Half Girlfriend (13 page)

sight. I sat down on the road. The red box and its contents lay around

me, almost like hardened blood.

I cried. The desolate campus road meant nobody could see me. I

let it all flow out. Months of pain condensed into tears. A car passed

by. I probably looked like a Delhi beggar, complete with biscuit

packets around me.

After a while, I collected everything from the road and stood up. I

walked up to the dustbin outside the main gate of the college. I

removed the chocolates and biscuits and stuffed them in my pocket. I

threw away everything else.

Even though I was in pain, I remembered the golden rule: if you

live in a hostel, never throw away food.

14

One year and three months later

'So tell us why you’re here,’ said a thirty-year-old man. He wore a

red tie and a crisp white shirt.

I was at HSBC’s placement interview, facing a panel of three

bankers. Each wore a pained and bored expression. They had heard

over forty Stephanians talk nonsense about their greatness. Each

candidate had solved all the problems India faced, redesigned the

bank’s strategy and promised to work harder than apartheid-era slaves.

Why do companies bother with such interviews? Perhaps it makes

them feel better to talk about the problems of the world, even though

the actual job involves sitting at a desk and punching formulas into

spreadsheets.

I had no answer for my panel. I didn’t know why I had applied to

them, or for any job at all. I hated Delhi. I flashbacked to my college

life. Yes, I’d loved it when I had first joined college. The first year had gone by so quickly it had felt like a vacation. The second year was

painful, with Riya breaking up with me. However, she was at Itast

around. I could steal a glance at her every now and then, be rejected

every couple of months and still remember the good times. I had

something then that keeps people going during the worst times—hope.

I dreamt Riya would come around one day. She would realize I

was her perfect partner—in terms of height, basketball, mental

connect, how hours felt like minutes when we were together and how

little we cared about the rest of the world. She never did. She slapped

a wedding card on me and left. My Bihari gang had made me swear on

my mother I would never contact her again. I didn’t. She quit college

in a couple of weeks. She had a lavish wedding, Stephanians who

attended it said afterwards. I’m sure Rohan spent the colleges entire

annual budget on the wedding reception. I overheard that Riya had

gone to Bora Bora for her honeymoon. The name of the place sounded

like it was in Bihar. However, I googled it and discovered it was a set

of beautiful islands in the Pacific Ocean, some reachable only by

private plane. Which ruled out me going there and murdering the

groom.

However, the pain of the second year felt like a tickle compared to

the third year. Third year sucked. I had zero ability to get over her.

I couldn’t believe a girl who had left me a year ago had such a grip

on me. We had not even slept together. However, it mattered little. She

was the only girl I had played, walked, eaten, talked, studied and had

fun with. I had peeked into Silent Riya more than anyone else, or so I

thought. How could I forget her?

Well, I could not forget her from two years ago, but I had forgotten

the interview room 1 had entered two minutes ago.

‘I said, what brings you here?- the interviewer repeated and sipped

from his bottle of water.

‘Yes, sir. I am here because...’ I fumbled to remember the

company’s name.‘Because HSBC is a dynamic place to work in and I

want to be a part of it.’

Given my cut-paste answer, I thought he would splash his water on

my face. However, he didn’t.

‘Madhav Jha, right?’ said another member of the panel, reading my

resume.

‘State-level basketball, impressive. Shortlisted for national team

trials last year. Did you make it?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Why not?’

I hesitated for a second and then gave my answer. ‘I didn’t go for

the trials.’ Basketball reminded me of her. After she left, I never went

to the court.

‘Why?’ all three of them asked together.

‘I couldn’t. I was under stress.’

‘What kind of stress?’ said the first interviewer.

‘Personal.’

The other interviewers cleared their throat. They nodded their

heads at each other, communicating the need to skip that question,

‘Why do you want to do banking?’ the third panellist said.

‘Because that is what you want me to do.’

‘Excuse me?’The panellist blinked,

‘Well, I need a job. Yours is one of those available. And you pay

well. So yes, I’ll do whatever you want me to.’

‘You don’t have a preference?’

‘Not really.’

I don’t know what made me talk like this. Perhaps it was the fact

that I had given eight interviews over the past two weeks and I had

lied in every one of them. I had finally had enough. I didn’t want to be

in Delhi anymore. I missed my mother. I wanted to call her right now.

‘Madhav, do you want this job?’ the first panellist said.

‘What’s your name, sir?’ I asked instead.

‘Shukla. I am Pramod Shukla. Regional manager for North India.’

‘Mr Shukla, are you happy?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘You don’t look happy. None of you look happy. Nobody wants

this job. Everyone wants the money you offer. You see the difference?’

The panellists looked at each other. If I had a camera, the picture

of their priceless expressions could have won any photography

competition.

‘I like you.The first honest candidate we have had. I will hire you,’

Pramod said.

The other two looked shocked. However, they were too junior to

counter the boss’s whim.

‘But I don’t want it,’ I said and stood up.

‘Why?’ Pramod said. ‘Private banking in Delhi. Top clients. Six

lakhs a year.’

‘No, sir. I am done serving rich people,’ I said and left the room.

*

As I walked back to my residence after the interview, for the first

time in a year, I felt respect for myself. I decided not to be a doormat

anymore. I decided to stop moping over a rich girl who had left me. I

had had enough of Stephen’s and trying to be upper class.

You belong to Dumraon in Bihar. That is who you are, Madhav

Jha
, I told myself,
and that is all you will ever be and need to be.

I called my mother.

‘How are the interviews going?’ she said.

‘One company offered me a job.’

‘Who?’

‘HSBC.’

‘What do they do?’

‘Bank.’

‘They have a branch in Patna?’

