Potato Chips

by Anshuman Mohan

  I greeted Sikhdar Sir and asked him which horse I was to ride.

  ‘Morocco,’ he said.

  I sauntered over to the stables and mounted the chestnut stallion. Then, after consulting the other students, I asked Sikhdar Sir for a favour. I asked him if we could break the normal routine for the day and do anything we liked. He was quite puzzled by the request, but he complied—if only to see what kind of a mess we would get into! We walked the horses together for a while, then went our own ways. Divyaman went over to the jumping arena, Yash to the dressage arena and Revant towards the cross-country strip.

  I headed out in the direction of the golf course, towards the massive expanse of the fairway greens. I went past the overgrown prop roots of a banyan tree, through a huge bamboo grove littered with mounds of dead leaves. There was dense greenery all around me, bright, colourful and joyous. Everything seemed fresh and full of life, early morning dew glittering on every surface. I watched as a colony of ants carried away a dead butterfly to a four-foot anthill. Engrossed as I was, I did not notice how far I had wandered. I was brought back to my present situation when Morocco suddenly reared up on his hind legs—I hung on to his neck and looked around and discovered that a pack of jackals was the cause for the horse’s excitement. Loosening his reins, I allowed him to surge forward, enjoying the power of his ever-lengthening strides. We flew past bewildered golfers and caddies, scattering a flock of migratory Siberian cranes. I slowed Morocco to a canter before entering a thick patch of forest. I lost track of time as I explored the jungle. Morocco seemed to be enjoying himself too. He was all power, all beauty, all horse.

  Finally, tired but exhilarated, we stumbled out of the grove. I had no idea of the direction. I gave Morocco a free rein and he walked around for a bit, nibbled on some grass, then headed back to the stables.

  I was almost half an hour late and Sikhdar Sir had been worried that I might have been thrown off. He was very relieved when we reached, but less than impressed by how tired Morocco was.

  ‘I have five more classes after this,’ he said. ‘What will happen if you all tire the horses out so much?’

  I was abashed at my inconsiderate behaviour, but I refused to let that bother me for too long. A very bright idea had struck me out in the greens and I was dying to see if my plan would succeed.

  I met my parents outside the stables and described the events of my class to them as we headed home. Then I asked them for permission to invite some friends over, take them swimming and then follow it up with a sleepover party. It was a tall order, but my parents complied because they now knew that my friends and I had fought.

  Once home, I made three phone calls.

  Tring! Tring!

  Rohan answered the phone. I explained my plans for a sleepover party over the weekend. He was very excited at first, but then he said that he needed his mother’s permission.

  I heard him speak to his mother. A very animated conversation followed. Voices were raised and then Rohan was suddenly back on the line. He quickly agreed to come and then banged the phone down without giving me a chance to speak. I seriously doubted that his mother had willingly given permission.

  Tring! Tring!

  Ankit’s mother answered the phone. I asked for Ankit and then invited him to come for the party. He agreed in no time. The previous evening’s conversation had mellowed us both and we were friends again.

  Tring! Tring!

  Sameer answered the phone. This was my moment of truth, the call that I had been most nervous about. I had practised what I would say to him in front of a mirror, but my mind suddenly blanked. I decided to use the ‘Ankit tactic’—just pretend that nothing had happened. After a little coaxing, I soon had an ‘Okay… I’ll come’ from him. I was surprised by how easy it was and again felt ashamed for not having tried to contact him earlier.

  There was only one problem with the whole setup—I had neglected to mention to Rohan that Ankit and Sameer were coming and vice versa. Put those two things together, and you have yourself a recipe for disaster, considering that Rohan had not made up with Ankit and Sameer like I had. I was worried about how the three of them would react to the situation.

  However, it turned out that I had underestimated Rohan. At school the next day, he offered me a pack of Wrigley’s chewing gum. He said that he had bought in it the US and then forgotten about it. With a word of thanks, I grabbed a stick that was poking out of the pack. It didn’t come out. Instead, a very powerful shock passed through my arm, making the joints of my body rattle.

  ‘What the hell was that? I cried.

