Revolution 2020 (3 page)

‘
Am
I?
’
he
asked
again.

I
shrugged
my
shoulders.
‘
I
don
’
t
know
you,
Gopal.
You
organised
the
talk
well.
Treated
me
good.
You
seem
fine,
’
I
said.

‘
You
think
so?
’

‘
You
’
ve
achieved
a
lot.
Take
it
easy.
Even
expensive
whiskies
can
be
harmful!

He
smiled
and
gave
a
brief
nod.
‘
I
will
drink
less
’
he
said.
‘
Anything
else?
’

You
are
young.
Don
’
t
give
up
on
love
yet
’
I
said,
checking
my
watch.
‘
I
really
should
go.
It
is
almost
time
for
the
morning
aarti!

"That
’
s
her
name,
’
he
said.

I
didn
’
t
want
to
stay
any
longer,
but
I
was
hooked.
'What
name?
Whose
name?
’
I
asked
even
as
I
reminded
myself
that
this
was
not
my
business
and
I
should
leave
soon.

‘
Aarti,
’
he
said.

‘
Aarti
who?
Someone
you
like?
’
I
hazarded
a
guess.

‘
Like
is
not
the
word,
Chetan-ji!

‘
You
loved
her?
’
I
smiled.

‘
Imagine
every
sadhu
and
priest
in
Varanasi.
More
than
all
their
devotion
put
together,
that
’
s
how
much
I
loved
her.
’

I
absorbed
the
analogy.
Curiosity
had
taken
over
my
need
for
sleep.
I
allowed
myself
to
ask
one
more
question.
‘
She
loved
you
too?
’

He
mulled
over
the
question
for
a
while.
‘
She
didn
’
t
just
love
me,
she
owned
me!

I
shifted
from
one
foot
to
the
other.
I
had
a
long
day
ahead.
A
sleepless
night
would
be
a
bad
idea.
But
I
heard
my
self
asking
him,
‘So
what
happened?
Between
you
and
Aarti!

Gopal
smiled.
‘
This
is
not
an
interview,
Chetan-ji.
Either
you
sit
down
and
listen
to
this
stupid
mans
whole
story
or
you
leave.
Up
to
you!
His
charcoal
eyes
met
mine.
Something
about
the
young
director
intrigued
me.
His
unusual
achievements,
his
cockiness,
his
tortured
voice
or
maybe
this
strange
holy
city
made
me
want
to
know
more
about
him.

I let out a huge
sigh. He pointed to the chair next to him.

‘
Okay,
tell
me
your
story!
I
said
and
sat
down.

‘
Do
you
want
another
drink?
’
Gopal
said.

I
glared
at
him.
He
laughed.
‘
I
meant
tea,
’
he
said.

We ordered a pot
of extra-hot masala tea and glucose biscuits; nothing complements a
conversation better.

‘
Where
do
I
start?
’
Gopal
said.

'Let
’
s
begin
with
Aarti.
The
girl
who
did
this
to
you.
’

‘
Aarti?
She
got
me
into
trouble
the
first
day
we
met,
’
Gopal
said.
I
dipped
a
biscuit
in
my
tea
and
listened.

1

L
azy
parents, bread-butter again,’ I grumbled, shutting a blue
plastic tiffin in the second row. Raghav and I moved to the next
desk.

‘Forget it,
Gopal. The class will be back any time,’ Raghav said.

‘Shh ..

‘I’ve
brought puri-aloo, we can share that. It’s wrong to steal from
others.’

I battled a small,
round steel tiffin box. ‘How does one open this?’

Neither of us had
the sharp nails required to open the thin steel lid of the stubborn
box. We had skipped the morning assembly for our weekly tiffin raid.
We had ten more minutes till the national anthem began outside. After
that class 5 C would be back. We had to find, eat and keep the
tiffins back within that time.

‘Its pickle
and parathas,’ Raghav said, having opened the lid. ‘You
want it?’

‘Forget it,’
I said as I returned the steel box to the student’s bag. My
eyes darted from one bag to another. ‘This one’ I said,
pointing to a pink imported rucksack in the first row. ‘That
bag looks expensive. She must be getting good food. Come.’

We rushed to the
target’s seat. I grabbed the Barbie bag, unzipped the front
flap and found a red, shiny, rectangular tiffin. The cover had a
spoon compartment. ‘Fancy box!’ I said, clicking the lid
open.

Idlis, a little box
of chutney and a large piece of chocolate cake. We’d hit the
jackpot.

‘I only want
the cake,’ I said as 1 lifted the huge slice.

‘Don’t
take the whole thing. It’s not fair,’ Raghav said.

‘If I eat only
a bit, she will get to know,’ I scowled.

‘Cut it into
two. Take one, leave the other,’ Raghav said.

‘Cut with
what?’

‘Use a ruler,’
he suggested.

I ran to my desk. I
brought back a ruler and made a clean cut. ‘Fine?’ I
said. ‘Happy now?’

‘Its her
cake.’ Raghav shrugged.

‘But you are
my friend,’ I said.

I offered a bite. He
refused. I had not had any breakfast at home. I gorged on the cake,
my fingers smeared with icing.

‘Why don’t
you get your own tiffin?’ Raghav said.

