The next day, a half page interview carrying Rishabh and my photograph appeared in the newspaper. We were to the point in the interview and did not give too much information away.
A few hours after the interview appeared, we started seeing an unprecedented activity on our website. There was humongous traffic coming in and we couldn’t trace the reason behind it. It couldn’t have been the small article in the newspaper, could it? Later Pratik called me from his office to congratulate me. He had joined RBS.
‘Bro, congratulations. Every person in my office is asking me whether I know you guys or not?’
‘Wow, thank you so much. Did they read the newspaper?’
‘Newspaper? Which one? No, you guys are on the Yahoo homepage.’
‘What!?’ I exclaimed.
‘Yes, haven’t you checked it?’ he said.
I logged on Yahoo and there we were—one of the top 50 newsmakers of the day, which said ‘IITians launch a site to market wisecracks.’
Numerous calls, messages, and tags followed. My batchmates who had booed us when we left our placements held us in awe now. The cynics had turned into a joke themselves with their lousy and boring-as-hell jobs, and people were now marvelling at our foresight.
People flooded our website, from just two people online in the morning to three hundred online at the same time, when our modest servers crashed. In fact, there were so many posts that day that the website itself went down. We didn’t know whether to be happy or sad about it.
Immediately, we proceeded to buy dedicated servers with my Dad’s credit card that cost us 16,000 rupees for a month’s usage, an expense which we didn’t even bother to discuss before purchasing, and Mishra tried to fix the website. The website took full two days to recuperate, data recovery being the sole reason, and two days later, we found that the buzz was lost and our traffic had dropped back to original. Now we couldn’t afford to put the website down once again and downgrade it to the basic server, so we let it remain the way it was. In the meanwhile, Mishra tried to find an alternative way to host the website. And he did.
Amazon Cloud infrastructure is very congenial for start-ups as it offers one year of free service for start-up with charges only when your usage exceeds a threshold. After being hosted on the dedicated server for over two weeks and incurring a cost of around 8,000 rupees, we brought our website down for another two days and shifted it to Amazon Cloud server.
With the feature on News Today and Yahoo, we just gained 500 users but we lost two weeks of developmental work, 8,000 rupees, and our sleep at night. We could not generate interest among investors, but we did fetch more media attention. A journalist from the Times of India approached us the next day but we ignored her.
What all this did do was escalate our self worth. While earlier we presented ourselves meekly in front of our batchmates who were earning a lakh a month, we now went to meet them proudly. I was more carried away with this feeling than Rishabh and I openly criticized my friends for not having enough gumption to trudge the path of their dreams. I started making up derogatory quotes like ‘Success means the ability to go to your office in your boxers’, ‘Ironically, now rats chase CAT!’, and ‘One doesn’t need an MBA to hire other MBAs.’
When some of my friends announced about their selection in IIMs on Facebook and got 200–300 likes for it, I intentionally updated my status with ‘I’m going to IIM-A this year, to hire,’ and overshadowed each one of them with 450+ likes.
My friends who would earlier complain to me about not giving them ample time were suddenly repulsed by me and stopped hanging out with me altogether. Ravi, my best friend, once hinted subtly to me about my change in behaviour and said, ‘You have suddenly changed after college.’ I replied without much thinking, ‘Yeah, any kind of change is good.’ He finished off by saying ‘Change is good only when the change is good. Do you…’
I dismissed his statement by whistling and cutting him mid-sentence.
On August 21, Anjali returned to India. Unlike the time when she had gone to Toronto, this time Rishabh didn’t even bother to go and receive her. When she reached the hostel, she called me first. But I knew the real purpose of her call was not to greet me and ask after my well-being but to inquire whether Rishabh was home or not. I disappointed her by telling her that Rishabh was out for a meeting. When Rishabh returned in the evening, I told him that Anjali had returned. He pretended as though he hadn’t heard a word. I repeated my sentence but he took offence and snapped at me, remarking, ‘I’m not deaf. I heard what you said.’