  ‘Shocker! Well? What do you think?’ Rohan looked like he had been planning this for a while.

  ‘That was freaking awesome!’

  ‘I bought it in the US. It’s got a bunch of watch batteries inside. The ones in India are very weak and you can make them out from a mile away. This one is better disguised.’ He spoke like he had memorized the words of the guy at the counter of the prank store.

  When Ankit showed up, Rohan held out the Shocker to him without a word. He pretended to chew something to give the impression that he too was enjoying a Wrigley’s gum. Despite the fact that they were still not talking, Ankit succumbed to the invitation—he’s addicted to gum—and grabbed it with very entertaining results. Ankit chased Rohan all around the football field. I stayed inside the classroom, not wanting to be part of the fight that was sure to break out. The entire class was on tenterhooks— they wanted a fight and the opportunity to show off their vocabulary of abuses. But they were disappointed. Rohan and Ankit came back arm in arm after a few minutes. Ankit had seen the funny side of the situation.

  Rohan swore us to silence and pleaded with us to keep a straight face as he proceeded to repeat the prank on an unwary Sameer. Again, the class held its collective breath. And yet again, it was disappointed as Rohan and Sameer came back from the direction of the toilet—where Rohan had fled on seeing Sameer’s red face—roaring with laughter, looking like the best of buddies.

  This was typical Rohan. He didn’t know how to apologize formally—it just didn’t come to him. So he had proceeded to display his utter audaciousness and, as usual, won everyone over.

  At the end of the week, when the last bell rang, the four of us ran out to the front gate, where we were met by our trusty old car. We all had our swimming paraphernalia with us, as well as the pajama-party gear. We were determined to have a blast and celebrate our newly reestablished friendship.

  Soon, we were galloping into the men’s dressing room of the Calcutta Swimming Club, even though Sameer tried to force Ankit into the ladies’ dressing room instead. Giggling like girls, we donned our swimming trunks. After a shower, we raced each other to the pool.

  We went straight to the diving boards. Over ten feet high, the topmost diving board was not the place for faint hearts. On top of that, it was wobbling like a knife balanced on a circus performer’s nose. Scared yet excited, we huddled around the base of the board, which appeared to be the most stable part of it. Then Rohan took the initiative and leapt off with a shout. I looked out over the board, trying to locate him. He was nowhere in sight. Ten seconds… fifteen… twenty… half a minute passed before a few bubbles finally rose to the surface. Rohan swam towards the edge of the board without a word to us. Only his heavy breathing told us what we were in for.

  We fought over who would NOT be the next. But after a rough tussle, I found myself being pushed forward and down, arms flailing as I executed a rather painful belly flop. Ankit and Sameer followed. We swam around for about half an hour, splashing water and trying to dunk each other. Then we had lunch in the café that overlooked the outside pool. I suddenly remembered something I had meant to show the gang—the CSC’s Splash magazine. I found a couple of the monthlies at the office and showed everyone the many articles that I had written for it. They were all really impressed!

  Then we went back to the pool area for cold drinks.

  ‘Coke… on the rocks!’ said Rohan to a
bewildered waiter. We all laughed. He had been acting like a drunkard for the last few minutes. But soon, emotional words started flowing out of him as if the Coke was actually real liquor.

  ‘Arrey, yaar… next year, I won’t be with you guys. You’ll miss me, no? Damned hostel! Nobody cares…’

  He was going on and on with his pravachan when Ankit snapped and said, ‘Cut it, yaar…’

  That shut him up for the moment, but Rohan’s episodes were actually getting more and more painful for all of us.

  When we reached home, we decided to play ‘the greatest prank of the century’ as Rohan put it. We sat in my room with all the things we would need—a copy of the telephone directory, a pen and a notepad. There was a Nurse Centre in the locality. We dialled the number.

  Tring! Tring!

  Sameer wrapped a towel around the mouthpiece and put the phone on loudspeaker.

  ‘Hello?’ said a high-pitched female voice that instantly reminded me of phenyled floors, white sheets and the smell of anaesthetics.

  In a high falsetto, Sameer said, ‘Hellooo, Nurse Centre?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  The ruse had worked! Ankit, Rohan and I exchanged silent high-fives.

