Revolution 2020: Love, Corruption, Ambition

by Chetan Bhagat

  ‘Not yet,’ I said. ‘But if we do, we will make you cabin supervisor.’

  She laughed. ‘How are you? When will your college actually have students?’

  ‘When we manage to please every Indian government official on this earth,’ I said. ‘Actually, I had called for some work.’

  ‘What?’ she said.

  ‘I wanted to meet your dad.’

  ‘Really? How come?’

  ‘We need some help in getting through to the state university.’

  ‘You want to speak to him now?’

  ‘No, I’d prefer to meet him face to face,’ I said.

  ‘Would you like to meet me face to face?’ she said. ‘Or am I still on the blacklist? To be called only in work emergencies.’

  ‘Nothing like that. We can catch up after I meet your dad.’

  ‘Of course, work first,’ she said in a sarcastic tone.

  ‘My admissions are stuck, Aarti. It’s urgent,’ I said.

  ‘Okay, okay, fine. Hold on a second, let me check with him,’ she said.

  She spoke to her father and picked up the phone again. ‘Tomorrow morning at eight?’

  ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘I will see you then.’

  ‘You never come home now. Not friends with Aarti anymore?’ DM Pradhan said.

  We sat in his study. A lifesize portrait of Aarti’s grandfather, ex-CM Brij Pradhan, stared at me from the wall. DM Pradhan – broad faced with chiselled features, fit and proud – sipped coffee with me.

  ‘Nothing like that, Uncle. Work keeps me busy,’ I said.

  ‘I have heard about your college. Shukla-ji’s involed in it, right?’ DM Pradhan said.

  ‘Yes, and now we are one step away from admissions,’ I said and explained the problem with VC Tiwari.

  He heard me out and then said, ‘Let me see.’ He took out his cellphone and called the VC.

  ‘Tiwari sir? Hello, Pratap Pradhan here … Yes, long time. How are you?’

  Aarti’s father fixed a meeting between us and Tiwari in the afternoon.

  ‘Thank you so much,’ I said, preparing to leave.

  ‘You are welcome. Listen, have you paid Tiwari?’

  I felt awkward discussing such issues with Aarti’s dad, so I kept quiet.

  ‘I know how the education business works. Tiwari talks intellectual, but he wants his share. I hope you guys won’t get me involved with that.’

  ‘Not at all, sir,’ I said. ‘Even I don’t deal with that stuff. I only look after the college.’

  ‘So all such work is done by Shukla-ji’s men?’ Aarti’s father asked.

  ‘Yes,’ I said as I gazed at the floor.

  ‘Good, you are like me then,’ he said. ‘Practical enough to leave the people who do the funny stuff alone.’

  I nodded and bowed to him before I left his room.

  ‘One chocolate milk shake with ice cream, please,’ Aarti said. We had come to the same CCD in Sigra where Sunil had brought me after the career fair debacle.

  ‘Black tea,’ I said.

  She wore a mauve chikan salwar-kameez. Her father had bought it for her from Lucknow. She removed her white dupatta and kept it aside.

  The waiter placed her milk shake on the table. She put her lips to the straw, without touching the overflowing glass with her hands. ‘I often spill this. I better be careful,’ she said.

  Wisps of her hair brushed the table as she sipped her drink. The entire café checked her out.

  ‘We should totally do this more often,’ she said, ‘coffee meetings. Even though neither of us is having coffee.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ I said.

  ‘Why? You don’t like meeting me?’ she said. ‘So much for being my best friend for over ten years!’

  ‘Raghav won’t appreciate it,’ I said.

  ‘What is wrong in meeting for coffee? Besides, Raghav is too busy to be bothered by such things.’

  ‘Of course, big reporter now. I met him,’ I said as I lifted my cup.

  ‘You did,’ she said, still sipping her milk shake as her eyebrows shot up.

  ‘He interviewed me, for his paper.’

  ‘What for?’ she said.

  ‘Local boy starts college.’

  ‘It’s true. Quite an achievement.’

  ‘Yeah, for a loser like me.’

  ‘I didn’t say that,’ she said. ‘Hey, you’d like something to eat?’

