Of course, I had no choice but to smile back.
The man in the middle was Professor Pereira, the head of sociology, the course I had applied for. Professor Fernandez, who taught physics, and Professor Gupta, whose subject was English, sat on his left and right respectively.
‘Sports quota, eh?’ Prof. Pereira said. ‘Why isn’t Yadav here?’
‘I’m here, sir,’ a voice called out from behind me. I turned around to see a man in a tracksuit standing at the door. He looked too old to be a student but too young to be faculty.
‘This one is 85 per cent your decision,’ Prof. Pereira said.
‘No way, sir. You are the final authority.’ He sat down next to the professors. Piyush Yadav was the sports coach for the college and sat in on all sports-quota interviews. He seemed simpler and friendlier than the professors. He didn’t have a fancy accent either.
‘Basketball?’ Prof. Fernandez asked, scanning through my file.
‘Yes, sir,’ I said.
‘What level?’
‘State.’
‘Do you speak in full sentences?’ Prof. Gupta said in a firm voice.
I didn’t fully understand his question. I kept quiet.
‘Do you?’ he asked again.
‘Yes, yes,’ I said, my voice like a convict’s.
‘So. . .why do you want to study at St. Stephen’s?’
A few seconds of silence followed. The four men in the room looked at me. The professor had asked me a standard question.
‘I want good college,’ I said, after constructing the sentence in my head.
Prof. Gupta smirked. ‘That is some response. And why is St. Stephen’s a good college?’
I switched to Hindi. Answering in English would require pauses and make me come across as stupid. Maybe I was stupid, but I did not want them to know that.
‘Your college has a big name. It is famous in Bihar also,’ I said.
‘Can you please answer in English?’ Prof. Gupta said.
‘Why? You don’t know Hindi?’ I said in reflex, and in Hindi.
I saw my blunder in their horrified faces. I had not said it in defiance; I really wanted to know why they had to interview me in English when I was more comfortable in Hindi. Of course, I didn’t know then that Stephen’s professors didn’t like being asked to speak in Hindi.
‘Professor Pereira, how did this candidate get an interview?’ Prof. Gupta said.
Prof. Pereira seemed to be the kindest of the lot. He turned to me. ‘We prefer English as the medium of instruction in our college, that’s all.’
Without English, I felt naked. I started thinking about my return trip to Bihar. I didn’t belong here—these English-speaking monsters would eat me alive. I was wondering what would be the best way to take their leave when Piyush Yadav broke my chain of thought.
‘Bihar se ho? Are you from Bihar?’ he said.
The few words in Hindi felt like cold drops of rain on a scorching summer’s day. I loved Piyush Yadav in that instant.
‘Yes, sir. Dumraon.’
‘I know. Three hours from Patna, right?’ he said.
‘You know Dumraon?’ I said. I could have kissed his feet. The three English-speaking monsters continued to stare.
‘I’m from Patna. Anyway, tell them about your achievements in basketball,’ Piyush said.
I nodded. He sensed my nervousness and spoke again. ‘Take your time. I am Hindi-medium, too. I know the feeling.’
The three professors looked at Piyush as if wondering how he had ever managed to get a job at the college.
I composed myself and spoke my rehearsed lines.
‘Sir, I have played state-level basketball for six years. Last year, I was in the waiting list for the BFI national team.’
‘BFI?’ said Prof. Gupta.
‘Basketball Federation of India,’ Piyush answered for me, even though I knew the answer.
‘And you want to do sociology. Why?’ Prof. Fernandez said.
‘It’s an easy course. No need to study. Is that it?’ Prof. Gupta remarked.
I didn’t know whether Gupta had something against me, was generally grumpy or suffered from constipation.
‘I am from rural area.’
‘I am from a rural area,’ Gupta said, emphasizing the ‘a’ as if omitting it was a criminal offence.
‘Hindi, sir? Can I explain in Hindi?’
