‘I can’t go to a college called Chintumal,’ I said.
‘Shut up. You never have to say your college’s name, anyway.’ Sunil picked up a brochure. Within seconds he found the relevant page. ‘Okay, this is seventy thousand a year. Final placement one lakh forty thousand. See, this makes more sense.’
A fat man in his forties came to us.
‘Our placement will be even better this year,’ he said. ‘I am Jyoti Verma, dean of students.’
I had never expected a dean to sell the college to me. He extended his hand. Sunil shook it purposefully.
‘Yes, your fees are also lower than theirs,’ I said and pointed to the Sri Ganesh stall.
‘Their placement numbers are fake. Ours are real, ask any of our students,’ Jyoti said.
He pointed to his students, three boys and two girls, who had worn suits for the first time in their life. They smiled timidly. I browsed through the campus pictures in the Chintumal stall.
A man from the Sri Ganesh stall came to me. He tapped my shoulder.
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘Mahesh Verma from Sri Ganesh. Did Chintumal say anything negative about us?’
I looked at him. Mahesh, in his forties and fat, looked a lot like Jyoti Verma.
‘Did they?’ Mahesh said again.
I shook my head.
‘You are considering Chintumal?’ he said.
I nodded.
‘Why not Sri Ganesh?’
‘It’s expensive,’ I said.
‘What’s your budget? Maybe we can help you,’ he said.
‘What?’ I said. I couldn’t believe one could bargain down college fees.
‘Tell me your budget. I will give you a ten per cent discount if you sign up right now.’
I turned to Sunil, unsure of what to say or do next. Sunil took charge of the situation.
‘We want thirty per cent off. Chintumal is that much cheaper,’ Sunil said.
‘They don’t even have a building,’ Mahesh said.
‘How do you know?’ I said.
‘He’s my brother. He broke off and started his own college. But it has got bad reports,’ Mahesh said.
Jyoti kept an eye on us from a distance. Yes, the brothers did resemble each other.
‘We don’t care. Tell us your maximum discount,’ Sunil said.
‘Come to my stall,’ Mahesh signalled us to follow him.
‘Stop,’ Jyoti barred our way.
‘What?’ I said.
‘Why are you going to Sri Ganesh?’
‘He is giving me a discount,’ I said.
‘Did you ask me for a discount? Did I say no?’ Jyoti said, his expression serious. I had never seen a businessman-cum-dean before. ‘Mahesh bhai, please leave my stall,’ Jyoti said in a threatening tone.
‘He’s my student. We have spoken,’ Mahesh bhai said and held my wrist. ‘Come, son, what’s your name?’
‘Gopal,’ I said as Jyoti grabbed my other wrist. ‘But please stop pulling me.’
The brothers ignored my request.
‘I will give you the best discount. Don’t go to Sri Ganesh and ruin your life. They don’t even have labs. Those pictures in the brochure are of another college,’ Jyoti said.
‘Sir, I don’t even know …’ I said and looked at Sunil. He seemed as baffled as me.
‘Shut up, Jyoti!’ a hitherto soft-spoken Mahesh screamed.
‘Don’t shout at me in my own stall. Get out,’ Jyoti said.
Mahesh gave all of us a dirty look. In one swift move he ripped off the Chintumal banner.
Jyoti’s face went as red as his college emblem. He went to the Sri Ganesh stall and threw the box of brochures down.
I tried to run out of the stall. Jyoti held me by my collar.
‘Wait, I will give you a seat for fifty thousand a year.’
‘Let … me … go,’ I panted.
Mahesh returned with three people who resembled Bollywood thugs. Apparently, they were faculty. They started to rip out all the hoardings of the Chintumal stall. Jyoti ordered his own security men to fight them.
As I tried to escape, one of Sri Ganesh’s goons pushed me. I fell face-down and landed on a wooden table covered in a white sheet. It had a protruding nail that cut my cheek. Blood covered one side of my face. Sweat drops appeared on my forehead. I had finally given my blood and sweat to studies.
Sunil helped me up. I saw the blood on the white sheet and felt nauseous. A crowd had gathered around us. I did not say anything and ran out. I left the stadium and continued to sprint down the main road for two hundred metres.
