Samantha had called me on Monday morning, a day before Gates’s visit.
‘I’m sorry, Madhav. It’s a really tight schedule for Mr Gates. Maybe you can cut down on a few things.’
‘But the kids have been preparing for months.’
‘My apologies. Trust me, we have actually cancelled a few places. But there’s no question of cancelling your school.’
‘Fine. What time?’
‘10.30 sharp. See you.’
I went with Tarachand ji to inspect the empty field being converted into a parking lot. From a distance, I could hear the sound of students practising the welcome song.
We had stopped classes for a week to focus on the annual day. Students had planned the cultural programme, scrubbed the floors and walls of the school, drawn new charts and made props for the stage. I went to the staffroom and told my mother about the shortened length of the visit.
She said, ‘It was a stupid idea to call these moody goras to school. We’ve been going mad for the past few weeks for them, and now see.’
31
At 10.15 on Tuesday morning, my phone rang.
‘We are entering Dumraon. Ten more minutes,’ Samantha said.
I rushed to the school entrance. Twenty kids assigned to be the welcome party formed two lines facing each other. Each held a plate with rose petals to be showered on the guests. A girl from class V would apply the tika.
Parents had already arrived. Over a thousand guests sat on red plastic chairs under the tent set up for the occasion. Dignitaries and special invitees sat in the front VIP rows.
The fleet of eight cars became visible. The kids in the welcome team squealed in excitement. They started to throw flower petals at each other.
‘Stop it,’ I said to them.
Mr Gates stepped out of his car. Media persons surrounded him, taking pictures non-stop. A team of ten Americans, including Samantha, and five Indians from the Foundation, stood behind Mr Gates.
‘Hi,’ Riya’s voice startled me. I turned to face her. She wore a baby-pink saree with little silver dots all over. She resembled the rose petals on the kids’ plates.
‘Saree?’ I said.
She spread her arms. Just seeing her lean body, subtle curves and the pink chiffon fabric draped around her, made me feel richer than the richest man in the world who waited for me.
‘How do I look?’ she said.
‘Like Miss India,’ I said. She laughed.
‘Now attend to your guests. I’ll find a place inside.’
‘But Riya. . .’
‘Shh. . . Focus on them. All the best.’
She gave me a quick hug and hurried inside.
‘Mr Gates, this is Madhav, one of the founders of the school, from the royal family,’ Samantha said. ‘Madhav, Mr Gates.’
I shook hands with the richest man in the world. They say Mr Gates is so rich, he would not pick up a hundred dollars lying on the road. He makes more money than that in the time it takes to pick up the hundred-dollar bill. He shook hands with me for about five seconds. I wondered how many thousands of dollars he could have earned in that time.
‘Good to see you, Madhav,’ Mr Gates said. He spoke like an old friend. Students threw petals on him. Samantha made urgent motions that we start the function soon.
A mini-stampede occurred on stage. The welcome-song kids bumped into the dance kids, both sets unprepared for the merger of their programmes. The welcome song, a Saraswati Vandana, had not even ended when Bollywood music took over. The mash-up sounded odd but the audience clapped energetically.
I sat next to my mother on a sofa in the front row. My eyes hunted for Riya; she sat ten seats away on my left. I gestured for her to come sit next to me. She smiled and declined from a distance.
The dance ended with kids dancing to Salman Khan’s hit number ‘O, O Jaane Jaana’. My mother went up on stage and the music faded. She spoke in Hindi. ‘Thank you, children. Can we have a big round of applause for the children, please?’
The crowd clapped hard.
‘Let’s also welcome Mr Gates and his team, who have come all the way from America,’ she said. The crowd responded with loud cheers and more applause. Mr Gates turned around in his seat and waved.
‘And now, I understand we have little time. So can I invite Prince Madhav Jha to give the welcome speech?’
The crowd cheered. My heart started to beat fast. I stood up and walked to the stage, passing Riya, who gave me a thumbs-up. I sprinted up to the stage.
