant kindly. So the actual game took a backseat and we ended up spending more time just talking. We mostly discussed three things— tennis, tennis and tennis.
Shubho deserved to know more about the world. He deserved to have access to more info about his passion, I decided. And that was how I found myself walking into the club one day, weighed down by my father’s laptop. When I reached the tennis courts, all the ball boys looked at me enquiringly—I wasn’t wearing my tennis attire. I called Shubho over to a bench and booted the machine. Shubho came, but so did all the other boys. I asked Shubho to sit next to me. The others sat on the floor, whispering and pointing at my wallpaper, a picture of the space shuttle Discovery’s launch.
‘Okay, Shubho, we won’t play today,’ I said. ‘I’m going to show you how the internet works. Using it, you can learn everything about all the tennis players… or pretty much anyone in the world!’
I was surprised by how quickly he grasped new ideas—I couldn’t imagine anyone else digesting the whole concept of the net in fifteen minutes! I felt a twinge of guilt suddenly, for envying him his life. He was never going to have the privileges that I had, things like internet access, new shoes whenever he felt like, treats at Pizza Hut, the chance to show off his cleverness at school—things that I took for granted.
I started by showing him popular sites like Wikipedia and Google. He freaked out when I Googled Rafael Nadal. ‘Rafa, Rafa!’ he said. ‘World number one!’
‘Yeah,’ I agreed. ‘I’ve supported him since his first French Open.’
Shubho’s eyes shone as we visited site after site, reading about and looking at pictures of all his favourite players.
‘Look for Bjorn Borg,’ he said. ‘Roddick. Hewitt. Tsonga.’
I had a tough time translating all the English info and statistics into Bengali. However, I kept at it, complying with Shubho’s every request. Just watching how thrilled he was made me feel really happy!
Twelve
Drawing Up Solutions
As I entered the classroom on a dismal Wednesday morning, I was surprised to see that half th class was clustered around the softboard. A colourful notice had been pinned up on it. ‘Inter-house Football Tournament,’ it proclaimed. The remainder of the notice told us that an inter-house tournament had been planned to encourage everyone to play sports. It was compulsory for everyone and we were assured that the teams would all be fair and, umm, no one would get hurt. The members of a house from each class would form a team and play against the other teams from the class.
I was rather unnerved by this notice. Although I played gully cricket with my cousins once in a while, I was predominantly a tennis person. I had tried my hand— rather, my foot—at football once, but it had not exactly been pleasant. To be precise, one of my front teeth had been knocked out and I had also torn my tennis sneakers to shreds in that hour of rough playing. All in all, not exactly what you would call ‘happy memories’ or ‘motivation’.
Sure enough, in the next period, the house in-charge went around dictating the terms of the tournament and confirming my fears. During the break, Rohan tried to encourage me by saying that he would coach me in the basics so that I wouldn’t feel like a fish out of water.
The next day, during the lunch break, Rohan dragged me out of class and into the blinding sunlight. He had brought along a borrowed football and was spinning it on a finger.
‘So, ready to rumble?’
‘Yeah, whatever.’
We began, feeling quite inconspicuous in the middle of the massive crowd. The vast, full-size football field at Xavier’s had proper metal goalposts and everything. What amazed me, however, was that at any given moment, there were no fewer than five separate
matches going on simultaneously. Every one of them was complete with forwards, goalies, defenders and mid-fielders. I could only stare in astonishment. The art of manoeuvring the ball through the jostling crowds and weaving through the countless human walls was way beyond my abilities.
The moment we got to some actual kicking, it became clear to me that Rohan had never played football in his life. He’d stand in the shade with the sun right in my eyes. The ball would ricochet off his shoes, flying off, heading anywhere but towards me. Then I would have to bound off in its direction and get battered by half a million blokes wielding a hundred thousand hard, painful, toughened-rubber balls. When we returned from the hot field—saved by the bell—I was panting like a wet dog while Rohan was fresh as a daisy. Heck! This was becoming quite familiar to me in any kind of sport.