  ‘I need a nurse to care for a newborn child and his mother… full-time.’

  ‘Okay, of course, ma’am,’ came the voice of the woman from the centre. Then she quoted an outrageous monthly salary, to which Sameer agreed. ‘Ma’am, what is the address?’ she asked.

  ‘Umm… one minute…’ Sameer said, looking panicked.

  I came to his rescue. I wrote the address on the notepad and Sameer rattled it off. ‘You can begin your duties from tomorrow,’ he said, his voice authoritative.

  ‘What kind of nurse do you want, ma’am?’

  ‘Young… She should be able to run around and everything.’

  The moment the call ended, we let out a loud cheer. More high-fives were exchanged.

  ‘By the way, whose address was it?’ Rohan asked.

  ‘It’s actually my address, with a slight difference. I directed them to the flat on the next floor! The guy who lives there is a bachelor. I think he works for an MNC. Good-looking fellow… Goswami.’

  ‘Poor Mr Goswami!’ said Ankit.

  We laughed, imagining the consequences of our call.

  A few hours later, we headed to bed. We’d spent the evening watching TV and had eaten a delicious home-cooked dinner. When the others started to take their nightsuits and stuff out of their bags, I heard a loud ‘clunk!’

  ‘Did you hear that?’ I asked.

  ‘What… oh, there it is again!’ Sameer said.

  We traced the sound to Ankit’s bag, which was hanging from a high peg. A zip had come open and things were falling out of the bag. I stared in amazement at the stuff that was now lying on the floor—several tubes of lipstick, a weird box with colourful powders and a bottle of eyeliner.

  ‘What the bloody hell are those for?’ Rohan asked, clutching a bottle that had landed on his toe.

  ‘It’s make-up, can’t you see?’ I said. My sister spent too many hours trying to steal Mum’s for me to not know. ‘But what are you doing with it, Ankit? Wanna give yourself a “touch-up” before you sleep?’

  ‘No,’ Ankit said in a surly voice. ‘Have any of you guys seen Anoushka Didi lately? Her face is like covered with half an inch of make-up. That’s why I decided to… er… confiscate it. Without telling her, of course.’

  We looked at each other in some puzzlement. Did Ankit think stealing his sister’s make-up would convince her to not wear any? Oh well, none of our business.

  The next day, we were all woken up by a loud shout from Rohan. He had apparently been having a nightmare.

  ‘Oi! D’you realize what time it is?’ said a sleepy Sameer.

  ‘Actually, it’s eight.’ I had been sleeping closest to Rohan and his wake-up yell had shaken me thoroughly. I had bounded off the mattress and was now clutching the table that doubled as my study desk. Might as well make the best of it, I thought.

  ‘Rise and shine, everyone!’ I threw open the curtains to let in the sunlight.

  ‘Why did you have to wake us up, Rohan?’ Ankit grumbled.

  ‘Actually, I was dreaming that CC was running after me and then threw a globe at me,’ said Rohan.

  A lavish spread of fruits had been laid out for breakfast. My parents were on various dieting schemes all the time and every now and then I was forced to practically live off a variety of seasonal fruits.

  We had asked the liftman the evening before to keep us posted about the arrival of nurses. I was closest to the phone, and when the call came, I signalled to the others and we ran out of the apartment. The display at the lift showed that the car was currently on the seventh floor. The nurse must have reached. We called the lift down to the sixth floor. Then the four of us got in and went up to the seventh floor.

  The door of Goswami’s flat was shut when we reached. My plan had been to stay in the lift and snoop, but Rohan and Ankit were dissatisfied with the lack of any sound and crouched at the keyhole of the flat instead. Sameer and I soon followed, fighting over who would get to peep in. Rohan and Sameer won most of the time. Ankit and I had to be content with hearing the loud argument through the door. Suddenly, Rohan gestured at us and we leapt away. Ankit and I ran half a flight up the stairs, Rohan jumped into a broom cupboard and Sameer hid behind a potted plant.

