‘Are you crazy?’
‘Why? Just because I am a girl? True colours of a Varanasi man, eh?’
‘You will reek of it.’
‘I’ll go straight to the shower. And what are all the Banarasi paans for? I’ll have a fragrant one before I go,’ she said.
I passed her the joint. She took a few puffs. ‘It doesn’t seem to have any effect on me,’ she grumbled.
We finished our tea and stood up. She walked close to the water.
‘Come, let’s see the aarti lamps in the water,’ she said.
‘It’s late,’ I said. ‘We’d better go.’
‘I like it here. Come,’ she said and sat on the sand. She patted the ground next to her.
I sat down beside her. ‘Your phone will ring again,’ I said.
‘Whatever,’ she said. ‘When he worked at Dainik, he never called. Now it is a break, so he does. Wait until his Revolution 2020 starts.’
‘Is he serious about it?’ I said disbelievingly.
‘Oh, yeah. The first issue comes out in two weeks,’ she said.
I finished my joint and contemplated the holy river. The world came to wash away their sins in Varanasi. Did they ever stop to think about Varanasi for a moment – about what its people would do with all the sins they left behind? The grass had turned me philosophical.
I flexed my fingers, preparing myself for the tough ride back. Aarti took my right hand into her lap and started to massage it.
I looked at her in surprise.
‘Nice?’ she said.
I didn’t say anything. Not a thing. I didn’t withdraw my hand either. A full moon emerged in the sky.
‘It’s purnima,’ she said softly.
The sand beneath us, her face and the moonlight… . Suddenly she began to blink furiously.
‘You okay?’ I asked.
She shook her head, still blinking. A particle of sand had blown into her eye. I withdrew my hand from her grasp and cupped her face.
‘Open your eyes,’ I said.
She shook her head again.
‘Open, Aarti,’ I said. I cradled her head with both hands.
She opened her right eye. I blew into it. ‘You okay?’ I said.
She nodded, her eyes shut again. I heard her sniff.
‘Are you hurt?’ I said.
She began to sob. She rested her forehead on my shoulder.
‘What’s wrong, Aarti?’
‘I’m scared for Raghav. I hope he doesn’t fail in life.’
I held the back of her head. She buried her face in my chest. It felt strange to console her about her boyfriend. However, I liked the feel of her against me.
‘He’ll be fine. I hate him, but Raghav is capable. He’ll be fine. He is a little impractical but not bad at heart,’ I said.
She lifted her head, her face turned up to me trustingly.
I stroked her hair. ‘I miss how you cared for me,’ she said.
Our faces were only a breath apart. The proximity stunned me. I couldn’t speak.
‘I have no one to talk to when I am low. Thank you,’ she said.
Droplets from the Ganga splattered on us. I felt compelled to move my face forward. My lips met hers. She didn’t kiss me back. She didn’t move away either. But soon – too soon – she pushed me away.
‘Gopal!’ she said.
I didn’t say anything. I kind of expected it. In fact, I wanted her to yell at me more.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. I looked away. In the distance I saw the aarti diyas wobble on the water, as if admonishing me.
‘Let’s go. I am late,’ she said. She was up in a split second and was taking rapid strides towards the boat. I paid the tea-shop owner and ran to catch up with her.
‘I have to row you back. You can’t run away,’ I said.
She kept silent. She refused to even look at me. Okay, I admit I had done wrong, but she didn’t have to treat me like this. A few moments ago she had massaged my hands and buried her face in my chest. She sat as far as possible from me in the boat.
I slapped the oars hard on the water as I rowed back.
‘I said sorry already,’ I said midway.
‘Can we not talk please?’ she said.
The boatman noticed our sour moods.
‘Didn’t like the maal?’ Phoolchand asked. I didn’t respond.
Aarti walked on.
‘Where are you going? I will drop you home,’ I said.
‘I’ll take an auto,’ she said and disappeared from my sight.