The only reason why I was trying so hard was that if I didn’t play like a fool and actually proved to be any good, people might take notice of me. I was trying to find a way out of the pathetic sense of isolation that had been plaguing me of late. But I knew that with the idiotic Rohan at my side, there was absolutely no use attempting to learn. Not unless Ankit were to help me out. Ankit was a superb forward and might have taught me a few techniques had we been on better terms. Almost a month had passed since our misunderstanding-cum-fight-cum-break-up and we still weren’t on speaking terms. In fact, we had devolved from giving each other scathing looks to stopping conversations abruptly the moment a member of ‘the enemy side’ showed up.
The day of reckoning arrived. Our match was to be held after school hours, in the massive backfield. As soon as the last bell rang, all the boys of Berchmans House and Gonzaga House marched towards the toilets which were to serve as our changing rooms. I had borrowed a football kit from a friend in Loyola House. I inspected the bag. There was a pair of football shoes with spikes underneath, elbow and shin guards and a pair of very thick stockings. I slipped on my house vest which had once been canary yellow and was now a few shades short of white. I then tried to coax the shoe on. It was very clear that the boots were several sizes too small for me. Although they said size nine, I doubted if they were larger than size six. I somehow stuffed my feet into them after disposing of the laces which had torn as a result of my repeated assaults. Bad luck for the Loyola House guy!
My feet screaming in pain, I loped off towards the field, my guards strapped securely. I felt like a gladiator in ancient Rome, what with all the body armour and the inexplicable anxiety that gripped me. There were fourteen of us from Berchmans. Gonzaga had thirteen guys. Since there are eleven players to a side, three of us would have to sit out and play for only one half. I instantly volunteered, much to everyone’s surprise. The rest of the team drew lots to choose the other sit-outers. Then the game started.
Our team started off well, keeping the ball in play. But they couldn’t attack as the opposition had placed half their team almost inside their goal, forming a wall of sorts. Suddenly, a long pass from our team was intercepted and the ball passed to Ankit who had been lying in wait so far. He streaked forward, the ball flying at his toes, weaving through our rock-solid defense as if it was non-existent, and came right up to the ‘D’ before shooting. The ball seemed to curve through the air with an unexpected spin at the last moment. Our portly goalkeeper was not agile enough to get up after diving once and the ball swooped into the goal just over his head. The Gonzaga supporters cheered wildly.
From there on, the game progressed in the same fashion, with our side scoring one goal and Gonzaga scoring two (another by Ankit). Then I was made to step in for the last fifteen minutes. I was put in as a defender, which I thought was the simplest post I could get as I was surrounded by the goalie on one side and the mid-fielders on the other. So I just stood there, following the ball’s progress with my eyes, waiting for it to come in my direction. When it finally did come, I ran towards it like a madman, arms flailing. In a perfect mimicry of Rohan’s technique, I sent the ball flying. It landed outside the field and we spent ten minutes recovering it. The rest of the game took an eternity to pass, though I did not get to touch the ball at all. Then I was woken from my standing reverie by the sight of a fast-moving ball, flying at top speed in the direction of my face. For some reason, I was alone, without the ‘protection’ that had otherwise kept me from being particularly involved in the game.
My eyes transmitted a message to my brain—‘Harmful alien object approaching at indeterminate speed! Repeat. Object approaching very fast! Do something!’
My brain transmitted—‘Okay. Calf muscles, femur. Coordinate movement. Two paces to the right.’
Femur and calf—‘Copy.’
But my femur and calf muscles did not move. It seemed they had turned to lead.
After a few more rapid exchanges between my brain and the rest of my tired body, I had a confirmation—my leg was a damn VEGETABLE! I therefore did the only thing that occurred to me. The stupidest thing I’ve ever done. I caught the ball, a few inches from my nose.
The world went on mute. Then the entire Berchmans house converged on me. I could hardly make out their faces through the slight drizzle. However, the celebrating Gonzaga house boys around me told me all I needed to know—I had messed up. I had messed up BAD. I just stood there, the ball in my hand, quivering like an arrow about to be released. Beyond the mud-splattered ball, I could make out the faces of my oncoming teammates—they all looked rather mad at me. Some were close to tears. I looked at the celebrating Gonzagans. I looked back at the Berchmans boys. They were now galloping full-tilt at me. The bits of their faces not covered by mud were red. They were also yelling the choicest abuses at me.
