by Mainak Dhar
The crowd applauded, Upadhyay preened, P.C. Sharma chaperoned the Minister away, a few camera flashes went off, and Arnab was left feeling quite confused.
The man they had produced looked nothing like any of the bank robbers he had encountered that day.
When he reached the library the next day, he found Jayantada sitting in his chair, sipping his usual cup of morning tea. As Arnab wished him good morning, Jayantada pointed to the newspaper by his side and said with a sarcastic smile, 'Just don't let all the fame get to your head.' Arnab picked up the paper to see a small news item.
'The Minister for State, Balwant Singh, accused the Opposition of creating law and order disturbances to undermine the Government at a Press Conference held at a city college last evening. He also announced that the prime accused in the Balwant Singh College bank robbery case had been arrested, and was known to be associated with key Opposition leaders.'
That was it.
No mention of Arnab, nothing about his supposed heroics and certainly nothing about what had happened with the real bank robbers. Above the story was a photograph of the event. As Arnab eagerly scanned it, he realized it was a close up of the Minister. To his right was part of a shoulder, which Arnab recognized as his. With his celebrity aspirations reduced to half a shoulder in the papers, he settled down to his duties with a sigh. Perhaps sensing how he felt, Jayantada walked up to him, and in a rare show of sympathy, put a hand on his shoulder and said, 'The Minister also asked for you to be promoted.'
Arnab wasn't sure he had heard it right, but then Jayantada said, 'Congratulations on becoming the Associate Head Librarian.'
Arnab felt that perhaps something good had come of this incident after all, and asked whether there would be any increase in his duties.
'Not really.'
He hesitated before asking the next question.
'Err, Jayantada, would I get an increment?'
Jayantada smiled as he said, 'You get a one time bonus of five hundred Rupees.'
It was peanuts, but was better than nothing, and as Arnab thanked Jayantada and got back to work, Jayantada landed the knockout blow.
'By the way, Arnab, I'll have to cut three hundred Rupees from your next pay check.'
'Why?' stammered Arnab.
'Because the copy of War and Peace has so many bloodstains on it that it's useless.'
Arnab didn't know whom to curse more, Jayantada or Tolstoy.
TWO
The next morning, Arnab woke up using his time tested three-stage alarm system, which he had perfected in college. Stage One was an alarm set on his bedside clock, which he inevitably turned off within a second of it ringing. Stage Two was an alarm on his mobile phone, which usually woke him up enough to get up and sit on the bed. Stage Three was the loudest, an ear-piercing alarm from an old clock he kept in the bathroom, which forced him to get out of bed and begin the day. Years of living alone had meant that Arnab's routine had evolved into something that worked for him, but would probably be bizarre to anyone else.
His parents had passed away long ago, and his memories of them were a hazy mix of happy afternoons spent playing football with his father, and gulping down sweets made by his mother. His adolescent years had been spent shuttling from one distant relative's house to the other, and he was secretly thrilled to get out of the stifling atmosphere of relatives who tolerated him with scarcely concealed impatience, waiting for the day he would grow up and leave. Now, older and perhaps wiser, he realized that his family had certainly not been well off by any means, and taking on the added responsibility of a young boy would have definitely been a burden. Anyways, that was then, and this was now. Though the one thing Arnab did miss was having a real family of his own.
Perhaps to make up for a lonely childhood, he had long learnt to lose himself in the make-believe world of books, vicariously living a life of fame and adventure in the exploits of fictional heroes such as the adventures of superheroes. It was also a way of creating a bridge to the life he had once had with his parents, as his father, a schoolteacher, always ensured that Arnab's mind was full of stories and the house full of books. As a child, he had zealously hoarded his pocket money, sometimes foregoing meals to save up to buy his favourite comics and novels, and when he moved to Delhi, he brought with him a trunk full of books. Space was at a premium in his one room apartment in Mayur Vihar, but he compensated for it by using the trunk of books as both his dining table and the resting place for the second hand laptop he had bought to surf the Net. He had not read many of the books for years, but having them near him always served to remind him of the life he had left behind. Without too many friends or much of a social life in Delhi, he found the Net a useful diversion and a way to stay connected with some of his friends from Calcutta.
By eight o'clock, he was out of his house and in a bus that would take him to the North Campus where his college was situated. When he had moved to Delhi to take up the job a year ago, he had initially been quite ruffled by the aggressiveness of people on the smallest of matters. For example, jostling for space on a Delhi bus often became a matter of life and death. Arnab, in contrast, had always shied away from confrontation. His slight build and introverted nature had meant that he had suffered many taunts, jibes and bullying in school in silence, reassuring himself with the thought that it wasn't worth getting into trouble over. At home, he would live out a fantasy world of his books-where things were in order, good prevailed and even ordinary people got a chance to do extraordinary things. In his real life, he settled for being pushed into a corner of the bus as more and more people piled on, and mumbling apologetically as he tried to battle his way out when the bus reached his college.
Jayantada seemed to be in a rare good mood when he entered the library and for once, greeted him before he could wish him.
'Arnab, I need you to do something urgent today.'
