Revolution 2020: Love, Corruption, Ambition

by Chetan Bhagat

  ‘Aarti’s here. How are you, man? How’s Kota? We miss you.’

  ‘Aarti is at your place?’ I asked, puzzled.

  ‘Yeah, she wanted me to help her choose her course. She is not sure about Psychology.’

  Aarti snatched the phone from Raghav mid-sentence.

  ‘Gopal! Where are you?’

  ‘In Kota, of course. I called you,’ I said. I wanted to ask her why she had come to Raghav’s place. However, it didn’t seem the best way to start a conversation.

  ‘Why didn’t you call back? I don’t even have a number to call you,’ she said.

  ‘Will ask my landlord if I can receive calls. Tell me when you will be home. I will call you. I want to talk.’

  ‘Talk now. What’s up?’

  ‘How can I talk now?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You are with Raghav,’ I said.

  ‘So?’

  ‘What are you doing at Raghav’s place?’

  ‘Nothing. Generally.’

  When girls use vague terms like ‘generally’, it is cause for specific concern. Or maybe not. It could be my overactive mind.

  ‘I have to choose a course. Should I do Psychology or BSc Home Science?’ she said.

  ‘What do you want to do?’ I said.

  ‘I have to finish my graduation before becoming an air hostess. That’s the only reason I am doing it. I want an easy course.’

  ‘Oh, so your air hostess plans are not dead,’ I said.

  ‘Well, Raghav says one should not give up one’s dream so easily. Maybe BSc Home Science is better, no? Sort of related to hospitality industry. Or should I leave Agrasen and join hotel management?’

  I kept quiet. Raghav’s advising her? Who is he? A career counsellor? Or does he have the license to preach now because he has a fucking JEE rank?

  ‘Tell me no, Gopi,’ Aarti said. ‘I am so confused.’ Then I heard her titter.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ I said.

  ‘Raghav is pretending to be an air hostess. He has a tray and everything,’ she said, greatly amused.

  ‘I’ll talk to you later,’ I said.

  ‘Okay, but tell me which course to take,’ she said, her tone finally serious.

  ‘Ask Raghav, he is the better student,’ I said.

  ‘C’mon, Gopi. Nonsense you talk.’

  ‘Let us talk when you are alone,’ I said.

  ‘Call me this time tomorrow.’

  ‘Okay, bye.’

  ‘Bye,’ Aarti said.

  ‘I miss you,’ I said, a second too late. I only got a click in response.

  I returned to my room where my dinner tiffin and the brochures awaited me. I imagined Aarti at Raghav’s place, in peals of laughter. My insides burnt.

  I picked up a brochure in disgust. I took a blade from my shaving kit, cut out the cover pictures of the IIT-selected students, and ripped them to shreds.

  Bansal classes did not look like the small tuition centres run out of tiny apartments in Varanasi. It resembled an institute or a large corporate office. I stood in the gigantic lobby, wondering what to do next. Students and teachers strode about in a purposeful manner, as if they were going to launch satellites in space. Like in many other coaching classes in Kota, the students had uniforms to eliminate social inequality. You had rich kids from Delhi, whose parents gave them more pocket money than my father earned in an entire year. On the other hand, you had losers like me from Varanasi, who had neither the cash nor the brains required to be here.

  Equality in clothes didn’t mean Bansal believed all students were equal. A class system existed, based on your chances of cracking the entrance exam.

  The person at the admissions office took my form. ‘High performer?’ he quizzed.

  I wondered how anyone could respond to such a question. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘If you have more than 85 per cent aggregate in class XII, or if you have an AIEEE rank up to 40,000, you get a thirty per cent discount,’ the bespectacled gentleman at the counter explained to me.

  ‘I have 79 per cent. AIEEE rank 52,043,’ I said.

  ‘Oh. In that case you apply for full-rate programme,’ the admission officer said. I didn’t realise my AIEEE rank could directly translate into money.

  ‘Can I get a discount?’ I said, wondering if one could bargain here.

  ‘Depends on how you do in our entrance exam,’ the officer said and stamped my form. He handed me a receipt-cum-admit card for the entrance exam.

  ‘Do I have to study for your entrance exam?’ I said.

