Like It Happened Yesterday

by Ravinder Singh

  Now, that was the best line so far in the entire period! None of us said anything. But we enjoyed what we’d heard, hoping there would be more coming our way.

  The teacher’s eyes were fixed on Sushil. She waited for him to tell her if his doubt had been cleared. But Sushil didn’t say anything, so she continued to talk: ‘And this physical act between a male and a female is known as having sex! That’s what you wanted to hear?’

  That was an ‘Aaahhhh’ moment for us. Three-fourth of the class would have achieved orgasm right at that sentence.

  Bio Ma’am paused for a while and then resumed, ‘We all came from our parents in that way. And that’s how you too were born, Sushil. And, years from now, that’s how our next generation will take birth. And, years from now, that’s how your children will be born.’

  She kept waiting for Sushil to acknowledge her answer, but Sushil, all of a sudden, had gone blank. He didn’t expect that sort of answer to come from a teacher. I think he was not even sure if Ma’am was through with her answer, or if there was anything else to be added. Exactly after ten seconds of peace, when Sushil was sure that Ma’am didn’t have anything further to say, he came up with a confused and funny response: ‘Oh, okay, okay!’

  And he sat down. Our fun for that class had come to an end.

  The bell rang. A unanimous moan of ‘Oh, nooo!’ went around the class. Bio Ma’am wrapped up her handbag, books and attendance register as the rest of us stared at her.

  ‘Complete the homework mentioned at the end of the chapter, and in the next class we will go through Chapter 11,’ she said before leaving.

  We quickly turned the pages of the textbook to see what was in Chapter 11.

  Sushil looked back and whispered, ‘The next chapter is on Sexually Transmitted Diseases!’ He chuckled. ‘Condoms bhi hai us mein … page eighty-nine, line number seven.’

  And the rest of us geared up for yet another round of wild expectations and fun.

  It is the eve of Janmashtami. It is close to midnight and I, along with my friends, am at the Krishna Mandir in Burla.

  There are a lot of devotees around us. They all sit cross-legged on the floor of the sanctum of the temple. My friends and I, along with the other children, have occupied the last few rows. We are primarily in this temple to eat the delicious kheer and the temple prasad. It is a different kind of fun to meet your friends in the middle of the night at a place far away from home.

  The sound of hymns and the peals of the temple bell resonate in my ears. The noise of the crowd adds to the din. But nothing beats the clamour in our side of the row. We are busy cracking jokes and teasing each other in the middle of the prayers. Time and again Panditji has been requesting us, on his mic, to be silent. Every time he says so, we drop into a temporary silence, and then soon return to our not-able-to-keep-quiet instincts.

  The fourth time Panditji doesn’t request us—he furiously commands all the children to come up to the front row. Every head turns to see us as we march in. We feel humiliated. If it was not for the kheer, we would have all left for our homes. We form a queue and, one by one, walk to the front row and occupy the part of the floor right in front of Panditji.

  Sitting in the front row, we have no choice but to listen to the ancient katha that Panditji is narrating. It goes back to the Dvaapar Yuga.

  Panditji is narrating the story of Lord Krishna’s birth. He is telling us how, immediately after Devaki’s marriage with Vasudeva, Devaki’s brother Kansa listens to the Aakashvani—a heavenly prophecy uttered from somewhere behind the thundering sky—predicting the death of Kansa at the hands of Devaki and Vasudeva’s eighth child. Terribly afraid, Kansa therefore sends the newly-wed couple behind bars.

  The katha progresses. After describing Kansa’s cruel and horrifying acts of murdering Devaki’s first six children, Panditji has finally reached the event of Krishna’s birth and all that happened on that auspicious night. He ends the katha with the following words: ‘That is how, despite Kansa’s efforts, Lord Krishna did arrive in this world. Bolo Bhagwaan Krishna ki—’

  And everyone follows it with a loud ‘—jai!’

  It is right at this time that my friends and I realize something and start laughing about it. All of a sudden, Panditji is again made aware of our presence. Annoyed, he asks us what we are up to.

