Pluton's Pyre

by Gyandeep Kaushal

  Chapter 0

  While I was in the queue, I turned my head right for a second, and whoa! I was surprised to see half the class taking their turns in staring at a girl, sitting on the fourth bench from the front, third row—Malvika Sinha.

  She wasn’t wearing a floor-length tulle skirt or some skin-tight denim coupled with a sexy T-Shirt or a designer sack. Hers was the same white shirt and red-and-black checked skirt, with a black hairband that every other girl in the classroom wore. Yet everything about her was so different. She had brilliant fair skin and her cheeks were silken. Her foxy little eyes and pearly teeth showed that God hadn’t been economical with time in crafting her. Just her silver-varnished nails could drag your eyes out of their sockets, let alone her opulent breasts and generously packed arms. She was the epitome of beauty, pure eye-candy. She looked more beautiful than she had in my petty dream. I couldn’t call down the wrath of the gods upon those who ogled her. How could anyone conquer the temptation of looking at her? How could anyone be spared from being magnetized by her unstated charm? It was as though every minute spent looking at her was well spent.

  I could’ve stayed there forever, gawking at her with my mouth wide open, had Miss Rachel not barged into my daydreaming. ‘Suraj Deoria,’ she called loudly, ‘will you please submit your notebook with the page open to the essay?’

  A call that loud made almost everyone turn their heads towards me, and—hell’s bells—Malvika too! In fact, she gave me a long stare, clamped her lips tightly together, turned towards her bench partner Shraddha, and puffed out a low contagious chuckle, looking me up and down again, from the corner of her eyes.

  I managed to return from my hypnotised plight to normalcy and found myself stalling the ones behind me, for everyone next to me had submitted already.

  ‘Yes, Ma’am,’ I said and flipped through my book in a frenzy. Having found the page, I flipped my notebook bottom up and placed it on the pile.

  As I did this I saw the pen her fingers and the attendance register next to it and got a warning jolt. I was afraid I’d missed my attendance, while I was busy gazing at Malvika. And if I had, I was in real deep crap, as at St Joseph’s they called up parents in case their ward missed school.They told them about it, demanding explanation for the absence. For an instant, I wondered what I’d say if Dad or Daadu asked where I’d been if not school?

  So, I leaned over a little and peeked into the attendance register. Luckily, there was a tickmark against my entry. Having assured myself and collected my breath, I blabbered, ‘I’m sorry, Ma’am. I was actually admiring how elegantly the bulletin board has been dressed up.’

  ‘Yes, we have a system here of monthly decoration of the bulletin board. Every row decides their topic and takes turns, doing it with pride. As far as I remember, your row will have to do it post next month.’

  ‘I’ll try to do my best.’

  ‘You better do, for it’s obligatory and we have five marks for it. Each row captain reports for its members, after it is done.’ It seemed as though at St. Joseph’s we had five marks for everything. I wondered if we had five marks for staring at pretty girls in the class. Guess I could score a ton out of five in that.

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ I said and walked back to my seat.

  ‘How was your first encounter with the class teacher?’ asked Aditya, as I parked myself comfortably. ‘She sounds a little strict, but I guess she’s okay,’ I said, vouching for her, as she’d obliged me with free attendance. Mind you, in school, that’s no joke.

  ‘Little strict, man? She’s bloody authoritarian, so strict that the bitch doesn’t let her puppies cross a five-foot radius, no matter what.’

  ‘Whoa, seems she’s definitely not your favourite teacher.’

  ‘Not while I inhabit the planet.You know, I bunked her class one day, and made an excuse the next day saying I’d had a bad tummy. You know what she did? She bloody called my parents and had me suspended for two days.What kind of a grizzly bear does that?’

  ‘Oh, that was bad,’ I said, sympathetically.

  Aditya wasn’t the most obedient thing in the batch. He had some hot blood in him. Not that he was a bully or anything, but he definitely wasn’t too tame either. He definitely wasn’t the kind of kid who’d piously and loudly protest when another stepped over the bounds of authority: ‘O-o-h, m-y-y G-o-d! How can you say something like that about a teacher?’ He would more likely say, ‘F--that bitch,’ every time a teacher entered the class. He was ultra-conscious about his spikes, which weren’t the most welcomed component of the uniform at St Joseph’s. Also, he was a tad vain about his fair complexion—a prized thing especially in those days—and his rosy cheeks. All these propped up his self-assessment of the mini-rebel leader that he saw himself as.