27
Even Baba’s death hadn’t left me so sleepless. But Aarti’s flight from Assi had me staring at the office walls at 4 a.m. two nights after the boat ride. I was too nervous to call or message her though I could think of nothing but her. Her face, her drenched eyes and her lips on mine … I couldn’t focus on the contractor’s plans for my upcoming bungalow’s bathrooms. I sat through faculty meetings like a zombie, staring at my phone non-stop.
‘Expecting a call, sir?’ Dean Shrivastava said.
I shook my head, only to check my phone again. How can god give girls so much power? How can they turn productive, busy and ambitious men into a wilting mass of uselessness.
‘Sir, so you are okay with us conducting mid-terms next week?’ said Anmol, the civil engineering professor.
‘Yes,’ I managed to respond while wondering what I’d do if she didn’t call ever.
On my third sleepless night my phone beeped at two in the morning.
A message from her: Don’t call or message me.
What made her send this message? I hadn’t called or messaged.
I was sitting there holding the phone when my phone beeped again.
Ever, said her next message.
She isn’t sleeping and she is thinking of me – my optimistic, irrational brain kicked into action. Why did she send these messages? What do they mean in Girlese? Since Girlese often means saying the opposite of what is meant, did this mean – call me?
Okay, I replied. I waited for an hour but got no response.
Soon I drifted off into a dream about boat rides.
A fluorescent pink A3-sized sheet fell out of the morning paper. I thought it was a flyer for a travel agency or tuition classes. However, it had a masthead like a newspaper. Aha, I smirked, Raghav’s attempt to change the world.
Revolution 2020, it said in big, bold font. Below was a letter from the editor, headlined: ‘Because Enough is Enough’. I read on.
What do you say about a society whose top leaders are the biggest crooks? What do you do in a system where almost anyone with power is corrupt? India has suffered enough. From childhood we are told India is a poor country. Why? There are countries in this world where an average person makes more than fifty times that an average Indian makes. Fifty times? Are their people really fifty times more capable than us? Does an Indian farmer not work hard? Does an Indian student not study? Do we not want to do well? Why, why are we then doomed to be poor?
I laughed at Raghav’s self-indulgent trip. I sipped my morning tea and continued to read.
This has to stop. We have to clean the system. Che Guevara, the great revolutionary, once said, ‘Power is not an apple that falls from a tree into your lap. Power has to be snatched from people who already have it.’ We have to start a revolution, a revolution that resets our corrupt system. A system that shifts power back into the hands of the people, and treats politicians like workers, not kings.
Of course, this won’t happen overnight. This also won’t happen until the real suffering begins. As India’s young population increases, we will need more good colleges and jobs. Soon, there won’t be enough. People will realise who is fooling them. It could take ten years. I call it Revolution 2020, the year in which it will happen, the movement that will finally shake the muck off India. When the Internet will connect all colleges across the country. When we will go on strike, shut down everything, until things are fixed. When young people will leave their classes and offices an
d come on to the streets. When Indians will get justice and the guilty will be punished.
And it will all begin in Varanasi. For that reason, we bring you Revolution 2020.
Yours truly,
Raghav Kashyap
Editor
I smiled as I saw a crudely sketched map of India under the article. It had a dot on Varanasi, with arrows connecting it to various cities. The map had a little ‘Revolution 2020 potential plan’ attached to it. In various cities, it listed the main colleges that would lead the revolution there.
My accountant came into my office for my signatures on the month-end accounts. My amused expression puzzled him.
‘What happened, sir? Reading jokes?’ he said.
I nodded.
The front page also carried an exposé on cremation shops in Varanasi selling ordinary wood as sandalwood after spraying it with synthetic perfume.
My accountant saw the pink-coloured paper.
‘Is this an ad? A poster?’ he said.
‘I have no idea,’ I said.