When Arnab asked what he wanted, Jayantada pointed to the vast expanse of the library and said, 'Can you please clean this place up, and make it look, you know, more professional.'
By way of apology, he added, 'I know it's not your job, but the lazy goddamned cleaner won't get here till noon, and Mishti's coming to see the college today.'
Arnab's heart skipped a beat as he remembered the attractive girl from the hospital room. With a conscious effort to not sound too interested he asked, 'So, what's she doing here today?'
'Arnab, she wanted to see my workplace I guess. You know, she is the brightest in the family. An MBA, I tell you! I don't want her to think her uncle works in a dump, even if that's the truth'.
As Jayantada chuckled and got back to the newspaper, Arnab was struck by two feelings. First, an irrational urge to create the best possible impression for Mishti-even if she was hardly coming to see him or his library. Second, he realized that her combination of looks and brains now put her even more firmly out of his league. He got to work on cleaning up the library with a vengeance, putting books back on the shelves, neatly stacking up the magazines that had been lying scattered on the reading tables, and when he finished, he took his place at the Check Out Counter, picking up a book of poetry by Frost in case Mishti noticed and was impressed by his taste in reading. He realized he was being silly, but figured she would probably not notice him anyways.
Balwant Singh College of Arts was not exactly known for its academic excellence, and the majority of its students were either those who could not get admission into better colleges or had come in through the 'management quota'- a handy euphemism for either having connections or money. As a result, the library saw only a handful of visitors each day, and Arnab had plenty of free time to scan the papers for competitive exams that he could apply for. He was lost in his book when suddenly someone yanked it down from in front of his face. His initial irritation at this unexpected interruption gave way to tongue-tied surprise when he saw that his visitor was none other than Mishti.
'Hi, Arnab! How are you doing?'
Arnab took a second to compose himself bef
ore replying.
'Great, thanks. Jayantada's just gone to the toilet. You may need to wait for a few minutes.'
For the next ten minutes, Mishti wandered around the shelves, picking up the occasional book, browsing a few pages, and then replacing it back to its place. Arnab was pretending to work, but to be honest, deciding whether The French Revolution in Art would best fit into the History or the Art section was not nearly as interesting as watching Mishti.
Mishti was only too aware that she was being watched, and after a while couldn't take it any more and said over her shoulder,
'If you're not going to do any work and just stare at me, you may as well show me around the campus, since Jayantada seems to have disappeared.'
Arnab was so shocked that he muttered something unintelligible in return and almost dropped the book in his hands.
'Well? I'd also like to see the bank where you fought those robbers.'
Arnab would never confess it openly, but growing up in a small suburb of Calcutta called Uttarpara, and in a school which at any given time had no more than a dozen girls to a hundred boys meant that his exposure to women was pretty limited. Actually when it came to romance, the sum total of his experience was zero. And so Arnab Bannerjee, Associate Head Librarian and accidental hero, set out on what was in effect his first date.
***
As Arnab and Mishti began to walk around the campus, he realized he hadn't bargained for just how uncomfortable he felt. Mishti was pretty, stylishly dressed, and could easily have passed off as one of the students. Every time they passed a group of boys, he would watch them look their way. After a while, he couldn't help himself and asked,
'Don't you get uncomfortable with all these guys staring at you?'
Mishti looked at him with an amused expression, 'I guess you just need to filter it out, but the way you're reacting, I'd think they were eyeing you!'
Arnab blushed even more deeply as Mishti burst into laughter. She sensed how uncomfortable he was around her, and actually found it refreshing to meet a guy whose single point agenda wasn't to make a pass at her. Soon they were walking past the bank, and she tugged at his arm,
'Arnab, please show me where it all happened.'
Arnab was about to lead her into the bank when he felt that it was somehow wrong. To be mistaken for a hero was one thing, but to perpetuate that lie was quite another.
'Mishti, can we grab a coffee first?'
As they sat down at the Cafe and ordered coffee, Arnab began telling Mishti what had actually happened in the bank, and how in fact, he was no hero after all. When he finished, he half expected Mishti to be disgusted but was surprised to see her still smiling.
'You know, Arnab, being a hero isn't something people plan on. Telling me what you just did takes real guts, and that in a way makes you a bigger hero than most people. Almost every one of the guys I know would have just lied about it to impress a girl, if they were in your position.'
Arnab didn't know what to say, and so blurted out,
'So you're not impressed?'
For a second, Mishti thought he was flirting with her, but one look at his eager, bespectacled face told him that his question was born out of genuine concern. Once again, she burst out laughing, leaving Arnab confused, as he didn't think he had said anything funny. As the two of them chatted about each other, Arnab realized just how different they were. He was from a small suburb on the outskirts of Calcutta, with an education in the local school and college, much of it in Bengali medium. He would sometimes stop in mid-sentence to translate in his mind what he wanted to say in English. She had been educated in prestigious schools in Delhi, with an MBA to boot, and made him feel like an ignoramus in comparison. She talked of the music she liked to hear, but words like Coldplay and Maroon Five were little more than gibberish to him.