  Before I could answer she ordered two chocolate chip muffins. If Aarti had a choice, there would be nothing but chocolate to eat in the world.

  ‘How’s your job-hunt going?’ I said.

  ‘I have an offer. I am not sure I want to take it.’

  ‘Really? What is the offer?’

  ‘Guest relations trainee, Ramada Hotel. They are opening up in Cantonment.’

  ‘Five-star, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah, they came to meet dad for some work. Dad found out about the vacancy, I applied and now they want me to start next month.’

  ‘Go for it. I know you, you can’t sit at home,’ I said.

  ‘You know me better than most people, Gopal,’ she said, ‘but …’

  ‘What?’ I said.

  The muffins arrived but she didn’t touch them. I noticed her eyes. They had turned moist. A tear trickled down her cheek.

  ‘Aarti, are you okay?’ I passed her a tissue.

  She wiped her eyes and returned the eyeliner-stained tissue to me. ‘Once I join, my parents will say – this is a good job, close to home, stay here. If I sulk at home, maybe they will let me try for some airline.’

  I scoffed at her. ‘What is the need to cry for this? You’ve got a good job. You have done a course in hospitality …’

  ‘Aviation, not hospitality.’

  ‘Fine, but a flight attendant also serves guests, like hotel staff. And a guest relations trainee has better scope for growth. Trainee today, officer tomorrow, maybe GM of the hotel some day. You are smart. You will rise.’

  She sniffed a few times to control herself.

  ‘You think so?’ she said, her eyes even more beautiful when glistening with tears.

  I couldn’t respond, so lost was I in the details of her face.

  ‘What? Did the eyeliner spread?’ she laughed. ‘I am so stupid, crying away like a baby.’

  ‘No, you are not. You wouldn’t have got the job otherwise,’ I said.

  ‘Should I take it?’

  ‘Why not? Quit if you don’t like it. What does Raghav say?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘I haven’t met him since the offer. I called him, but he said I should do whatever I want. He is in some village this week for a story.’

  ‘It’s good for both of you if you stay here,’ I said.

  ‘Well, he didn’t say that at all.’

  ‘I am sure he realises it.’

  ‘I don’t think he cares so much about my issues, unless I am involved in a corruption scandal,’ she said.

  I smiled like she had intended me to. I asked for the bill.

  ‘So, coffee friends?’

  ‘We are friends,’ I said.

  ‘Cool. It’s not officially open, but I will show you the hotel sometime. It’s pretty grand.’

  ‘Sure,’ I said.

  ‘When can I see GangaTech?’ she said.

  ‘Two more weeks,’ I said, ‘I promise. It’s almost done.’

  We walked to her car.

  ‘I laughed, I cried. It is so nice to meet you,’ Aarti said.

  ‘Same here, I didn’t cry though,’ I said.

  She laughed again. She hugged me and held me slightly longer than usual.

  ‘Old friends are old friends, Gopal. Boyfriends and all are fine, but they never understand you like old friends can.’

  I hated the word ‘friends’ but didn’t say anything, just waved goodbye.

  My phone rang. Bedi.

  ‘The VC has called us for a meeting. The phone call from the DM worked. They know e
ach other from childhood,’ he said.

  ‘Old friends are old friends,’ I said.

  22

  For GangaTech’s opening I wore a suit for the first time in my life. I supervised the decorations. We slept in my office the night before. We had turned three classrooms into admission centres. I stayed up to ensure we had forms, pens and information booklets.

  Shukla-ji had gone all out too. He had managed to convince the Chief Minister to come and inaugurate the college. Two state ministers would accompany him. The security officials of the politicians had already visited us the day before. Since we didn’t have an auditorium yet, we had erected a makeshift podium inside a tent for the speeches.

  ‘Two thousand invites sent, sir, to all prominent families in Varanasi,’ Ajay, from the chemical engineering faculty, told me.

  We had promised lunch. Hence, we expected at least half of the invitees to turn up. Given the distance, we had arranged four buses for the general public, and a dozen cars to ferry the media to and fro.

  I had spent ten lakhs on full-page ads in leading city newspapers, three days in a row. You only get one shot at a launch. Shukla-ji wanted the city to know he had built an institution.