I turned over the Revolution 2020 page and couldn’t help but laugh. In contrast to the bombast in the front, the back page had matrimonial ads! I read one out aloud.
‘Wanted beautiful/educated/fair/homely virgin for twenty-five-year Kayasth Brahmin engineer working in stable government job. Girl must be willing to stay in joint family and respect traditional values’.
I handed Raghav’s paper to my accountant.
‘Searching for a girl, sir?’ he said.
I looked how I felt – offended.
‘Sorry, sir,’ he said. ‘Sir, we have more requests for admissions,’ he sought to change the subject.
‘We are full,’ I said, ‘you know that. We have as many students as we are authorised to take.’
‘Sir, if the AICTE can adjust …’
I sighed. ‘How many more?’
‘Five, ten …’ he said. ‘Twenty at the most.’
‘Take them in,’ I said. ‘I’ll manage the AICTE when the time comes.’
‘Yes, sir,’ he said and left the office.
I picked up the pink rag, ripped it apart, bundled up the shreds and threw them in the dustbin.
Every Friday I made rounds of the classes. I kept a three-day stubble to look old enough to be a director. I entered a classroom where a maths class was in progress.
The professor stopped lecturing when he sighted me. The entire class of forty students stood up. It felt good. I could go to any of the eight classrooms and the same would happen. Money, status and power – however evil people may say these are – get you respect in life. A few years back I was begging at career fairs for an admission. Today, hundreds stood up to attention when I arrived.
‘Good afternoon, Director sir,’ the professor said.
I nodded in response. A boy in an ill-fitting shirt in the front row blinked rapidly when I addressed him. ‘What is your name?’
‘Manoj, sir,’ he said.
‘Where are you from?’ I said.
‘Sarnath, sir,’ he said.
‘Parents work there?’ I said.
‘We have land, sir. My father is a farmer.’
I immediately softened. ‘You don’t want to be a farmer?’
He didn’t answer, afraid of how he might be judged by the response. I understood.
‘Any problems at GangaTech?’ I said.
‘No, sir,’ he said nervously.
‘Don’t feel shy, tell me,’ I said.
‘Too much English, sir,’ he said. ‘I don’t understand it well.’
‘Learn it. The world won’t let you live otherwise. Okay?’ I said.
He nodded.
I turned to the professor. ‘Sorry to disturb you,’ I said.
The professor smiled. He reminded me of Mr Pulley in Kota.
A dozen documents awaited my attention when I returned from my rounds. My phone beeped.
Aarti had sent a message: Saw R2020?
Yes, I texted back.
What do you think? she wanted to know.
I didn’t respond. I started going through the documents. My phone beeped again.
She had texted: ?
Good luck for the revolution, I said.
Thanks, came her reply.
I wondered if that meant the end of conversation.
You are welcome, I said anyway.
Good to know, she said.
What? I said.
That I am still welcome, she said.
I didn’t know what to say to that. Girls can come up with the simplest of messages that have the most complex meanings.
I typed out another message: I am sorry about that evening. I was pondering whether to send it when my phone beeped again.
Sorry about that evening, her message said.
I gasped at the coincidence. I deleted what I had composed and typed again. It’s fine. I shouldn’t have crossed the line.
I had a reply within seconds: Don’t worry about it.
Perplexed, I kept my phone away.
What exactly did she mean? Why can’t girls be direct? Don’t worry about it? Is she just being formal? Or did she mean it is okay I kissed her, and that I need not worry about it ever again? Most important, had we closed the chapter or opened a new one?
I wanted to ask her all these questions but did not have the guts.
I didn’t want to keep things hanging either. One kiss, and her silence thereafter, had devastated me. I didn’t want to kiss her just once. I wanted to kiss her a million times, or however many times it was possible for a person to kiss another person in a lifetime. I did not want to talk to her in cryptic messages. I wanted to have her by my side all the time.