Nobody answered. I had little choice. I took my chances and responded in my language. ‘My mother runs a school and works with the villagers. I wanted to learn more about our society. Why are our villages so backward? Why do we have so many differences based on caste and religion? I thought I could find some answers in this course.’
Prof. Gupta understood me perfectly well. However, he was what English-speaking people would call an ‘uptight prick’. He asked Piyush to translate what I had said.
‘That’s a good reason,’ Prof. Pereira said once Piyush was done. ‘But now you are in Delhi. If you pass out of Stephen’s, you will get jobs in big companies. Will you go back to your native place?’ His concern seemed genuine.
It took me a few seconds to understand his question. Piyush offered to translate but I gestured for him not to.
‘I will, sir,’ I finally replied. I didn’t give a reason. I didn’t feel the need to tell them I would go back because my mother was alone there. I didn’t say we were from the royal family of Dumraon. Even though there was nothing royal about us any more, we belonged there. And, of course, I didn’t mention the fact that I couldn’t stand any of the people I had met in this city so far.
‘We’ll ask you something about Bihar then?’ Prof. Fernandez said.
‘Sure.’
‘What’s the population of Bihar?’
‘Ten crores.’
‘Who runs the government in Bihar?’
‘Right now it’s Lalu Prasad’s party.’
‘And which party is that?’
‘RJD—Rashtriya Janata Dal.’
The questions kept coming, and after a while I couldn’t keep track of who was asking what. While I understood their English, I couldn’t answer in complete sentences. Hence, I gave the shortest answers possible. But one question had me stumped.
‘Why is Bihar so backward?’ Prof. Gupta said.
I didn’t know the answer, forget saying it in English. Piyush tried to speak on my behalf. ‘Sir, that’s a question nobody can really answer.’
But Prof. Gupta raised a hand. ‘You said your mother runs a rural school. You should know Bihar.’
I kept quiet.
‘It’s okay. Answer in Hindi,’ Prof. Pereira said.
‘Backward compared to what, sir?’ I said in Hindi, looking at Prof. Gupta.
‘Compared to the rest of India.’
‘India is pretty backward,’ I said. ‘One of the poorest nations in the world.’
‘Sure. But why is Bihar the poorest of the poor?’
‘Bad government,’ Piyush said, almost as a reflex. Prof. Gupta kept his eyes on me.
‘It’s mostly rural, sir,’ I said. ‘People don’t have any exposure to modernity and hold on to backward values. There’s poor education. Nobody invests in my state. The government is in bed with criminals and together they exploit the state and its people.’
Prof. Pereira translated my answer for Prof. Gupta. He nodded as he heard it. ‘Your answers are sensible, but your English is terrible,’ he said.
‘Would you rather take a sensible student, or someone who speaks a foreign language well?’
My defiance stumped them all. Prof. Fernandez wiped his glasses as he spoke, turning his head towards me. ‘English is no longer a foreign language, Mr Jha. It’s a global language. I suggest you learn it.’
‘That’s why I’m here, sir,’ I said.
My answers came from the heart but I didn’t know if they had any effect on the professors. The interview was over. They asked me to leave the room.
I stood in the corridor, figuring out
where to go next. Piyush came out of the committee room. His lean and fit frame made him look like a student, despite him being much older. He spoke to me in Hindi.
‘Your sports trial is in one hour. See me on the basketball court.’
‘Sir, is there even a point? That interview went horribly.’
‘You couldn’t learn some English, along with basketball?’
‘Nobody speaks it in our area.’ I paused and added, ‘Sir.’
He patted my back. ‘Get out of Bihar mode, son. Anyway, sports quota trials are worth 85 per cent. Play well.’
‘I’ll do my best, sir.’
2
If she weren’t tall I wouldn’t have noticed her. It is funny how her height shaped my life.
If she had been four inches shorter, my eyes may never have met hers and everything would have been different. If I had not been bored and arrived at the basketball court an hour earlier, it would have been different. If someone had not missed a pass and the ball had not come out of the court and hit me on the head, I would have had a different life. Tiny bumps in time shape our lives, even though we spend hours trying to make long-term plans. I had no plan to meet the love of my life on a basketball court. I was there only to kill time and because I had nowhere else to go.
