Sameer punched in Karan’s number confidently.
Tring! Tring!
‘Hello?’ said Karan.
We jammed our knuckles into our mouths to control our laughter. Sameer spoke with such confidence that he could have put any girl to shame. In fact, the husky tone of his voice made him sound rather… sexy! All the topics that we had carefully researched and prepared were utilized nicely during the conversation.
‘Never… never will I do that again!’ screamed Sameer, his voice still in ‘Sonia’ mode once the call was done.
Rohan and I congratulated him on his great dramatic skills, but Ankit just sat there, showing no signs of either joy or anger. Despite the fact that we were setting a trap for the bad guy, I think he was feeling bad about going behind his sister’s back.
‘Thank you, Nokia!’ shouted Rohan as we played the recorded conversation over and over again on the phone.
From there on, every day, after our sports and gruelling march-past practice, we gathered inside Rohan’s Honda City and made romantic calls to Karan, carefully recording every word. With every call, we grew more and more certain that this guy knew how to speak to girls, patao them, mess with them and then ditch them.
Not that all girls were naïve and innocent—‘Sonia Kapoor’ was living proof of that! But Anoushka Didi was— or at least, had been. She was getting deeply involved with this guy, and he was a real two-timing bastard.
After eight recorded conversations and a whole bunch of emails, we thought it was time to move on to Phase III of Operation Anti-Lurve. Ankit was now looking for the right time to bring Anoushka Didi to her senses.
We knew that the truth would be really difficult for Didi to handle and she would be heartbroken, but the sooner it happened, the better.
‘On your marks!’
The row of eight boys bent down.
‘Get set!’
I tensed every muscle in my body, storing up torque for the all-important start and stumble.
With an almighty clap, the two wooden plates crashed into each other.
Adrenalin pumping, I propelled myself off the ground. ‘Head down, feet pointing straight, eyes forward, arms moving…’ I told myself, repeating the mantra that our PE teacher had taught us. I didn’t look at the other racers. I didn’t look at the crowd. I just looked down at the track moving under my feet.
Although I tried my best, I placed a dismal sixth. Leaving Rohan to collect his second place medal for the 200-metre dash that we had just completed, I skipped my way back to the temporary ‘sheds’ for the students.
‘You tried, man,’ Sameer said, hoping to boost my confidence.
‘Yeah… but I ran like shit.’
‘No! You were selected in the first place, remember? And you came sixth in your group…’
‘When is Ankit’s race?’
‘Before the tug-of-war, after the 400 metres and before the 800 metres… and of course, he’s already won the 100 metres…’
Ankit had qualified for five races and was the favourite for all of them. Rohan and I had qualified for one race only—the 200-metre dash. Rohan was currently at the podium, receiving his medal from the chief guest with the long, unpronounceable name. Sameer had not made the cut for any of the races, but would be participating in the three-legged race, the obstacle race and the wheelbarrow race. Races which were designed for non-athletes—the bulk of the school.
As Rohan joined us behind the barricaded seats, the result for the march-past was announced—Loyola had won, as usual, Berchmans had come second, Gonzaga third and Britto fourth (another way of saying last). We had all marched with everything we had, swinging our arms up to shoulder level and hitting the guy in front as often as possible. No one really knew what the judges looked for when they rated our marching, but we tried our best anyway. At the end, Rohan and Sameer exulted, I sulked. Loyola won practically every event. They owned sports day. Although Berchmans came first in academics and usually bagged the house cup, we didn’t exactly put up a good show in front of our parents.
The entire school had turned into one big mela for the sports day. Five ice-cream-wallahs, four muri-wallahs and four phuchka-wallahs had been allowed into the school premises for the first time this year. The buildings were decorated in the colours of the school and the houses, a temporary bandstand had been erected and there was a huge stage for the chief guest and the important teachers. Hundreds of chairs had been set up for the parents and the students were seated in the specially constructed and decorated sheds.
The day after sports day had been declared a holiday—a well-deserved one! My head ached, my shoulders ached, my ribs ached, my thighs ached, my knees ached and my ankles ached. I just lay in bed, groaning and ordering people around.
