“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!
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 afford 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-a-father 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 staff 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.
8
—
One Year Later
I KNEW 365 DAYS HAD PASSED SINCE ALOK LEFT US BECAUSE third semester results had just come out that day. How irrelevant they seemed now; another five point something, another tattoo stamped on your worth as an individual in IIT society. Ryan and I had gone to the insti to see the results, but that was incidental, the real reason was to chill out on the insti roof.
I don’t remember when we first discovered this roof, it must have been soon after we started smoking grass, which was soon after we had started vodka, which was soon after we had started listening to Pink Floyd. Floyd, vodka, grass and the insti roof; finally, we were on to what really mattered in life, the stuff that made IIT life bearable, especially when you were a five-point something.
The giant insti building had nine stories; one had to take the clandestine service stairs on the ninth floor to get to the roof. There was an old lock guarding the entrance to the terrace, but thankfully the bolt was even more ancient. It took Ryan three minutes with a screwdriver to remove the rusted bolt and then we were on cloud nine, the highest point on campus. The bare, rough concrete surface made up the flat patch of terrace, there was no parapet. It was mostly empty, too, apart from the insti-bell tower, and a few dish antennas that helped the computer and telecom networks. After dark, only the stars above were visible. If one stood up and looked down, one could see the street lights on campus roads and distant views of Kumaon and other hostels a kilometre away.
Ryan laid out the vodka, the joints and his small Wa
lkman in autopilot, familiar with our twice a week routine.
We lay down on the concrete, still warm from the sunlight in the day. Ryan divided the pair of earphones, such that we had one earphone each, passed a joint to me, and we kept the vodka bottle in the center. Sip, puff, sip, rewind, stop and play.
The lyrics washed over us and we flew up to the sky as it flew down at us.
“You see all those kids screaming over their GPA,” Ryan said, releasing a smoke-ring.
I think smoke is beautiful; weightless and shapeless, it almost appears as deceptively powerless as the person releasing it, yet, it comes from within and rises above us all. Crap, I am talking all artsy stuff, grass does this to me.
“Yes, I saw them. And I see how they look at us,” I said.
“How?”
“Like what the hell are we there for? How does our miserable GPA matter anyway? As if we are blocking their view or something.”
“Screw them,” Ryan said, words of wisdom from the man who knows everything.
“It’s true though,” I said, “we really serve no purpose here...”
“Of course, we do. We are the under-performers.”
“So?”
“So we bring the average down. We make them look better. Hence, we bring happiness in their lives.”
“Point,” I conceded.
“But it is not the students that bother me. It is the profs.”
“You are talking about the design class right?”
“Yes, that Prof Bhatia. I mean you were there, right? I gave him some ideas on how one could design a suspension bridge and he got all excited. He told me to make a scale drawing and submit it, said he would give me a special internship project. Then he asked me my name and found out my GPA. So then he calls me and says to forget about the drawing and internship. Can you believe that scum?” Ryan said.
We had finished one joint each. Ryan sat up to make another one, crushing the grass and tobacco hard, as if it were Prof Bhatia’s innards.
“Screw him,” I passed the words of wisdom back to Ryan.
We refilled our glasses, as it turned dark on the roof.
“Yes, screw all profs,” Ryan said.
“Yeah. Though Prof Veera is all right.” Prof Veera was our fluid mechanics professor.
“Yes, not him. Though I have heard the worst one is yet to come,” Ryan said as he lit up the second joint.
“Who?” I debated whether I should smoke more. Ryan’s tolerance was much higher and he could probably make a wholesome meal out of dope but I knew I was getting trippy. For one thing, I felt I was feather-light; up here, it felt like I was floating above the world. Screw all profs, all students and all design assignments.
“Prof Cherian.”
“Neha’s dad?” I said, somewhat returning to my senses.
“Yes. They say he’s a real terror. Like he is the head of the department, and is this total control freak with other profs and students.”
I knew Neha’s dad was a control freak, at least with his daughter. “Who told you?”
“It is well known, ask any senior. Anyway, for the record, Anurag told me.”
“So when does the control freak teach us?”
“Next year. He takes third year courses,” Ryan said.
“Next year, too far. Give me another joint.”
There were still more than two years to leave this place. And the worst prof was yet to come. I deserved another joint.
“Here,” Ryan said, passing me the crude cigarette. He was a good pal, one who rolls joints for you.
“Anyway, I don’t want to talk about grades or profs. Talk about something else,” I said.
Ryan stayed silent; I guess he was searching for another topic.
“How is your girl?” he asked after straining his brain for twenty seconds.
That is how Ryan addresses Neha. He never says her name, as if her being ‘my girl’ is more important than her being Neha.
“Neha is great. Going for a movie next week.”
“So you guys serious?”
“Serious about what?”
“I don’t know, like you love her and everything?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
That is how men talk about their relationships. Nobody knows anything – neither the questioner nor the answerer.
“Has she said anything?”
“Well, you know how she is. So damn moody all the time. Sometimes she is all cuddly, holds my hand, and acts cozy at the movies. But when I try something, she stops me and gives me these lectures on how she is a decent girl and I should learn to behave.”
