Shala

by Milind Bokil

  ‘Aai!’ Ambabai exclaimed.

  ‘You shut up! Don’t try to give your smart opinions.’

  ‘Naru mama is going to marry a Christian girl,’ I said casually.

  It took a while for Aaisaheb to register what I said and then she exploded.

  ‘Christian? Let him do that,’ she challenged. ‘I won’t ever see his face. Then I am dead as far as he is concerned and he is dead as far as I am. I don’t care if the girl is blind, dark, short, handicapped or squint-eyed. She has to be from our caste.’

  She then continued serving us while she muttered different examples. Someone she knew had married a person from a different caste; how the CKPs behave and how the Saraswats do. This is what they probably discuss in their meetings in the chawl and in their ladies’ club. Her best friend here is Nikam kaku. She has never had an argument with her. She’s constantly at loggerheads with Ponkshe kaku, but when it comes to inviting a married woman to dinner, she always calls Ponkshe kaku, just because she’s from the same caste as ours. And if there is a need to invite a boy for the function it’s always their son Kiran. That Kiran has no manners—he fills up his plate like a greedy pig and then wastes most of the food. Aaisaheb gets irritated and curses him, but then the next time she invites the same fellow again. We tolerate all this. Ambabai, otherwise ready to argue at the drop of a hat, was silent. The discussion was over as far as Baba was concerned. He does not like to interfere in her family matters beyond a point. He went and sat outside after washing his hands.

  But a creeping fear filled me. I had never thought along these lines.

  On Monday morning, Surya was waiting for us at our adda.

  ‘Ichibhana, Joshi, you know what Ambekar has done?’ he asked the moment I stepped in.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘That Ambekar—she popped sleeping pills.’

  I looked at Chitre and Phawdya. I knew what Surya was saying, but one could never trust him completely. He may have invented the whole thing and one could not afford to have such rumours floating around.

  ‘But why?’ I asked, looking at Chitre.

  ‘She tried to commit suicide,’ Chitre said, his voice taking on a serious tone.

  I looked at all of them. I wanted to be sure they were not pulling my leg. But that did not seem to be the case.

  ‘She popped in a whole bottle of sleeping pills last afternoon,’ Surya said. ‘She’s in the hospital now. What guts, Ichibhana!’

  ‘Saale, why don’t you tell me the whole thing properly,’ I said. ‘Who told you all this?’

  ‘No one needs to. The whole town knows. What a scene there was last evening!’ Surya said. ‘Police, ambulance—and the note she had written! You know who she named?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Manjrekar sir!’

  ‘Don’t tell me!’

  ‘You bet, Ichibhana! And do you know what she wrote in the note? “Manjrekar sir does not love me. That’s why I am committing suicide.”’

  The whole thing was unbelievable. But it was true. I put down my bag, sat next to Surya and said, ‘Surya, tell me everything properly.’

  Surya then recounted the story. Ambekar’s family had decided to go for the afternoon show of Sholay. She had already seen the movie and declined to go, staying back at home. Her mother is in the habit of taking sleeping pills as she cannot sleep at night. There were a few tablets left in the bottle. She wrote her note, popped the remaining pills and went to sleep. When the family returned they were shocked to find her unconscious with the note by her side. The municipal ambulance was called for. Apparently, the number of pills was not large and she survived. The police came in the next morning.

  I was stunned. Chitre and Phawdya were quiet.

  ‘I had a hunch, bhenchod,’ Surya said. ‘She was trying to woo sir.’

  ‘Where’s the hunch?’ Chitre said. ‘It was evident. She was after him from day one.’

  ‘Fuck!’ Phawdya said. ‘She had complained that the girls were teasing her, remember?’

  ‘What will happen now?’ Surya asked.

  ‘What will happen? Sir will be forced to marry her,’ Chitre said. ‘These girls are very shrewd.’

  ‘Fuck!’ Phawdya repeated. ‘So that’s the plan, is it? She must have got the idea from some movie.’

  ‘Ichibhana, she’s really clever,’ Surya said. ‘And look at her guts! To pop pills like that!’

