Revolution Twenty20

by Chetan Bhagat

  ‘Of course, the rate is different for you. I’d imagine ten lakhs.’

  ‘What?’ Shukla-ji said, shocked.

  Bedi finished his drink in a large sip. ‘It’s thirty acres, sir. For a normal person it would be forty.’

  ‘See, that is why people like me have to come to education. What is happening in this country?’ Shukla-ji said.

  ‘DM has to bless it too. But Pradhan is honest. However, if it is for a college, and VNN recommends, he will approve it,’ Bedi said.

  ‘How honest?’ Shukla-ji said.

  ‘Honest enough to not take money. But not so honest that he will stop others from taking it.’

  ‘That’s good. If you are honest, keep it to yourself,’ Sunil said, speaking for the first time that evening.

  ‘Sunil,’ Shukla-ji said.

  ‘What, sir?’

  ‘You leave now. I will send something for you. But we will take care of this project from now,’ Shukla-ji said.

  ‘Sir, but …’ Sunil said.

  ‘You have done your job,’ Shukla-ji said and handed him a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label.

  Sunil took the cue. He thanked him for the bottle, bowed as much as the human spine allowed and left.

  ‘I know DM Pradhan, his daughter is a friend,’ I told Shukla-ji.

  ‘Not much of an issue there. Still, good to have his blessings,’ Shukla-ji said.

  ‘Sure,’ I said.

  Shukla-ji went inside his bedroom. He returned with a heavy plastic bag. He gave it to me.

  ‘What’s this?’ I said.

  ‘Ten lakhs,’ he said, ‘for VNN.’

  ‘Ten lakhs?’ I said. My hands trembled as I held the heavy bag. I had never seen, or lifted that much money.

  ‘It’s just a number,’ the MLA said. ‘Bedi-ji, help the boy. And help yourself too. I don’t like empty glasses.’

  ‘Sure, Shukla-ji,’ Bedi said and called for the waiter.

  ‘Are people in education happy with money or they want other stuff too?’ Shukla-ji asked Bedi.

  ‘Like what?’ Bedi asked.

  ‘Girls, if they want to have a good time. I have a man, Vinod, who can arrange that,’ MLA Shukla said.

  ‘Oh, will let you know. Money usually does the job though,’ Bedi said.

  ‘Good.’ He changed track. ‘Can Gopal work from your office for a while? Until he has his own?’

  ‘Of course, Shukla-ji.’

  The waiters ran to refill our glasses.

  ‘The trust papers are ready. We can sign them this week. But one question, Gopal,’ Bedi said.

  ‘What?’ I said.

  ‘What’s the name of the college?’ Bedi said.

  I hadn’t thought about it.

  ‘I have no idea. Maybe something that signifies technology.’

  ‘And our city,’ Shukla-ji said. ‘Let me tell people I did this for them when the time comes.’

  ‘GangaTech?’ I said.

  Shukla-ji patted my shoulder. ‘Well done. I like you, Gopal. You will go very far.’ Shukla-ji personally filled my glass to the brim with whisky.

  17

  I flipped through the documents Bedi had plonked on my desk. I sat in an extra room at his education consultancy office.

  ‘Pay to incorporate a trust?’ I said.

  ‘Yes, to the Registrar of Companies. Every trust has to be registered there,’ Bedi said.

  ‘But why pay a bribe? We are opening a non-profit trust,’ I said.

  ‘We are paying a bribe because if we don’t the Registrar will stall our approval.’ He was irritated.

  I sighed in disbelief.

  ‘Anyway, forty thousand maximum. Now, can you please sign here?’ Bedi said.

  Over the next two hours I signed on every page of the six copies of the forty-page GangaTech Education Trust incorporation document. I cracked my knuckles while Bedi hunted up some more stuff for me to sign.

  ‘What’s this?’ I said when he handed me a stack of letters. Each letter had a thick set of files attached to it.

  ‘Your application to the University Grants Commission, or the UGC, to open a college. The files contain details about the proposed college.’

  I went through the files. It had sections such as course descriptions, facilities offered and faculty hiring plan.

  ‘It is standard stuff, taken from earlier applications,’ Bedi said.

  I signed the letters. ‘So, they send an approval or what?’ I said.