Just as I sat up to eat breakfast in bed, the phone rang. My mother answered it, then handed it to me, angrily muttering, ‘Even on your holidays, your friends don’t leave you alone.’ She then hustled off to do ‘her own business’— which basically meant that she had gone to listen in from the extension.
‘Hi,’ said Ankit.
‘Hi.’
We all knew that our mothers tried to listen in on our conversations as often as possible, so Ankit spoke in code.
‘We have to complete our project today. Rohan and Sameer are coming. See you opposite Westside at noon. Anoushka Didi is coming to help.’
‘Sure!’ I said.
Mum would take it literally—but any LURVE operative would know that we were about to expose the stupid Karan in front of Didi.
‘Shit, it’s hot,’ I grumbled.
‘Yeah,’ Sameer sighed.
‘Why couldn’t we meet inside Westside?’ I asked.
‘D’you think Ankit has told her already?’ Rohan asked.
‘God knows. How are we supposed to convince her anyway?’
This was not going to very enjoyable.
Anoushka Didi and Ankit soon arrived in a taxi. Didi walked towards us, dressed in a pink salwar kameez and looking very pretty. Her shoulder-length hair was wet and her kaajal was a little smeared. Ankit was following her quietly, looking very tense.
Didi’s cheery greeting confirmed that she hadn’t the least idea about what was coming.
‘So… your fun day out, eh?’ she said with a laugh.
We followed her, mystified. We would have to guess the rest of the story that Ankit had cooked up to get her here. Ankit and Didi led us to Aqua Java and we ordered an iced tea each. It was actually quite unnerving, being in a café in front of the school. From the conversation that followed, we gathered that Ankit had used quite an innovative ruse to get Didi here. He had grumbled about how little time she was giving him and then demanded a treat from her for his performance on sports day. Somehow, he had managed to include us in the treat as well.
If only she knew what kind of treat we had in store for her…
After we had downed our iced teas and engaged in some jibber-jabber, Ankit came to the point.
‘Didi, we’d like to show you something,’ he said and pulled her towards a computer in the cyber-café area of the shop.
We followed him, feeling quite nervous. Wasn’t he being a little too direct?
Ankit swiftly pulled up Gmail and logged into Sonia Kapoor’s account.
Didi swivelled in her seat and looked at each of us in turn.
‘What is this? What’s going on? How do you know a girl’s password?’ she said.
We did not reply, busy as we were in not meeting her gaze.
‘Didi, read this,’ said Ankit, opening the first mail.
She took her time reading the mails. We hovered around her, reading and rereading each mail with her, marvelling at our guts and stupidity. Didi was very quiet. We didn’t know what she was thinking. Did she understand what we were trying to do? We really didn’t want to rub it in by having to explicitly tell her that the bastard Karan was a flirt and was two-timing her.
After she had finished with the last mail, she spoke, stil
l facing the computer screen.
‘Who is this Sonia?’
Her voice sounded very weak.
Speaking one by one, in an almost rehearsed manner, we told her the story from the start. With each sentence we spoke, she seemed to grow more and more subdued. She was silent most of the time, but asked a few questions here and there. Slowly, the story petered out and we looked at each other, wondering what the next step should be.
Finally, Ankit spoke.
‘Didi, this guy is not a good person. He doesn’t deserve someone like you. Perhaps you haven’t realized that after you started hanging out with him, you have changed as well.’
‘But…’ Didi said.
‘Believe me, Didi, it’s true. Do you remember the last time you and I spent some quality time together? It was months ago—before you started seeing this guy. I’ve been trying to tell you this for ages, but you haven’t been paying attention. You’ve been too busy with your affair and your lies.’
Tears were rolling down Ankit’s cheeks and he was holding Didi’s hand. Didi was looking completely dazed.
As a final blow, Rohan flicked open his mobile. Recorded conversations streamed out from the tiny speaker on the side. Suddenly, Anoushka Didi stood up and ran towards the loo. Ankit tried to follow, but Sameer stopped him.
