The serious lecture after the high of our prank really lowered our spirits. The rest of the day passed drearily and soon everyone headed back to their own homes.
Thirteen
All’s Not Fair in Love and War
September was usually an eventful month. First, we would have the Teachers’ Day celebrations, at which we would wholeheartedly cheer our educators. Then there would be the Parent-Teacher meeting, at which they would wholeheartedly criticize the students while handing out their reports.
It was amazing how we could all ‘change’ our attitudes towards teachers on a particular day. Even the most hated teachers got the best gifts—buttering at it finest. Everyone ran around the school, gifts and cards in hand, trying to find teachers, prospective teachers and, very rarely, past teachers.
This year, there was to be a grand assembly and a programme in the auditorium. But that was being managed and conducted by the class twelve boys, so none of our business. But we were free to do what we wanted during the time that the teachers were in class. So we arranged to hide under the desks, put confetti on the fans and make a ‘surprise’ appearance.
The four of us decided that we would do something special for F&L. We bought a carton of Fair & Lovely moisturizer and snuck into the staffroom and kept it on F&L’s desk the day before the celebrations. The carton was wrapped in shiny gift paper and had ‘Your Secret Admirer’ written across the top.
On the day itself, all went as planned, though the teachers probably found our arrangements very silly. The icing on the cake for us was what Sohan and Siddhu did. They brought a two-litre bottle of Coke, shook it vigorously and then held it before Fair & Lovely, asking her to open it. F&L had not seen them shake the bottle and their efforts to create a champagne-like effect. She opened the bottle, and ended up spraying much of the class with sticky, foamy Coke. She herself sported a foamy goatee and moustache. S&S Pvt. Ltd kindly offered to wipe it off—she refused, choosing instead to use the bathroom.
For the PT meeting, my father came along. I was petrified. I had no idea what the teachers would say to him. Though I had improved considerably, Dad was sure to think that I had not realized my full potential—and he wouldn’t be too wrong.
I chose to wait outside when Dad went into the classroom, like most kids. People didn’t want to risk the teachers looking at the suffering victim suffering and being inspired to deal out greater torture.
After ten minutes—which seemed like ten hours—Dad came out. I was scared. In a moment of panic, I thought of hiding. Eyes down, I looked at his feet, waiting for the yelling.
But the hand that should have been slapping me came down gently on my shoulder. I looked up at him.
‘Beta, it’s all right. This is a new school, and we know you’ll need time to adjust. Your mother and I only hope that you’ll keep trying harder, and have some fun in the meantime. We’ll support you in whatever way we can.’ My face burst into a big smile. ‘But remember, when we grow older, you’ll have to be our support too,’ he said.
Dad’s words of forgiveness actually made me feel sorrier and more regretful than any scolding would have done.
When we left, there were still swarms of students coming in with their parents, streaming in together like hundreds of rats.
Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats,
Brown rats, Black rats, gray rats, tawny rats,
Grave old plodders, gay young friskers,
Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins,
Cocking tails and prickling whiskers,
Families by the tens and dozens…
We also had our English Elocutions later that month. The best speakers from each class would face off in a grand competition in the main auditorium. Although I had no hopes of getting selected, I was really looking forward to the competition. It was sure to be a real clash of Titans because of Xavier’s’ supposedly never-ending stock of superb orators.
But then an announcement was made—‘All non-participants for the Aubrey Durnford Elocution Medal are eligible for elocution during the breaks. Up to six students will be entertained.’
‘Yes!’ I almost shouted. I might not be picked for the main competition, but I would definitely give it a shot.
I started hatching a plan, though I didn’t tell my friends because they were sure to try to brainwash me against it. To be different, I knew, I had to be alone.
On the day of the competition, Jeevraj took the stage. As usual, he had everyone enthralled with his power-packed performance. With facial gymnastics that I had never thought possible and his loud booming voice, he had the attention of every single person present. The vigour and charisma of his performance ensured that he had a clear shot at first place.
After the almost never-ending applause, the Master of Ceremonies announced a short break. Before I knew it, my name was being announced from the list of non-participants. My legs went from jelly to butter as I walked onto the stage and took several shaky steps to the mike. Adrenalin pumped through me.
Thanks to the spotlight on me, I couldn’t see the audience at all. I was staring into a sea of black as I said, ‘This poem is special because it is written by me. I dedicate it to my father. And all the fathers in the world who support their children through the difficult times in their lives.’ My own words gave me confidence and I didn’t feel weak any longer. I felt strong. Determined. Taking a deep breath, I started reciting my poem.
The Banyan Tree
There was once a banyan tree—
Not very big, not very strong.
It would stand under the sky,
All night and all day long.
Its branches were small,
Its prop roots were short.
But it had grown big,
It always had thought.
Birds fluttered on it,
Children came to play—
The tree spread its branches,
For them to swing and sway.
Lightning came—
It fought thunder too.
But while all this happened,
No one ever knew.