  ‘What will you study in two days? Anyway, you don’t look like such a bright student going by your marks. My suggestion is to apply to other institutes,’ he replied.

  ‘Thanks, I will,’ I said.

  The officer looked around to ensure nobody could hear us. ‘My cousin has just started an institute. I can get you a fifty per cent discount there,’ he whispered.

  I kept quiet. He slipped me a visiting card: ‘Dream IIT’.

  ‘Why waste money? Course material is the same. My cousin is an ex-Bansal faculty.’

  I examined the card.

  ‘Don’t tell anyone, okay?’ he said.

  I had similar experiences at other institutes. Walls covered with stamp-sized pictures of successful JEE candidates, resembling wanted terrorists, greeted me everywhere. I also realised that the reputed institutes kicked up a bigger fuss about ‘repeaters’. After all, we had failed once, and institutes didn’t want to spoil their statistics. Top institutes claimed to send up to five hundred students a year to IIT. Of course, the institutes never reveal that they enrol ten thousand students, out of which only five hundred make it. This meant a low selection ratio of five per cent. However, the JEE had an overall selection ratio of less than two per cent, and Kota institutes claimed to beat it. The pre-screening of candidates could be the sole reason for the higher-than-average selection. However, students like me flocked from around the country anyway, and queued up to submit the admission forms.

  AimIIT and CareerIgnite had less people lining up. In fact, they gave me spot offers. The latter even offered a twenty per cent discount.

  ‘The discount is applicable only if you sign up right now, not if you come again,’ the aggressive salesman-cum-admissions in-charge told me.

  ‘But I have not decided yet,’ I protested.

  ‘You are appearing for Bansal, aren’t you?’ he said and gave me an all-knowing look.

  I kept quiet.

  ‘I am an ex-Bansalite,’ he said.

  ‘Is there anyone in Kota who is not?’ I said and left the institute.

  8

  ‘Gopal! So nice to hear your voice,’ Aarti said. She recognised me in a second. It felt good.

  ‘Go to hell, you don’t care,’ I said.

  ‘Huh? How stupid. I do care. Firstly, do you have a number I can call?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said and gave her my landlord’s number. ‘But don’t call a lot. He said no more than twice a week.’

  ‘So what? I will be the only one calling you, no?’ Aarti said.

  ‘Yeah. Anyway, how’s life? I hate it here.’

  ‘Is it that bad? Have you started studying?’ she asked.

  ‘No, I can’t. It is hard to pick up the same books again. Maybe I will get motivated after I join a coaching class.’

  ‘I should have been there, I would have motivated you.’ She laughed.

  ‘Don’t make such jokes.’

  ‘You will be fine, Gopi. One more attempt. If you get through, your career will be made.’

  ‘I miss you,’ I said, less interested in useless things like my career.

  ‘Oh,’ she said, somewhat surprised by my shifting gears. ‘I miss you too.’

  ‘I have no one, Aarti,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t say that. Baba is there. Raghav, me … We talk about you a lot.’ Her voice trailed off.

  ‘Why don’t we become a couple?’

  ‘Don’t. Please don’t start that again. We have d
iscussed it enough,’ she said.

  ‘Why not? You say you miss me. You care for me. Then?’

  ‘I care for you a lot. But not in that way. Anyway, we have to focus on our respective careers. You are there, I am here.’

  ‘If I had a girlfriend, at least I could talk to her. I feel so lonely, Aarti,’ I said.

  ‘Aww Gopal, you are homesick. Talk to me whenever you want. Or we can chat.’

  ‘On the Internet?’ I had seen some cyber cafes around my house.

  ‘Yeah, make a Gmail ID. Mine is flyingaarti@gmail.com. Invite me.’

  ‘Flying Aarti.’ I laughed.

  ‘Shut up.’

  I laughed harder.

  ‘At least it cheered you up,’ she said.

  ‘Think about my proposal,’ I said.

  ‘There is no proposal. And now don’t waste your money on calls. We can chat in the evenings. I’ll tell you about my life, and you about yours. Okay?’

  ‘Okay. Hey, listen. Should I join a reputed but expensive institute or the upcoming but cheaper ones?’

