by Ira Trivedi
It wasn’t hard for me to find a partner. When it came to academics, everyone had full faith in me and I found a boy from the commerce section – an above-average bugger with a passion for the tabla – who was happy to leave all the preparation to me. That was fine by me: I wanted time to spy on the competition. There were two sharp eleventh-standard science students in Rajender House who between them knew every World Cup cricket score for the past fifty year. Mrinalini had teamed up with an enormous girl who apparently read five newspapers every morning. The topper in humanities had chosen a tiny squeaky-voiced science prodigy in tenth standard, who I affectionately – privately – thought of as ‘young Specs’. But otherwise, there wasn’t much competition.
Funnily enough, since our house was lacking in academic heavyweight, Vikram was chosen to take part. His agenda was the same as mine – everyone with prefectural hopes was participating in everything that they could. While Vikram was a definite prefect, he was really in the race for head boy. I didn’t understand why everyone looked up to him – our school had somewhat of a herd mentality and they needed a leader, whoever it was. I figured this was the same way that Hitler rose to lead the Nazis.
As the competition approached, preparation became intense, as it did for all competitions at Residency School. Tricks were not uncommon at this stage: reference books went missing, encyclopaedias were defaced, library cards were stolen, and teams were sabotaged. Most important of all were the Manorama Yearbooks, which had been gathering dust in the corner all year, and for which now there was a fifty-person waiting line. But there were small advantages of holding the record for most number of books checked out in the school year. Librarian Ma’am reserved all the books I needed which I quickly hid under my bed, in case Vikram or someone else tried to steal from me.
I prepared and prepared, thinking of Riya running lap after lap on the track, day after day, no matter how tired she was. I was literally trying to cram all of modern history (of the world) in my head in just a matter of days. Riya helped me loyally, and after her practice, we would sit on the steps on the pavilion and in the dimming light of dusk, she would quiz me.
‘Who was the prime minister during the Emergency?’ she asked, reading slowly in a sing-song voice, like the students in the fifth standard.
‘Indira Gandhi,’ I said without hesitation.
‘Wrong, Specs! You’re finally wrong,’ she said with a grin.
I adjusted my glasses. ‘Firstly, I’m right, and secondly, you shouldn’t be happy if I got it wrong.’
She brought the book close to her face, and then with a sigh, squinted at the page. ‘You may be right, this writing is just so small!’
‘Maybe you need some specs?’ I said with a grin.
She gave me a look and put the book down on the steps. ‘One pair between us is really enough.’ Then, after a pause, she added, ‘I just don’t want you to get overconfident.’
‘I won’t,’ I said truthfully: overconfidence was never my problem.
‘You have to push the hardest towards the end,’ she said.
‘What if pushing hard makes you fail?’ I asked, knowing that the more pressure I put on myself, the more nervous I would get.
‘In that case, you just have to have faith.’
‘Faith … in what?’
She said it like it was obvious.
‘In yourself, Specs.’
‘I don’t know about that,’ I said quietly, doubt written all over my face. ‘The only person I have faith in, really, is you.’
‘Well, that won’t help right now, Specs. I can’t even spell half the words in this book.’
And with that she got up, kicked her legs up, warming up, and went flying down the track.
35
THE FINALS ROUND of the GK quiz was held on a Saturday afternoon, which meant the whole school had piled into the auditorium to watch and cheer.
The first two rounds had been a breeze. We had won easily, and I hadn’t even been nervous because there was hardly any audience at all. But now, for the finals, it seemed to me that every student at Residency School was here in this hall. The space was muggy, claustrophobic, filled with body heat, stale cologne and raw suspense. I felt choked in my blazer and tie, afraid that everything that I had studied would evaporate into thin air. My partner was not much comfort; he spent most of the time discreetly hyperventilating into a plastic bag. The only consolation was Riya, in the third row, who wore red ribbons in her hair: her special good-luck charm, which she normally kept reserved for the most important races.
By some miracle, Vikram too had made it to the final round. I supposed he had made a wise choice of partners – the commerce topper, a fat Bihari boy with a stammer – who now sat there with a lazy grin on his face, waving and winking to his friends in the audience.
The competition was divided into four sections: geography, history, science and sports. Each of the six teams would be asked questions on these topics and then be eliminated after each round based on the number of correct answers. The panel of judges included Rao Ma’am, Principal Sir, and B.P. The three of them conferred silently, checking their questions and answers. I tried to keep my sight on Riya but as the auditorium filled up, all I could see was a sea of heads and hair.
And then a beeper went off, and we began.
They asked us question after question, giving us four options for each question as we went through each of the categories.
‘Which is the largest Buddhist monastery in India?’
‘Marasmus is caused due to the deficiency of which nutrient?’
‘Which ancient Indian sage authored the Yoga Sutras?’
‘What is India’s fastest train?’
I was much too nervous to answer these questions myself so I whispered the answer into my partner’s ear and he gave the judges our response, never doubting me even once. I figured this gave me an air of Svengali-like wisdom and power. It also meant no one would hear my voice shake. In those moments when I became stuck, completely blanking out, I thought of Riya, how she had once run a race with a fractured leg. It gave me spirit and we battled on.
