“Just call me on the 11th of any month.”
Now Neha is beautiful and everything, but she can be pretty loony at times.
“What? Why 11
th?”
“Because no one is at home that day. You see, my brother died on 11
th May. So on every
11
th my parents go to this temple near the rail-tracks where he died. They are gone most of
the day.”
“Really? And you don’t go?”
“I used to. But it used to remind me of Samir a lot. I’d be depressed for days afterward
and the doctor told me not to go.”
She said it matter of factly, as if she were choosing an ice-cream flavour. It was strange,
but a hell of a lot better than her gearing up to cry or something; I can’t stand people who
cry in public.
“Only on 11
th?”
“Well for now, that is the only safe date,” she said and laughed, “why? You want to talk
more often?”
I did not answer her. I mean, I just thought it weird that I could call her only on that one
day a month, like I had a dental appointment or something. But girls are weird, I was
learning.
“So tell me,” she said tapping my hand again to change the topic, “how were the majors?”
I loved it when she touched me in any way, that’s how deprived or depraved I was; I
almost forgot her question in the aftermath of the tiny localized tremors exploding on my
skin’s surface.
“Uh majors…nothing great. Results come in one week or so.”
“Did well?”
“Not really.”
“You want me to put in a word to Dad to increase your grades?” she said.
“Can you?” The pinkness enveloped me.
“I’m kidding.”
Of course. She giggled as if she had got me. Like I thought I believed she could help me
with my grades or something. Girls love laughing at their own jokes but Neha amused is
better than Neha looking around furtively.
I suddenly leaned forward, bringing my face close to hers. Catching her breath, stifling
that laugh and pink tongue, she watched me wide-eyed. I removed the wallet from my back
pocket and sat down casually again.
“What happened?” I asked idly.
“I thought…never mind.” She blinked.
Ha, gotcha.
6
—
Five-point Something
“THEY’RE OUT!” ALOK SAID, SHAKING RYAN’S SHOULDER on a Saturday morning
as if India had won the World Cup or nude women were rolling on the grass outside. “The
major results are out!”
“I want to sleep,” Ryan said, burrowing deeper under the quilt that Alok eventually
succeeded in tugging off.
We reached the insti where a crowd of students had gathered to see their first set of
grades. From these one could determine their first grade point average, or GPA, on the
10point scale. The topper would be close to 10.00, while the average would be around
6.50. We, however, were closer to the bottom. Clicking through the scientific calculator,
Alok calculated our scores.
“Ok, Hari is at 5.46 and… Ryan is at 5.01 and I …I’m at 5.88,” Alok said.
“So all of us are five-pointers,” I said, as if making a particulary insightful comment.
“Congrats Alok, you have topped amongst us,” Ryan said.
Topped amongst us, I thought. As if we were the high-brain society or something. These
were pathetic grades: we ranked in the high 200s in a class of 300 students. Alok
recalculated his score, hoping for some miracle to happen on the calculator. But miracles
never happen in IIT, only crap grades do.
“Screw that. Bloody hell, I am just a 5.88. This is so below average.”
“We knew that, right?” Ryan said, “Whatever. Alok, let’s celebrate this over chicken.”
“Celebrate!” Alok spluttered. “I have just screwed up any chance of getting a US
scholarship or a good job and you want to bloody celebrate?”
“Grow up, Fatso. What do you want to do? Mug more in mourning?” Ryan was calm.
“Fuck you,” Alok said.
It was the first time he had used the ‘F’ word. From him, it sounded peculiar, I mean he is
still a kid.
Ryan’s calmness vanished faster than a prof ’s smile. “What did you say?” he turned
toward me, “What did the Fatso say?”
Why was the bastard dragging me into this? Ryan had damn well heard what Alok said. In
fact, all the twittering students around us had heard it too.
“C’mon guys, let’s take the show to the hostel,” I pleaded. I don’t care if they kill each
other, but privacy I insist on. They were in no mood to let go and for a moment I thought they
were going to ignore me and have a fisticuff right there. Somehow, I knew this wasn’t one of
the regular Ryan-Alok arguments; this had, at its core, their basic character contrasts.
“Let’s go,” I said again and they dragged their feet back to the scooter. Ryan rode us back
to the hostel as rashly as he possibly could, intentionally going over ever y bump on the
road. He has his own strange way of sulking I tell you.