  Sure, I didn’t have the best start of the first day after the holidays. I was a bit sleepy, too, in Rajat Sir’s maths class and didn’t even want to have the roti-bhujiya Daadu had packed for me. Malvika and her friend Shraddha had probably cracked a joke about me. But I was glad that, leaving everything aside, I had been lucky enough to have a full, very saitisfying view of Malvika. I bet no one was that lucky. Yeah, I was blown for that, but who wouldn’t mind a few skirmishes to become the biggest rooster in the barn?

  Having undergone a tedious array of eight lectures, my first day after the summer break from St Joseph’s officially ended. I pedaled my bike home alone. Daadu was dozing away the afternoon reading his novel, when I returned. He let me in and on learning that I hadn’t eaten my tiffin, he rebuked me gently. He warmed up the fried potatoes, smeared desi ghee over the three chapattis, and made me eat some tasty punishment for not eating earlier. He then went on to continue his novel, and I watched TV, until Dad came home at night.

  ‘So, Suraj, tell me, how was the first day at school after the vacation?’ asked Dad, as soon as he entered the house.

  ‘It was fine, Dad,’ I said, taking his leather office bag from him.

  ‘Why don’t we sit here on the couch for a while and have a little chat?’ he said, as he eased himself, untying the noose of his tie, and sitting on the sofa, with his legs folded one over the other.

  ‘Yes, Dad,’ I said meekly, as I came from his bedroom, having stashed his bag in the almirah.

  ‘Manu,’ Daadu interposed intently, ‘I’ve made your favourite paalak paneer and am baking some phulkas. I don’t know how good they are, but curse me not, as I’ve tried to do justice to the very recipe your mother taught me. So, why don’t you settle down for a while? I suggest you go wash your hands and freshen up, maybe take a shower. By the time you come back, I’ll have made enough phulkas for all of us.Then we can all eat together and have some family time?’ I felt as though Daadu sounded like Ma.

  ‘All right, Papa,’ he said and went straight to his room; he took his towel and undergarments and proceeded to the bathroom. I could hear the sound of the shower. It’s kind of funny, when your father acts in front of his father in the manner that he expects you to act in front of him. And if after that, comes a crooked wink from your grandfather, there’s no better icing on the cake.

  It took Dad fifteen minutes to get himself spruced up. After he put on a loose pajama and a cotton shirt, he went into the kitchen and asked Daadu if everything was ready. After getting an affirmative, he started placing the phulkas into a casserole.

  ‘Manu, beta, I’ll take care of that,’ Daadu said as he saw Dad moving around the kitchen. ‘Why don’t you sit at the dining table? I know you must be starving, but give me just a minute.’

  ‘It’s okay, Papa,’ replied dad nonchalantly, ‘I’m only trying to help. It’s no big deal.’ He pulled a big tray out of somewhere, saddled it with the casserole of chapati and the bowl of paalak paneer, and brought it to the dining table. He acted weirdly, almost in a hurry.

  ‘Fine, I’ll bring the water,’ said Daadu, to which Dad didn’t demur.

  ‘So, Suraj, tell me how school was today,’ said Dad again, only half-seated in his chair.
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br />   ‘Come on, Manu,’ Daadu intervened, even before I could speak. ‘He doesn’t go to fly kites there, does he? Moreover, this is not really the best time for a conversation like this.We can talk about that later, I’m not sure how bad the curry will taste if it cools.’

  ‘I think you are capable of answering for yourself, aren’t you, Suraj?’ my dad gave me that snide look as he spoke.

  ‘Hey, he didn’t ask me to speak on his behalf! Why are you bothering him, huh?’ Daadu raised his voice.

  ‘I’m not bothering him. I need to talk to him,’ said Dad. His eyes were still fixed on me. I couldn’t dare to look at anything but my plate.

  ‘Please!’ Dad almost yelled at Daadu as he said, ‘This is between my son and me.’

  ‘Your son?’ Daadu spoke in utter disbelief and disgust, ‘In case you’ve forgotten, he’s related to me as well. I have more experience than you in raising a child. As far as my memories go, neither your mother nor I ever treated you so callously. Where is this coming from?’ He now didn’t sound like the same old man, trying to be fun all the time anymore, Daadu.