Happy it seemed
As it served the rest—
Though small were its branches,
It did its best.
The children who played
Had a big fight.
They fought for shade,
They fought for light.
They cut out the props
Which had begun to grow—
They needed new trees,
Not the old one any more.
No one came now,
To sit under the tree.
There were other trees to climb,
There were other trees to see.
The independent props
Were now tall and green,
As if never part of
The big tree they had been.
But then there was a creeper,
That had grown around the tree—
She had wound herself around it
Very stealthily.
She was strong and bright,
And tight was her hold.
‘I will never leave you, Banyan,
’ Hugging it, she consoled.
‘You’ve given me love—
From you I have grown.
Never before this,
A strong arm I’ve known.
‘I have blossomed, I have flowered—
Life you’ve given me.
From now on, dear Banyan,
Your prop I will be.
‘From now on, dear Banyan,
Your prop I will be.’
I recited my poem without expression. I wanted to be genuine. I was going to gain nothing from this poem—no applause, no prize. Just a quiet satisfaction that I had done something to honour my father. And happiness that I had done something completely new and different.
Strangely enough, everyone clapped once I finished. And dozens of guys with whom I’d never spoken before came up to me and thumped me on th
e back!
I don’t know why, but after this ‘victory’ of mine, I felt a strong desire to share my joy with Shubho. After all, he too had shared his tennis victory with me. I didn’t know whether I would be able to express my feelings, but I decided to pay him a visit anyway.
I arrived at the courts at my usual time—six-thirty in the morning. Not surprisingly, the club was packed with the weekend crowd. Full-grown men and women jumped about in shorts, hitting balls erratically and exerting themselves to emit fake tennis-grunts. Both the courts were occupied. I looked around for Shubho, but he wasn’t around.
Courts were booked on a half-hour basis at the club, so I was entitled to a court in ten minutes—just enough time for me to warm up and locate Shubho. I ran around the courts and did some stretching. Shubho still hadn’t turned up, so I asked a ball boy where he was.
‘Ashbe na.’
He wouldn’t come? I stared at the boy in surprise.
‘Ponero din dhore asheni.’
‘But why?’ I asked him. Shubho hadn’t come to the courts for fifteen days? ‘Is he ill or something?’
‘Na.’ The boy said that Tapan Sir would be there in a while to teach me, but Shubho wouldn’t come.
Before I could quiz the chap further, the member whom he was servicing called him over with a curt gesture. Something was definitely up. Why on earth would such a good player disappear from the courts? Tennis was Shubho’s passion. He was always at the courts. Even before I had started playing with him, I’d always taken it for granted that Shubho would be there.
Tapan Sir marched up then and asked me abruptly if I had done my rounds. I replied in the affirmative and we started hitting the ball over the net. Slowly at first, then with more force.
‘Sir, where is Shubho?’
I asked him.
No response.
We kept playing. Tapping the ball over the net. After about ten rallies, I repeated my question in case he hadn’t heard me. He ignored me still. I had an uneasy feeling that something was very wrong. I almost shouted my question the next time, but Tapan Sir still refused to acknowledge it. He just kept playing, making me run for the ball, hitting it harder and harder with every shot. I played half-heartedly, my mind distracted.
At the end of our game, I cornered him and asked vehemently, ‘Where is Shubho? The ball boy said that he hasn’t come for two weeks. Is he ill?’
Tapan Sir grimaced at nothing in particular. He seemed strangely rigid and formal, nothing like the man who had treated me to Coke to celebrate his son’s victory. I didn’t know what to do.
I had to know what Shubho’s problem was. So I waited for Tapan Sir to relent. I shoved my racquet and balls into my bag, exchanged my sweaty T-shirt for a fresh one, then plonked myself down on one of the concrete benches. Slowly, in twos and threes, the members vacated the courts. They arranged their racquets and other paraphernalia in their branded bags and walked away, laughing and chatting. Soon, the courts were completely empty.
If this had been a movie, I’m sure they would have taken a bird’s eye shot of the scene. In the middle of the hundreds of acres of lush, green, manicured fairways of a golf course, a tiny patch of red gravel on which a curious pattern of lines have been drawn. Two tennis courts. On one of these, a few ball boys repair the grounds, straining to move the roller and flatten the earth. On the far side, on a cold, cemented bench, two people sit, their heads bent low. One with a question, one with the answer.
But the answer wasn’t an easy one. With teary eyes and stammering words, Tapan Sir spoke like a defeated man. He told me of a dream. His dream. A dream that he had nursed for twenty-five years. One that would probably never come true.
As a boy, Tapan Sir had run around these very courts in his shoddy clothes and slippers, picking up balls and saying salaam for a meagre tip of a few rupees. A famous gora coach had been ‘imported’ specially to teach the crème de la crème of Kolkata the gentleman’s game that had taken the world by storm. As a ball boy, Tapan had taught himself to play, having salvaged a racquet which a frustrated member had thrown away after a match. From that day, there had been no stopping him. He had become a protégé of sorts, helping the old coach with his training. He had been a quick and eager learner, far ahead of the other ball boys. It had been his biggest day when the club had officially hired him as a marker at the young age of sixteen. Eventually, people had started to appreciate his ideas and style. Soon, he had unofficially graduated from marker to coach. And so a tiny bit of his dreams had been realized.