‘Don’t you want to meet her?’
‘Amol, what I want to do and what I don’t want to do with my life is none of your concern. I would be grateful if you mind your own business.’
‘Sure, but all I was asking you was to meet an important team member of ours together, not alone,’ I said. He didn’t respond and went to the balcony to smoke.
The best way to find out about the relation between two people is through Facebook. When I spied a little, I found that Rishabh was neither friends with Shikha nor Anjali. Something must have happened between the three, a mystery I could not trace.
In the evening, Anjali abruptly turned up at our place. She greeted me with a hug and an extravagant smile. She had even brought a gift for me—a University of Toronto mug. I was touched. Rishabh was still working in another room and did not come out, even though I knew he must have heard Anjali’s voice. She told me she had come to make things right, which delighted me as I hoped that Rishabh’s sour mood would mellow after things were sorted between them. Anjali went into Rishabh’s room while I remained seated on the sofa outside, trying my best to eavesdrop on their conversation.
The next fifty minutes were nothing less than a movie. At first I couldn’t hear a thing. A few minutes later, I heard mild sobs followed by the sound of someone whispering. It finally ended with what sounded like Anjali’s outburst. The door flung open and Anjali came out in a fit of madness and left the house in tears. I ran after her and helped get her an auto, without either of us saying a word.
One week later, Anjali called me and asked me to get a number of an administrative officer of AIIMS from Rishabh. Worried, I asked Anjali about what was wrong with her health. She told me that the slight childhood accident burn she had on her neck was causing her distress lately and she wanted to get it operated upon through plastic surgery. I wondered the reason behind her sudden decision.
Apparently, Rishabh had a relative working in AIIMS who could make the process faster, which otherwise would have taken months. I asked for the number from Rishabh. Concerned, he asked me if I was alright. I told him that it was Anjali who wanted the number, not me. He smsed the number to me with a blank face, which I passed on to Anjali.
My doubt about Anjali’s sudden surgery remained a mystery, until I met Pratik the following day. Pratik, who had been a good friend to Anjali, was aware of most things going on between Rishabh and Anjali.
‘Why has she suddenly decided to go for plastic surgery?’ I asked Pratik.
‘What? Has she? She told me that she would go for one before she joins a job since her parents wanted her to complete her studies first. Wait, has there been a fight between the two of them?’
‘Yes, a severe fight.’
‘Last year, she had told me that when she had confessed her love to Rishabh, he did not reciprocate, leaving her heartbroken. Thereafter, whenever I asked about her relationship status, she kept telling me that Rishabh won’t ever say yes since he wants a “hot” girl.’
‘Oh my goodness! She’s doing the operation to please Rishabh,’ I realized.
The next day when I was logged on to Facebook to type out the next sermon of the day, one particular News Feed caught my eye:
Rishabh Dev is now friends with Anjali Yadav
I smiled. Things seemed to be getting better between the two. Minutes later, Rishabh came out from the bathroom well dressed and informed me that he was going to AIIMS to get an appointment fr
om the doctor for Anjali’s operation. I wished him luck. When he was gone, I checked his friend list looking for Shikha’s name on it. She was not there. I sighed in relief thinking she was finally out of our lives, YourQuote’s life, without charging money for her designs, unless Rishabh paid her privately for her ‘services’.
It had been two months since Priya started working at EWZ. Though her salary was meagre, it allowed her to take care of all the smaller expenses to fulfill her everyday needs.
Initially, though, she hated her work, but with time, she adapted well and started enjoying going to work. The good thing was that her best friend Kamna was a co-employee and to add to the charm, Shardendu, one of my department mates and a good friend, who could make any girl croon ‘Aww, so cute’, worked in the same department as theirs. Kamna had a big crush on Shardendu right from our fest days almost two years ago when both Kamna and Priya had come over to IIT and I had introduced them to Shendu, as we used to call him. Moreover, Pratik who had been a good friend to both Priya and me, had his RBS office right across EWZ and they would meet every day during lunch hours.