We sat in Ryan’s room after dinner, we had not spoken a word since the insti. I had thought a
little about my little GPA. Yes, a five-pointer was pretty crap. From now on, every prof
would know that I was a below average student and that would influence my grade in future
courses. I knew a few five-pointers who were panned at campus recruitment last year. This
was crap, how did I get into this situation? Was I just not smart enough? At the dinner table,
other students were either plain morose or extremely excited. There was the studious
Venkat, who never left his room and was always quiet at meals. Today, he was smiling. He
had a nine point five. He sat next to Alok, and told his stories of topping in four out of six
courses. Alok was talking only to him and totally ignoring us. There were others too. Even
the Smiling Surd in our wing had managed a respectable seven point three. I think the three
of us were the lowest in Kumaon or something. I could have mulled more over my future, or
rather the lack of it, but Ryan and Alok’s swollen faces filled my immediate vision.
We trooped into Ryan’s room and sat quietly for half an hour or so. Nobody opened a
book, looked at each other or said a word. I wondered if we were going to stay quiet
forever. I mean, that couldn’t be such a bad thing. We could attend class, study together and
eat together, quiet as mice. Maybe our grades would improve as well. It really isn’t that
important for people to talk.
But my rosy fantasy of silence was finally broken by Ryan.
“So, you are not going to apologize?” he asked belligerently.
“Apologize? Me? It is you who should apologize Ryan,” Alok said.
“You are the one who said ‘fuck you’ in front of the whole damn insti,” Ryan said, “and I
should apologize? Hari, can you believe this? I should apologize.”
Now this had nothing to do with me, so I ignored Ryan. Let the two nuts figure it out
amongst themselves.
“You just don’t fucking get it do you?” Alok said, going the ‘damn’ way with ‘fuck’.
Ryan kept silent.
“Get what?” I said. I mean, I really wanted to know what I was missing in this moronic
conversation.
“Get this. Today I got a GPA of 5.88. Damn it, a 5.88. Over 200 students have done better.
Do you know in my twelve years in school I never even got a second rank.”
In most parts of the world, that would be a pretty loser statement to make. To announce
that you were like this nerd in school is hardly something to be proud of. But that is Alok for
you.
“So?” Ryan said, “your insti grades are bad. And who cares about how much you
mugged. Why the hell should I apologize?”
“Because damn it…because it is your damn fault,” Alok said and stood up.
Now that was whacko. Poor Ryan had just managed to scrape a five, and now he was
getting crap from Alok.
“My fault?” Ryan said and started laughing. “Hari, listen to this. Fatso screws up his
grades and it is Ryan’s fault. My fault. Hey Alok, have you gone nuts or something?”
“Say something,” Alok beseeched me.
“Say what?’ I looked away from both of them.
“It is okay. If Hari does not have the guts to say it, I can. You and your ideas, Ryan. Study
less, draw the line, enjoy the best years, this system is a machine, crap, crap and more crap
all the time.”
Ryan stood up from his chair as well; I think it gives you an edge in the argument if you
stand up, kind of more serious and purposeful.
“I know you are upset and everything but there is no need to overreact. Just some stupid
grades…”
“I am not overreacting,” Alok said and sat back down. “And it is not just stupid grades
for me. I don’t have my parents earning dollars like yours. I came to this institute with a
purpose. To do well, get a good job and look after my parents. And you have fucked it up.”
Another F-word; Alok was still upset I guess.
“Stop saying fuck all the time,” Ryan said.
“I will say whatever I want. That is the problem. No one can say anything to you. You
propose something, Hari blindly agrees and we all end up doing it. You are just a spoilt
brat. Someone who wants to do whatever he wants without caring for his friends.”
“What? What did you just say? That I don’t care for my friends?” Ryan said. Though his
voice was notched at a menacing pitch, I noticed his hands starting to shiver a little bit.
“No. You don’t care about anything – not studies, not the insti, not your parents and not
your friends. You just want to have your fun.”
“You’re crossing the line here,” Ryan warned.
“I am drawing the line for a change. From now on, I am not going to hang out with you
anymore, it is official.”
Now it was pretty clear that Alok was overreacting. “What are you saying, man?” I said.
“No drop-shrop it. I have listened to you guys for the entire first semester and screwed up
everything,” Alok said.
“So what are you going to do?”
“Like I said, no more hanging out with Ryan. From now on, I am going to be with Venkat.