Add to that the fact that she looked stunning, and he, well, even by his own description, was tall, dark, and bug-eyed, which made him realize just how out of his depth he was. Fifteen minutes into the conversation and Arnab decided to come clean with himself on two things. First was the fact that he had found Mishti extremely attractive and had secretly wondered if anything could ever happen between them. The second was the realization that such a thing happening was about as likely as his becoming a millionaire.
Still, it was nice to sit with her and wile away time, and he was beginning to wonder if he should ask her if she'd like to have lunch when a familiar voice broke his reverie.
'Arnab, just because I promoted you doesn't mean you sit here and drink coffee! In my ten years as Head Librarian, I have never done such a thing.'
Jayantada! Arnab groaned as he turned to face what he was sure would be a totally embarrassing dressing down in front of everyone in the Cafe. But before Jayantada could wade into him, Mishti intervened,
'Jayantada, that's not fair. You weren't there so I asked him to show me around.'
Arnab had never seen Jayantada back down so fast and so sheepishly.
'Ok, ok, just get back to work soon.'
As he walked off, Mishti looked at him with a conspiratorial smile, 'Don't let him bully you around. He looks scary but is actually quite a softie.'
As Mishti wished him goodbye and went to join Jayantada, Arnab returned to the library, even more in awe of the girl he had just met.
Arnab was done by about five o'clock and packed his bag as he got ready to leave. One of the perks of working at the library was that he took home books to read almost every day. Growing up in a Bengali medium school with only a basic library, he had long got into the habit of reading as a way of both learning about the world outside, and also to try and get a better mastery of English. That habit had stayed with him through the years, and books had become a constant companion of his. In particular, he loved reading about great personalities, always in awe of how people from seemingly ordinary backgrounds could accomplish so much. Today he was taking home Nelson Mandela's autobiography.
He walked to the bus stop near the Patel Chest Institute, which was just a few minutes away from his college gate. Once there, he bought a soft drink from a roadside stall and sat there, savouring the drink and thinking of just how eventful his boring life had become over the last few days.
Little did he realize how much more was to come his way.
***
His bus arrived within a few minutes and as Arnab climbed on, he realized the advantages of staying back late. Most of the students would have gone home at least an hour earlier, and now there were just a handful of other passengers on the bus. He sat down near the back of the bus, took out his book and began reading. It would be at least an hour-long trip to the bus stop near the Delhi Zoo, where he changed buses to complete his journey home. He had been so lost in his book that he had paid little attention to what was happening on the bus, when he heard a bit of a commotion. When he looked up, he saw that the bus had halted at a stop, and picked up two new passengers who seemed to be making the noise. Both were young, dressed in torn jeans and tight tshirts, and sported the gym-buffed bodies and loud mouths that Arnab had come to recognize as the trademarks of such louts around Delhi campuses. One of the earliest pieces of advice Jayantada had given him was that such characters were best avoided-to tangle with them was always more trouble than it was worth. So Arnab blocked out their off-key singing, their insisting on speaking loudly in sentences peppered with the vilest of Hindi abuses, and tried to focus on his reading.
A couple of stops later, and Arnab's reading was again interrupted, this time by loud whistling noises coming from the two young men. Arnab saw that the target of their whistles was a young girl who had just climbed onto the bus. She was carrying a bag that she had clutched close to her chest, and was keeping her head down, trying her best to ignore the whistles coming her way. There seemed to be no other passengers on the bus. As Arnab looked at the scene before him, he wondered what a shame it was that even today, young women were not really safe on Delhi's streets, even in broad daylight and on a
public bus. The girl looked no more than eighteen, and while clearly uncomfortable with the attention she was getting, was already a veteran at coping with what was euphemistically known in today's India as 'eve teasing'. Suddenly one of the boys looked at Arnab and he realized that he had been staring at them for way too long.
'What are you looking at, four-eyes?'
His friend responded by saying that Arnab probably had the hots for the girl on the bus. Arnab looked away quickly, flushed with shame and anger, but not daring to look back up. One of the boys took a step in his direction, but his friend stopped him saying, 'Forget that joker, let's chat with our heroine here.' Arnab still didn't dare look up. He was pretending to read, but was actually simmering in his impotent rage. He knew what he was witnessing was wrong, and that someone, he, should try and stop it. But the rational part of his mind told him that there was nothing he could do, that to intervene would just get him hurt, or worse, that tangling with such ruffians was somehow beneath him. So, like millions of Indian men, he used various excuses and self-justifications as a fig leaf to cover the simple fact that he was either too scared, or too apathetic to do anything about it.
The verbal harassment continued for several minutes more, the girl remaining silent through it all. Arnab was hoping that she would soon leave the bus or that the two boys would tire of it and leave. But things suddenly took a turn for the worse. The two boys settled themselves on a seat across the girl, and took out hip flasks, the contents of which they proceeded to guzzle down neat. Even at a distance of a few feet, the stench of country liquor was unmistakable to Arnab.
Please leave, he kept pleading in his mind, but after the boys finished their drink, they seemed to get a new idea. One of them, the taller and stronger-looking of the two, motioned to the girl and said loudly to his friend,
'Rajesh, I haven't screwed in a long time. I think today's my lucky day.'