I scanned the crowd of over a thousand people from left to right, right to left. The crowd had stopped clapping and were now waiting for me to speak.
I took the mic in my hand. It slipped a little in my palm, which was sweaty with nervousness.
Not a word came out of me. Nothing. I saw the sea of people. Even though I had practised the speech a million times, I couldn’t say a thing.
People were beginning to look a little puzzled. Was it a mic problem? they wondered.
I saw Riya in her pink saree in a corner of the front row, her eyes on me. Slowly, she stood up. I felt anxious. What would the crowd think? However, she simply changed her place to come sit right in front of me. I lip-read her.
‘One line at a time, go slow,’ she mouthed. Her presence kick-started something within me. I blurted out:
‘Distinguished guests of the Bill Gates Foundation, respected dignitaries, my dear students and parents, welcome to the Dumraon Royal School.’
The crowd cheered. Most did not understand English, but the mention of Dumraon was enough to set them off. The Foundation delegates looked at me with attention.
Okay, I can do this, I told myself. Just like at the rehearsals with Riya. Just imagine only she is here.
I gazed at Riya. She gave me a nod and smiled. Encouraged, I continued:
‘Mr Bill Gates is here with us today. He is the richest man in the world. I am sure he is sick of being told that all the time.’
From a distance, I noticed Bill Gates smile. He is listening to me, I thought.
‘Sir, you know that rich in terms of money is not enough to have the richest life. That is why you are here. In my Bihar, which, even though we love it, is one of the most backward places on the planet.’
Riya was nodding after every line.
‘And in this backward Bihar is this extraordinary school. This school with seven hundred kids, three teachers, negligible fees, no proper classrooms, no toilets, no real government support and yet, a lot of riches.’
Riya gave me two thumbs-ups. Okay, no mistakes so far.
‘The real riches here are the kids. I am supposed to teach them. However, they have taught me so much. We grown-ups complain about what is lacking in this school. But these kids, they never complain. Come to our school at any time and you will hear only one thing from them—laughter.’
The front row, the people who understood me, broke into applause. The subsequent rows followed a minute later, if only to show that they understood as well.
‘If you ask these kids, they will say this is the best school in the world. They love their friends. They love whatever they get to learn here. However, I know this school can give them more. I know kids deserving more only.’
Riya frowned. Damn, I’ve made a mistake. It should be ‘I know the kids deserve more’.
I was panic-stricken. Riya gestured for me to breathe. I inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly. Composed, I continued, ‘I know the kids deserve more. Because I have seen the value a good education can add. It is not just to get you a job. It is not just about knowledge and the new things you learn either. A good education gives you self-confidence.’
I paused to consult my notes. I looked up and spoke again.
‘Today, I speak to you in English. I didn’t know this language well. I was scared and ashamed. People made fun of me. I spent my whole college life with a complex. I don’t want that to happen to these kids. I don’t want anyone to tell them they are not good enough.’
; People clapped. I don’t know if they understood me, or if they had just connected with the emotion in my voice.
‘For that I need resources. I need good teachers. However, good teachers won’t come to a school without basic facilities. Students can’t be taught without proper classrooms. You can’t have a real school without toilets.’
Riya’s eyes stayed on me. They kept me going.
‘I don’t want to beg from our government. I don’t want to beg from anyone, actually. Money is not my thing. I left a job at a multinational bank to be here. But sadly, you need some money to do even good things in life.’
Riya signalled for me to sign off; the speech ended around here. However, I continued to speak, unrehearsed and impromptu.
‘Mr Gates, people must tell you that you are a lucky man to have so much money. It might irritate you also, since what you have achieved is not just because of luck. It is because of your creativity, vision and hard work. You deserve it. However, let me tell you one place where luck helped you.’
Riya looked at me, shocked. When had I come up with all this, she seemed to be wondering.
I continued, ‘Where you are truly lucky is that you were born in America. To be born in a country where everyone gets a chance. One of my kids may have it in him to open a global company like yours, but he won’t get a chance. Mr Gates, you were lucky to get that chance. Today, we don’t run the school in the hope of aid or recognition. All we are trying to do here is ensure that every kid in our school gets that chance. Thank you.’