  ‘That’s no big deal,’ Chitre said. ‘One of the girls near my mavshi’s place in Bandra drank Tik-20.’

  ‘What is that?’ Surya asked.

  ‘It is an insecticide. It burns like hell. The girl was screaming and writhing all over.’

  ‘Did she die?’

  ‘No. The doctor saved her.’

  ‘Some people slit their wrists,’ I added.

  ‘That’s easy, bhenchod,’ Surya said. ‘Take the blade and khachakk!’

  ‘Hey, come on! Let us go. Let us see what’s happening in school,’ Phawdya said.

  To our surprise, most students, seemed to have got the news. They stood huddled in groups whispering to each other. Then everyone gathered around Teredesai as his house was right across Ambekar’s. He was in his elements recounting the episode, exaggerating the events.

  School started as usual, but no one seemed to be attentive. Ambekar’s vacant bench seemed to stand out. The first period was Paranjpe ma’am’s for Marathi. She seemed a little tense, but did not say anything. She went through the motions of teaching the chapter, but no one paid any attention. Everyone had the same question in their mind—what would happen now? Marathi was followed by Hindi and English. We could speak a little in the Hindi class, but there was pin-drop silence in the English period. The next class was taken by Zende sir and we expected him to say something, but he too kept quiet. He did not crack his usual jokes. We all waited for the mid-break.

  Surya had a brainwave in the fourth period—to go and have a look at Ambekar’s house in the break. It was a great idea. Her house was a little far away, but we could reach there in time if we ran all the way. We ran out the moment the bell rang. Fatso Shembekar and Teredesai joined us. We could not refuse Teredesai as his house was in the same area.

  We reached Ambekar’s house to find the doors and windows shut. A few bedsheets hung out in the balcony to dry. The houses around too seemed to be shut. We expected a crowd there, but there was none. Teredesai went to his house. There were a saloon and a presswallah nearby.

  ‘I don’t think anybody’s home,’ Chitre said.

  ‘They must be at home, but they would have shut the door,’ Phawdya remarked.

  ‘She must not have returned from the hospital,’ Surya said.

  Someone stepped out of the saloon with a pair of scissors and a comb in his hand, chewing on paan. Letting out a stream of spit, he asked, ‘What do you want, eh?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Surya answered and then putting his arm around my shoulders said, ‘Ichibhana, let us go. There is nothing to see here.’

  By the time we returned, we got the news that Manjrekar sir had been arrested by the police. Ganoba had got the news. He did not tell us, but he had told Thombre from eleventh standard. Apparently Appa had got the phone call. Manjrekar sir had not come to school that day. We did not have his class that day, but no one else seemed to have seen him. Appa called for a meeting of all the teachers after the mid-break. They assembled in his room. It was ten minutes since the bell rang, but no one came out. The tension in the air was palpable. No one said anything, but there was a lurking fear in everyone’s minds.

  The atmosphere in the afternoon, after the break, was tense. The fact that they had arrested Manjrekar sir meant that the matter was serious. The class was nervous and alert. We went through the motions of attending the other classes. We could hear the other classes going on as usual. The eighth standard guys were reciting a poem loudly and the tenth standard chaps came out into the playground. But our class was silent. Halbe sir explained a few theorems, but no one could pay any at
tention. Even he seemed a little distraught.

  I broke the news to Pingle in the tuition class and he went and relayed it to the boys from Subhash. They exclaimed, ‘Aila, really!’ Shirodkar must have told Mande. I looked at Shirodkar a couple of times but did not smile. There was no question of meeting her after the class that day.

  The air was tense the next day too at school, and much more than the previous day. Everyone in school knew the chain of events. The police had arrested Manjrekar sir. Ambekar’s family had handed over the note to the police and he was kept in custody.

  We were shaken to the bones.

  ‘They would hammer him badly,’ Santya said. ‘They would burn him with cigarette ends and pound his knees with a rod. My Ba was made to lie down on slabs of ice.’

  ‘They would not do anything like that to Sir,’ Chitre said. ‘They would not have put him behind bars.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Surya said. ‘There is no guarantee when dealing with the police. They may break his legs.’