  ‘They will send a date for inspection of the site. Once they inspect, they will give you an in-principle approval to start construction.’

  ‘I imagine we have to pay somebody to clear the inspection?’ I said.

  Bedi laughed. ‘You learn fast. Of course, we pay. A thick packet to every inspector. However, right now we pay to obtain an inspection date. First things first.’

  My eyebrows went up. ‘Joking, right?’ I said.

  ‘No, any government work, especially in education, requires a fee. Get used to it.’ He then listed out the palms we had to grease in order to open a place to teach kids in our country. Apart from the UGC, we had to apply to AICTE, or the All India Council for Technical Education. They clear the engineering colleges. Also, every private college requires a government university affiliation. For that, we had to get approvals from the vice-chancellor of a state university. Shukla-ji’s connections and a generous envelope would do the trick.

  ‘Otherwise the vice-chancellor can create a lot of hassle,’ Bedi said, speaking from past experience.

  ‘So, who are these UGC and AICTE inspectors, anyway?’ I said.

  ‘University lecturers from government colleges are appointed as inspectors. Of course, since it is such a lucrative job, the lecturers have to bribe to become one,’ Bedi said.

  ‘Whom?’

  ‘Senior management at UGC, or someone in the education ministry. Anyway, that is their business. We have to focus on ours. Please inform Shukla-ji we will need funds for all this.’

  I nodded.

  ‘Don’t forget the VNN meeting,’ Bedi said. ‘And definitely don’t forget the bag.’

  ‘I can’t wait to get rid of it,’ I said. ‘It is scary to keep so much cash in the house.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Bedi said. ‘One VNN visit and it will all be gone.’

  We reached the Varanasi Nagar Nigam office, opposite Shaheed Udyaan, at six in the evening. The official had told us to come after working hours. If you are willing to pay, government offices can do more overtime than MNCs.

  ‘Welcome, welcome. I am Sinha,’ a man greeted us in the empty reception area. He led us upstairs. We climbed up two floors of the dilapidated building. Sinha, deputy-corporator, had known Shukla-ji for over a decade and referred to him as his brother.

  ‘If my big brother wants it, consider it done,’ Sinha said. He didn’t mention that big brother would need to give little brother a gift.

  I took out the maps, property documents and our formal application. Sinha pored over them with a sonorous ‘hmmm’.

  ‘We can only start when we have the land re-zoned,’ I said.

  ‘Re-zoning is tough,’ Sinha said. ‘Higher-ups have to approve.’

  ‘How long will it take?’ I said.

  ‘You look young,’ Sinha said.

  ‘Excuse me?’ I said.

  ‘Impatience, the first folly of youth. You are opening a college, what is the hurry?’

  ‘It’s still going to take years. But I want to get all the approvals done,’ I said.

  Bedi signalled me to be quiet. Sinha laughed.

  ‘Don’t you have to get the building plan approval too?’ the deputy-corporator said.

  ‘Yes,’ Bedi said. ‘Can your junior officers handle that?’

  ‘Send the documents to me, send everything home. Everything,’ Sinha said, stressing the last word.

  I got the drift. I patted the plastic bag I had kept on the floor.

  ‘I have brought something here,’ I said.
<
br />   ‘In the office?’ Sinha stood up hurriedly. ‘Are you crazy?’

  I had brought the money to show how serious we were about getting the job done. Obviously, I didn’t expect him to take cash over the counter.

  ‘Bedi sir, teach him how it is done. He will be a disaster,’ Sinha said, as he led us out of the office.

  I hugged the heavy, red plastic bag closer.

  ‘How much, by the way?’ Sinha enquired as we came outside.

  ‘Ten,’ I said.

  ‘Not for re-zoning and building plan,’ Sinha said.

  ‘It’s a college, please be reasonable,’ I said.

  ‘I am being reasonable. But ten is too less. Fifteen,’ Sinha said.

  ‘No concession for Shukla-ji?’ I said.

  ‘This is already half of what I take,’ Sinha said.

  ‘Eleven?’ I said. I was bargaining with him as if I was buying a T-shirt. Of course, the thought of the amount involved numbed me.

  ‘Twelve and a half. Done! Do not embarrass me before my big brother,’ Sinha said.

  I didn’t argue further. I had to make arrangements for the remaining cash.