I stopped to catch my breath and heard footsteps as Sunil jogged towards me.
Both of us held our sides and panted.
‘Fuck,’ Sunil said. ‘Lucky escape.’
We went to a chemist’s where I applied some dressing on my cheek.
‘Come, I will take you to CCD. It opened last week,’ Sunil said.
We walked to Café Coffee Day at IP Mall, Sigra. Sunil bought us two cold coffees with a crisp new hundred-rupee note. I could live on that cash for a week.
‘What was that? They own a college?’ I said.
‘It is the Verma family from Allahabad. They are into country liquor. Now they have opened a college.’
‘Why?’ I said.
‘Money. There’s huge money in private colleges. Plus, it enhances their name in society. Now they are noble people in education, not liquor barons.’
‘They behaved like goons.’
‘They are goons. Brothers had a fight, college split and now they try to bring each other down.’
‘I can’t do this,’ I said.
‘Don’t worry, we will get you another college. We will bargain hard. They have seats to fill.’
‘It scares me to even think of studying at these places. Liquor barons running colleges?’
‘Yeah, politicians, builders, beedi-makers. Anybody with experience in a shady business does really well in education,’ Sunil said. He picked his straw to lick the cream off.
‘Really?’ I said. ‘Shouldn’t academicians be opening colleges? Like ex-professors?’
‘Are you crazy? Education is not for wusses. There’s a food chain of people at every step,’ Sunil said. He jiggled his leg as he spoke to me. He took out his mobile phone. Cellphones had started to become common, but they still counted as a status symbol.
Sunil called someone who seemed to be in a crisis. ‘Calm down, Chowbey-ji. MLA Shukla-ji has blessed the fair. Yes, it is closing time. Give us two more hours … Hold on.’ Sunil turned to me. ‘Events business, always on my toes,’ he said to me in an undertone. ‘Mind if I step out? I’ll be back.’
‘Sure,’ I said.
I sat alone with my drink. I scanned the crowd. Rich kids bought overpriced doughnuts and cookies to go with their whipped-cream coffee.
Two men in leather jackets came inside CCD. I recognised them from the funeral. I shifted sideways on my seat to avoid them. However, they had already seen me. They walked up to my table.
‘Celebrating your father’s death?’ said one. His muscular arm kept a cup of chai on the table.
‘I don’t have the money right now,’ I said in a soft voice.
‘Then we will take your balls,’ said the person with the moustache. He gripped a can of Coke in his right hand.
‘Except they are not worth a lakh each,’ the teacup goon said. They laughed.
Sunil returned after his call. He was surprised to see the new guests.
‘Your friends?’ he said.
I shook my head.
‘His father’s,’ said the teacup guy.
‘I have seen you …’ Sunil said.
‘This is our town. We are everywhere,’ the Coke guy said.
‘You work for MLA Shukla-ji, don’t you?’ Sunil said.
‘None of your business,’ the teacup guy said, his voice a tad nervous.
‘I saw you at his house. Hi, I’m Sunil. I am a manager at Sunshine Events.
We work with MLA Shukla-ji a lot.’ Sunil extended his hand.
After a few seconds of hesitation, they shook Sunil’s hand.
‘Your friend owes us money. He’d better pay up soon. Or else.’ The teacup guy paused after ‘or else’, partly for effect but mostly because he didn’t know what to say next.
Sunil and I kept quiet. The moustache goon tapped the table three times with his bike key. After a few more glares they left.
I let out a huge sigh. Fear had flushed my face red. ‘I don’t need college. I’d be dead soon anyway,’ I said.
‘You okay?’ Sunil said. ‘Let me get some more coffee.’
I’d have preferred he gave the extra money to me instead of more coffee, but kept silent. Over my second cup, I gave Sunil a summary of the story so far – my childhood, Kota, my failure, Baba’s death.
Sunil placed his empty cup on the table with a clink. ‘So now you have loans. And no source to pay them?’ he summarised.
‘My home, maybe. But it is not worth much. And I won’t have a place to live in after that.’
