Revolution Twenty20

by Chetan Bhagat

  ‘How much?’ I said as I fumbled with my wallet.

  She took my wallet and placed it back in my shirt pocket. She placed a finger on my lips.

  Why do girls send confusing signals? She had rebuffed me on the boat the other day. Yet she comes to shop with me for boring clothes hangers and doesn’t let me pay. She calls me three times a day to check if I’ve had my meals. Does she care for me or not?

  ‘You want to try the new Domino’s at Sigra?’ she said.

  ‘Can we go to the ghats?’ I said.

  ‘Ghats?’ she said, surprised.

  ‘I want to soak in as much Varanasi as possible before I leave.’

  We walked to the steps of the Lalita Ghat, quieter than the busy Dashashwamedh on our right. We sat next to each other and watched the Ganga change colours with the evening sun. On our left, flames flickered from the never-ending funeral pyres in the Manikarnika Ghat. The ghat, named after Shiva’s earring that he dropped here during a dance, is considered the holiest place for cremation.

  She held my elbow lightly. I looked around. Apart from some tourists and sadhus, I spotted a few locals. I shook my elbow free.

  ‘What?’ she said.

  ‘Don’t. It’s not good. Especially for you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you are a girl.’

  She smacked my elbow. ‘So what?’

  ‘People talk. They don’t say good things about girls who sit on the ghats holding elbows.’

  ‘We are just really good friends,’ she said.

  I hated that term. I wanted to talk about my place in her life, even though I did not want to make things unpleasant. ‘But now I am leaving,’ I said.

  ‘So? We will be in touch. We will call. We can chat on the net. There are cyber cafés in Kota, right?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Don’t look so glum,’ she said. We heard the temple bells ring in the distance. The evening aarti was about to begin.

  ‘What is your problem?’ I said.

  ‘About what?’ she said.

  ‘About us. Us being more than friends.’

  ‘Please, Gopal, not again.’

  I became quiet. We saw the evening aarti from a distance. A dozen priests, holding giant lamps the size of flaming torches, prayed in synchronised moves as singers chanted in the background. Hundreds of tourists gathered around the priests. No matter how many times you see it, the aarti on Varanasi ghats manages to mesmerise each time. Much like the Aarti next to me. She wore a peacock blue salwar-kameez and fish-shaped silver earrings.

  ‘I don’t feel that way, Gopal,’ she said.

  ‘About me?’

  ‘About anyone. And I like what you and I share. Don’t you?’

  ‘I do. But I am leaving now. If we had a commitment, wouldn’t it be better?’

  ‘Commitment? Gopal, we are so young!’ She laughed. She stood up. ‘Come, let’s float diyas. For your trip.’

  Girls are the best topic switchers in the world.

  We walked down to the waters. She purchased a set of six lit diyas for five rupees. She passed one to me. She set one diya afloat. Holding my hand, she said, ‘Let’s pray together, for success.’

  ‘May you get what you want in Kota,’ she said, eyes shut.

  I looked at her. What I really want is not in Kota, I am leaving it behind in Varanasi …

  Kota

  6

  It took me twenty-three hours in the hot and stuffy Dwarka Express to reach Kota.

  I had emailed Vineet, a Varanasi boy who’d spent the last year in Kota. I learnt about the coaching classes; Bansal and Resonance had the best reputation. However, they screened students with their own tests. If I did not get into Bansal or Resonance, Kota had other, less selective coaching classes that catered to losers like me.

  However, before I joined a coaching ghetto I had to find a place to live in. Vineet had told me about some paying guest accommodations. I hailed an auto from the railway station. ‘Gayatri Society Building,’ I said, ‘in Mahavir Nagar, near Bansal classes.’

  The auto drove down the dusty streets of Kota. It looked like any other small town in India, with too much traffic and pollution and too many telecom, underwear and coaching-class hoardings. I wondered what was so special about this place. How could it make thousands of students clear the most competitive exam in the world?

  ‘IIT or Medical?’ asked the auto driver, who had gray hair and matching teeth.

  I figured out what made Kota different. Every one was clued into the entrance exams.