He has agreed to let me study with him. He got a nine point five you know?”
I felt disgusted. Nobody in Kumaon talked to Venkat; given a choice he wouldn’t talk to
himself. He had a good GPA and everything, but he was hardly human. Venkat woke up at
four in the morning to squeeze in four hours of muggins before classes. Every evening he
spent three hours in the library before dinner. Then after dinner, he studied on his bed for
another couple of hours until he went to sleep. Who on earth would want to be with him?
“You are sick Alok,” Ryan said, “you are just one sick person.”
“My grades are important to me. My future is important to me. Does that make me sick?”
I went to Alok and put my arm around his shoulder; kind of felt he needed comfort during
insanity. “C’mon Alok, we can study more…”
“Stop c’mon-Aloking me, will you?” Alok pushed my arm away, voice all wobbly.
“Enough is enough,” he said, his face contorted exactly like his mother’s.
This heredity factor fascinated me; was there a how-to-cry gene? Or was this something
he had picked up while growing up? Maybe Alok’s family all cried together sometimes;
mother, sister and himself bawling away with his father, who could still produce tears from
one eye.
“You don’t understand that I have responsibilities. I have to do well to support my family.
Half my mother’s salary goes for my father’s medicine. She has not bought a new sari for
herself in five years,” Alok said as he choked on his tears. He needed to blow his nose.
Ryan sat down to watch Alok, intrigued. He could take ‘fuck yous’ ten a minute, but
crying was a different game altogether. And the whole one-saree-in-five-years was tough to
argue against. I mean, how do you argue with that? How many sarees a year is reasonable? I
don’t know, and Ryan for sure had no damn clue.
“And my sister needs to be married,” Alok went on, “everyone is counting on me. And
you guys don’t understand. Ryan wants to play chess, see TV, enjoy his years. I hate
enjoyment.”
“Will it make it better if I say sorry? I mean, you aren’t making any sense. And this whole
parents deal – you know I don’t understand that.” Ryan was gentling, I could see.
But this shifted Alok into higher gear. “Of course, you don’t. How could you? You never
had them.”
“I had them. I mean I still have them. But I don’t sit and cry for them.”
“Because you don’t love them.”
“Yes I don’t. But at least I am not crying like a baby.”
“Shut up!” Alok screamed and continued crying.
“You are a baby. A sissy-fat baby. Sorry sissy baby, now wipe your nose,” Ryan said and
started laughing. It is something he always does when he can’t think of anything else, a kind
of conversation filler.
“Shut up you…you...” Alok said.
“I want my mummeeeeee,” Ryan said, imitating Alok’s choked tones.
“…shut up, you abandoned orphan!”
Silence. Yes, sometimes people say something so messed up that all bets go off. Ryan’s
laughter vanished in a nanosecond. I sat up straight, confused if I’d heard right. Even Alok
noticed the change in expressions and froze. Twenty solid, slow and long seconds of silence
followed.
“Orphan. Hari, he called me an orphan,” Ryan said.
I stayed silent. Alok stayed silent.
“Just get out. Go to Venkat or whichever prick you want to be with. Just get lost,” Ryan
said.
“I don’t need you to tell me. Hari?” Alok said, not crying anymore.
“Yes?” I said.
“You coming with me?”
“Where?”
“Do you want to be with me or Ryan?”
This was so damn unfair. I had nothing to do with all this. Yet, I had to now choose
between my friends.
“Yes, go with this loser Hari, go hold his hand.”
“I am not going anywhere,” I said.
“So you choose Ryan,” Alok said in defeated tones.
“I am not choosing anyone. You are the one who is leaving. Do whatever you want,” I
said, disgusted with both of them.
There were no more words. Alok got up and left. Ryan shut the door behind him as hard
as he could. It was purely symbolic, as we never shut the door in our rooms.
“You saw what he did. And he expected you to go with him, ha!” Ryan said.
“Fuck you,” I said.
Five Point Someone What not to do at IIT Novel Chetan Bhagat
Re: Five Point Someone What not to do at IIT Novel Chetan Bh
I met Neha soon after, though I was getting sick of the ice-cream parlour, and of the
sickeningly sweet strawberr y flavour. Neha still looked beautiful as hell, but I didn’t feel
like talking to her. In fact, I did not feel like talking to anyone.
“What’s wrong?”
“Who said anything was wrong?” I said. I can be quite a prick if I want.
