Half Girlfriend (15 page)

village would come to school.

His wife brought us two glasses of lukewarm sattu, a roasted

powder of pulses and lentils mixed in water. I wished it was a little

cooler and less sweet, but drank it anyway.

The sixty-year-old sarpanch wore a greyish-white turban, matching

his clothes.

‘I thought they joined school. We sent eight children,’ he said.

‘They stopped coming after a week,’

‘So what can I do, Rajkumar sahib? I tried.’

‘You have to tell them to commit to it. School isn’t like visiting the

village fair. It takes years to get educated.’

‘And what do they do with it?’

‘Excuse me? It’s almost free.Where is the problem?’

Gopi paused to look at me. He took out a beedi from his pajama

pocket and lit it.

‘Time. Their parents would rather the children help in the fields.’

‘And what will they do when they grow up?'

‘They will grow up only if they have food. They need to work in

the fields for that.’

I fell silent. You can’t win over villagers with an argument. You

have to listen to what they have to say.

The sarpanch took a deep puff from his beedi.

‘You studied in a big city?’ he said.

‘Yes. Why?’

‘Big-city types never get it.Without knowing us they have all the

answers for us.’

‘I am from here. You know that, Sarpanch ji.’

‘I know, Rajkumar ji. But what do these poor farmer’s kids do

with the A-B--C and 1 -2-3 you teach them?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘A farmer sends his small child to school. Sounds great. But what

does the school give him?’

‘Education. What is he without education?’

‘What will he do if, say, you make him an eighth-class-pass from

Dumraon? Will he get a better job? More money? Nothing. It’s a

useless qualification. Here, he at least helps at home.’

‘What is his future?’ I said, confused about how to convince

someone about something as basic as schooling.

‘He has no future. Like his father, he will also work in the fields

and try to survive. Schools are for rich people.’

I hung my head.

‘Don’t make the poor dream of having a future, Rajkumar ji.The

schools you have don’t help us get ahead in life. So we don’t send our

kids there. It’s as simple as that. We are not village idiots who don’t

know better.’

I nodded. On the one hand I had to increase enrolments and, on

the other hand, I couldn’t fault his logic.

‘Anything I can do to help you?’ I asked as I stood up to leave. His

own little grandkid lurked behind him, watching me with curiosity.

‘Help us get water. Kids in the village walk two kilometres for it

every day. If that ends, we will send them to school.’

*

Every politician’s office always has people waiting outside. On a

per-capita basis, netas meet more people than anyone in any other

profession on earth. MLA Ojha’s home-cum-office was packed.

Groups of villagers sat outside on the veranda, each with a set of

complaints or demands. Pankaj, the MLA’s secretary, offered to push

me ahead in the queue. I declined. I had little interest in my

entitlements as a fake prince.

The villagers waited silently. There is something about people with

no hope for a better future in life. You can identify them from their

expression. Most of all, it is in their eyes, which don’t sparkle

anymore. They aren’t sad eyes. They are resigned eyes. The villagers

had accepted that life would be what happened to them, not what they

made of it. After all, this was rural Bihar. You can’t decide one day to

work hard and make it big in life. Nobody will let you. You have

ramshackle schools that teach you how to read and write, but not help

you make it in life. Even if you did educate yourself, you would find

no jobs. What is the point of dreaming big? It is better to sit, wait and retire from life.

‘What have you come here for?’ I asked one of the village elders.

‘Power. We get it one hour a day in our village, Bastipur. Not

enough to pump water. We want to ask for two more hours.’

That’s it. The man wanted three hours of power in twenty-four

hours. And even for that he had to wait to meet his leaders with folded

hands. There must be millions of Indians like this, I thought. A lot

more than those who attend sushi parties on Aurangzeb Road, for

instance.

I waved a bunch of flies away. Pankaj came up to me.

‘Come, Ojha sir doesn’t like it that you’re waiting outside,’ Pankaj

said.

‘I’m fine, really,’ I said.