  Work ended at 5:30 a.m. I lay down on the office sofa for a power nap before the function. Shukla-ji’s call woke me up at six-thirty. I rubbed my eyes, disoriented.

  ‘Good morning, Shukla-ji,’ I said.

  ‘Did you see the newspaper?’

  I realised he must have seen the full-page ads and called in excitement. After years of waiting, finally the day had come. ‘No, I am in campus. The paper hasn’t arrived yet,’ I said.

  ‘How did this happen?’ Shukla-ji said.

  I wondered why he didn’t sound happy. Maybe he is not a morning person, I thought. ‘The ads look nice, don’t they?’

  ‘Not the ads, you idiot. I am talking about the article in Dainik.’

  Shukla-ji had never called me names before. Sure, I worked for him. But he had never raised his voice at me until now.

  ‘What article?’ I said, my hand going to my sleep-deprived, throbbing temples.

  ‘Read the paper and call me.’

  ‘Okay. How do the ads look?’

  I only heard a click in response.

  I shouted for the peon and asked him to fetch all the newspapers. In an hour I had them on my desk.

  Every paper had our full-page colour ad. The campus photograph looked beautiful. I saw my name at the bottom of the ad. Shukla-ji’s harsh words rang in my head.

  I flipped through Dainik. On page six I found the article.

  The headline said: ‘New engineering college opens in city – with corruption money?’

  ‘What the fuck!’ I said to myself as I read further.

  Raghav Kashyap, Staff Reporter

  I couldn’t believe he had done this. The first few lines seemed harmless.

  The city of Varanasi, also called the City of Learning, can boast of another engineering college of its own. The GangaTech College of Engineering, set in a fifteen-acre campus on the Lucknow Highway, opens its gates for admissions this weekend.

  Raghav had indeed mentioned the facilities we offered, the faculty profile, the branches of engineering available and the selection process. The half-page article also carried a picture of Shukla-ji and me. I had never seen my picture in a newspaper. However, I couldn’t savour the moment as I continued to read the article.

  Interestingly, MLA Raman Lal Shukla is one of the trustees of GangaTech. He has helped fund the college. Shukla also owns land around the GangaTech campus, estimated to cost between five and ten crores. Where did Shukla obtain these funds from? Incidentally, he floated the college three years ago, around the same time that his name came up in the Ganga Action Plan scam. Is this college an attempt to clean up his reputation? People come to the Ganga to clean their sins. Is Shukla trying to clean away his sins against Ganga?

  ‘Fuck you,’ I said as I finished the article.

  I crumpled the newspaper. This could not be happening to us. Not on the day of admissions. Not on any day. Shukla-ji called again. I hesitated but picked up.

  ‘I saw it,’ I said.

  ‘How the hell did this happen? Who is this behenchod reporter Raghav? He really interviewed you?’

  ‘He is my … f … friend … from school,’ I said, stammering. ‘He had promised a balanced piece.’

  ‘This is balanced? He has shoved it up my ass.’

  ‘I am really sorry, Shukla-ji. Don’t worry, other papers don’t have this story.’

  ‘Dainik is the biggest and most influential. The CM has already cancelled his visit.’

  ‘What?’ I said, shocked. ‘Who will inaugurate the college? We have a stone plaque in his name.’

  ‘I don’t know. The peon can inaugurate it for all I care,’ Shukla-ji said.

  ‘Please be calm, Shukla-ji,’ I said. ‘Really, we have to find someone in the next three hours.’

  The MLA took a deep breath. ‘The state minister for education is still coming. He can inaugurate it.’

  ‘And the plaque?’

  ‘Put a sticker on it, Gopal. Do I have to tell you everything?’

  ‘Sorry, Shukla-ji. I will fix it,’ I said.

  I began a round of follow-ups. Most of the invitees confirmed their presence. A free lunch beats corruption allegations any day.

  ‘May I come in, sir?’ I heard a female voice as I finished a call.

  I looked up. ‘Aarti!’

  ‘Am I disturbing you?’ she said. ‘I am early.’

  She had come at nine, an hour before the scheduled inauguration. Even in my stressed state, I noticed she had dressed up for the occasion. She wore a bottle green salwar-kameez with a purple and gold border.