‘And the property dispute?’
I had mentioned the property dispute to Sunil in brief. I had not given him specific details. ‘That’s an old dispute,’ I said, surprised Sunil caught on to it.
‘What property is this?’
‘Agricultural land,’ I said dully.
‘Where?’ he said.
‘Ten kilometres outside the city.’
Sunil’s eyes opened wide. ‘That’s quite close. How big is the land?’
‘Thirty acres. Our share is fifteen acres.’
‘And what does your uncle say?’
‘Nothing. He wants the full thing. It is a mess. Many papers are forged. The case has been going on for twelve years.’ I finished my beverage. ‘So yes, I’m fucked. Maybe they can sell my house and recover the money. Thanks for the coffee.’
I stood up to leave.
‘What will you do?’ Sunil said, still in his seat and pensive.
‘I will join a shady part-time college and take whatever job I can get.’
‘Wait, sit down,’ Sunil said.
‘What?’ I sat down.
‘I’ll suggest something to you. And I will help you with it as well. But I need a cut. A big cut.’
‘Cut?’ I said. Cut of what, my fucked-up life?
‘So, ten per cent. Done?’ Sunil said.
‘Of what?’
‘Of whatever you make. Ten per cent equity in your venture.’
‘What venture?’ I said, exasperated.
‘You will open a college.’
‘What?!’
‘Relax,’ Sunil said.
‘Do you take bhang like the sadhus on the ghat?’ I said. How else could I account for his hallucinations?
‘See, you have the land. That’s the most important part. Land close to the city,’ he said.
‘I don’t have it. The case has been dragging with no end in sight.’
‘We can fix that.’
‘We? Who? And it is agricultural land. You can only grow crops there. It’s the law,’ I said.
‘There are people in our country who are above the law,’ Sunil said.
‘Who?’ I said.
‘MLA Shukla-ji,’ he said.
‘Shukla who?’
‘Our MLA, Raman Lal Shukla. You’ve never heard of him?’ Sunil said.
‘You mentioned him earlier on the phone,’ I said.
‘Yes. I have done twenty events with his blessings. How else could I get city authority approvals? I personally take his cut to him. I will take you too. For my own cut,’ he said and winked at me.
‘Cut?’
‘Yes, cut. Ten per cent. Forgot already?’
‘What exactly are you saying?’
‘Let us meet Shukla-ji. Bring whatever property papers you have.’
‘You serious?’
‘Do I look like someone who is not serious?’ Sunil said.
I saw his gelled hair and the flashy sunglasses perched on his head. I reserved my opinion.
‘You want me to open a college? I haven’t even been to college,’ I said.
‘Most people who own colleges in India haven’t. Stupid people go to college. Smart people own them,’ said Sunil. ‘I’ll set it up for next week. And remember.’
‘What?’
He snapped his fingers. ‘My ten per cent.’
15
Aarti and I went for a long boat ride. Her green dupatta flew backward in the early morning breeze. ‘Decided what to do next?’ she asked.
‘I am exploring private engineering colleges.’
‘And?’
‘Too expensive and too shady,’ I said.
I paused to rest. The boat stood still in the middle of the river. I wondered if Aarti would come and sit next to me to massage my palms. She didn’t.
‘So? What next?’ Aarti said.
‘A correspondence degree and a job.’
‘What about the loans?’
‘Manageable. Baba settled most of them,’ I lied. I did not want to burden her with my woes and spoil my time with her.
‘Good. Don’t worry, it will work out.’ She got up to sit next to me. She took my hand in hers and, as if thinking of something else, began to crack my knuckles.
‘You are happy with Raghav, right?’ I asked.
I hoped she wouldn’t be, but was pretending like I wanted her to be.
‘Oh yes.’ She looked at me with shining eyes. ‘Raghav is a good person.’
I withdrew my hand. She sensed my disappointment.
‘I never said he’s not.’ I looked away.
‘You cool?’
‘Yeah,’ I said and managed a fake smile. ‘How is he, anyway?’
‘Told his parents he won’t take up engineering as a profession. They aren’t too happy with that.’