  ‘IIT,’ I said.

  ‘Bansal is the best. But their entrance exam is scheduled for next week.’

  ‘You know all this?’ I said, baffled by the driver’s knowledge.

  He laughed and turned around. ‘My whole family is into education. My wife runs a tiffin business. You want food delivered?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Shankar, originally from Alwar,’ he said. He extended his grease-stained hand.

  I shook it as little as possible. ‘Gopal from Varanasi.’

  He gave me a business card for the tiffin service. Two meals a day for a monthly cost of fifteen hundred bucks.

  ‘Let us take care of the food. You boys study, it is such a tough exam.’

  ‘Which exam?’ I said.

  ‘For IIT it is JEE. Come on, Gopal bhai. We are not that uneducated.’

  We reached the Gayatri Society compound. A rusty iron gate protected a crumbling block of apartments. A sweeper with a giant broom produced dust clouds in the air in an attempt to clean the place. I went to the small guard post at the entrance of the building. A watchman sat inside.

  ‘Who do you want to meet?’ the watchman said.

  ‘I want to rent a room,’ I said.

  The watchman looked me over. He saw my two over-stuffed, over-aged and over-repaired suitcases. One held clothes, the other carried the books that had failed to get me anywhere so far. My rucksack carried the stuff Aarti had bought me. I missed her. I wondered if I should find an STD booth and call her.

  ‘IIT or Medical?’ the watchman asked, crushing tobacco in his hand. Kota locals find it hard to place outsiders until they know what they are there for.

  ‘IIT,’ I said. I wished he would give me more attention than his nicotine fix.

  ‘First-timer or repeater?’ the watchman asked next, still without looking up.

  ‘Does it matter?’ I said, somewhat irritated.

  ‘Yes,’ he said and popped the tobacco into his mouth. ‘If you are a first-timer, you will join a school also. You will be out of the house more. Repeaters only go for coaching classes. Many sleep all day. Some landlords don’t like that. So, tell me and I can show you the right place.’

  ‘Repeater,’ I said. I don’t know why I looked down as I said that. I guess when you fail an entrance exam, even a tobacco-chewing watchman can make you feel small.

  ‘Oh God, another repeater,’ the watchman said. ‘Anyway, I will try. Fix my fee first.’

  ‘What?’ I said.

  ‘I take half a month’s rent. What’s your budget?’

  ‘Two thousand a month.’

  ‘That’s it?’ the watchman said. ‘Make it four thousand. I will get you a nice, shared air-conditioned room.’

  ‘I can’t afford to pay so much,’ I said.

  The watchman sneered, as if someone had asked for country liquor in a five-star bar.

  ‘What?’ I said, wondering if I’d be spending my first night in Kota on the streets.

  ‘Come,’ he beckoned. He opened the gate and kept my suitcases in his cabin. We climbed up the steps of the first apartment block.

  ‘Will you share with other boys? Three to a room,’ the watchman said.

  ‘I could,’ I said, ‘but how will I study? I want a private one, however small.’

  Studies or not, I wanted to be left alone.

  ‘Okay, fifth floor,’ the watchman said.

  We climbed up three floors. I panted due to t
he exertion. The extreme heat did not help. ‘Kota is hot, get used to the weather,’ the watchman said. ‘It is horrible outside. That is why it is a good place to stay inside and study.’

  We reached the fourth floor. I struggled to catch my breath. He couldn’t stop talking. ‘So you will study for real or you are just …’ he paused mid-sentence.

  ‘Just what?’ I said.

  ‘Time-pass. Many students come here because their parents push them. They know they won’t get in. At least the parents stop harassing them for a year,’ he said.

  ‘I want to get in. I will get in,’ I said, more to myself than him.

  ‘Good. But if you need stuff like beer or cigarettes, tell me. This housing society doesn’t allow it.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘When Birju is your friend, you don’t have to worry.’ He winked at me.

  We rang the bell of the fifth-floor flat. An elderly lady opened the door.

  ‘Student,’ the watchman said.