‘Let her cry it out, yaar,’ he said.
We patiently waited for her to come back. When she returned, her eyes red, she ordered another round of iced tea for all of us. Then she sat quietly as we chattered about school, a haunted expression on her face.
We officially disbanded the LURVE Detective Agency. It was a heavy weight off my chest. It had occupied too much of our time, energy and effort. It was time for us to get back to academics—the December unit tests were about to begin. So back we went to our studies, revisions, making notes and generally tearing our hair out.
Sixteen
Rights and Principles
Sameer walked into class with a huge smile on his face.
‘What’s up, man? Are your units going extra well or what?’ Rohan teased. ‘Gonna thrash Sriniwasan?’
Sameer just blushed and handed us an envelope each.
‘It’s my birthday day after,’ he said.
‘Yeah, dude, we know. We were planning a surprise party for you, but I guess that plan just got scrapped.’
‘Well, you’re all invited.’
‘Where is it? Pizza Hut again?’ Ankit asked eagerly. His thin physique concealed a voracious appetite.
‘No, it’s at the haveli.’ ‘What? Are you guys moving back or something?’ ‘No, Dadi wanted it that way. And what Dadi wants, Dadi gets. It’ll be like my grandfather is having his birthday feast—poora old style and all!’
Ankit’s eyes gleamed at the word ‘feast’. He was already licking his lips.
‘It’ll be like a puja party,’ Sameer continued. ‘First the havan and then the food and games.’
‘All traditional, eh?’ I asked.
‘What do you want? As your gift, I mean,’ said Rohan.
‘Nothing. I officially forbid you from bringing any gifts. I won’t give you any return gifts either,’ Sameer declared passionately, walking towards Yash and Dhruv—he was going to invite them as well. When he came back to us, he said, ‘You can get as much loose change as you want, though. Twenty-five paise, fifty paise, one-rupee coins—anything.’
We were baffled. Sameer was never particularly demanding about his presents, but he had never turned them down so vehemently either. Curious, we started fiddling with our envelopes. The invitation was in Hindi and was almost as elaborate as a wedding card!
A couple of lanes away from the haveli, we tiptoed around a huge pile of shit in the middle of the footpath. A large truck passed within inches of us, startling us with its closeness.
‘How can those trucks be allowed in such narrow lanes?’ Ankit demanded. ‘The road is only twice as broad as the footpath!’
We passed shops selling badam milk, lassi and sweets. All the houses looked ancient, as if they were from a different era altogether, and the stench from the open drains was overpowering. Our noses pinched, we navigated the inner reaches of Burra Bazaar, the Mecca of all things Marwari.
We had heard from Sameer that his family owned three havelis in the Shekhawati region of Rajasthan. These had once been stately buildings, almost palatial in their grandeur. But the family had broken up over time, and with that the magnificence of the havelis had also diminished. Now they were just ruins, crumbling edifices shorn of their former glory.
A left turn and a detour around an oncoming bull later, we stood in front of Sameer’s haveli. It was a curious mixture of old architecture and modern comforts. The front gate stood as evidence to that. The pillars and beams on either side looked new, but the gate itself was ancient—fifteen feet high and with spikes protruding at the top as if to halt an imaginary elephant’s charge. At the moment, the gates stood wide open in welcome and the courtyard was jam-packed with people.
The centre of attraction was, of course, the havan kund in the middle of the courtyard. It looked like a white, marble step-pyramid which stopped two-thirds of the way up and ended in a depression instead of a peak. On regular days, the kund just sat there gathering dust, but today it had been primed for the occasion. The marble gleamed and the steps were decorated with flowers. Furious orange flames leapt up from the hollow at the top.
I spotted Sameer through the throng. Seated in front of the fire, he was trying to keep his body as far away from the flames as possible without looking odd. Dressed in an opulent sherwani, he looked like he was about to be married to an invisible girl! He was looking around him and mopping the sweat on his temples.