Ojha came out of his office. ‘You’re sitting on the floor?’ he said,

surprised.

‘Like everyone else,’ I said.

He looked around.‘Enough now, just come in, Madhavji,’he said.

We sat in the MLA’s living room. His wife brought me orange juice.

‘You should have just walked in,’ he said.

‘I didn’t want the villagers to think you give me preferential

treatment,’ I said.

‘Now the villagers will say that I made the prince of Dumraon sit

on the floor. Trust me, they care more about class than fairness.

Anyway, what brings you here?’

‘I need help for my school. And some hand pumps for the nearby

villages.’

‘Your school I can understand,’ Ojha said as he raised his

eyebrows just a little, ‘but hand pumps for villages?’

‘Yes. In Aamva.’

‘You’re turning into a social worker? Or entering politics?’

‘None of those. The kids are not allowed to go to school. They

have to walk two kilometres to fill water. More hand pumps in

villages, more enrolment in my school.’

‘Ah,’ the MLA said as he finished his giass of orange juice.‘Thank

God.’

He burst into laughter. I sat there, puzzled, ‘If you join politics, my

job is in danger,’ he guffawed.

‘Don’t worry, I will not. Also, my school needs help.’

'I know. Your mother told me. It needs repairs worth lakhs.

Unfortunately, it is not a government-run school.’

‘But it is the only option for our kids.’

‘You want something to eat? My wife made pakoras.’

I shook my head.

‘If you could help with the school,’ I said, as he interrupted me.

'Rajkumar ji,..’

‘Madhav. Please call me Madhav.'

'Okay. Madhav ji. See, my MLA funds are limited. I have to repair

roads, fix power and install hand pumps. In fact, I have already run

out.'

‘How about the state education ministry?’

Ojha laughed. His laugh gave away the answer, ‘It’s Bihar. You

should know,’ he said.

‘So you can’t do anything?’

‘You want a personal donation from me? I am a humble

government servant,’ he said.

‘No, that is not what I came for. I felt the local government should

support the only proper school in the area, Parents of these kids vote

for you.’

'They do. However, they also have other, more important issues

they want me to focus on.’

I stood up to leave,

‘You sure you don't want to try the pakoras?'

*

An angry Rani Sahiba is not a pretty sight. I sat at the dining table,

eating pulao and raita for dinner.

‘Sit,’ I said.

'Stand up,’ she said, her voice calm; too calm, in fact.

I flicked the rice from my fingers and stood up.

'What happened?’ I said.

'I'm allowing you to help out in the school. It doesn’t mean you tin

whatever you want.’

'What did I do?’ I said.

'You went to meet that arrogant MLA without telling me?’

‘I thought he might help. We can't run the school without toilets

forever.’

'Him? He wants the royal family to look bad.’

’Why?’

‘How else will he look good?’

I kept quiet.

'Sit,’ my mother said.

We both sat down, facing each other at the dining table. The huge

dining-cum-living room was eerily silent as she spooned some rice on

to her plate.

‘What did he say, anyway?’ she said.

‘He said he had no money left from his fund.’

‘Because he ate it all up,’ my mother said. 'Sometimes I wish I had

not declined the ticket.’

‘What ticket?’

‘His party had asked me to contest last time. Why do you think

Ojha is so insecure about our family?’

‘Contest elections? You didn't tell me.’

‘Well,’ my mother said,‘I wasn’t interested. And did you have time

in Delhi to listen to your mother?’

‘I was studying, Ma,’

‘Or playing basketball’

The mention of basketball, without any warning, made me go

blank.

‘But you never really listened to me even when you called. Wonder

what kept you so distracted there, No girl and all, no?’

I kept quiet.

‘Was there?’ she said and laughed. 'Can’t imagine you having a

girlfriend.’

‘Pass me the raita,’ I said.

‘Say, no, if there was someone.’

I shook my head.

‘What?’

‘Nobody.’

‘You sure? Why have you become all quiet?’ my mother said.