  ‘All right,’ said Dad, clenching his jaws, ‘I called up his class teacher from my office in the afternoon. Since your grandson hasn’t been giving me any updates lately, I decided to pry into his matters a bit. And I got to know that he scored nine out of twenty-five in mathematics in his first unit test. In fact, his maximum score is fifteen, that too, in history.’

  To that, allow me to very gently add that I hadn’t done that with intent. That was just an awful skip—not telling Dad about the marks. And does anyone by the way know history is the toughest subject in the seven worlds? Does anyone know how many kilos a poor thing like me has to mug of totally insignificant dates and stupid reasons as to why Hitler killed the Jews?

  Well, I sure knew now what all that rush in the kitchen was about. When Daadu heard that, he turned his head towards me and looked at me for a second. I had no clue as to what that look of his conveyed.

  ‘Okay, being a father, I understand you’re concerned. But he’s only in the eighth grade; he’s just a kid. I’m sure he can, and he will, improve,’ said Daadu.

  ‘No, this cannot be tolerated. He needs to understand this. He needs to understand many things. He needs to understand that he will have to handle things for himself. Nobody’s going to take care of his little mistakes. He must realize he’s supposed to learn things. I am definitely not going to let myself be held responsible for his improper upbringing. I’m not going to allow him to let people blame me.’

  ‘Calm down, Manu. He understands everything. Calm down.You don’t need to be so hard on him. He’s just a kid. He’s lost as much as you have, son.You need to stop playing fetch and allow him to take his own time. Just give him a chance, will you?’

  ‘I can’t,’ Dad banged his fists on the table, looking at the far end of it. ‘Nobody,’ he continued, ‘gets another chance. Life gives nobody a second chance.At least, it didn’t give me a second chance, when I lost my wife and wanted her back.’

  He rose from his seat, pushed the chair back, and quietly trudged to his bedroom. Daadu and I exchanged a look. I was embarrassed to the core. A few moments later, Daadu too stood up and placed his hand on my shoulder, before he too moved to his room. Having gathered no one was going to eat anymore, after that pretty merry-making scene back there, I had to trash the food and do the dishes before I could go to my own room.

  If only Dad could understand me, maybe we could comfort each other for the loss of Mom.We did not have to create these scenes.A little show of affection and love… from both sides, perhaps!

  I turned off the lights and pulled my quilt up to my waist. I was blank and wanted to be.

  ***

  Neither Angelina Jolie nor Malvika showed up in my dream last night, nor did Bill Gates come to meet me in the morning. So I didn’t have six million reasons to wear a gaudy smile. I even had to pack my own tiffin, for Daadu, unusually for him, was still in bed. I didn’t want to bother him, and certainly not Dad. So, I sliced a few tomatoes and cucumbers and stuffed them between slices of bread, adding a sprinkling of chaat masala.

  ‘Hey, Suraj,’ Aditya called, as I walked towards the basketball court, carrying my tiny steel tiffin box with me. An area on the stairs along the court was my perch for lunch. In the gracious company of schoolchildren I never bothered to talk to, that was usually the place where I’d been having my lunches for the last few months.

  ‘Hi,’ I said and smiled.

  ‘Is everything okay?’

  ‘Yeah, why?’

  ‘Well, you look a bit dull today, that’s why. Where are you headed to, anyway?’

  ‘To the basketball court,’ I said.

  ‘I guessed rightly then. Hey, why don’t you join me, instead of sitting there and eating alone like an outcast? Come on, I’m sure those fellows there would enjoy more company too.’

  ‘All right,’ I nodded and accompanied him to the big field. Yes, we had two fields at St Joseph’s. There was one specifically for the junior kids, so that senior students couldn’t mess with them. The big field was for everyone (read senior students).Students ate their lunches,walked and sometimes ran around here. Both the fields were equally clean and the grassy areas neatly mowed all the time.

  Two boys came and joined us. ‘Guys, this is Suraj,quite popular as my bench partner,’ Aditya introduced us with a grin. ‘This is Abhineet here and this is Swayam.’

  ‘Hi,’ I said and shook hands formally with them. Swayam and Abhineet studied with us, in the same classroom. But this was the first time I was talking to them. In fact, it was the first time I talked to anyone from the same class other than Aditya. I wasn’t the most sociable person in the world.