In the last two months, the friendship between the four of them had strengthened and Priya hinted to me one several occasions that Kamna had fallen truly, madly, and deeply in love with Shendu, but nobody knew how Shendu felt. Owing to the corporate nature of her job, another thing had changed in Priya’s life–her propensity to drink. She often took a sip or two in their weekend office parties and accompanied Kamna and Shendu to bars and lounges for drink sessions.
A little vexed at her rampant alcoholism, I pleaded to Priya to cut down on her drinking, but she retorted saying, ‘Amol, I have never been so free ever. When I was a child, my mother dictated my life. I’m an adult now and earning my own living. So stop trying to be my mother.’
Hurt by her statement, I replied, ‘If that’s what you feel, you’re free to do as you please. All I know is that girls become vulnerable when they are inebriated and guys can easily take advantage.’
‘Don’t you trust Shendu or Pratik? They are your good friends and are like my brothers,’ she said.
‘I trust them,’ I said thinking, ‘but not their friends, who might turn up with them.’
The next night, Priya called me at 2 am and whispered, ‘Amol, chatpat news! Wake up. Kamna is making out with Shendu. I can hear them moaning.’
More than voyeuristic delight, it raised an alarm bell in my mind. ‘What are you doing at Shendu’s place?’ I asked her.
‘We went to a bar near his place and it was late, so…’
‘How drunk are you?’
‘Not at all, I just had a breezer. Okay, talk to you later. Gotta go,’ she said and hung up.
I tossed and turned on my bed the entire night, concerned.
The next day, I got a call from my mother saying she was going to be visiting me in Delhi for her PhD dissertation. Ever since I was born, her ambitions had taken a backseat. But her love for academics had made her slowly add four degrees to her resume viz. NET, B.Ed, M.Ed, and she was now on the verge of completing her PhD.
She told me she was going to stay with me at our office-cum-flat for a week. When I reluctantly conveyed the matter to Rishabh, he readily complied and said that he had no problem with her staying with us. He anyway used to stay out for 14–16 hours a day and would come only late at night to sleep and again leave early in the morning. The only thing for him to be merry about was the sumptuous morning breakfast that my mother would make for us.
September 4
‘Anjali will have her operation day after,’ Rishabh said at the breakfast table. My mother had arrived a day earlier and was preparing hot aloo paranthas for us. Even Mishra had come over as it was a Sunday. ‘She will be admitted tomorrow evening,’ Rishabh added.
‘What happened to her?’ my mother asked while placing another parantha on my plate. She had previously met Anjali during my convocation.
‘Aunty, you might have noticed that she had a slight burn on her neck. She is now getting it reconstructed through plastic surgery. She will be discharged from the hospital by September 8.’ Rishabh explained.
‘Oh, is there someone from her family coming here?’
‘Yes, her father will be arriving shortly,’ Rishabh said.
‘Where will he be staying?’ I asked Rishabh.
‘At the hospital for a few days and then he would take up accommodation at some hotel near IIT.’
‘Why should he stay at some hotel? He could come here, and until Anjali is completely healed, even bring her here. Why should she lay at her hostel all alone, without anyone to look after her?’
Rishabh’s eyes shined with gratitude. The next day Anjali’s father arrived. He was very humble and treated me like his own son. After a filling lunch at our place, I took him to AIIMS, where Anjali had been admitted, as Rishabh was already there attending to her and signing off all the paperwork. Late night, when the nurses advised that only one attendant was needed, Rishabh asked her father to return home with me, volunteering to stay at the hospital for the night himself. Anjali’s father politely thanked Rishabh for his concern but told him to go home instead.