  I continued to stare at her, my mouth half open. ‘May I come in, Director sir?’ she said.

  ‘Huh? Yeah, of course,’ I said. ‘Wow, you look …’

  ‘What?’ she said.

  ‘You look so formal,’ I said. Stunning, is what I wanted to say.

  ‘Oh, I thought you might say I look nice.’

  ‘That’s obvious, Aarti.’

  ‘What’s obvious?’

  ‘You always look good,’ I said.

  ‘Yeah? I don’t hear that so much these days.’

  ‘Why? Your boyfriend doesn’t say it?’ I asked with a sting in my voice, thoughts of Raghav’s article not leaving my head.

  She sighed. ‘Unless I dress up in newsprint I don’t think he would notice.’

  I smiled. And started to check the list of school principals to see if I had missed anyone.

  ‘You seem busy,’ Aarti said. ‘Should I wait outside?’

  I would have never let Aarti go, but I had tons of calls to make.

  ‘Will you be okay outside?’ I said.

  ‘Yes, mom is here. Dad couldn’t come. He is on tour.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Let me wish her at least.’

  We walked outside. Her mother was sitting in the front row, one of the first guests in the tent.

  ‘Hello, aunty,’ I said, my hands folded.

  ‘Congratulations, Gopal. What a lovely campus,’ she said.

  ‘It’s still under construction,’ I said, gesturing at a waiter to bring tea and snacks.

  ‘Don’t worry about us,’ Aarti said. ‘You do your function. Attend to all the high-profile guests.’

  She hugged me before I left. I noticed her mother’s eyes on me.

  I folded my hands once more and excused myself.

  The inauguration ceremony went off smoothly, though without the CM the event lost some of its sheen. The state education minister unveiled the college plaque, his name stuck over the CM’s on the black granite stone. There were murmurs among the media members regarding the CM’s absence.

  ‘The CM had to cancel in the last minute due to a crisis,’ Shukla-ji said as he came on stage. He kept his speech to less than a minute. The press scrambled to ask questions. They all wante
d to talk about the Dainik article. However, the MLA dodged them all from podium to gate.

  ‘My apologies, no questions today. I have to visit villages. The farmers need me. Mr Gopal Mishra will take it from here.’

  Within minutes, he had left the campus in his car. He called me from the highway.

  ‘I want to speak to the bloody editor of Dainik,’ he said.

  ‘Sure, I will set it up,’ I said. ‘By the way, the admission forms are going well.’

  ‘Do the bastards know how many ads we give them?’ he went on.

  ‘Shukla-ji, on the admissions …’ I said.

  But he had already cut the call.

  We hoped to fill the remaining seats with an ad campaign.

  ‘We want to advertise all year,’ I told the marketing head of Varanasi Times. ‘We expect a bigger discount.’

  I had spent the whole day doing the rounds of newspapers to book more ads. I sat in the office of Amar Trivedi, marketing head of Varanasi Times.

  ‘Why don’t you make us your media partner?’ he said.

  ‘What’s that?’ I said.

  ‘For a little extra fee we publish positive articles about your college. We get news, you get an image. It is a win-win partnership,’ he said.

  ‘How do I know they will be positive?’ I said. Once bitten, twice shy.

  ‘You send us the articles,’ Amar said.

  I asked him to send me a formal proposal.

  After Varanasi Times, I went to Bansphatak to visit the Dainik office.

  ‘Welcome Gopal-ji,’ Sailesh Gupta, the sales manager at Dainik, greeted me at the building entrance.

  I flashed him a curt smile. We went to his office.

  ‘What will you have, sir?’ he said.

  I shook my head.

  ‘Tea? Coffee??’

  ‘Articles full of lies?’ I said.

  ‘What?’ he said.

  ‘Sailesh, I signed you the biggest cheque among all the places we advertised in. And what did you do? On the day of our launch?’

  Sailesh understood my context and shifted his gaze.

  ‘I have five lakhs more to spend next week. Tell me why I should not make Varanasi Times happy and give them this?’ I waved the trust’s chequebook at him.

  ‘Gopal bhai,’ Sailesh said in a low voice, ‘what are you saying? We are the number one newspaper.’

  ‘So? You fuck us?’