‘He’s an idiot. What will he do?’
‘Journalism,’ she said. ‘He loves it. That’s what he is meant to do. He wants to change things. He’s also joined university politics.’
‘Totally stupid,’ I said. I picked up the oars again. Aarti went back to her seat.
We kept silent on the ride back. The splash of oars in the water was the only sound breaking the silence. Aarti’s hair had grown, and now reached her waist. I saw her eyelashes move every time she blinked. The dawn sun seemed to light up her skin from the inside. I avoided looking at her lips. If I looked at them I wanted to kiss them.
She belongs to someone else now, even your limited brain should know that. My head knew this, but my heart didn’t.
‘Why did we grow up, Gopal?’ Aarti said. ‘Things were so much simpler earlier.’
I had never been to an MLA’s house before. We reached Shukla-ji’s sprawling bungalow in the Kachehri locality at three in the afternoon. Police jeeps were parked outside and security guards surrounded the entire property. Sunil introduced himself at the gate, and later we were let in.
Several villagers sat in the front lawn, awaiting their turn to meet the MLA. Sunil had said MLA Shukla stayed alone. His family mostly stayed abroad as his two sons went to college there. Filled with party workers, MLA Shukla’s home resembled a party office more than a residence.
Sunil had brought along Girish Bedi, ‘an experienced education consultant’. I had a rucksack full of property documents and court-related papers. Guards checked my bag three times before we reached the MLA’s office.
A middle-aged man in a crisp white kurta-pyjama sat behind an ornate, polished wooden desk. Despite a slight potbelly, for a politician Shukla-ji could be considered handsome. He gestured at us to sit as he continued to speak on his cellphone.
‘Tell the scientist that Shukla wants to see the report first. Yes, I have to see it. It’s my Ganga too. Yes, okay, I have a meeting now, bye.’
The MLA sifted through the files on his desk as he spoke to us.
‘Sunil, sir. Sunshine Events. W … we do career fairs,’ Sunil said, the stam
mer in his voice in sharp contrast to his confidence in the outside world.
‘Tell me the work,’ Shukla-ji said.
‘Land, sir,’ Sunil said.
‘Where? How much?’ Shukla-ji said. His eyes stayed on his files as his ears tuned in. Politicians can multitask better than most people.
‘Thirty acres, ten kilometres outside the city on the Lucknow Highway,’ Sunil said.
The MLA stopped his pen midway. He looked up at us.
‘Whose?’ he said. He closed his files to give us his full attention.
‘Mine, sir,’ I said. No idea why I called him sir. ‘I am Gopal Mishra.’ I opened my rucksack and placed the property documents on the table.
‘And you?’ Shukla-ji said, turning to Bedi.
‘Education consultant. He helps design and open new colleges. Our own person,’ Sunil said.
‘New college?’ Shukla-ji said.
‘It is agricultural land, sir,’ Sunil said.
‘You can obtain permission to convert agricultural land to educational use,’ Bedi spoke for the first time.
‘You look young,’ Shukla-ji said to me. ‘Who are your parents?’
‘They died, sir,’ I said.
‘Hmmm. What’s the problem?’ Shukla-ji said. His finger traced the location of the land to the centre of the city.
‘My uncle,’ I said.
‘This is right near the upcoming airport,’ Shukla-ji said, as he made sense of the map.
‘Is it?’ I said.
Shukla-ji picked up his intercom. He told his staff not to disturb him until this meeting was over.
‘Gopal, tell me everything about the land dispute,’ Shukla-ji said.
Over the next hour I told him my entire story. ‘And the fact is I even owe your men two lakhs,’ I said as I ended my monologue.
‘Would you like tea? Soft drink?’ Shukla-ji said.
I shook my head.
‘You owe money to my men?’ Shukla-ji said.
‘No sir, not your men,’ Sunil said and stamped my foot. ‘Bedi sir, tell him your view.’
I did not realise that the loan sharks operate with the MLA’s blessings, but denied any overt links with him.
‘Ideal engineering college site, sir,’ Bedi said. ‘His share of fifteen acres is enough.’
Revolution Twenty20 Page 11