‘I miss the game. You mentioned basketball. I haven’t played in a

long time.’

‘So go play. Go to Raj High School, people still play there.’

I nodded.

‘In fact,’ my mother said,‘you could even...’

She turned silent mid-sentence.

‘Even what?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Say it.’

‘Was going to say you could even teach the kids at school. But... ’

‘We don’t have a court. Or the money for it,’ I said, my voice

irritated.

‘So I didn’t mention it. Anyway, you go play. It’ll clear your head.’

‘My head is fine.’

‘See how you talk to your mother? If your head was fine, you

wouldn’t have gone to the MLA.’

‘I just wanted to help.’

‘Enough. Eat your food.’

My mother still treated me as if I was ten years old. The funny

thing was, I let her.

18

I reached the Raj High School playground at 6 in the evening. I

saw a l few teenage students on court. We smiled as we acknowledged

each other. I asked for the ball. A student passed it to me. I was

touching the dusty and dotted-rubber texture of the ball after ages. I

took a shot.

Chhaak
.The soft sound of the ball going through the net without i ouching the ring told me I still had it in me.

A few students clapped.

'Where’s St. Stephen’s?’ one boy said. He had noticed my college

T-shirt.

I looked at the boy. He seemed clueless about my fancy college. I

had been like him not too long ago. I told him about my alma mater.

‘English college?’ he said.

‘Completely. That too high-class English,’ I said and laughed.

‘I will never make it.’

‘I entered through the sports quota. Maybe you can too.’

I dribbled the ball. The thumping sound matched my heartbeat.

‘I’m not that good,’ he said.

I threw the ball at him. He caught it reftexively.

‘Let’s see. I’m Madhav, by the way.’

‘Parth,’ he said and dribbled the ball.

I tackled him as he ran across the court. He was good, but not

experienced. It took me twenty seconds to take the ball back from him.

I took a shot even though the ring was quite far. I missed. Parth

collected the ball and took a shot. He scored. I high-fived him.

The last of the sunlight fell on the court. It cast long shadows of

the already tail players, I stared at the darting shadows, unable to focus on the game.

'What?' Parth said, He had scored another basket.

‘Nothing,’ I said, blinking rapidly.

He passed me the ball. I caught it by habit, still lost in thought. I

wondered if they had basketball courts in London. I was pretty sure

they did. I wondered if she still played. And If she did, did she think

of me?

‘Shoot, bhaiya,’ Parth said.

I threw the ball. It not only missed the basket, but also the entire

frame. My laziest and worst shot ever.

Parth looked at me, shocked.

‘What level did you play, bhaiya?’ Parth said. His hopes of joining

Stephen’s went up. If someone as sloppy as me could get in through

sports quota, so could he.

I smiled at him, I ran across to pick the ball. I took a shot. I missed

again. I passed the ball back to Parth, ‘I guess I’m not much of a

player anymore,’ 1 said.

‘Should I call my other friends? We can play a game,’

I shook my head.

'I'll just bring down your level,' l said and left the court.

*

‘Why has the MLA called us? This can't be good,’ my mother said.

‘Let's find out. Why are you getting so stressed?’

My mother and I walked from our house to MLA Ojha's residence,

‘Useless fellow,’ Ma said.

‘Shh, we’re here,’ I said as we entered the compound of Ojha’s

bungalow.

*

A freshly shaved Ojha in a sparkling white kurta-pajama received

us with folded hands.

‘What an honour, Rani Sahiba,’ he said, beaming.

‘You ordered us to come. What choice do we have, Ojha ji?’ my

mother said.

’It was a humble request, Rani Sahiba,’ Ojha said. We followed

him to his huge living room and took our seats on red velvet solas

with huge gold embroidered flowers. His dutiful wife, her head

covered, arrived with a tray of water and juice, My mother took the

tray from her. Mrs Ojha touched my mother’s feet, ‘Bless you,

Kusum,’ my mother said, Kusum scurried back into the kitchen and