I spoke with my
mouth stuffed. ‘It will mean extra work for Baba. He makes
lunch and dinner anyway.’

‘So?’

‘I tell him I
don’t feel hungry.’ My father taught in a government
school. He left home at six, even earlier than me. I licked the
chocolate cream off my fingers. We could hear the national anthem.

‘I can bring
tiffin for you,’ Raghav said and made me stand up along with
him for the anthem.

‘Forget it,
your mom cooks boring stuff. Puri everyday,’ I said.

We heard students
chatter on their way back to class. I stuffed the remaining cake into
my mouth.

‘Hurry,
hurry,’ Raghav said.

I shut the red
tiffin box and placed it back in the Barbie bag.

‘Who sits here
anyway?’ Raghav asked.

I fumbled through
the pink rucksack and found a brown-paper-covered notebook. I read
out the label on the cover, ‘Aarti Pratap Pradhan, Subject:
Maths, Class 5, Section C, Age 10, Roll number 1, Sunbeam School.’

‘Whatever. Are
we done?’ Raghav said.

I hung the bag back
on Aarti’s chair, in its original place.

‘Let’s
go,’ I said. We ran to our back-row seats, sat and put our
heads down on the desk. We closed our eyes and pretended to be sick,
the reason for skipping the morning assembly.

The entire 5 C
entered the room, filling the class with the simultaneous cacophony
of four dozen ten-year-olds.

‘Cut it into
two. Take one, leave the other,’ Raghav said.

‘Cut with
what?’

‘Use a ruler,’
he suggested.

I ran to my desk. I
brought back a ruler and made a clean cut. ‘Fine?’ I
said. ‘Happy now?’

‘Its her
cake.’ Raghav shrugged.

‘But you are
my friend,’ I said.

I offered a bite. He
refused. I had not had any breakfast at home. I gorged on the cake,
my fingers smeared with icing.

‘Why don’t
you get your own tiffin?’ Raghav said.

I spoke with my
mouth stuffed. ‘It will mean extra work for Baba. He makes
lunch and dinner anyway.’

‘So?’

‘I tell him I
don’t feel hungry.’ My father taught in a government
school. He left home at six, even earlier than me. I licked the
chocolate cream off my fingers. We could hear the national anthem.

‘I can bring
tiffin for you,’ Raghav said and made me stand up along with
him for the anthem.

‘Forget it,
your mom cooks boring stuff. Puri everyday,’ I said.

We heard students
chatter on their way back to class. I stuffed the remaining cake into
my mouth.

‘Hurry,
hurry,’ Raghav said.

I shut the red
tiffin box and placed it back in the Barbie bag.

‘Who sits here
anyway?’ Raghav asked.

I fumbled through
the pink rucksack and found a brown-paper-covered notebook. I read
out the label on the cover, ‘Aarti Pratap Pradhan, Subject:
Maths, Class 5, Section C, Age 10, Roll number 1, Sunbeam School.’

‘Whatever. Are
we done?’ Raghav said.

I hung the bag back
on Aarti’s chair, in its original place.

‘Let’s
go,’ I said. We ran to our back-row seats, sat and put our
heads down on the desk. We closed our eyes and pretended to be sick,
the reason for skipping the morning assembly.

The entire 5 C
entered the room, filling the class with the simultaneous cacophony
of four dozen ten-year-olds.

Simaran Gill madam,
our class teacher, arrived a minute later and the noise died down.
‘Multiplication,’ she wrote on the board, even as the
children were still settling down.

I sat up straight
and craned my neck to see Aarti Pratap Pradhan, roll number one. She
wore a white skirt, white shirt, red cardigan and had ribbons in her
plaits, and she faced the teacher most seriously as she sat down.

‘Eww,’
Aarti screamed and jumped up. She picked up a chocolate-stained ruler
from her seat. The back of her skirt had chocolate stains. ‘Oh
my God!’ Aarti’s shrill voice made the entire class take
notice.

‘Aarti, sit
down!’ Gill madam screamed in a voice loud enough to make the
back rows shiver. Gill madam didn’t like noise, even if it came
from girls with cute plaits.

Raghav and I
exchanged a worried glance. We had left behind evidence.

‘Madam,
someone has put a dirty ruler on my seat. My new school dress is
spoiled,’ Aarti wailed.

The whole class
laughed and Aarti broke into tears.

‘What?’
the teacher said. She placed the chalk down, dusted her hands and
took the ruler from Aarti.

Aarti continued to
sniffle. The teacher walked along the aisles. Students shrank in
their seats as she passed them. ‘Who brought chocolate cake
today?’ she launched into an investigation.

‘I did,’
Aarti said. She opened her tiffin and realised how her own cake had
been used to ruin her dress. Her howls reached new decibel levels.
‘Someone ate my cake,’ Aarti cried so loud, the adjacent
class 5 B could hear us.

Half
your
cake,
I wanted to tell her.

Raghav stared at me.
‘Confess?’ he whispered.

‘Are you mad?’
I whispered back.

When Gill madam
walked by, I stared at the floor. She wore golden slippers with fake
crystals on the strap. I clenched my fists. My fingers were greasy.

The teacher walked
back to the front of the class. She took out a tissue from her purse
and wiped the ruler clean. ‘Admit it, else the punishment will
be worse,’ she warned.