On the other three sides of the kund sat Dadi, smiling her brightest smile, and two fat, well-oiled pundits. They kept alternating between muttering softly and chanting loudly and throwing saamagri into the fire. At every onslaught of the ‘blessed mixture’, the fire would hiss and spit out angry flames. I recognized snatches of the Gayatri mantra and a few shlokas here and there, but the rest just sounded like gibberish.
We stood around the havan for what seemed like ages. Everyone was running around from here to there, seemingly very busy. Only we stood there with nothing to do other than wait for Sameer to join us. We didn’t know anyone other than Sameer, his parents and Dadi. Even the other guys from school who had been invited were nowhere to be seen.
We tried to catch Sameer’s eye, but he was too engrossed in the puja to notice. Bored, we started to explore on our own. Soon, we ended up in a deserted looking part of the house. Although most of the rooms were unlocked, the door to one small room was closed. Ankit immediately got to work, trying to force the lock. It wasn’t a particularly nice thing to do, I thought, since we were all guests. But Ankit paid no heed to my protests. Wanting not to be part of it, Rohan and I wandered off to explore the other rooms. They were all empty. No furniture, no mirrors, no curtains. The place had a very desolate feel to it.
All of a sudden, we heard Ankit shout—‘Call Rammohan Roy! Call William Bentick!’
We shot out of the room we were in and headed towards him.
‘What is it? Shut up quick, else the entire house will come running!’
‘C’mere, guys, look at this!’ he said, leading us into the now open room—the lock was lying by the door.
We went in and stared. Ankit had managed to switch a bulb on and, by its light, on the far wall, we could see an elaborately framed picture which made my spine tingle. It depicted a Hindu funeral scene—the dead man was lying on top of a pyre of logs, his head cradled in the lap of a young girl, presumably his wife. The pyre was aflame. And the wife’s eyes were open—she was alive. More than the ghastliness of the picture, however, it was the artist’s presentation that was shocking. He had given the whole image an air of worship. As if the burning of the corpse and the young woman was something to be revered…
‘Rani Sati…’ I breathed.
&nbs
p; Rohan and Ankit nodded. We had studied all about the practice of sati and the efforts to stop it and knew the Commission of Sati (Prevention) Act of 1987 by heart thanks to two long, gruelling History chapters.
‘I always thought that all this was like ages ago,’ I said.
‘Yeah! Who knew that people still glorified things like this?’ Rohan said.
‘But come on, guys. Don’t act like you don’t know anything! Don’t you remember Roop Kanwar? And Vidyawati in 2006!’ said Ankit.
‘But this is different, dude. That was in Rajasthan and the villages. But this… this is Sameer’s house. Sameer’s house. Now. Today. In this zamana! And it looks like they worship it too.’
Rohan was right. There were seats in front of the picture, a puja thaali at the ready next to it.
This is crazy, I thought as we stepped out of the room, pulling the door shut behind us. We realized from the sudden absence of sound that the puja was over. We retraced our footsteps through the labyrinth of corridors and emerged into the courtyard again. Everyone but Sameer was standing and flowers were being handed out, We grabbed two handfuls each. Once the pundits were convinced that everyone was listening and alert, they blessed Sameer and showered him with flowers. The entire crowd joined in, pelting him with flowers.
Finally, Sameer stood up, brushed the flowers off his hair and sherwani and touched the pundits’ feet. The crowd dispersed gradually and Sameer’s mother and Dadi ushered him away, probably to rest. Feeling like gatecrashers yet again, we went to check out the food.
‘Whoa!’ Ankit said on seeing the feast laid out before us. His mouth hung open. ‘I love this place!’ he exclaimed.
There was a never-ending array of food. They were all traditional Marwari dishes, cooked specially for the occasion by a Rajasthani maharaj who now sat beside the buffet table, curling his moustache and accepting tips.
There was kanji wada, daal pakori, daal-baati-choorma, paapad, mangori ki sabzi and many other items. The central attraction was, of course, Dadi’s malpoas, fried to a rich gold and drenched in sugar syrup—you could almost taste them with your eyes!
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