  ‘You are a good bargainer,’ Bedi said to me while dropping me off at Shukla-ji’s residence.

  ‘You smash it,’ said Shukla-ji, handing me a coconut at the entrance of the college site. A crowd of his sycophants surrounded us.

  The bhoomi pujan ceremony marked the beginning of construction. I had run around for three months to obtain the two dozen approvals to make this day possible. The UGC and AICTE in-principle approvals had finally arrived. The final inspections would be conducted when the college was ready to open. For now, we had permission to begin construction.

  The only other thing we needed were god’s blessings. Fortunately, that didn’t require a bundle of cash.

  I held the coconut in my hand and looked around. Aarti hadn’t arrived.

  ‘Do it, son,’ Shukla-ji said.

  I couldn’t wait for her any longer. I guess the day did not mean as much to her as it did to me.

  I smashed the fruit, imagining it to be Raghav’s head. As it cracked, a sliver of the shell cut my finger. People clapped around me. I took the cut finger to my mouth and sucked the bruise.

  ‘GangaTech Engineering College’ – two labourers fixed a metal hoarding in the muddy ground. I should have felt more emotion. After all, I had slogged for months. However, I felt nothing. Maybe because I knew the exact amount of bribes it took to reach this day. Seventy-two lakhs, twenty-three thousand and four hundred rupees to obtain everything from electricity connections to construction site labour approvals.

  Shukla-ji had invited over a hundred guests, including members of the press. We had a caterer who served hot samosas and jalebis in little white boxes.

  Shukla-ji addressed everyone from a makeshift dais.

  ‘Three more years, and this dream will be a reality. This is a gift to my city, which deserves the best,’ he said.

  I sat in the front row. I kept turning around to see if Aarti had arrived. After Shukla-ji’s speech the press asked questions. Most were simple, relating to the courses that would be on offer and the upcoming college facilities. However, a few tough journalists did not spare him.

  ‘Shukla sir, are you the owner of this college? How much is your stake?’ one reporter asked.

  ‘I am a trustee. I have no stake. It is a non-profit entity,’ Shukla-ji said.

  ‘Who is funding the land and construction?’

  ‘Mr Gopal Mishra here owns this land. I want to encourage young talent so I helped him raise some funds,’ Shukla-ji said and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief.

  ‘Funds from where?’ the reporter continued.

  ‘From various benefactors. Don’t worry, somebody has given money, not taken it. Media is so suspicious these days,’ Shukla-ji said.

  ‘Sir, what is happening in the Ganga Action Plan scam? You are named in that,’ a reporter from the last row asked.

  ‘It is an old and dead story. There is no scam. We spent the money to clean the river,’ Shukla-ji said.

  This new topic galvanised all the reporters. Everyone raised their hand as they scrambled to ask questions.

  ‘No more questions, thank you very much,’ Shukla-ji said.

  The reporters ran behind him as he left the site. I stayed back, ensuring that the guests were served the refreshments.

  A truck arrived with bricks, iron rods and other construction materials. Behind it, I saw a white Ambassador car with a red light on top.

  Aarti got out of the car upon spotting me. ‘I am so so so sorry,’ she said. ‘Are the prayers over?’

  ‘Can the prayers ever be over without Aarti?’ I said.

  Varanasi

  Three More Years Later

  18

  My arrival went unnoticed amidst loud music and the chatter of people. High-class parties make me nervous and I would have happily skipped Raghav’s graduation bash that day if I could. I only went because I didn’t want to come across as envious.

  I felt no envy. My college, GangaTech, was to open in three months. After three years of working day and night, I had my building ready. I even had faculty recruitment interviews lined up and had obtained a date for the AICTE inspection. A stupid BHU degree meant little when I’d be issuing my own degrees soon.

  ‘Hey!’ Raghav said in a slightly tipsy voice. ‘Buddy, where were you?’

  ‘Negotiating with a computer supplier,’ I said.

  Raghav didn’t seem to hear.

  ‘For my college. We are setting up a computer centre,’ I said.

  Raghav raised his hand. ‘Good show. Give me a high-five!’

  He clapped my hand with his so hard that it hurt.

  ‘You need a drink,’ Raghav said. ‘There’s the bar.’