I laughed, ‘No, it is an international bank. The job is in Delhi,’ I

said.

‘Oh,’ my mother said and her voice dropped. ‘You will have to be

there then.’

‘I said no.’

‘What?’ she said, surprised.

‘I didn’t want the job. My heart is not here anymore.’

‘Where is your heart?’ My mother chuckled.

London
, said a voice in my head.

‘Dumraon. I’m coming back home.’

I could sense the wide smile on her face through the phone. ‘You’ll

come back to Dumraon? After finishing Stephen’s college?’ she said,

her voice bright.

‘Yes. It is my home, after all.’

‘Of course. Everyone keeps asking about you: “Where is our

prince, the rajkumar?”’

‘Please, Ma, I hope all that nonsense won’t start there.’

‘What do you mean, nonsense? You are the prince of Dumraon.

People want to do your rajyabhishek ceremony.’

‘Ma. I don’t like such traditions. Royalty is dead in India.’

‘It’s just a way they express love. We know, and they know, we

don’t have power. But we help keep the community together. You

shouldn’t shrug it off’

‘Anyway, I arrive in three weeks. I need to find something to do

there.’

‘You can help with the school.’

‘You are running it well.’

‘For how long? Plus, there are so many issues I can’t solve at this

age. Should I focus on the teaching or repair the roof? From teachers

on one side to labourers on the other, everyone eats my head.’

I laughed.

‘I’ll take care of the roof and any upkeep issues. You run the

school.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, Ma.’

‘How much would it have paid you? The job you left?’

‘Let it be, Ma. How does it matter now?’

‘Tell me.’

‘Fifty thousand.’

‘A year?’

‘A month.’

My mother gasped so loudly my eardrum hurt.

‘You really refused that job to come and help in a village school?’

‘Yes, Ma. I told you. I’m booking a ticket on the Magadh Express.

See you in three weeks.’

‘I know what made you do this.’

My heart stopped.

‘What?’

‘Your royal blood. You are different. You deserve to be a prince.’

‘Prince has to go. Doesn’t have balance in his prepaid phone.’

My mother laughed as I hung up. Most Indian mothers would slap

a child if he left a high-paying job like that. My mother wouldn’t. She

knew life involved things greater than money. She had seen the lavish

life. She had also seen her wedding jewels pawned to loan sharks.

None of this mattered. What mattered to my mother, the Rani Sahiba

of Dumraon, was respect.

‘Beyond a point, people want money to buy respect,’ she would tell

me when I was a kid. ‘Respect, however, can’t be bought.You have to

earn it.

‘Live with dignity. Live for others, that is how one earns respect,'

she used to say She was right. Dumraon’s people loved her. Not

because she was the Rani Sahiba, but because she was the Rani Sahiba

who cared. For the past fifteen years, she had given her all to the

Dumraon Royal School in Nandan village, on the outskirts of

Dumraon.

I felt homesick. The dusty lanes of Dumraon felt more enticing

than the colonial lawns of St. Stephen's. I couldn't wait to be home.

ACT II

Bihar

15

Dumraon, District Buxar, Bihar

I wanted to surprise my mother, so I told her I was arriving a day

later than the actual date. I reached the Dumraon railway station after a fourteen-hour train journey from Delhi.

As I walked out of the station, the familiar smells of my childhood

hit me straightaway.

There is nothing spectacular about my hometown. It is a small

place, less than three kilometres across on any side. Its only claim to

fame is being one of the oldest princely states of India. My family had

something to do with that achievement. However, I don’t know if I can

feel proud for what my ancestors did ten generations ago, Dumraon is

in Buxar district, around sixteen kilometres from Buxar town on the

banks of the Ganges. If you were not sleeping in history class you

would have heard of the Great Battle of Buxar in 1764. Frankly, it

should be renamed the Embarrassing Battle of Buxar. The battle was

fought between the British East India Company and the combined

armies of three Indian rulers—Mir Qasim, the Nawab of Bengal;

Shuja-ud-Daula, the Nawab of Awadh; and the Mughal king, Shah

Alam II. The Indian side had forty thousand troops. The British had

less than ten thousand. Guess what happened? The British clobbered

us. How? Well, the three Indian kings ended up fighting with each

other. Each Indian king had cut a side deal with the British and worked

against the other. In a day, the British had won the battle and taken

control of most of India. I don’t think Indians have learnt much since

that day. We remain as divided as ever. Everyone still tries to cut a deal for themselves while the nation goes to hell.

Anyway, there is a reason I am telling you this. You may think

things are not connected, but think about this. If there was no Batde of

Buxar, or if it had had a different outcome, the British may not have

ruled India like they did. There would be none of the ‘English high

class, rest low class’ bullshit that happens in India. There would not

even be a St. Stephen’s College. Just imagine, if only the jokers in

Buxar had done things a little differently, maybe the white man would

be speaking Hindi and Bhojpuri would be the new cool.

I took an autorickshaw. ‘Raja ki haveli,’ I told the driver. He put

the auto in first gear and drove off. In Dumraon, our house is a

landmark by itself.

It was the bumpiest ride ever. A cloud of dust surrounded us as we

drove through the city.

‘What happened to the road?’ I asked the auto driver.

‘There are no roads,’ he said and laughed.

*

Twenty minutes later, the auto reached the haveli’s main entrance.

Fifteen years ago, we had a guard post here. Now, we just had pillars

on each side. Along with my three fat suitcases I stood in the central

quadrangle, once a beautiful garden. My childhood picture, which

Riya had seen, had been taken here. I noticed a stack of bamboo poles

and bundles of cloth kept in the quadrangle. Two labourers sat in a

corner, smoking beedis.

‘What’s this?’ I said.

‘We are putting up a tent,’ said one of them.

*