“It is all over your face. Now are you going to tell me or what?”
That is the thing with girls. They are like half your size or something, but if they know you
like them, they boss you around. Who the hell did she think she was?
“It is nothing.”
She placed her hand over my arm and self-respecting nitwit that I am, I melted faster than
the ice-cream; like the bad mood bugs running through me suddenly got Baygon-sprayed.
“Neha, those bloody Alok and Ryan.”
“Language!”
“Sorry, I mean my friends, my best friends, they had this massive argument and now our
group has split.”
“What was the argument about?”
“About grades. Alok said it was Ryan’s fault we did badly.”
“Really, how badly?”
I told her about our five-pointer grades.
“Damn, did you say five-pointers?” she said.
“Language!” I said.
“Oh sorry. I mean that is kind of low by insti standards.”
See that is the thing. Once you get a GPA in IIT, everyone has an opinion about it, about
you, even if it’s a fashion design student.
“I know,” I said, “but that is not what I am upset about. It is this place. I hate it.”
Neha started laughing. I told you, didn’t I, she can be a bit loony at times. “What is there
to laugh about?” I asked, irritated.
“Nothing. Just how people would die to get in here.”
“I know,” I said, “but it sucks. I have tons to study, my grades are crap, and I don’t have
friends anymore.”
“So Alok wants to mug, and he goes to the mugger,” she paraphrased the recent events
after I had told her the longhand version, “but how come you chose Ryan?”
“I didn’t choose, Alok left,” I reminded her.
“What are you going to do?”
I shrugged.
“You know my dad was a 10 when he was a student.”
“He was a student?” I had never thought of Cherian as anything less in size or years.
“Yes, a class topper. Guess he wouldn’t be too happy to know I am with a five-pointer,”
she said happily.
“So now you also want to stop talking to me,” I said.
“No silly. I am joking,” she said and laughed. Why does she do this all the time, tell jokes
that are funny to her alone?
“Whatever.”
“Come here,” she said, tapping the seat next to her in the parlour.
“Why?”
“Just come here.”
Like a trained pet, I got up from the seat opposite and sat next to her; pretty girls have this
power to turn Mary, making lambs out of people.
She held my hand and turned her face toward me. “I like this five pointer,” she said, and
kissed my cheek.
“One, two, three, four, five,” she listed, smacking my right cheek each time. “See, now
that isn’t too bad.”
Damn, I was melting again. “Can I kiss you back?”
“No, I don’t have a GPA,” she pointed out.
I loved people who did not have a GPA. I loved anyone who was not at IIT. I did not
want to go back. I wondered if I could work at the ice-cream parlour, filling cones all day
and never have to worry about classes, courses, grades, and Alok-Ryan arguments.
“Let’s see a movie, how about Saturday next?” she asked.
“Sure,” I said, snapping out of my fantasy of working in the parlour.
“Great. Gotta go now. I’ll pick you up from this parlour at two. Matinee show,” she said
and left.
I waited for five minutes, read the list of five daily specials and thought about the five
kisses. Somehow, it made up for my five-point GPA.
How I wished I had got a higher GPA, if only to get more of those ice-creamy kisses!
I Love u Rachu
Dear Frnds pls spread this msg until its reach to my rachu
I thinks see knows my name
sickeningly sweet strawberr y flavour. Neha still looked beautiful as hell, but I didn’t feel
like talking to her. In fact, I did not feel like talking to anyone.
“What’s wrong?”
“Who said anything was wrong?” I said. I can be quite a prick if I want.
“It is all over your face. Now are you going to tell me or what?”
That is the thing with girls. They are like half your size or something, but if they know you
like them, they boss you around. Who the hell did she think she was?
“It is nothing.”
She placed her hand over my arm and self-respecting nitwit that I am, I melted faster than
the ice-cream; like the bad mood bugs running through me suddenly got Baygon-sprayed.
“Neha, those bloody Alok and Ryan.”
“Language!”
“Sorry, I mean my friends, my best friends, they had this massive argument and now our
group has split.”
“What was the argument about?”
“About grades. Alok said it was Ryan’s fault we did badly.”
“Really, how badly?”
I told her about our five-pointer grades.
“Damn, did you say five-pointers?” she said.
“Language!” I said.
“Oh sorry. I mean that is kind of low by insti standards.”