I didn’t give a fuck about Raghav anymore. He had anyway become borderline cuckoo, with his pink newspaper. Aarti deserved better, and who could be better than me? Our college would make a crore this year. Raghav would never see a crore of his own in his entire fucked-up honest revolutionary life. These intense thoughts darted about in my head like little birds let loose from their cage.
‘Enough is enough,’ I spoke out loud and forced myself to pick up the phone.
‘I LOVE YOU,’ I typed and kept my thumb on the send button.
But I deleted the text. I replaced it with a softer ‘I MISS YOU’, but erased that as well.
I went back to my files but found it hard to read even one sentence. I closed my eyes. Immediately, I remembered the warmth of her body when I had held her, the locks of her hair that brushed against my face in the breeze, and relived the moment when I had kissed her.
My phone rang. She had called me. A part of me didn’t want to, but I picked it up in one ring.
‘Hi!’ she said.
‘Aarti!’
‘Yeah?’ she said.
‘I crossed the line that day,’ I said.
‘Don’t keep saying that.’
‘Is it okay, really?’ I said.
‘Really. How did you like the paper? Be honest.’
I was shocked at how effortlessly she switched the topic.
‘Kayasth Brahmin grooms on one page, mega-revolution on the other. Isn’t it strange?’
‘I told you. That’s how the paper becomes viable,’ she said.
‘What do the readers feel about that?’ I said.
‘The response is mind-blowing. Raghav’s ex-boss from Dainik had c … called to congratulate him,’ she stammered in her excitement.
‘Well, what do I know about newspapers? If people from Dainik like it, it is probably good,’ I said flatly.
‘You have seen nothing yet. Raghav is working on some big stories.’
‘Great,’ I said, my tone bland.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to talk only about him. Just thrilled about the first issue. I put a few copies in the hotel lobby too,’ she confessed with a giggle.
‘I am sure the tourists will love to see how fucked-up our country is,’ I said.
‘Or they may like the matrimonials,’ Aarti pointed
out. That evening by the river seemed to be a distant memory for her. How can girls pretend that nothing happened? Do they erase stuff from their brains, brush it aside, or are they just good actors?
‘Aarti,’ I said.
‘What?’
‘What if I …’ I said and paused.
‘What if I what?’ she said.
She had put it out there. I could either chicken out and say lame crap like ‘What if I said you are amazing,’ like I had over the years. Or, I could be a man and say what I really wanted to, even if it meant she may never talk to me again. For once, I chose the latter option.
‘What would you do if I kissed you again?’
‘Gopal!’ she said, her voice hushed.
‘Don’t sound so surprised. We did kiss, remember?’
‘I don’t know what happened,’ she said. How could she not know what had occurred?
‘Don’t avoid the question,’ I said.
‘What?’ Aarti said, a rare hesitation in her voice.
‘What would you do if I kissed you again?’ I repeated.
‘I don’t know,’ she said.
She hadn’t said yes. However, she hadn’t hung up the phone in disgust either.
‘I might,’ I said.
‘Don’t!’
‘I just might.’
‘Can we talk about something else?’ she said.
‘Are we meeting?’ I said.
‘Where?’ she said. Again, no yes or no. She didn’t even say when. She simply asked the location. It meant she wanted to meet me. Even after I had warned her that I wanted to kiss her, she wanted to meet me. A dozen smileys filled up my head.
‘I’ll pick you up at work. What time do you get done?’
‘Six. Not today though. Raghav has some friends over. First issue and all.’
‘Party?’
‘Kind of. A low-key affair. Raghav doesn’t have money to party. Everything has gone into the paper.’
‘You want me to give some money?’ I said, enjoying every syllable of my sentence.
‘Stop it, Gopal. So, tomorrow at six?’
‘I will call you,’ I said.
‘Oh, okay. Where are we going?’ she said.
‘Somewhere private,’ I said.
She paused for a second.
‘Where we can talk,’ I added.
‘Let me know then.’
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