Thunderous applause. Some in the crowd, including Riya and Mr Gates, stood up. Soon, the rest of the crowd followed. I received a standing ovation. I couldn’t believe I had delivered the speech I had obsessed over for months. I couldn’t believe I had conquered one of my biggest demons—English. I folded my hands and left the stage.
I walked back to my seat. My mother turned to me.
‘You learnt so much English?’ she whispered.
‘She taught me.’ I pointed to Riya.
My mother and Riya smiled politely at each other.
Students took over the stage again. They did a dance-drama about Lord Krishna, the naughty boy who stole butter. The shortest student in class II, a little girl called Karuna, played Krishna. She wore a headband with a peacock feather stuck in it. After it was over, my mother went up on stage and thanked the participating students.
Samantha from the Gates Foundation came up to me.
‘Bill needs to leave. Otherwise we will be late,’ she whispered in my ear, her voice rushed.
‘Won’t he give a speech?’ I said.
‘He never does.’
My heart sank. I wanted to ask her how the speech went but Samantha seemed too stressed out to notice or care.
‘I would like to call Mr Bill Gates on the stage to say a few words,’ my mother said. Mr Gates smiled and folded his hands, however, asking to be excused.
I ran back up on stage. My mother seemed surprised. I took the mic from her. ‘Mr Gates needs to leave. If it’s okay, I would like to call him on stage to accept a small gift from us,’ I said.
Mr Gates obliged. He came on stage, along with two members of his Foundation. A class V girl arrived with the gift. It was a small hand-painted clay pot. Several students had drawn flowers on it. In the pot was a flowering plant.
‘It’s beautiful,’ Mr Gates said as he accepted the gift.
I smiled at him.
‘Nice speech,’ he said.
‘Thank you, sir,’ I said. I shook hands with the other two delegates on stage. One was Phil and the other was Roger, a young assistant to Mr Gates.
‘Phil, do you want to?’ Mr Gates said.
‘Yeah, sure,’ Phil said.
Want to what? I wondered.
32
‘May I have the mic?’ Phil said.
I passed the mic to him.
‘Namaste,’ Phil addressed the audience. That one word in Hindi made the audience swoon in ecstasy. This is how we Indians are. If white guys speak even a tiny bit of Hindi, we love them.
‘Kaise hain?’ Phil said. The crowd roared in excitement.
‘We loved the show. Congratulations to all students, mubarak,’ he said. Applause rent the air.
‘We found the students here extremely talented. We feel they deserve to have more opportunities to learn. We have decided to give the school a dozen computers, with all our software preloaded.’
The crowd clapped. I did too, wondering what we would do with computers without electricity. Maybe they will come with computer tables, I thought. We could use the tables. Phil continued, ‘Of course, computers alone will not be enough in a school that needs infrastructure. Thus, the Gates Foundation would like to give the school a one-time grant of fifty thousand dollars and, subject to inspection, a grant of ten thousand dollars a year for the next five years.’
My head felt light. I saw the activity around me in a haze. Riya jumped. Really, she stood up and jumped. Everything else was a blur. The media sprang into action. Reporters barged ahead of the front row to take pictures. My mother couldn’t contain her excitement. She came on the podium and translated the announcement in Hindi, and converted the amounts to rupees.
‘Twenty lakh rupees now, and four lakhs a year for the next five years. We will now make this one of the best schools in Bihar,’ my mother said. The crowd stood up and continued to clap. MLA Ojha inserted his face in front of as many cameras as possible.
My mother gave me a hug. Samantha came up to me and whispered in my ear, ‘Congratulations, Madhav, you did it. We will talk later, okay? I need to rush. I’ll call you.’
‘Yes, thank you, Samantha. Thank you so much.’
‘Here’s my card,’ Phil said as he slipped one in my hand. ‘Your work has impressed us. I know St. Stephen’s. To give up a career and come here is admirable.’