  The lady let us in. Her place smelt of medicines and damp. The watchman showed me the room on rent. The lady had converted a storeroom into a study and bedroom. The lady, watchman and I could barely stand in the tiny room together.

  ‘It’s perfect for studying,’ said the watchman, who probably hadn’t studied even one day in his whole life. ‘Take it, it is within your budget.’

  I shook my head. The room had no windows. The old lady seemed arrogant or deaf or both. She kept a grumpy face throughout. I did not want to live here. Why couldn’t I study in my Varanasi? What was so special about this godforsaken place? I wanted to get out of Kota ASAP.

  I walked out of the flat. The watchman came running after me.

  ‘If you fuss so much, you won’t get anything.’

  ‘I’ll go back to Varanasi then,’ I said.

  I thought about how different my life would have been if I had answered six more multiple-choice questions. I thought of Raghav, who would, at this moment, be attending his orientation at the BHU campus. I thought of Aarti and our heart-to-heart conversations. I thought of Baba’s ill health and his determination to kick me into this dump. I fought back tears. I started to walk down the stairs.

  ‘Or increase your budget,’ the watchman said as he came up behind me.

  ‘I can’t. I have to pay for food and the coaching classes,’ I said.

  We walked down the steps and reached the ground floor. ‘It happens the first time,’ the watchman said, ‘missing your mother?’

  ‘She’s dead,’ I said.

  ‘Recently?’ the watchman said. Some people find it perfectly normal to cross-examine strangers.

  ‘She died fourteen years ago,’ I said.

  I came to the guard post and picked up my bags. ‘Thank you, Birju,’ I said.

  ‘Where are you going? Take a shared room,’ he pleaded.

  ‘I’ll find a cheap hotel for now. I am used to being alone. I’ll figure things out.’

  Birju took the suitcases from me and placed them down. ‘I have a proper room,’ he said, ‘double the size of what you saw. It has windows, a big fan. A retired couple stays there. Within your budget …’

  ‘Then why didn’t you show it to me earlier?’

  ‘There’s a catch.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Someone died in the house.’

  ‘Who?’ I said. Big deal, I could take death. I’m from Varanasi, where the world comes to die.

  ‘The student who rented it. He didn’t get through, so he killed himself. Two years ago. It has been empty since.’

  I did not respond.

  ‘Now you see why I didn’t show it to you,’ Birju said.

  ‘I’ll take it,’ I said.

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘I’ve seen dead bodies burning and floating all my life. I don’t care if some loser hanged himself.’

  The watchman picked up my suitcases. We went to the third floor in the next flat. A couple in their sixties stayed there. They kept the place immaculately clean. The spartan to-let room had a bed, table, cupboard and fan.

  ‘Fifteen hundred,’ I said to the couple. The watchman gave me a dirty look.

  The couple looked at each other.

  ‘I know what happened here,’ I said, ‘and it’s fine by me.’

  The old gentleman nodded. ‘I am RL Soni, I used to work in the PWD.’ He extended his hand.

  I gave him a firm handshake. ‘I’m Gopal, an IIT repeater. I plan to get in this time,’ I said.

  7

  I dumped the brochures on the bed, and took off my shoes and socks. I had spent the day visiting various coaching schools. At three in the afternoon, my room felt at ignition point.

  Mr Soni gently knocked on the door of my room. ‘Your lunch,’ he said and kept the tiffin on my study table.

  I nodded in gratitude. It felt too hot to exchange pleasantries. I had arranged for my meals and a place to stay. However, my main challenge in Kota, apart from constantly fighting off thoughts about Aarti, was to enrol in a good study programme. I had spent the last three days doing the rounds of every coaching school. I took in their tall claims about zapping any primate into an IITian. I went through their super-flexible (not to mention super-expensive) fee structures. Bansal, Resonance and Career Path seemed to be everyone’s top choices. Each of them had their own, rather difficult, entrance exams. In fact, Kota now had small coaching shops to coach you to get into the top coaching classes. From there, you would be coached to get into an engineering college. Once there, you study to become an engineer. Of course, most engineers want to do an MBA. Hence, the same coaching-class cycle would begin again. This complex vortex of tests, classes, selections and preparations is something every insignificant Indian student like me has to go through to have a shot at a decent life. Else, I could always take the job of Birju the watchman or, if I wanted it simpler, hang myself like my erstwhile room-resident Manoj Dutta.