See that is the thing. Once you get a GPA in IIT, everyone has an opinion about it, about
you, even if it’s a fashion design student.
“I know,” I said, “but that is not what I am upset about. It is this place. I hate it.”
Neha started laughing. I told you, didn’t I, she can be a bit loony at times. “What is there
to laugh about?” I asked, irritated.
“Nothing. Just how people would die to get in here.”
“I know,” I said, “but it sucks. I have tons to study, my grades are crap, and I don’t have
friends anymore.”
“So Alok wants to mug, and he goes to the mugger,” she paraphrased the recent events
after I had told her the longhand version, “but how come you chose Ryan?”
“I didn’t choose, Alok left,” I reminded her.
“What are you going to do?”
I shrugged.
“You know my dad was a 10 when he was a student.”
“He was a student?” I had never thought of Cherian as anything less in size or years.
“Yes, a class topper. Guess he wouldn’t be too happy to know I am with a five-pointer,”
she said happily.
“So now you also want to stop talking to me,” I said.
“No silly. I am joking,” she said and laughed. Why does she do this all the time, tell jokes
that are funny to her alone?
“Whatever.”
“Come here,” she said, tapping the seat next to her in the parlour.
“Why?”
“Just come here.”
Like a trained pet, I got up from the seat opposite and sat next to her; pretty girls have this
power to turn Mary, making lambs out of people.
She held my hand and turned her face toward me. “I like this five pointer,” she said, and
kissed my cheek.
“One, two, three, four, five,” she listed, smacking my right cheek each time. “See, now
that isn’t too bad.”
Damn, I was melting again. “Can I kiss you back?”
“No, I don’t have a GPA,” she pointed out.
I loved people who did not have a GPA. I loved anyone who was not at IIT. I did not
want to go back. I wondered if I could work at the ice-cream parlour, filling cones all day
and never have to worry about classes, courses, grades, and Alok-Ryan arguments.
“Let’s see a movie, how about Saturday next?” she asked.
“Sure,” I said, snapping out of my fantasy of working in the parlour.
“Great. Gotta go now. I’ll pick you up from this parlour at two. Matinee show,” she said
and left.
I waited for five minutes, read the list of five daily specials and thought about the five
kisses. Somehow, it made up for my five-point GPA.
How I wished I had got a higher GPA, if only to get more of those ice-creamy kisses!
I Love u Rachu
Dear Frnds pls spread this msg until its reach to my rachu
I thinks see knows my name
Re: Five Point Someone What not to do at IIT Novel Chetan Bh
7
—
Alok Speaks
FATSO, CRY-BABY, MUGGER, TRAITOR, SISSY, THAT IS HOW I come across to you. You
probably picture me as this boy who refuses to grow up, the perennial prodigy who wants
to show his good report card to his parents year after year. You are free to judge me, my
whining over grades, my splitting with the group, my reticence to cut apron strings, an
umbilical cord that stretches out across Delhi all the way from Rohini Colony to the IIT
campus, binding me to mother.
Allow me, however, to tell you this my way, for yes, this is Alok Gupta, and His
Highness Hari has given me an itsy-bitsy space here to give vent to my feelings. But
before I do that, let me tell you a story.
Once upon a time, there lived a boy in a lower-middle class home in one of the suburbs
of Delhi. Let us call this boy Loser – just to make it easier – whose father and mother
were schoolteachers, art and biology respectively. Loser grew up in a simple home filled
with notebooks and canvases, and learnt how to draw before learning to tie his
shoelaces. Loser was good in studies (owing to two teachers looking over him at home),
but what he loved most was to paint. Loser took part in every art competition for his age,
and won most of them. The prizes kept coming in – and dozens of painting sets,
calligraphy sets and stationery coupons later, it was clear Loser was above average at
the easel. He wanted to be an artist when he grew up, and of course, this was a silly
dream. For in India, there is only room for one or maybe two artists who are ninety years
old (or better still, dead) to survive. Yet Loser did not care, he knew he would make it and
nothing could stop him from his goal.
But that is when life screws you. Right at moments when you feel you have got it all
figured out. Loser’s father got this prestigious mural painting job, which for once paid
well. The job involved painting the ceiling of the lobby in the education department
building. Murals are hard anyway, and painting a ceiling is excruciating work. They put
these bamboos upon which the artist lies down and works, and hopes to create that one
masterpiece that will make the world crane their necks and take notice.