At the very end, there were only two teams left – my and Vikram’s. In the audience section that was reserved for teachers, Ansari Sir clapped and screeched like a demented buzzard: it no longer mattered who won, since both teams were from the same house. But to me it mattered so much more now than before.
In the front row, Vikram’s followers were roaring and stamping, thrilled that he had reached so far and urging him to win. But people were also curious about me, this unknown entity who had suddenly found himself in the hot seat. As the judges regrouped for the ultimate round, the tension reached a fever pitch.
As a special twist, we were to choose the question category for each other.
‘Sports,’ said Vikram, looking straight at me, a sneer on his lips.
‘Science,’ I replied, in a steady voice.
To this point in the competition, I’d been nervous, but suddenly I found myself enjoying the thrill of Vikram and I pitted against each other on a stage. We’d been friends. He’d tormented me. He’d protected me. He’d abandoned me. He’d made me hurt Riya. He’d shown me how weak I could be. It was time now to return the favour. It occurred to me that perhaps this is why people played sports – for this deep gladiatorial thrill.
The MC of the competition – a pretentious eleventh-standard boy from the GK Club who insisted he be referred to as the ‘quizmaster’ – declared that Bajwa Sir, the head of science would ask Vikram’s team the final question while B.P. would ask us. Suddenly I no longer felt so confident. I would finally make a fool of myself in front of the very man I wanted to please so very much.
Bajwa Sir was a hirsute sardar with a white beard that covered most of his face. ‘Boys,’ he boomed. ‘Are we ready?’
The room became instantly silent and a sort of distant hum began ringing in my ears.
‘Which of the following is a non-metal that remains liquid a
t room temperature?’
If they knew the answer outright, they would get full marks; otherwise, they would ask for options and get less marks. For the briefest moment, I saw Vikram’s mask of confidence drop.
‘Sir, can we have options?’ asked Vikram, visibly distraught for the first time in the competition.
‘Phosphorous. Bromine. Helium. Chlorine.’
Tenth-standard chemistry. Chapter 6. Unit 2. Vikram and his partner whispered frantically to each other, and I knew then that neither of them had a clue. But there was still a twenty-five per cent chance of a lucky guess.
‘Phosphorus, sir,’ answered Vikram’s partner nervously, just as their time ran out.
Their faces fell as the beeper went off – their answer was incorrect.
‘The right answer,’ said Bajwa Sir, ‘B-ro-mine.’ His wide grin, visible even under his beard, revenge on the boys who had never paid attention in class.
And now, it was our turn.
Their fault wasn’t necessarily our win. We had to get the next answer right, or else we would have to face off all over again. Now B.P. cleared his throat. As ever, he sounded totally in control.
‘Ready, boys?’
I could just about nod my head, it felt leaden like my leg. A fine sweat had gathered at the back of my neck and my palms were so slippery that I could barely hold the mic. Even my partner emitted a squeak of fear.
‘Which cricketer is known as the father of Indian cricket?’
The timer was ticking, seeming to go faster than before. My partner looked at me, befuddled, I shrugged: neither he nor I had a clue. And then a memory slipped into my mind, a cover of a book, a single name. What was the name of that book? I tried very hard to remember and just as my partner was going to ask for options, I sputtered into the mic, ‘Ranjitsinhji.’
Time seemed to stand still as B.P. spoke into the mic, ‘Your answer is correct.’
One hot summer afternoon as I waited for Riya in her living room, I had picked up a copy of a book lying on the table, and begun leafing through the pages. Then B.P. unexpectedly walked into the door.
Startled, I jumped off my seat nervously. ‘Good afternoon, sir,’ I stammered.
He looked at me bemusedly, and then, seeing the copy of the book in my hand, he asked, ‘Do you know who that is?’
I looked at the faded cover with the face of a smiling man. ‘Uh, no sir.’
‘The father of Indian cricket.’
And then Riya had walked into the room.
For our victory, both my partner and I received 2,000 rupees as prize money, a fortune for a boy like me. I decided that I would treat Riya to a feast at the tuck shop – samosas, imported chocolates, her favourite Maggi noodles and anything else that she wanted. For the first time in my life, I felt rich.
Riya smiled at me and then said to me with her mouth full of chips, ‘You did it, Specs.’
‘We did it!’ I exclaimed.
She rolled her eyes. ‘I didn’t know the answer to a single thing.’
And she handed me a newspaper cutting of a small fuzzy picture of my partner and I smiling like idiots. The competition had been sponsored by the local newspaper and our victory had been in print.
‘Papa wanted you to have this.’
I had decided not to say anything about B.P.’s complicity in my victory to Riya. Only because I did not know whether B.P. had done it on purpose or if it was sheer chance. All I knew was that if B.P. had done this for me, I would be ever grateful to him. Standing on that stage and accepting the trophy from Principal Sir had been one of the triumphs of my life. Vikram, I remember, had behaved strangely, stomping off stage, refusing even to shake my hand – which had caused murmurs for being such a flagrant violation of the school’s chummy ethos to be a good sport no matter what.