  I switched on the same fan that helped Manoj check out of the entrance exam called life. The moving blades re-circulated the hot air in the room.

  ‘Called home?’ Mr Soni said.

  ‘I did,’ I said. Mr Soni asked me this question at least twice a day. I guess Manoj Dutta didn’t call home often enough, leading to his loneliness and early demise.

  ‘Keep them informed, okay? Nobody loves you more than your parents,’ Mr Soni said as he left the room.

  I shut the door and removed my shirt. I hadn’t rowed in ten days. My arms felt flabby. I wanted to exercise, but I had to figure out the ten million brochures first.

  I had indeed called Baba, twice. He seemed fine. I told him I had started preparing for next year, even though I couldn’t bear to open any textbook. I didn’t care. Whichever coaching class I joined would make me slog soon.

  I wanted to talk to Aarti first. I’d called her four times but could not speak to her even once. Her mother had picked up the phone the first two times. She told me politely that Aarti had gone out – with friends once, and another time to submit her college admission form. I called twice the next day and Aarti’s mother picked up again. I hung up without saying anything. I did not want Aarti’s mother going ‘why is this boy calling you so many times from so far?’ It did not create a good impression. Aarti had mentioned she would get a cellphone soon. I wished she would. Everyone seemed to be getting one nowadays, at least the rich types.

  Aarti did not have a number to reach me. I would have to try again tomorrow.

  I picked up a green-coloured brochure. The cover had photographs of some of the ugliest people on earth. The pictures belonged to the IIT toppers from that institute. They had grins wider than models in toothpaste ads but not the same kind of teeth.

  Since my favourite hobby was wasting time, I spent the afternoon comparing the brochures. No, I didn’t compare the course material, success rates or the fee structures. In any case, everyone claimed to be the best in those areas. I compared the pictures of their successful candidates; who had the ugliest boy, who had the cu
test girl, if at all. There was no point to this exercise, but there was no point to me being in Kota.

  I saw the Bansal brochure, the holy grail of Kota-land. Bansal students had a chip on their shoulder, even though they weren’t technically even in a college. The Bansalites were Kota’s cool. I had to crack their exam. However, I had little time to prepare for the test scheduled in three days. In fact, many of the coaching classes had their exams within a week. The next set of exams was a month away. I had to join something now. Staying idle would make me go mad faster than the earlier occupant of this room.

  Each institute asked for a thousand bucks for an application form. Whether they selected you or not, whether you joined or not, the fee had to be paid. I had fifty thousand rupees with me, and Baba had promised me more after six months. I had limited money, I could only apply selectively.

  I shortlisted five coaching institutes – Bansal, Career Path, Resonance, and two new, cheaper ones called AimIIT and CareerIgnite.

  The brochure of AimIIT said: ‘We believe in the democratic right of every student to be coached, hence we don’t conduct our own entrance tests.’ It meant they weren’t in the same league as the top ones to be choosy. They might as well have written: ‘If you have the cash, you are welcome.’

  I spent the rest of the afternoon filling the tiresome and repetitive forms. I kept myself motivated by saying I would call Aarti once more before dinner.

  I went out for an evening walk at 7:00 p.m. The streets were filled with nerdy students out for their daily dose of fresh air.

  I found an STD booth.

  ‘Hello?’ Mr Pradhan said in a firm voice. I cut the phone on reflex.

  The meter at the STD booth whirred.

  ‘You still have to pay,’ the shopkeeper said sourly. I nodded.

  I needed to speak to someone. I had already called Baba in the morning. I called Raghav.

  ‘Raghav, it’s me. Gopal. From Kota,’ I said, my last word soft.

  ‘Gopal! Oh, wow, we were just talking about you,’ Raghav said.

  ‘Me? Really? With who?’ I said.

  ‘Aarti’s here. How are you, man? How’s Kota? We miss you.’