But for his son Shubho, Tapan Sir had had bigger dreams. A kid with tennis in his genes, Shubho was to be a player like no other. From state champ to national champ— Tapan Sir had dreamt of everything. Every morning, after the members had left, he and four-year-old Shubho would descend on the courts and practise like their lives depended on it. As long as there wasn’t a member waiting, there was nothing to bother them. Four hours, five hours—they had braved rain and sunshine to just practise. Shubho had even quit school after class four, not because he had failed but because giving up his morning tennis for studies had been incomprehensible to him. The years had passed and Shubho had blossomed as expected, winning tournament after tournament.
But Tapan Sir and Shubho’s blissful run had come to a sudden halt. A serious complaint had been lodged against the duo by a member of the club. They had been ridiculed, warned, threatened and insulted. Tapan Sir had been forbidden from using the tennis courts for furthering any personal interest.
‘This is my home,’ Tapan Sir moaned. ‘I thought it was my right, my reward for serving the club…’ Tears rolled down his cheeks. ‘Where will Shubho practise? How will I coach him? He didn’t even go to school for very long—he won’t be able to get a job. What will we do now?’
I tried to console him. ‘The club should be proud to have such a champion… He could always go to another club…’
But Tapan Sir knew my words were meaningless. So did I. Given the politics and formalities that these clubs enforced, Shubho would never be allowed to join any of them.
After a while, a member came and booked Tapan Sir for a session. I said goodbye and left.
Fourteen
Greater Distances
The Durga puja holidays were fast approaching and I could sense the changes in the City of Joy. More people wore smiles on their faces and the entire city seemed to have acquired a certain sheen of anticipation. Thousands of half-constructed pandals spread across the city. These were funded by a chanda collected from the residents of each para. Bengali families, including old grandpas and grandmas who did not step out of the house for the entire year, were getting ready to buy themselves a brand-new outfit for every day of the pujas. All of Kolkata comes alive for the ten days of Durga puja. Although Mother Nature usually blesses the occasion every year with a flurry of rain, nothing dampens the celebrations.
Again, it was time for all of us to huddle around Rohan’s desk and discuss where we would go for the holidays.
Sameer would be staying back and doing what he enjoyed most—pandal-hopping. To get into the mood, he had bought a number of kurtas and was planning to wear a new one for every day of the festivities.
Rohan would be going to Kota to take special tuitions for admissions into Doon. His mother had discovered a coaching centre online. To vent his frustration, Rohan was cursing Google, Yahoo and every other search engine he could think of with all his might—what a waste of the vacation!
I had the best combination—I would stay in Kolkata for the five main days of the puja, doing all kinds of masti. After that, for the rest of the fortnight-long vacation, I would go to my mother’s hometown, Kurseong.
As for Ankit, he had a mission—to find out about his sister’s affair. In the true, stupid spirit of friendship, we pledged our allegiance to him and swore to provide aid for solving the ‘Anoushka Case’. Thus we formed the LURVE Detective Agency. Ankit would spend his time in Kolkata, managing the ‘affairs’ of LURVE while its oth
er associates enjoyed their break.
I woke up to the rhythmic sound of the dhaak on Shashthi. The nearby pandal had already begun its morning aarti. I got up hurriedly. We had only a few days to explore all the pandals before they were disassembled and the idols immersed on Dashami.
The entire family was ready in a trice. We didn’t want to miss visiting a pandal because of something as mundane as an unkempt hairdo or a mismatched pair of shoes. We passed through the streets packed with people dressed in their puja best. The footpaths were hidden from view by long chains of makeshift stalls selling everything from clothes to miniature idols to traditional Bengali sweets. Everyone wore a smile on his or her face. I realized suddenly that I was seeing Kolkata at its best.
Soon, we reached our first pandal, a replica of a seven-hundred-year-old temple in Bhubaneshwar. There was a mild fragrance of shiuli in the air, people were marching along happily to the beats of the dhaak. I watched the dhaakis in awe—men and boys who waited all year round to play the drums through the five auspicious days of puja. They stood by the idol of Ma Durga, playing their dhaaks for all they were worth, as if the music was bursting out from under their skins.
And there was Durga, with her ten arms holding nine weapons, standing astride a lion and spearing the evil Mahishasura through the chest with her trishul. Flanking her were Ganesh, Saraswati, Kartik and Laxmi, her children. Every one of the characters was adorned with beautiful jewellery, clothes and weapons. I had seen a kumor working on an idol a few days ago, his nimble fingers ready to transform a stick-hay-clay object into a figure of divine splendour. The skill of these idol-makers was incredible.
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