Revolution 2020 (10 page)

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

‘What’s
so funny?’ 1 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 ol 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 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.

’ AimllT 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.

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?’ Aaiti 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 a lot about you'

Her voice trailed
off.

‘Why don’t
we become a couple?

‘Don’t.
Please don't start  that again . we have discussed it enough,'
she said.

'Why not? You say
you miss me. you care for. 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
[email protected]
.
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. AimllT and CareerIgnite offered me a thirty per
cent discount.

‘You have
calibre,’ the AimllT 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-Bansalites 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.

13

Weeks passed, and
the day of the results came closer. Baba seemed even more anxious
than me. One night when I went to give him his medicines, he asked,
‘When are the results?’

'Next week,’ I
said.

‘IIT?’

‘A week after
that,’ I said.

‘If IIT
happens it will be amazing, no?’ Baba said, his eyes bright.

I covered him with a
blanket. ‘Baba, did the doctor say you need an operation?’

‘Doctors want
more business these days, what else?’ he said.

‘Should we ask
Ghanshyam taya-ji to give us whatever he wants for the land?’ I
said.

‘No use. He
won’t listen. Anyway, what will I do with an operation at this
age?

‘You never
listen, Baba.’ I shook my head and switched off the light.

‘It isn’t
the end of the world, Gopal. It isn’t.’ She reached out
for my hand. ‘Say something.’

Aarti had invited me
home on the day of the AIEEE results. She had an Internet connection
and, despite my insisting otherwise, didn’t want me to see the
results all on my own.

I remember
everything about that moment. The red and black embroidered
tablecloth on the computer table, the noisy fan above, the various
government trophies that belonged to her father, the black colour of
the laptop, and the screen that showed my rank.

‘44,342,’
it said irrevocably next to my roll number.

After one whole year
of cramming courses that I hated, staying in a dusty city all alone,
and putting my father irretrievably in debt, I had only reconfirmed
-1
am
a
failure.

I didn’t
react. I didn’t cry, I didn’t feel anger, fear,
frustration, anything. I remember Aarti hovering around, talking to
me. However, I couldn’t really comprehend her words.

1 stood up like a
zombie.

‘Are you
okay?’ Aarti shook me. She, me, the PC, the world, everything
seemed to be in slow motion. ‘What about JEE?’ she was
saying.

‘Will be
worse. My paper did not go well.’

She fell silent.
What could she have said, anyway?

‘I have to
go,’ I said.

‘Where will
you go?’ she said, asking me the most important question. Yes,
where could I go? Home? And tell Baba he had wasted all his borrowed
money on me.

‘I’ll
come home with you. I can talk to Baba.’

I shook my head.

‘Are you
sure?’ she said.

I didn’t
respond. I couldn’t. I hurried out of her house.

                                                      ♦

‘Where had you
gone?’ Baba said as he opened the door.

I went straight to
my room. Baba followed me.

‘You don’t
want to see your AIEEE result?’ he said.

I kept quiet.

‘You said it
comes out today.’

I didn’t
respond.

‘Why aren’t
you speaking?’

I looked into Babas
anxious eyes.

‘I have bad
news,’ I said.

Baba spoke in a
hushed voice. ‘What?’

‘The worst has
happened.’

‘What?’

I shrugged my
shoulders.

‘When are the
AIEEE results out?’

‘They are
out,’ I said and walked into the living room.

‘And?’
Baba followed me and stood right in front of me.

I turned my gaze
down. Baba waited for a few seconds.

Slap! I felt my
right cheek sting. For his age and strength, my father could strike
quite a blow. He had hit me for the first time in more than ten
years. I deserved it.

‘How?’
Baba said. ‘You did nothing in Kota, right? Nothing.’

Tears filled my eyes
and my ears buzzed. I wanted to tell him that I spent nights doing
assignments, sat through classes all day, improved my percentile. I
had had a decent chance to make it. A few marks are all it takes to
fall behind ten thousand ranks.