I wanted Riya to hear this too. I looked for her but she was nowhere in sight.
Crowds of villagers filled the stage. Security personnel escorted the Gates Foundation delegation out of the venue to their cars.
‘Thank you, Rajkumar sahib,’ a villager tried to touch my feet.
‘You are our hero,’ said another.
I wanted to bring Riya on stage. But the crowd wouldn’t let me get past them. The crowd lifted me. I was thankful; at least it would be easier to spot Riya from someone’s shoulder.
‘Rajkumar Madhav,’ said one.
‘Zindabad!’ the others shouted in response.
I saw her empty seat. Where did she go? I wondered. The crowd bobbed me up and down.
I looked around frantically. There was no sign of her. The media wanted quotes. I remember saying this was a fantastic outcome that would change the future of thousands of students of Dumraon.
‘Are you happy?’ one reporter asked me.
‘Uh? Yes,’ I said. I was happy. I mean, I should be happy, I told myself. Where the hell was Riya?
My mother came to me. The media turned to her.
‘Ma, have you seen Riya?’ I said.
‘Who?’
‘My friend. She was sitting in the front row. Where did she go?’
My mother shook her head. She turned to the reporters.
I extracted myself from the crowd on stage. MLA Ojha came up to me.
‘Congratulations, Rajkumar ji. Lot of money, eh?’
‘Thanks, Ojha ji. Thank you for the opportunity.’
‘It’s okay. Now are we sharing it or what?’ he said.
I looked at him and his slimy eyes. He saw my shocked expression. He burst into laughter. ‘Joking, Rajkumar ji. Always so serious. Of course, it is all for the school.’
I smiled and excused myself. The crowd thinned in about twenty minutes. Most of the parents and students had left. I asked the school staff if they had seen Riya.
‘She was in the front row. We saw her stand up when the white man announced the money,’ Tarachand ji said.
I went to the makeshift parking area. No
cars. The delegation had left long back. I couldn’t find Riya’s car either.
I called Riya. Nobody picked up. I tried again, thrice. No response. I called Riya’s driver.
‘I am on leave. Madam must have taken another driver,’ he said. I hung up.
I wondered what to do next. Where could she have gone? Did she get an urgent call from home? Office? Where could she be?
‘Madhav sir,’ a girl’s voice interrupted my chain of thought.
It was Shabnam, my student from class III. She wore a dhoti and a kurta, having played a villager in the Krishna skit. Her parents stood behind her.
I folded my hands to wish them. They thanked me for a great function.
‘Madhav sir, didi left something for you.’ Shabnam handed me a brown envelope. ‘Riya didi said to give this to you after the function. She left while you were on stage.’
‘Did she tell you where she was going?’
Shabnam shook her head.
‘Did she go in a car?’
Shabnam nodded and left with her parents. I tore open the envelope.
‘Where are you?’ my mother shouted from a distance.
‘Here only,’ I said. I slipped the envelope into my pocket.
‘Many people are coming home for lunch to celebrate. Come, let’s go.’
33
Our VIP guests had come to the haveli for lunch.
‘What a son you have,’ Kanta aunty, one of my mother’s childhood friends, said.
‘He deserves to be king. He is our asli rajkumar,’ said Bela chachi, a third cousin of my mother.
I thanked my aunts for their compliments.
‘Ma, I need to go upstairs to my room.’
‘Why? What about your lunch?’
‘I’m tired. I’ll have it later.’
I ran upstairs and shut the door to my room. I took out the envelope again. Inside was a computer printout of a letter.
Dear Madhav,
I want you to remain calm when you read this. And, if possible, be calm afterwards too. I am writing this letter to tell you something important. I am leaving Patna.
I am not well, Madhav. I think you noticed my cough over the past month. It is not an allergy. Lung carcinoma is what the oncologist said. Lung cancer. I don’t know how. You know I don’t smoke. But sometimes it happens to non-smokers. And I had to be one of them.