  He gestured towards the dining table, on which were beer, rum and coke. People made their own drinks in plastic glasses. Raghav’s parents had agreed to spend the night at some relative’s house so that Raghav and his college-mates could have a night of debauchery.

  I looked around at Raghav’s pals. Thirty boys, most of them wearing glasses and old T-shirts and jabbering about job offers, and only three girls, who – given their lack of fashion sense – had to be from an engineering college.

  I got myself a rum and coke. I looked for ice. There was none on the dining table, so I headed for the kitchen. A girl with long tresses, her back to me, was arranging candles on a huge chocolate cake. The cake had a gear-shaped design on it and said ‘Happy Graduation’ in perky white marzipan letters.

  ‘Gopal!’ Aarti said as she saw me struggle with the ice-tray I’d removed from the fridge.

  Her voice startled me.

  ‘It’s been like,’ Aarti said, ‘a year?’

  I had not kept in touch with her. ‘Hi,’ I said.

  It’s not like I wanted to evade her. But I saw no upside to remaining in touch either. I found it more productive to scream at construction workers than hear stories about her dates with her boyfriend. I started avoiding her calls and soon she too drifted away.

  ‘Yeah, I am sorry, my fault,’ I said. ‘I got very busy at the site.’

  She took the ice-tray from me, twisted it to release the ice-cubes and put two of them in my glass.

  ‘I am not asking for an explanation. I understand I am not that important to you now.’

  ‘That is not true. I had my site, you had Raghav,’ I said. ‘We have our own lives and …’

  ‘I have a boyfriend. Doesn’t mean it is my entire life, okay?’ Aarti said.

  ‘Well, he kind of is, isn’t he?’ I said.

  I offered her my drink. She declined. She went back to decorating the cake.

  ‘Nothing like that. No one person can be that important.’

  ‘Why?’ I said. ‘Something wrong?’

  ‘No, no,’ she said, too quickly I thought. ‘It’s great. Raghav’s graduated. He has a job offer from Infosys. My aviation course finishes
soon. It is still as strong as ever.’

  ‘What?’ I said.

  ‘Us.’

  ‘Us?’

  ‘Me and Raghav,’ she said.

  ‘Of course,’ I said.

  She lifted the cake to take it to Raghav.

  ‘I’ll keep in touch,’ I said.

  ‘That would be nice. I haven’t sat in a boat for a year,’ she said and smiled.

  The confusing, confounding Aarti had returned. What did she mean? Did she miss the boat rides? Did she miss being with me? Was she tossing a bone at me or was she just being witty? I came out of the kitchen, lost in my thoughts.

  Everyone gathered around Raghav. He held a knife in his hand. Aarti stood next to him. Raghav cut the cake. Everyone clapped and hooted. I guess graduating from college is a big deal. Raghav fed the first piece to Aarti. Aarti offered a piece to Raghav.

  As he opened his mouth, Aarti smeared the cake on his face. Everyone guffawed and clapped hard. I felt out of place. What the fuck was I doing here? Why did these guys even invite me?

  ‘Speech! Speech!’ the crowd began to demand of Raghav. Aarti took a tissue and wiped his face.

  ‘Well, friends, congrats to all of you on your graduation,’ Raghav said. ‘We have spent four fabulous years together. As we get ahead with our lives, I am sure we will always have a special place for our campus in our hearts.’

  ‘We will still be together, dude,’ a bespectacled boy interrupted him, ‘at Infosys.’

  Seven people raised their glasses high in the air. They all had offers from the software company.

  ‘Cheers!’ they said.

  Raghav kept quiet. ‘Actually, I have an announcement,’ he said. ‘I won’t be taking up the job offer.’

  ‘What?!’ people exclaimed in unison.

  ‘Yes, I have decided to stay here,’ Raghav said and draped his arm around Aarti’s waist, ‘to be near my love.’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ Aarti said, wiping a blob of icing from Raghav’s cheek. ‘Tell them the real reason.’

  ‘That is the real reason,’ he chuckled.

  ‘No,’ Aarti said, turning to the crowd. ‘Mr Raghav Kashyap is staying back to join Dainik as a reporter.’

  Murmurs of surprise ran through the crowd. Raghav had edited the college magazine, and even done a newspaper internship. However, few knew he had the courage to chuck Infosys to become a newspaper reporter.