  ‘The best you can get, always,’ Aarti said promptly. ‘And now, bye. They are calling me for dinner.’

  One week in Kota, and I had a few decisions made for me. One, I didn’t clear the Bansal exam. I could join their separate correspondence programme, which kind of defeated the purpose of being in Kota. Resonance hiked its fees at the last minute. It became unaffordable for me, so I didn’t even write their entrance exam. I made it to the waitlist of the Career Path programme.

  ‘Your chances are good. Many will join Bansal and Resonance, anyway,’ the Career Path guy said.

  Even the Career Path waitlist had value. AimIIT and CareerIgnite offered me a thirty per cent discount.

  ‘You have calibre,’ the AimIIT person told me. ‘You have cleared Career Path, which shows your potential. Now study with us at a much cheaper price and clear the exam.’

  ‘You will be lost amongst the thousands at Career Path. At Ignite, you will be special,’ said the ex-Bansalite running down another ex-Bansalite’s institute.

  However, five days later Career Path told me I had made it. I handed the accountant at Career Path a twenty-thousand-rupee draft with trembling hands.

  ‘This is the best investment you will make in your life,’ the accountant said.

  I picked up the items required for the first term – course material, ID card, timetable, circulars and various worksheets required in the next three months. I also collected three sets of the Career Path uniform. Wearing it made me look like a budget hotel receptionist.

  I walked out of the institute with the uniform in my hands.

  ‘Congratulations!’ A man in a black coat stopped me.

  ‘Hello,’ I said, not sure what else to say.

  ‘I am Sanjeev sir. They call me Mr Pulley here. I teach physics.’

  I shook his hand. Apparently, nobody could solve pulley problems in Kota quite like Sanjeev sir. I soon realised there were subject experts across institutes in Kota. Career Path had its own wizards. Mr Verma, who taught maths, had the moniker of Trignometry-swamy. Mr Jadeja taught chemistry. Students affectionately addressed him as Balance-ji. He had a unique method of balancing chemical equations. According to rumours, he had tried to patent it.

  ‘I am Gopal, from Varanasi.’

  ‘AIEEE programme?’ Mr Pulley said.

  ‘JEE also, sir.’

  ‘Good. High potential?’ He referred to Career Path’s internal classification of students.

  ‘No, sir,’ I said and trained my gaze down. Once you get low marks, you learn to lower your eyes rather quickly.

  ‘It’s okay. Many non-high potential students make it. It all depends on hard work.’

  ‘I’ll do my best, sir,’ I said.

  ‘Good,’ Mr Pulley said and smacked my back.

  I could call myself a true Kota-ite a month into moving there. Like thousands of other students, my life now had a rhythm. Career Path resembled a school, but without the fun bits. Nobody made noise in class, played pranks on one another or thought of bunking classes. After all, everyone had come here by choice and had paid a big price to be here.

  We had three to four classes a day, which started in the afternoon. In theory, this allowed the current class XII students to attend school in the morning. In reality, the class XII students never went to school. Career Path had an agreement with a cooperative CBSE school, which had a flexible attendance policy. It was rumoured that the CBSE school received a handsome kickback from Career Path for the cooperation extended.

  I hated the brutal Career Path schedule at first. Lectures started at two in the afternoon and went on until nine in the evening. After that students rushed home to eat dinner, and do the ‘daily practice sheets’, a set of ten problems based on the current lesson. I usually finished by midnight. After a few hours of sleep I would wake up and prepare for the next day’s classes. In between, I did household chores, such as washing clothes and shopping for essentials. I went along with the madness, not so much because of the zeal to prepare, but more because I wanted to keep myself busy. I didn’t want Kota’s loneliness to kill me.

  One night our classes ended late. I reached the cyber café at nine-thirty, later than my usual chat time with Aarti. To my surprise she was still online.

  I typed in a message from my usual handle.

  GopalKotaFactory: Hi!

  FlyingAarti: Hey!! Guess what!

  If girls got to set grammar rules in this world, there would only be exclamation marks.

  GopalKotaFactory: What?

  FlyingAarti: I’m at the BHU campus. At their computer centre!!

  GopalKotaFactory: How come?

  FlyingAarti: Raghav joined college. He brought me here. He said I can come and use the computer centre anytime.