  One of us speaks up and tells Panditji that we have a doubt regarding the katha he has just narrated. Panditji is impressed with the attention we have paid to his storytelling. He announces that no one has ever expressed a problem in understanding any of his kathas, but, because we are children, he would love to address our doubt.

  And then, in our group, there is a round of hurried whispers: ‘Tu puchh na! Nahi, nahi, tu puchh!’

  Panditji points his finger at me, selecting me to put forth our unanimous doubt. I confer with my friends if I should really ask what we have come up with. They all nod a yes.

  ‘Panditji, after hearing the prophecy, why did Kansa lock up Devaki and Vasudeva in a prison?’ I ask.

  ‘Very good question, beta! You mean you are wondering why Kansa simply didn’t kill the two of them and avoid further risks to his life?’ Panditji goes on a different tangent altogether and continues to answer his own question. ‘… See, beta, he loved his sister, Devaki, so he could not kill her; and neither could he turn her into a widow by killing Vasudeva. But then, he feared the arrival of Devaki and Vasudeva’s child into this world. That’s why he put them both in a prison, so that, as soon as their children arrived in this world, he could kill them one by one.’

  ‘No, no, Panditji, you didn’t get it. Actually, what we want to know is this—if Kansa feared the birth of Devaki and Vasudeva’s child, why did he lock the two of them up in the same prison at all? You know what I mean—the two of them—in the same prison?’

  As I clarify my question, I don’t notice that the mic is right next to me, and that it is turned on! My voice has just managed to travel through the wires of that mic to the sound boxes installed inside the temple and the loudspeaker on the roof of the temple, from where it has been broadcasted across a radius of two kilometres!

  Hundreds of people at the back break into laughter. Many more start whispering about our shamelessness—mine in particular.

  Panditji stands there with a blank face. He has absolutely no idea of where we have landed him. We don’t expect him to answer our question. But we want him to realize that it wasn’t a good idea for him to have taken us on and moved us to the front row.

  Right then, someone in our group shouts: ‘Kheer milni shuru ho gayi hai … chalo, chalo!’

  And we rush out to have our share.

  11

  Show and Tell

  One afternoon, during the recess hours, when I returned to the classroom to have a drink of water, I saw a group of boys gathered at the back of the class. Four of them were from my class, two were seniors and one was a junior who was well known in the school for all the wrong reasons. Together they were standing in a circle and looking at something. Curious to know what they were doing, I walked towards them.

  As soon as they heard my footsteps, they looked at me and then at each other. Then they suddenly started to hide what they had all been looking at. I noticed them shuffling the pages of what appeared to be a magazine to me. There was loud and hurried whispering, which died down by the time I reached them. Now there was complete silence. This looked unusual.

  Manoj and Sushil looked at me. The latter’s presence assured me that something suspicious was definitely going on there. I didn’t wait for long and addressed my question to Sushil: ‘Kya dekh raha hai tu?’ [What are you looking at?] With a smile on my lips, I waited for an interesting answer.

  ‘Abey kuch nahi, Sardaar. Aise hi timepass kar rahe hain,’ [Nothing much, buddy. We were just biding our time] he tried to dismiss my doubt.

  But as I kept walking towards them, their body language became uncomfortable.

  ‘Sushil was narrating a non-veg joke. Th
at’s all,’ said someone else from the group.

  ‘Really? Share it with me also, then,’ I chuckled.

  By then I had reached quite close to them. I caught Manoj hiding something under the desk.

  ‘What are you hiding?’

  ‘Leave!’ shouted Devinder, who was our senior. He gave me an angry look.

  But I wasn’t going to back off. ‘This is my classroom. Why should I leave?’ I shot back.

  Incensed by my counter-argument, Devinder made his way towards me. He stared right into my eyes. I didn’t move away, and stared right back. This could result in a serious scuffle.

  But Sushil intervened.

  ‘Don’t! He is a good friend,’ he said, stopping Devinder.

  When everyone had cooled down, Sushil asked Manoj to ‘take that thing out’.

