27 May 1999
There are rumours about Sahil Ahuja. I hadn’t thought much of him or the rumours around him because he or his supposed charm with girls older or the same age hadn’t had a bearing on my life. Now it does. After all, he made the dissection of a frog into a romantic activity. He’s a threat and so are Brahmi’s smiles. I will not be abandoned and be wrested of my will to live.
If I had to wage a war against them I had to take the rumours surrounding Sahil Ahuja seriously. It is said that last year a girl two years older to him was found in a manner of undress with Sahil Ahuja. This was the worst of all the urban legends that surround the boy who is talked about in whispers on the last benches across all sections. While I was alternatively chalking out plans to drive a wedge between them and sulking, the bell of my house rang.
I peeped through the peephole and she shouted from the other side. ‘It’s me! ARUNDHATI. I wondered if you would want to join me for a game of carrom. I can give you a head start if you want one. I’m really BORED!’
‘I have homework to do,’ I said as I opened the door.
‘You can come when you finish, can’t you? There’s leftover kadhi-chawal too if you like that?’
‘I am quite full.’
‘Don’t be a spoilsport now.’
‘I am not being anything,’ I said.
‘Just one game? Come, no? It’s not as if your IIT will run away if you don’t study today.’
And then it struck me. I stood there smiling stupidly at Arundhati, the gears in my mind clicking into position, the domino effect of what I would do from here visible clearly in quick cuts and montages in my head.
‘What? What are you thinking?’ she asked.
‘Nothing. I will come and play with you. Of course I will,’ I said.
She led me into her house and arranged the carrom table swiftly. There was a corner dedicated to it, complete with an extra set of coins and a lamp hanging overhead. I committed her house to memory just in case. If I had to have a pretend girlfriend, I had to make it sound as plausible as possible. Every detail should fall into place if I had to make Brahmi believe in the tragic, heartbreaking love story of Arundhati and me.
‘Why didn’t you go to school today? Are you not well?’
‘I had a little fever but I’m fine now. I’m playing after a really long time. I might be really bad at it.’
‘Should I break or should you?’
‘You break, it will give you a little advantage.’
Mindful of not cutting a sorry figure, I flicked the striker with all the might of my fingers. Not one coin found a pocket. The striker skipped the board and rolled under the sofa. She crouched and pulled it out with a broom.
‘You’re such easy pickings!’ she said and promptly cleared half the carrom table.
Four more turns and the game was over.
‘Don’t feel bad. I have not lost a single game in years and I’m talking about people who take this game seriously.’
‘Did you call me over so you could beat me?’
‘We can move to Scrabble if you want. Or ludo? Or snakes and ladders,’ she said.
‘We will play another game of carrom. But this time something should be on stake.’
‘I just wiped off the board, Raghu. How do you—’
‘Let’s play,’ I said and arranged the carrom coins. ‘If I win you will have to do something that I ask you to do and vice versa. Shouldn’t be a problem since you’re good at this, right?’
‘You have a deal,’ she said.
I spat on my hand, and thrust it out.
‘We need to shake hands?’ she asked.
‘That’s the way I have been taught. It’s tradition,’ I told her.
We shook on it.
I should admit I wasn’t sure of my victory. At best I would have given myself a 40 per cent chance.
Little did she know that three years ago, I had fractured two fingers on my right hand when Dada had inadvertently closed the door on them. After the fractures healed my physiotherapist suggested playing carrom to regain mobility in those fingers. For three months I had played day and night and night and day, trying to outdo myself. My obsession ground to a halt when Maa–Baba decided that Sami was a bad influence and his coming home every day for a game of carrom was slowing my academic progress.
Unbeknownst to me, the carrom board was kept out in the rain and sun for a week. The wood rotted and with it my flights of fancy of being the best carrom player humanity had ever seen.
‘That was amazing!’ she exclaimed as I cleaned up the board.
‘I didn’t know I still had it in me.’
‘You’re a liar. You led me to believe that you don’t play well. And that begs the question, what is it that you want from me?’
I told her what needed to be done. She didn’t think twice before agreeing. I had given myself a much slimmer chance on that. We got back to our carrom. The rest of the games were keenly contested. She won the overall tally, I think.
Even though Ganguly had earlier hit a sublime 183 against Sri Lanka, his highest score ever, neither Dada nor Baba showed any joy. Pakistan had shot down two Indian pilots, one dead, another captured. Baba looked like something had broken inside him.
‘One of you should have been in the army, killing these fanatics. What do you think they would do to the poor pilot, Nachiketa? Raghu, tomorrow I will find out what the process of going to the NDA is—’
‘Ei ki bolchho, what are you saying? No one is going to the army from my house,’ Maa snapped.
‘I don’t mind,’ I said.
Maa looked at me in horror and said, ‘If you even think about going to the army you will see my dead body. Touch me and swear you will not go.’
‘So what should we do?’
‘I should join the army,’ I said again.
‘No!’ squealed Maa.
‘So we should sit around and do nothing while these fundamentalists destroy our country? You can’t give one son for the country,’ scoffed Baba.
Give? I wasn’t his to give away like a paper cup or a torn blanket. Why should I be given away? But in those short moments I imagined joining a fast-track enlistment, a rapid-fire training, a quick cargo flight to the front lines, an oversized helmet on my head, an AK-47 assault rifle in my hands, and me charging into enemy barracks, shooting indiscriminately, and getting shot at twenty times before I drop dead with the name of the country and the girl I love. India. Brahmi. That should teach Brahmi a lesson. To ignore such a goddam war hero for Sahil Ahuja!
‘Even if I had a hundred sons I wouldn’t give up one,’ said Maa.
‘And look what happened to the hundred sons of Gandhari. You’re as blind as she is!’
‘Ish. Chup koro to, keep quiet. Nothing will happen to my sons,’ said Maa and kissed us both, pushing our faces into her bosom.
‘It’s all you Bengali mothers’ fault. Coddle your boys so much they turn into meek women!’ ridiculed Baba.
‘Ei Raghu, come to your room,’ she commanded. She led me to the room and locked the door behind us. Baba shouted like a madman at the door, ‘Go now and sleep soundly! Don’t regret it when Musharraf sweeps like a tide over our country, burns our temples, loots us and bathes our holy land with Hindu blood. Raghu? Are you listening?’
‘Go, sleep,’ Maa shouted.
Baba continued to shout. ‘Ask your Maa to tell you how Mahmud Ghazni raided our beloved Somnath temple. Raghu, are you listening? He raided and killed thousands of us, broke away pieces of the lingam we worship and embedded them in the steps of his mosque. Anirban, tell them!’
I heard Dada say, ‘I have to go to Bangalore tonight.’
Baba, with his exalted talks of sending me to the border to die, immediately softened and asked Dada if everything was okay. ‘This private sector will work you to death. It’s not too late. You will get another job,’ Baba said.
We all went to drop Dada at the airport.
Maa–Baba were worried about Dada losing hair and weight alarmingly under the strain of the job. It was only I who knew of Dada’s shocking betrayal.
I knew he was going to fight for Zubeida.
‘What are you going to do?’ I asked him.
‘I will get her home,’ he said.
The days of peace in our house are now numbered.
P.S. I didn’t spot any new buildings. All I am thinking of is the high diving board and an empty swimming pool.