The crunching of the chips that she noisily munched stirred me out of my thoughts. I looked at her reading the newspaper clipping carefully, tracing the tiny words with her finger.
‘You know,’ I said casually, putting a chip in my mouth. ‘I think your father’s starting to like me.’
‘Oh no,’ she said warmly, reaching for the ketchup, ‘he doesn’t like anyone at all.’
36
FOLLOWING THE GK quiz, Vikram lost a lot of face. It transpired that he had bribed a peon to steal the GK quiz notes from the club secretary, accounting for his unexpectedly strong performance until the final round. So in the days that followed, he kept an unexpectedly low profile. This, of course, was fine by me. I was in fact somewhat gleeful at Vikram’s fall from grace. Uncharacteristically I even joined in the gossip-mongering and rumour-spreading, but when I tried talking to Riya about it – jokingly rubbing it in – she only shrugged. ‘Maybe he felt insecure.’ This should have sounded an alarm bell, instead I only remember fondly marvelling at her depth of spirit and magnanimity.
Most people would never have noticed; but I had been a keen observer of Riya for years and I could see patterns and discern trends. My grandmother often said it was a gift, but sometimes it felt like a curse.
It was the little things at first. He would smile at her, actually smile at her, almost nicely; she would return the gesture with a smile that was familiar because it was reserved for me. Though I only ever saw them talking from afar, I could see from her body language that the iciness that had existed between them for the past two years seemed to have thawed.
For so many years, I had dreamt of being in a classroom on the third floor of the science block, a serious science classroom, with other serious science students, no smart mouths like Vikram passing wisecracks from the back, but now I wished desperately that I was back in that tenth-standard classroom, dodging spit-balls and avoiding bullies, my eyes solidly fixed on Riya’s back.
As I sat in the front of the class, dealing with a boggling derivative which I usually loved, I began obsessing, wondering what they were up to together in class. When Dominic Sir opened the window I heard the sounds of their laughter fluttering in, over the hasty scratching of our pens and sour smells of chemistry. I always imagined I could pick out the thread of her laughter, always sweet and surprisingly low-pitched. Now I began to think I could hear his as well.
Once, as I crossed the humanities department on my cycle, running an errand for a teacher, I saw Riya and Vikram talking in the hallway, and even from the distance I could see that he was attentive, and that she, with her books held close to her chest, had a smile on her lips.
Out of the classroom, things got worse. While discussing strategies with my chess team at Scindia Pavilion, I saw them on the track. Vikram was resplendent with his gelled hair, sculpted body and cocky grin, chatting with Riya, who wore shorts so long that they looked like a skirt. I saw him whisper something into her ear; she threw her head back, laughing, flipping the hair off her face. Then they both took off, him trailing as she led.
I stood there for a while, at a little distance from the tracks, watching her run, uselessly seeking her gaze, a great sorrow filling my heart. Most boys would get angry, their testosterone surging, and probably want to punch the other guy. Not me though, I just felt like crying, my heart coming up to my throat.
Swallowing my tears, I tried to rationalize it to myself. They were in the same class; they were both athletes, sometimes travelling together to various meets. It was natural that they would eventually become friends. But then I remembered the way he had teased her during her first few months at school, the blank look on her face when she had stared miserably out of the window, the way he had laughed when her fingers had been blackened with ink. How could she possibly be friends with him?
I had promised myself that I would never think about it again – Abdul and she, in that classroom, their heads coming close as if they were about to kiss. I tortured myself by replaying that moment again and again. He lifts the bottle; she holds his eye; she swallows. I knew I shouldn’t, but now I couldn’t stop. Was it possible? Riya and Vikram? I felt nothing so much as despair. The truth was that n
o matter how wretched he was, Vikram, like Abdul, was a sports superstar, and girls considered him, however baboon-like he appeared to me, Residency School’s golden boy. In my deepest misery, I acknowledged the reality: Vikram was complete, everything that I was not. And worse, I began doubting myself, and doubting Riya. In my darkest moments, I wondered: can you ever really know someone else? No matter how hard I tried to convince myself that she would never do such a thing, those old sleepless nights slowly crept up like ugly demons.
37
I WAS WALKING Riya home from campus, a cool north wind licking past our collars, ruffling our hair. It had taken me days to build up my courage and I had planned and practised the conversation a hundred times. Now with ragged breath I began, glad that it was dark and she couldn’t see my nerve-wracked face.
‘Riya,’ I said weakly. ‘Have you and Vikram became friends?’
I must have hit an unintended chord, because she turned her head towards me and right away sensed that something was wrong.
‘What on earth are you talking about?’ she coolly said.
I struggled to retain my composure. ‘About you and Vikram. I get it. It’s fine.’
‘What’s fine?’ she asked in a considered tone.
I was trying to act as if this conversation didn’t bother me at all. I wanted to sound casual and nonchalant – as if I didn’t really care at all. The story inside my chest, though, was something else.
‘I saw you running with him the other day,’ I said. ‘You make a good pair.’
‘He’s a good runner,’ she said coolly, sweeping her hair from her face.
‘You guys were laughing too,’ I added, almost under my breath. ‘You like him.’