  Manoj gave him a doubtful look. He raised his eyebrows and stared at the faces of the others. Sushil nodded.

  Finally, Manoj slipped his hands out from underneath the desk. When I saw what he was holding, I could not believe my eyes. That moment of my life was officially tagged as My Introduction to the World of Dirty Magazines.

  It was a Hindi magazine. The name on the cover read Manohar Raatein.

  Just below the title, there was a photo of a woman lying on her belly on a cosy-looking bed. She wore barely anything. Her bare back was arched and ended in curves which were the centre of attraction in the photo. A translucent, black-colored stole ran between her lower back and her toned thighs—and that was the only piece of clothing on her. She had perched her chin on her right hand, with the little finger gently held inside her mouth. She was looking right into the camera with a mysterious smile.

  ‘Oh my God!’ I exclaimed, as my mouth fell open. I stared at it, amazed, for more than a minute.

  Sushil looked at my expression and smiled. It didn’t bother me. After some more time, Sushil put his hand on my shoulder.

  ‘Kya ho gaya be?’ [What happened to you?] he laughed. The others joined him. The collective laughter distracted me from my reverie on those curves on the cover. And, soon, I remembered that I was in the classroom! I looked at the entrance and swallowed the lump that had formed in my throat.

  ‘Don’t worry; no one will get to know. Enjoy!’ Sushil said. He still had his hand over my shoulder.

  The little shyness in me had, by then, vanished. I adjusted my position in the circle to a place from where I could take a better look at the magazine.

  Damn! She was sexy.

  ‘Should I flip the page now?’ asked Manoj, who was our man on the task.

  Half of us answered yes, the other half said no. He waited for everyone to say yes, and, in the meantime, went ahead to mischievously run his fingers over that nude back in the picture.

  Watching him do so, I felt disgusted. But a little later, for some reason, my disgust subsided. After a short while, I too wanted to run my fingers over that bare back.

  ‘Turn the page, now!’ shouted someone.

  No one objected this time, and so Manoj turned the page.

  ‘Kaun laaya hai ye?’ I wanted to find out who had brought the magazine, when my eyes fell on the picture on the next page.

  A South Indian girl in a tight black blouse yanked us up to the next level of excitement.

  Everyone sighed: ‘Aaaaah!’

  The woman’s small blouse had tiny sleeves and a deep neckline. There were hooks running down the front of the blouse, but only the two lowest hooks had been fastened. The upper part of the blouse had been left unhooked, revealing what the woman was wearing inside. The voluptuousness of her figure was revolting against the constricting piece of cloth. It was as if her body was trying to break away and set itself free. Below her waistline, with her left hand, she had hitched up her skirt over her thighs.

  ‘Sushil laaya hai,’ Manoj replied, as he tried to pull the magazine closer to him in order to take a better look.

  ‘Every page you turn now, she is going to throw away one piece of cloth.’

  I don’t know who said that. But that statement put us into so much excitement that we were quickly out of patience and started snatching at the magazine among ourselves.

  ‘Why are you pulling?’ all of us shouted at each other; but not a single one of us was willing to let go! The picture of one naked girl had brought out our animal instincts.

  ‘Abey, idhar kar!’

  ‘Give it to me!’

  ‘Oh, come on!’

  ‘Abey, phatt jayegi magazine!’ [Hey, the magazine will tear!]

  We’d got ourselves into a chaotic, screaming mess.

  Soon, Devinder flung into action. He took advantage of his seniority and brought the situation under control. First, he shouted everyone down. Then, he suggested circulating the magazine among us in the round-robin fashion, so that everyone got a fair chance to look at the pictures.

  We all agreed to the suggestion. But, the very next moment, we got into a quarrel over who should be the first one to avail of that opportunity.

  Devinder had an answer to that as well. He chose himself for this privilege. The rest of us unhappily allowed him to go ahead.

  ‘Now you are only seeing the pictures, but read the stories from this magazine also! Mast hai!’ [They’re fantastic!] Sushil advised me, as I awaited my turn.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘After reading them, you will have to head straight to the bathroom,’ he chuckled.