  ‘Bloody hell! What a pity that Manjrekar sir has become a victim of all this,’ Phawdya cursed.

  We all echoed his sentiments. We may not have felt so bad had it happened to someone else—Prem Chopra, Kendalkar sir, Redkar—anyone. But Manjrekar sir! And that too in police custody! It was too much to bear.

  ‘Ichibhana, sir is not at fault, you know,’ Surya said. ‘It’s Ambekar who was interested in him.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Phawdya said. ‘Sir never encouraged her!’

  ‘But, bhenchod, why should she write Sir ’s name,’ Surya asked. ‘She was going to die in any case.’

  ‘That was precisely her plan,’ Chitre said. ‘This is what people attempting suicide do to make the others listen to them.’

  ‘But what if she had died?’

  ‘She wouldn’t have. She’s too shrewd. She knew the safe number of tablets!’

  ‘Chaila!’ Surya exclaimed. ‘But Sir is trapped in this whole mess!’

  There was no way to know what action was being taken against Manjrekar sir. He was the only person with whom we could afford to be free. But we could not have asked him anything in this case. All we could do was discuss amongst ourselves. The girls who had teased Ambekar, especially Mane and the birdies, were tense too.

  Someone commented that Mane might get arrested if Ambekar did not recover. That scared the hell out of her and she started crying. When Barve ma’am entered the class, she was sobbing into her handkerchief. When asked for the reason, one of the birdies said, ‘She’s feeling bad for Ambekar.’ Barve ma’am was silent for a while and then shot off, ‘I don’t understand what is wrong with all you girls? Do you even understand the meaning of love? What is all this nonsense about love and letters and all that? You watch some movies and try to emulate them. Now see what this has led to!’

  She then lectured us for the entire hour. They must have been discussing it in the staff room and she was waiting for a cue to let it out. She was one of the seniormost and on the verge of retirement. That gave her the authority to lecture us. She continued to sermonize for a long time. She was primarily addressing the girls, and they listened to her quietly with their heads down. The boys were silent though we kept exchanging glances.

  Chitre, in a low voice, interrupted her saying, ‘The syllabus is yet not complete.’ The way he said it was interesting; everyone could hear it, yet no one knew who had said it. We all wanted to burst out laughing but kept a straight face. It was not clear whether ma’am had heard him, but then she stopped her sermon and started teaching.

  The next few days were tense as before. Teredesai got news the next day that Ambekar had returned home. The boys continued to let their imagination run wild. Ambekar, quite expectedly, did not come to school. She wouldn’t have dared to. Teredesai tried to impress others telling them how he had seen her standing in the balcony when Phadtare from class eleven asked, ‘Is she having bouts of vomiting?’

  Everyone laughed hearing that. Teredesai is a little dull-witted and took some time to get the meaning. But when he did, he quickly disappeared.

  We saw Manjrekar sir after a couple of days. We were standing outside the office room to collect cricket gear. It was a free period. We saw him walk down the corridor past us. For a moment we did not recognize him. His hair was dishevelled and there was stubble on his chin. He would normally wear a neatly ironed shirt and trousers, but his clothes looked shabby today. The shirt was not tucked in. The sleeves were not buttoned. We thought the police might have tortured him in custody. He did not even glance in our direction. He would normally talk to us with his arm around our shoulders. But today he did not look at us and walked out of the school.

  I was getting ready for the tuition class when Aaisaheb came in and asked, ‘What time does your class get over?’

  ‘Seven,’ I said.

  ‘I want you here by 7:15, okay? I don’t want you to stand there chatting with anyone.’

  I was stumped. Aaisaheb stood at the door with her hands behind her back. Ambabai was reading a magazine sitting on the chair. I looked at her but she ignored me. It then dawned on me; it must have been Ponkshe kaku’s doing.

  ‘I have things to discuss with my friends.’

  ‘Boys or girls?’ Ambabai wanted to know.

  ‘How does it matter? And why are you bothered? And what is wrong with talking to girls? Don’t you talk to boys in your college?’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Who’ll talk to you anyway? Have you seen your face in the mirror?’