Rishabh left early morning for the hospital the following day. My mother and I joined him at the hospital shortly after her presentation at JNU got over to a thunderous applause. When we arrived, we were told that the operation had been a success.
We went to see Anjali who had bandages wrapped all across her neck. Interestingly, Rishabh was sitting just next to her with his hands on her forehead, while uncle sat on a chair near the bed. Amused, my mother looked at me with curiosity.
On the way back, my mother quizzed me, ‘Are they going to get married soon?’ I just chuckled in response.
Anjali was shortly discharged from the hospital and her father went to bring her home. Before she could arrive, my mother took it upon herself to clean the house. I helped her out in the process and cleaned the other rooms.
‘Amol, I’m putting all your fresh clothes in your suitcase.’
‘Okay Mom,’ I shouted from the other room.
‘Amol, Amol, Amol, come here,’ she squalled. I ran crazily to the other room, thinking that she might have come across a rat.
‘What is this in your suitcase?’ she interrogated. When I turned my eyes to what she held in her hand, I froze in terror. Embarassed, I grabbed the orange packet from her hand and stood like a statue in front of her.
‘Mom, it’s not mine. It’s Mishra’s. He had put it in my suitcase because his father had come over and I forgot to return it to him,’ I mumbled a not-so-convincing lie while beads of sweat ran down my face.
‘I can’t believe you. While we stay a thousand kilometers away, hoping that our son is working hard on his dreams, this is what you people are up to. Shameful!’ she chided.
I had never felt so bad in my entire life. All my pursuits had been followed with just one intent in mind—making my parents proud of me. It was the first time my mother’s head lowered in shame because of me. Before I could explain or apologize, none of which seemed to set things right, the doorbell rang.
It was Anjali. My mother ran to the door and guided Anjali to one of the rooms. She fed her khichdi with her hands, took her to the loo, and gave her the required medicines from time to time. I was a little jealous of the care my mother was bestowing upon her and I blamed it on my insolence for losing my mother’s tenderness that was reserved just for me.
Two days later, my mother got ready to go back to Dhanbad, our hometown, and I went to drop her at the railway station. She didn’t speak about the discovery all through the way. Just when the train was about to depart, I touched her feet seeking her blessings and she said, ‘You are a young man now. Concentrate your energies on making your life first and then do whatever you want.’ I was at a loss for words.
The Birth of a Competitor
The month of September saw slow progress in our venture. We were finding it difficult in getting other corporates
interested in our site as our previous clients—Diptea and Coffee Every Day—were not satisfied with our services. We had received only around 250 entries for the contest whereas we had promised them that we would get around 2000+ entries at least. It was a difficult situation for Rishabh who faced rejection after rejection and we had to entertain more barter deals with websites that were popular.
It was during this time that I decided to try my luck in the marketing domain. Being an established author by then, I was well-connected with almost all the other popular authors around. I decided to take the next step in our creative endeavour by crowdsourcing the title of an upcoming book. Since we had closed our doors to the media, the growth was in no way comparable to the one we saw the last month. However, it did get one notable private equity company interested in us.
Purnesh, from Excel Ventures, one of the major International Venture Capital firms that had invested in almost all the Indian entrepreneurial success stories, dropped a mail saying, ‘With one promising venture and two bestselling books at just 22 years of age, you are living my dream.’ I corrected him by telling him that I was just 21 years of age and would turn 22 in a few days’ time.
Purnesh wanted an investment PPT which we didn’t have prepared by then. It sent the three of us thinking about whether we were ready for investment. We realized that we weren’t ready and asked Purnesh to give us a month’s time to prepare. He told us to have the pitch ready by the first week of November.
September 18
It was a Sunday, two days before my birthday. We hardly did any office work on Sundays, as most of the marketing and outreach work is not possible. But there was something unusual about that particular Sunday. Right from morning, I could see Rishabh was up to something fishy. Every time a call came, he would go to the balcony to attend it.
Because Shit Happened Page 17