‘What the devil were you thinking?’ said an enormously fat boy whom I only knew by face.
‘Why didn’t you take it on your face, for god’s sake? Then we would have been proud of you!’ This was from my captain.
Even the referee was laughing at me.
My bahaduri had given the opposition a free kick from about seven paces from the goal. It was a sure-shot goal for them and would put them up to 3-1, which would put all chances of a comeback beyond our reach. In short, I would be blamed for the loss, although it wasn’t actually my fault. I had not participated at all, so I couldn’t be blamed for a loss or, by some miracle, praised for a victory. That is, if I hadn’t gone and caught the goddamned ball!
Needless to say, the opposition scored, blasting our keeper away. Our captain—the incompetent goalkeeper— was made even madder by this and he unceremoniously chucked me out of the field.
We could not score any more, and lost—a humiliating 1-4 defeat. If looks could kill, I would have died thirteen times over thanks to my teammates.
I stepped out into the rain—now a downpour—and walked towards my waiting carpool, feeling more desolate than I had ever felt before.
On my way home, I sat lost in thought. The fight, then the miserable game… I didn’t like my life at all any more. Suddenly, my musings were interrupted by a large, scarred hand moving rapidly back and forth in front of my face. I looked at the carpool driver.
‘Ki? Aajke bari jaabe na?’
I didn’t reply. I quickly manoeuvred myself out of the crowded car and landed on the road with a hard thump that I could feel through my spiked, mud-splattered football shoes. I was still wearing my cumbersome guards and my skin looked wrinkled and sunburnt. I hauled myself to our second-floor flat, where my mother greeted me enthusiastically. My parents had been raving like crazy ever since I’d told them about the match. My father had even decided to buy me a full football kit to ‘boost my morale’, but I had stopped him. They were delighted with the fact that their son was participating in a football tournament and they didn’t care about the outcome. ‘Participation is what matters,’ they said.
My mother and sister tried a little too hard to console me, heaping platitudes on my head, and the scene ended with me storming out of the room in a fit of fury. I took a long, cold shower to wash off the sweat and grime of the
field, then ate lunch in front of the TV. I ate in silence, my mother and sister continuing their one-sided conversation with me. Then, finally, something good happened. Ankit called.
Mum, of course, knew nothing of our break-up. So she was really surprised when I choked on my sabzi at the mention of Ankit’s name.
I quickly ran to the phone. I can’t express what I experienced while talking to him. He spoke as though nothing had ever happened between us. It was as if we had just decided to tear out the page that contained our fight and burn it. He congratulated me on my endeavour on the football field, and I could tell that he meant it. ‘You really can’t play to save your life, can you?’ he joked.
Finally, after many, many days, I felt a sense of peace. I knew that we both needed each other. I guess Ankit had realized that too. Happiness had snuck back into my life while I wasn’t looking. I had been sad, but now I laughed, cracking jokes with Ankit. In fact, I felt quite ready to dance!
I realized suddenly that the only person I had to blame for my sorrows was myself. I had felt sad about the fight, but I hadn’t tried hard enough to overcome the situation. I’d sent ‘sorry’ cards all right, but I hadn’t taken into account how betrayed Sameer and Ankit must have felt, even if it was because of a misunderstanding. I should have taken steps to make things better—I should have confronted them and explained how sorry I was about everything. Today, Ankit had proved himself the bigger person by calling me to commend my efforts even though I had refused to ask for his help. The least I could do was respect him for that and try to be a better person—a better friend.
The next morning, we chugged along in our dilapidated four-seater to the Tollygunge Club.
‘Bye, Dad! Bye, Mum!’ I called out as the car stopped at the curb and I jumped off.
Humming a merry tune, I walked along the dirt path which led to the Tolly-ONGC riding stables. I was feeling particularly jolly after my realizations of the previous day and I wanted to figure out a plan to make everything better.
Potato Chips Page 12