  ‘Mukund!’ Aaisaheb shouted. ‘I will pull your tongue out. Don’t argue. I want you home by 7:15. Is that understood?’

  I was already dressed up. I put on my sandals and left immediately. I was expecting this to happen sooner than later. Ponkshe kaku must have complained. Not carrying her bag was a huge mistake. I was paying for it now. I looked back. Ambabai’s face was crestfallen. I felt bad but she had no business to poke her nose into my affairs. I had decided to come home early that day. In fact, I could have come at ten past seven had I wished to, but I whiled away my time chatting with some friends and entered home only at half-past seven. Baba was already home and no one said a word to me.

  We came to know after two days that Manjrekar sir had been asked to leave. School would not be fun any more. His class would be taken by Pethkar ma’am now. His was the only class we used to look forward to. The only other person whose class was enjoyable was Zende sir’s, but he too seemed quieter now. Manjrekar sir used to make the class entertaining and he was the only reason we had enjoyed the Scouts’ camp. All the boys were depressed.

  ‘Ichibhana, this does not portend well for us,’ Surya said.

  ‘Now people like Bendre ma’am will sit on our head’s,’ Phawdya said.

  ‘It is Emergency all over,’ Chitre added.

  ‘Shall we collect a petition from all the students?’ Bibikar suggested. ‘We can also go on strike. Those school boys in Vikroli had done that.’

  It was a great idea, especially since Manjrekar sir was not at fault. But we could not take the idea to fruition. We did discuss it, but the lead should have been taken by the eleventh and twelfth standard boys. We were told that Thombre from eleventh had spoken to Zende sir, but he was informed that the management was not willing to take any steps as this case involved a girl. The teachers had taken up the cause but to no avail. He also mentioned that since Manjrekar sir had not been made permanent they did not have a good reason to oppose his termination. We had no choice but to give up.

  But the event shook up everyone. Bindaas girls like Sukdi walked with their heads down and girls like Sakhardande had mellowed a lot. Boys like Chawre, who would openly flirt in the playground, were not to be seen now. I remember we had a rare cold wave once in the winters when everyone walked around as if frozen. Shirodkar had stopped glancing in my direction now. Our eyes never met.

  At home, too, Aaisaheb came to know of Manjrekar sir’s episode. She must have heard about it from Am
babai; by then, it was the talk of the town.

  ‘Is it true?’ Aaisaheb asked me that evening.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, casually.

  ‘Was she the same girl with whom you stand there chatting?’

  I didn’t know what to say. I was tempted not to answer but then that would have been worse.

  ‘I don’t stand anywhere talking to a girl,’ I insisted. ‘This is a different girl.’

  Aaisaheb was not convinced.

  ‘Forget studies and do other tamasha,’ she said. ‘Is this a school or a drama company? Just see the antics of these young children! And the teachers? If they themselves behave so, what can you expect from the students?’

  ‘That’s why I said you should not put him in that school,’ Ambabai added. ‘We should have admitted him in Subhash. They don’t allow all this nonsense there.’

  I was tempted to tell her about the famous Subhash affair, but it would have served no purpose. There was no point in defending Manjrekar sir either.

  ‘And I am warning you,’ Aaisaheb said, wagging a finger at me. ‘Beware! Don’t get into any of these affairs. You have your tenth boards next year. I hope you remember.’

  Yes, I remember! I muttered to myself. I had realized that all this was not going to be easy. The soft cloud floating around me had vanished long back, and like the dry wind blowing through my classroom windows, I could feel the heat on me now. There was no point in letting them know. I had to be careful.

  That evening there was a satyanarayan puja in KT and Vijay’s room. They had invited each and every resident. It was quite a surprise to hear they were holding a puja; they did not have a single picture of any god in their room and KT had once argued with Ponkshe kaka that there was no point in worshipping a stone idol. Aaisaheb concluded that one of them was getting engaged. I returned from my tuition and was planning to visit them when Ambabai said, ‘Come, let’s go. I was waiting for you.’

  ‘What work do you have there?’ Aaisaheb shouted. ‘Have you no sense? There is no need for you to go anywhere.’