“What do you do? You are a bastard I know,” Ryan said and started laughing. Screw him. That is the thing with people who know you well, they judge you before they hear you out.
“I do nothing. Like I mean, do you know we have not even kissed yet. Like I have met her twenty times, but every time I get the push. She has like this under-the-elbow policy.”
“Sounds like a nice girl. You’re lucky.”
“Screw nice. I don’t want nice.”
That is true, nice people are completely boring. They don’t give you joints, and they don’t let you kiss them.
“Talk to her then. Tell her to be naughty. I am sure she wants to be bad,” Ryan said.
“Are you crazy? She is a girl; girls never want to be bad.”
“They do. Just that they want it a little less than us.”
I couldn’t imagine Neha wanting to do the same things I wanted to do with her. “I don’t believe you. Did you ever have a girlfriend?” I said.
“Then don’t believe. Anyway, enough talk about women. Time for another drink and tape,” Ryan said.
Ryan never talked much about himself. Sometimes, I wondered if he was gay. But he wasn’t, I mean, I would have known. I practically lived with the guy, and unless he found me hideously unattractive, I think I would have known. But he wasn’t gay, for he did notice the heroines in movies, whistled at pretty girls on the street. Maybe he just wasn’t in the mood for women most of the time.
He changed the tape and put on another Pink Floyd. I saw the levels of the vodka bottle drop and Ryan scraping through his brown bag for the last joint of the day. A half-moon lit up the sky, and bright little stars looked smug, winking down at us like students with higher GPAs.
You know the thing about Floyd? Not only are they damn good, they sound better with every drink, like the singers designed them for alcohol. Like samosas-chutney, idli-sambhar or rajma-chawal, Floyd and vodka are in a combo-class of their own.
“You know what today reminds me of?” Ryan said.
“What?”
“The first sem results. You remember?”
“Yes, I do. The first fiver.”
“And after that.”
“What?”
“Fatso left us.”
Ryan still referred to him as Fatso and even though it is derogatory, it was always laced with indulgence. I know Ryan had not spoken to Alok for the entire past year and he wouldn’t let me as well. “Don’t go to him. He left us,” he said, and I knew Ryan would do some serious sulking if I rebelled.
“How come you thought of Alok today?” I asked, rising to see how much vodka remained. Surely, Ryan had drunk too much to be talking this.
“I just mentioned him today. I think of him more often.”
Ryan in a profound mood. Grass and vodka have mixed to optimal levels.
“Screw him,” I said as the song reached some of my favourite lines.
“What do you think he is doing right now?” Ryan said.
“Who?” I said, “Alok?”
Ryan nodded.
“Probably mugging away with Venkat. I hear he is a six- pointer now,” I said.
“You know Hari, Alok did the right thing.”
“Yeah, right.”
“No, I am serious. You should have left me too. I am not good for you.”
Now what is going on here, I thought. Am I going to
have to waste real good dope in making Ryan feel all wanted and better about himself? I have two options: one, to tell him to shut up and enjoy the song, two, do what he wants me to do.
“What is the deal Ryan? Not feeling good?”
“No, I am fine. You should have left me. Everyone leaves me. They must be right.”
“What?”
“They do. Dad, Mom, Alok…they all do.”
“No need to be senti, Ryan, just enjoy the evening.”
“You think Fatso was right? You think I did not care for him?” he demanded.
I hate it when people want to be assured, you have no choice but to play ball.
“No Ryan, Alok was wrong. He will realize it someday. Now just close your eyes and cruise a little,” I advised.
I closed my eyes. The grass and vodka were now in complete control of the policeman in me, making me see what I wanted to see. I saw Neha sitting next to me, smiling and embracing me. Her hair, and especially that one soft, floppy lock, brushes me. Her round faces resembles the moon, or is it that I am actually watching the moon? This is trippy and the grass is getting the better of me but I want to be gotten the better of. I continued drifting until Ryan interrupted me.
“You know the best thing about the insti roof?” He stood up, towering over me.
“That no one knows we are here.”
“No. The fact that you always have an option.”
“What option.”
“You can jump over the edge and end it all.”
“Shut up, Ryan.” I struggled to sit up.
“I’m serious. They can do whatever, but I can still control my options.”
“You are too drunk Ryan, I want to go back,” I said, sobering up fast. Sometimes, you want your commonsense to get the better of you.
We never missed the fluid mechanics class in the fourth sem and the reason was Prof Veera. That and the fact that the class was at noon and we finally woke up by then. Prof Veera was completely different. For one, he was like twenty years younger than other profs. No more than thirty, he dressed in jeans and T-shirt, which bore his US university logos. He had like five degrees from all the top universities – MIT, Cornell, Princeton etc, and T-shirts from all of them. He carried this CD-man with him, and after class, he would plug it into his ears before he left. Students said Prof Veera had just joined the insti, and was not supposed to be taking a full course so early. However, the prof he was assisting had a heart attack or something, and Prof Veera had to teach us.