A small crowd of students, mostly men, had gathered around the Stephen’s basketball court. Girls’ sports trials always garnered an audience—there was no better excuse to check them out. Everyone spoke in English. I didn’t speak at all. I straightened my back and stared at the court with a sense of purpose, mainly to come across as if I belonged there. As ten girls came on to the court, the crowd cheered. Five of the girls belonged to the existing college team; the other five had applied for admission under the sports quota.
Piyush came to the centre of the court, ball in hand and whistle in mouth. As he blew it, the girls sprang into action.
Five feet, nine inches is tall for an Indian girl. It is tall even for a girl in a basketball team. Her long neck, long arms and long legs held every guy’s attention. She was a part of the sports-quota applicants’ team. She wore black fitted shorts and a sleeveless sports vest with ‘R’ printed in yellow at the back. She collected the ball within seconds. She wore expensive Nike ankle-length sneakers, the kind I had seen NBA players wear on TV. Her diamond earrings twinkled in the sun. She dribbled the ball with her right hand. I noticed she had long, beautiful fingers.
‘Ten points for looks, coach,’ a senior student called out as R passed the ball. The crowd tittered. Well, the men did. The wisecrack distracted R for a moment, but she resumed her game as if she was used to such comments.
The sports-quota girls played well individually. However, they didn’t play well as a team.
R dribbled the ball and reached the opposition’s basket. Three opponents surrounded her. R passed the ball to her teammate, who missed the pass.
‘What the. . .’ R screamed. Too late. The rival team took the ball, passed it to the other end and scored a basket.
R cursed herself, inaudible to anyone else. She then signalled to three of her teammates to cover specific opponents and jogged across the court. When she went past me, I saw her sweaty, flushed face from up close. We made eye contact for nanoseconds, perhaps only in my imagination. But in those nanoseconds something happened to my heart.
No, I wouldn’t say I fell in love with her. I wouldn’t even say I felt attracted to her. But I felt something deep inside, strong enough for my heart to say, You have to talk to this girl at least once in your life.
‘Babes, cover her. I said cover!’ R screamed. Her state of mind was as far from mine as possible. She passed the ball to her teammate, who missed scoring a basket again.
‘What are you guys doing?’ she shouted in perfect English. I felt nervous; how would I ever speak to her? Her face was grimy, dust sticking to her left cheek and forehead. Yet, it was one of the most beautiful faces I had seen in my entire life. Sometimes it is hard to explain why you find a person beautiful. Was it her narrow face, perfectly in line with her slender body? Was it her flawless skin and complexion, which had turned from cream to pink to red? Or was it not about her looks at all? Was it her passion, her being totally immersed in the game? I didn’t know.
Of course, I never actually thought it would lead to anything. She seemed too posh to even give me a second glance.
Destiny, however, had other plans. For why else, in the seventh minute of the first half, would the college team captain overthrow the ball outside the court, where it hit my head as I stood on the sidelines? Why would I grab the ball in reflex? More than anything, why would R come to collect it?
‘Ball, please,’ she said, panting. I felt paralysed.
‘I said ball, please,’ she said. I held on to the ball for an extra half second. I wanted to look at her a bit longer. I wanted to take a snapshot of her sweaty face and store it in my mind’s camera for life.
I threw the ball at her. She caught it with ease and looked at me. She could tell from my throw that I knew the game.
‘Change your point shooter,’ I said. For some reason, I had managed to speak in correct English this time.
‘What?’ she said. She surveyed me from top to bottom. I now wished I had worn better clothes. I had not changed out of my interview shirt and pants, both of which the tailor back home had stitched too loose for me. I looked out of place on the basketball court. With my folder of certificates, I resembled a hero from those Hindi films of the seventies—the one who could not find a job. I have a Bihar state team T-shirt, I wanted to tell her. Of course, in the middle of a game, and as a first conversation, this was a terrible idea.