  As the nurse left, stomping her feet in anger, we could make out snatches of Bengali—‘These men enjoy playing such pranks! Says he’s not even married… how can he have a child…’

  We roared with laughter. The nurse had been young and attractive. And obviously very disappointed at her reception!

  We called up the Nurse Centre exactly one hour later.

  ‘Hellooo? Nurse Centre?’ Sameer was doing his thing again.

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘I asked for a nurse yesterday…’ he said, stating the address.

  ‘Yes, ma’am. We sent our nurse. But the man started shouting at her. He said he wasn’t even married and chucked the poor woman out of his house.’

  ‘Oh? Is that so?’ said Sameer, clucking his tongue like an old grandma. ‘The poor lady must be really disappointed!’ he said, then hung up.

  We exploded into laughter yet again. Another successful prank, and we hadn’t been caught!

  At lunch, my mother paraded around the room like a drill sergeant, asking us what we wanted, encouraging us to eat more or try some new, exotic dish. We struggled to keep a straight face throughout. If she found out about our mischief, we would be in a world of trouble. Sameer, in particular, looked distinctly uncomfortable. Even though he had participated in the prank, he didn’t seem too excited about it having gone so well. He wasn’t eating properly and was laughing only half-heartedly at the jokes we were cracking. I’d noticed the same thing the day before as well.

  ‘What happened, Sameer?’ said my mother suddenly. She had probably noticed his lack of appetite.

  Sameer just shrugged, his mouth full of pineapple.

  ‘You must tell me,’ my mother persisted.

  Before Sameer could reply, Ankit spluttered through his daal, ‘His family has shifted to a new house and they’ve not settled in very well. He doesn’t like it there and he’s missing the rest of his family. He’s been behaving like this ever since.’

  I was impressed by this masterly summing up of Sameer’s situation.

  ‘Don’t give the problem more attention than it deserves,’ Mum said, in the strict tone she usually reserved for breaking up a fight between my sister and me.

  The four of us stared at her. My friends had never seen the ‘preachy’ side of her, but now they had it coming.

  ‘There are problems in everybody’s life,’ she said. ‘And everybody worries. You kids typically worry about grades, tests, changing bodies. Or fitting in with your friends. Or the goal you missed at the football game, peer pressure, bullying, teasing, being lef
t out… whatever. Sometimes, parents think these are trivial things, though they are not trivial for you. But remember that you can fix everything and solve every problem in your life if you are prepared to manage it. I think you are also mature enough to not make a hullabaloo about your problems.’ She paused and glared at each one of us. ‘Have you ever thought of your mother, Sameer? She must be trying to cope with the changes too. Think about your dadi. How difficult it must be for her to be parted from the rest of her family like that. Instead of helping by being cheery, you are adding to their woes by being glum and uncooperative.’

  I was shocked at my mother’s behaviour. Instead of consoling and reassuring Sameer, she was accusing the poor fellow! Instead of volunteering help, she was creating discomfort. Sameer was staring at a corner of the carpet, too embarrassed to say a word. I decided to take the matter into my hands.

  ‘But, Mum, it’s not his fault! Everything there is so damn alien. His mother is so… umm… changed.’ I caught Rohan’s eye—he smirked back at me.

  ‘So?’ said my mother. ‘So when do you think she will fulfil her dreams and desires? Isn’t it her life too? When we’re young, you kids are the priority. When we grow old, our health is the priority. Now is the only time when we can actually live our own lives!’

  There was complete silence in the room. My mother looked like she wanted to carry on, but she stopped at our lack of argument. We were all probably thinking the same thing—we hadn’t looked at the situation from Sameer’s mother’s point of view.

  My mother walked towards Sameer and put a hand on his head, the way she did with me while explaining something philosophical.

  ‘Grow up, Sameer. Spend some time with your mother. Take a walk, chat with her, watch a movie, try to fit in and support her. You’ll see. Everything will be sorted out on its own.’

  My mother’s advice shook us up. Reluctantly, we admitted that she was right. No professional counsellor would have said anything different. What I was uncertain about was the way in which Sameer would take this advice— would he consider it an intrusion and resent it or would he understand the rationale of my mother’s argument? His face had remained blank throughout and concealed his feelings completely.