However, the only time people noticed Loser’s father was when he fell down from the
bamboo structure, ten meters down, and that was to step out of his way lest they broke his
fall.
Right side paralysis, doctors said. Half of Loser’s father was gone, but more
importantly, the whole of his salary was gone, the right hand that painted was gone and
so was Loser’s dream.
Loser’s father came home bed-ridden and never left it for ten years. His one good eye
shed tears every now and then, and the sorrow of never painting again brought one
infection after the other.
Soon, the bottles of paint were swapped with bottles of medicine. There was no money
to af ord a nurse, and Loser was appointed one. He was in class seven then, and for the
rest of his school years he sat next to his father’s bed after school.
For a while he painted, but soon he realized the family needed money more than
landscapes. IIT, the one college in the country that virtually guaranteed a future, caught
his eye. Yes, to become an engineer was the only way out of poverty.
Loser’s mother used to cry every night. But she could not give up. She had to keep on
teaching the digestive system and the endocrine system and reproductive system year
after year to go on.
“One day, they will be out of this,” Loser vowed to himself as he helped his father
change sides at night and studied pulleys, magnetism and calculus for the IIT entrance
exam. For two years, Loser did not step out of the house apart from school, gained fifteen
kilos and muttered calculations while wiping bed-sores.
And one fine day he made it. He was in the IIT. How happy his mother and half-afather
were. Yes, four more years of discipline and he could emancipate everyone. That is
when he met Ryan and Hari. And then, to remain with them, he screwed up his grades to
the lowest in the institute.
Ryan, the man who lives for the moment, who does not want to be like him? Rich
parents, good looks, smart enough to get into IIT, athletic enough to be good in sports
and fun enough to always attract friends. Ryan is infectious, and Hari is a perfect
example of this infection. If Ryan wants something, Hari gives it to him. So, if Ryan does
not want to study, Hari will close his books. If Ryan thinks GPAs are not important, then
Hari stops caring about them. Ryan is Pied Piper….
I remember when he came home once, he lifted my father to carry him out, and kept
holding him even in the auto. It was he who argued with the hospital staf to get us a
good bed, and then stayed with us until three a.m. Yes, Ryan is good, he is very, very
good. For who would have broken Coke bottles for unknown freshers? Or who would
have screwed up his new scooter and overloaded it with three people, two of them in
possession of large butts?
But there is more to Ryan. Like did you know his parents send him a letter every other
week? Or that he never replies to any of them? Yes, he will tell you he doesn’t love them
or whatever crap he dishes out. But the truth is, he keeps every letter neatly in a file.
When he is alone in his room at night, he opens the letters and reads them again. I mean,
if he is so cool and everything, why can’t he respond to them occasionally? And why does
he keep re-reading those letters anyway? I always knew Ryan had issues but Hari is
blind.
See, even though I think I have figured out Ryan somewhat, I cannot for the hell of it
understand Hari. I mean, he really is like me – ordinary, unattractive, fat and dull. But he
wants to be somebody else – someone cool, smart and sharp like Ryan. But deep down, he
knows that this is not possible. He will always remain the under-confident kid who turns
corpse during viva. The uncool cannot become cool. If only he’d accept that, he would be
able to think straight. But he doesn’t, and so went along with Operation Pendulum.
When I first split up with them, I was really not sure if I had done the right thing. But
after Operation Pendulum, I am not sure if I should have ever come back. Well, that is
life. It screws you right when you think you have figured it out
—
Alok Speaks
FATSO, CRY-BABY, MUGGER, TRAITOR, SISSY, THAT IS HOW I come across to you. You
probably picture me as this boy who refuses to grow up, the perennial prodigy who wants
to show his good report card to his parents year after year. You are free to judge me, my
whining over grades, my splitting with the group, my reticence to cut apron strings, an
umbilical cord that stretches out across Delhi all the way from Rohini Colony to the IIT
campus, binding me to mother.
Allow me, however, to tell you this my way, for yes, this is Alok Gupta, and His
Highness Hari has given me an itsy-bitsy space here to give vent to my feelings. But
before I do that, let me tell you a story.