‘Your shooter is useless,’ I said.
The referee whistled to commence the game. She turned away and forgot about me faster than her throw reached her team member. ‘Here, pass it to me,’ R shouted as she reached the opposition basket.
Her point shooter held the ball and looked around, confused.
‘I said here,’ R screamed so loudly that pigeons flew off the trees in the lawns. The point shooter passed the ball, R caught it and took a shot from well beyond the three-point line.
Whoosh! The ball went through the basket. The crowd cheered. They already had a soft spot for R anyway.
The referee announced a break at the ten-minute mark. The college team led 12-5. R huddled with her team, figuring out their strategy for the next half. As her team meeting ended, she wiped her face and neck with a towel.
I couldn’t take my eyes off her. I forgot I had my own trial in less than an hour. I only wanted to figure out a way to talk to her a bit more. Maybe I could tell her she played well. I wondered how to tell her about my state-level game without coming across as a show-off. And, more than anything, how would I go beyond five words of English?
She caught me staring. I wanted to kill myself. She continued to look directly at me, the towel still around her neck. Then she walked up to me. A shiver ran down my spine.
I didn’t mean to stare, I wanted to tell her. I wondered if she would scream at me like she had done during the match.
‘Thanks,’ R said.
She had walked across the court to thank me?
She was breathing hard. My eyes were glued to hers.
Look away, Madhav, I scolded myself and turned away.
‘That was a good tip,’ she said to my left profile.
‘Welcome. . . You. . .are. . .good,’ I said. Uttering each word was like lifting a brick.
‘Any other suggestions for the second half? We’re losing.’
‘Yes,’ I said, turning to face her again. I wanted to give her more tips, but couldn’t in English. ‘You speak Hindi?’ I said.
She looked baffled. Nobody in St. Stephen’s had ever asked anyone that question.
‘Well, yeah, of course,’ she said.
‘Okay,’ I said, and explained in my language, ‘they have two strong players. Cover them tight. Don’t fix formations for your players. Two of yo
urs should move with them. You become the shooter. Of the other two, one is your defence, the other supports you.’
The whistle blew again.
‘Got to go,’ she said. ‘Catch you later.’
I didn’t understand what ‘catch you’ meant. Did it mean she would catch what I had said later? Did it mean she didn’t understand what I had said? Or did she mean she actually wanted to catch me? Like, she liked me so much she wanted to catch me? Of course, this seemed unlikely. But then I had given her good tips and you never know with these modern people. You see, my mind has this overdrive switch, especially when it’s excited. It starts to get ahead of itself and thinks useless thoughts when I could actually be doing something constructive, like watching the game or finding out that girl’s name.
The game restarted. The referee’s whistle, the sound of the players’ shoes as they run across the court, the shrieks, the yells and the cries of victory and defeat—few things in life match the excitement of a sports court. Basketball, underrated as it might be in this country, packs it all in half an hour. I cannot understand why Indians don’t play this game more. It doesn’t take up too much space, doesn’t need much equipment and a big group can play it all at once.
‘Yes!’ she screamed as she scored a basket. The ball went in without touching the ring, making the most beautiful sound in a basketball game—the soft ‘chhaak’ when only the net touches the ball. Sweat dripped off her face as she ran back to her side of the court.
The match ended 21–15. The newbies had lost, but still kept pace with the college team—a considerable achievement. R, however, seemed disappointed. She wiped her face with a towel and picked up her blue Nike kitbag. A few boys tried to make eye contact with her but she ignored them. I wanted to speak to her. However, no boy from Dumraon has ever had the guts to approach a high-class girl from Delhi. I wanted her to watch my game. There was nothing else I could impress her with. Coach Piyush went up to her. They became engrossed in a conversation. This was my chance. Underconfident guys need a go-between to speak to a girl. I ran up to Piyush.
Half Girlfriend Page 2