  While Swayam was dark-complexioned and had a healthy build, Abhineet was quite a bony thing and comparatively fair.

  ‘Heard you’re from Don Bosco,’ Swayam said, raising his eyebrows.

  ‘Yeah,’ I said, shrugging my shoulders, ‘I was there since third grade. Before that, I was in St Michaels here.’

  ‘Boarding, huh?’ said Abhineet. ‘Big stuff, tough guy!’ That was the first time, ever, that I realized being in a boarding school was something to be worn with pride.

  ‘Never thought of it like that,’ I said, and shrugged again.

  ‘So why did you have to go to boarding school anyway?’ Swayam asked.

  I didn’t know how to answer that, but I tried. ‘Mom was not well those days. She’d fall ill every now and then. It was becoming very difficult for Dad alone to handle me, as he would usually be busy taking care of Mom. He couldn’t rely on Daadu either, as Daadu was busy doing household chores till he was ready to drop with exhaustion. So it was decided that I should attend a boarding school, close to my hometown.’

  ‘So, how’s your mom doing now?’

  ‘She’s with God. It’s been more than a year now.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, man,’ said Swayam contritely. I’ll be honest with you, I used to wonder why people said they were sorry, when you told them someone dear to you was no more. It came to me much later that, it was perhaps because they wanted to express regret for reminding you of the person that you hated missing.

  ‘Yeah. It was cancer.’

  ‘Cancer’s a bitch,’Abhineet said.

  Post some chitchat, we headed towards our classroom. I felt better. Unlike the last few days when Aditya hadn’t made it to school, I had something to look forward to now that I was friendly with Swayam and Abhineet, rather than saying to myself, ‘I’ll go get bored to death for a while,’ every time the bell rang for a break. I could now float around during breaks in the company of two more blokes. I’d made new friends, thanks to Aditya.

  We had three breaks, two each spanning over fifteen minutes, and a lunch break of forty-five minutes, sandwiched between the two others.

  It was English after the lunch break, the fifth lecture. ‘Hi, class,’ Ms. Suman greeted us as she entered. Everyone stood as the co
mpulsory welcome gesture every teacher received, no matter how much the students disliked some of them. However,with Ms.Suman,things were different, as not even one remained seated; not even the infamous backbenchers. Now, I can’t tell you if it was the quality of her teaching, or the very attractive clothes and cosmetics she wore that made the difference.To add here, it was conspicuous in St Joseph’s that all the English teachers, regardless of the grade they tutored, were always suited and booted, for reasons only God knew. Perhaps the latter thought it radiated their belonging to the elite league of a select few, the only ones imparting foreign knowledge unto lesser mortals. Umm, something like that!

  ‘Do all of you have your Honeycomb textbook with you?’ she asked, as she strolled down to the last bench to perform a check. ‘Good,’ she continued, when she found every desk had a book each, ‘so where were we? We were doing, A Gift of Chappals, right?’

  ‘Yes, Ma’am,’ said a boy from the front row.

  ‘Anyone remembers which paragraph we were at?’

  ‘Ma’am, fifth one,’ the same voice replied.

  ‘No, ma’am, we had completed the sixth. We are now at the seventh,’ corrected some girl from behind. Now, there’s a reason why, on scorecards, girls punch boys right in the face.

  ‘Are you sure?’ the teacher asked.

  ‘Yes, Ma’am,’ the girl replied. I didn’t care to turn back and waste a second looking, if it wasn’t Malvika.

  ‘Okay, so who’s going to read for me?’ Ma’am asked.

  A girl, perhaps named Reshma, raised her hand, elegantly placing her elbow on the desk. She was seated in the front row (as always) in anticipation of getting a better view of the teacher, absorbing more knowledge and elevating her never-ceasing, ever-peaking wisdom to the zenith.

  ‘Okay, start,’ said Ma’am.

  ‘Actually, his full name is Mahendravarma Pallava Poonai. M.P. Poonai for short, if you like. He’s a fine breed of cat. Just look at his fur... ’ the girl started reading with spirit. Perhaps she could hear the crowds cheering, ‘Reshma, Reshma!’ for the stellar reading she delivered. Oh, I was no short of a dork myself, yet I missed Don Bosco so much sometimes.