Once upon a time, there lived a boy in a lower-middle class home in one of the suburbs
of Delhi. Let us call this boy Loser – just to make it easier – whose father and mother
were schoolteachers, art and biology respectively. Loser grew up in a simple home filled
with notebooks and canvases, and learnt how to draw before learning to tie his
shoelaces. Loser was good in studies (owing to two teachers looking over him at home),
but what he loved most was to paint. Loser took part in every art competition for his age,
and won most of them. The prizes kept coming in – and dozens of painting sets,
calligraphy sets and stationery coupons later, it was clear Loser was above average at
the easel. He wanted to be an artist when he grew up, and of course, this was a silly
dream. For in India, there is only room for one or maybe two artists who are ninety years
old (or better still, dead) to survive. Yet Loser did not care, he knew he would make it and
nothing could stop him from his goal.
But that is when life screws you. Right at moments when you feel you have got it all
figured out. Loser’s father got this prestigious mural painting job, which for once paid
well. The job involved painting the ceiling of the lobby in the education department
building. Murals are hard anyway, and painting a ceiling is excruciating work. They put
these bamboos upon which the artist lies down and works, and hopes to create that one
masterpiece that will make the world crane their necks and take notice.
However, the only time people noticed Loser’s father was when he fell down from the
bamboo structure, ten meters down, and that was to step out of his way lest they broke his
fall.
Right side paralysis, doctors said. Half of Loser’s father was gone, but more
importantly, the whole of his salary was gone, the right hand that painted was gone and
so was Loser’s dream.
Loser’s father came home bed-ridden and never left it for ten years. His one good eye
shed tears every now and then, and the sorrow of never painting again brought one
infection after the other.
Soon, the bottles of paint were swapped with bottles of medicine. There was no money
to af ord a nurse, and Loser was appointed one. He was in class seven then, and for the
rest of his school years he sat next to his father’s bed after school.
For a while he painted, but soon he realized the family needed money more than
landscapes. IIT, the one college in the country that virtually guaranteed a future, caught
his eye. Yes, to become an engineer was the only way out of poverty.
Loser’s mother used to cry every night. But she could not give up. She had to keep on
teaching the digestive system and the endocrine system and reproductive system year
after year to go on.
“One day, they will be out of this,” Loser vowed to himself as he helped his father
change sides at night and studied pulleys, magnetism and calculus for the IIT entrance
exam. For two years, Loser did not step out of the house apart from school, gained fifteen
kilos and muttered calculations while wiping bed-sores.
And one fine day he made it. He was in the IIT. How happy his mother and half-afather
were. Yes, four more years of discipline and he could emancipate everyone. That is
when he met Ryan and Hari. And then, to remain with them, he screwed up his grades to
the lowest in the institute.
Ryan, the man who lives for the moment, who does not want to be like him? Rich
parents, good looks, smart enough to get into IIT, athletic enough to be good in sports
and fun enough to always attract friends. Ryan is infectious, and Hari is a perfect
example of this infection. If Ryan wants something, Hari gives it to him. So, if Ryan does
not want to study, Hari will close his books. If Ryan thinks GPAs are not important, then
Hari stops caring about them. Ryan is Pied Piper….
I remember when he came home once, he lifted my father to carry him out, and kept
holding him even in the auto. It was he who argued with the hospital staf to get us a
good bed, and then stayed with us until three a.m. Yes, Ryan is good, he is very, very
good. For who would have broken Coke bottles for unknown freshers? Or who would
have screwed up his new scooter and overloaded it with three people, two of them in
possession of large butts?
But there is more to Ryan. Like did you know his parents send him a letter every other
week? Or that he never replies to any of them? Yes, he will tell you he doesn’t love them
or whatever crap he dishes out. But the truth is, he keeps every letter neatly in a file.
When he is alone in his room at night, he opens the letters and reads them again. I mean,
if he is so cool and everything, why can’t he respond to them occasionally? And why does
he keep re-reading those letters anyway? I always knew Ryan had issues but Hari is
blind.
See, even though I think I have figured out Ryan somewhat, I cannot for the hell of it
understand Hari. I mean, he really is like me – ordinary, unattractive, fat and dull. But he
wants to be somebody else – someone cool, smart and sharp like Ryan. But deep down, he
knows that this is not possible. He will always remain the under-confident kid who turns
corpse during viva. The uncool cannot become cool. If only he’d accept that, he would be
able to think straight. But he doesn’t, and so went along with Operation Pendulum.
When I first split up with them, I was really not sure if I had done the right thing. But
after Operation Pendulum, I am not sure if I should have ever come back. Well, that is
life. It screws you right when you think you have figured it out