  Unable to understand what he meant, I asked, ‘Why would I need to go to the bathroom?’

  A few of the other guys broke into laughter.

  ‘Abey, baccha hai ye abhi!’ [Hey, he’s still a kid!] someone said. Devinder was laughing too, as he handed over the magazine to the person next in queue.

  I wanted to remind him of his age, and, more importantly, the fact that he was still in school, because he had failed several classes.

  ‘Haven’t you done it, ever?’ Sushil asked me inquisitively.

  By then, the magazine had arrived in my hands. I didn’t care what Sushil’s question meant. I was just excited that it was finally my turn to look at the magazine. But, before I could go through the picture carefully and closely, the peon outside the principal’s office started ringing the bell. I cursed him in my head.

  I was worried that people would walk in any time, and that killed my excitement. I didn’t want to rush through the magazine. I didn’t want to ruin the pleasure of watching a dark-complexioned girl of about twenty-five years slowly taking off her clothes with every turn of the page. I wanted to savour it, slowly. So I closed it and half-heartedly handed it back to Sushil.

  For the rest of the day that naked girl danced in my head. When the Maths Sir drew a triangle, I drew a triangle as well; and, along with it, I also drew the sketch of that girl in the corner of the page. When he was teaching how to apply the rules of trigonometry in order to find out the length of the shadow of the tree, when the height of the tree and the angle of sunrays was given, I was busy colouring her blouse and skirt.

  I elbowed Sushil, who sat next to me, to show him my creativity. He was busy taking notes. So I elbowed him again. He looked at me.

  The painter in me looked at him, and, with great pride, pointed out to him my freshly drawn Mona Lisa. He looked at her and smiled. He spent some time examining my artwork, and then did a little touch-up himself. He made the cleavage a bit deeper, looked back at me and winked.

  ‘Perfect!’ I whispered, admiring his talent and superior knowledge of the subject. The next moment, the two of us broke into quiet laughter.

  At 4 p.m., when school ended, I approached Sushil to have a private conversation. I wanted to borrow his magazine. I thought I was smart to think of going through it in the privacy of my home.

  It turned out that I was the last one in the group to have that conversation with Sushil. He had already promised to lend his magazine to everyone for the next few days. He gave me a date which was eight days later.

  I had never ever waited that desper
ately for anything else. Never, ever!

  That evening, after I came back from school, I lied to my mother that I was not feeling well. It was my excuse for not going to the tuition classes.

  Mom gripped my hand in her palms and then touched my forehead. She wanted to verify if I had fever. There wasn’t any.

  ‘It’s a bad headache, Mom. I might be coming down with something,’ I said.

  ‘Have a Disprin after you finish your bread and butter, and then take rest,’ she advised me concernedly, and put a tablet on my plate along with half a glass of water.

  Every evening, my parents would go to the gurdwara to offer their evening prayers. That’s when a lot of other people also came to the gurdwara. It usually took them an hour before they got back. In a while, my brother too left for his tuition classes.

  I flushed the Disprin down the kitchen washbasin, locked the main door of our house and headed straight for my bed. I piled up two pillows under my head, after which I grabbed my schoolbag, which was lying in the other corner of the bed.

  It was time for me to enjoy Manohar Raatein.

  My happy hour had just begun. I was euphoric about this private entertainment I had planned for myself. It didn’t take me long to submerge myself in the world of pleasure. I returned to the page where that dark-complexioned girl had made her seductive entry.

  I zoomed in to take a closer look at her poised body, her tight blouse and her hitched-up skirt. I observed the body parts that were visible. I imagined the ones that were not.

  For some reason, I was in love with her blouse, maybe because it had little to hide and a lot to reveal. On the top of all this, her naughty smile was driving me crazy. I flipped through the pages with great expectation. I knew what to expect next, yet I wanted to be surprised.

  On the next page she had moved into a bathroom. There was a mirror behind her showing off her shapely back. I was already seeing her front. The washbasin behind her had a lot of toiletries. A bathtub, on her right, perfectly filled in the scene.