  GopalKotaFactory: Isn’t it too late to be in his college? How will you get back?

  FlyingAarti: I have dad’s red-light car. Who will dare to mess with me?

  GopalKotaFactory: How often do you visit Raghav?

  I waited for her to type a message.

  FlyingAarti: What sort of a question is that? Do you keep tabs on meeting friends?

  GopalKotaFactory: Just a friend, right?

  FlyingAarti: Yes, dear. You should become a detective, not an engineer.

  GopalKotaFactory: Hmmm.

  FlyingAarti: I only came to see his campus. So, what’s up with you?

  GopalKotaFactory: I completed one month in Kota.

  FlyingAarti: At least you don’t refer to it as a godforsaken place anymore!

  GopalKotaFactory: True. I am quite busy though. Mugging away. We even had class tests.

  FlyingAarti: You did okay?

  GopalKotaFactory: In top fifty per cent. Not bad for such a competitive class.

  FlyingAarti: I am sure you will crack JEE this time.

  GopalKotaFactory: Who knows? If I do, will you go out with me?

  FlyingAarti: HERE WE GO AGAIN!!!!

  GopalKotaFactory: ?

  FlyingAarti: I like us how we are. And how is it linked to JEE? You are my favourite!!!

  GopalKotaFactory: Stop using so many exclamation marks.

  FlyingAarti: Huh??!!!

  GopalKotaFactory: Nothing. Anyway, I better go. Have to do my daily worksheet.

  FlyingAarti: Okay.

  I expected her to ask me to chat for a few more minutes. Not just give me a bland okay. She didn’t even ask me if I had had my dinner …

  FlyingAarti: Did you eat dinner?

  GopalKotaFactory: Not yet. Will do so when I get home.

  FlyingAarti: Cool!

  When girls are hiding something, they start speaking like boys and use expressions like ‘cool’.

  GopalKotaFactory: How about you?

  FlyingAarti: Raghav’s treating me. Only at his canteen though. Cheapo!

  GopalKotaFactory: You still seem excited.

  She did not respond. If someone stalls you on a chat, every minute seems lik
e an hour. She finally typed after five long minutes.

  FlyingAarti: What?

  I tried the waiting game on her. However, I could not last more than ten seconds.

  GopalKotaFactory: Nothing.

  FlyingAarti: Okay, anyway, Raghav’s here. He says hi. I have to quickly eat and head back home. Chat later then. Xoxo …

  I didn’t know what ‘xoxo’ implied. The x’s were supposed to be hugs, and the o’s kisses. I don’t think Aarti meant them.

  She logged out. I had twenty minutes of Internet time left. I spent them doing what most guys who came here did – surf the official IIT website or watch porn. I guess these are the two things boys wanted most in Kota. At least the coaching centres could help you get one of them.

  9

  On the eve of Aarti’s birthday I had finished three months in Kota. For the first time I managed to reach the top twenty-five percentile in a class test. Balance-ji congratulated me. My chemistry score had improved by twenty points. Mr Pulley didn’t like my average physics performance. Shishir sir, also known as Permutation guru, paused a few extra seconds by my seat as my maths score had improved by ten per cent.

  I kept my answer-sheet in my bag as I sat for the physics class. I looked around the three-hundred-seat lecture room. Mr Pulley was speaking into a handheld mike, tapping it every time he felt the class was not paying enough attention.

  I still had a long way to go. One needed to reach at least the top-five percentile in the Career Path class to feel confident about an IIT seat.

  ‘An IIT seat is not a joke,’ Mr Pulley said, even though nobody ever claimed it was.

  Increasing your percentile in a hyper-competitive class is not easy. You have to live, breathe and sleep IIT.

  The top twenty students in every class test received royal treatment. They were called Gems, a title still elusive to me. Gems stood for ‘Group of Extra Meritorious Students’. Gems comprised of ultra-geeks who’d prefer solving physics problems to having sex, and for whom fun meant memorising the periodic table. Career Path handled Gems with care, as they had the potential to crack the top hundred ranks of JEE, and thus adorn future advertisements. Gems were treated preciously, similar to how one would imagine Lux soap officials treat their brand ambassador Katrina Kaif.