The Boy Who Loved Read online

  Being tall’s not lucky, you just run out of places to hide.

  Maa gave me the best gift of all, a Parker fountain pen, the one I’m writing this with. She also took a day off and made mutton biryani, kosha mangsho and muri ghonto. Baba made paesh with jaggery and gave me a book, The God of Small Things, by Arundhati Roy, wrapped in an old newspaper. He told me the writer, a Bengali, was given 3.5 crore rupees as advance for the book. He was adamant about its greatness though he was a little disappointed in the writer who had chosen to write about Keralite Syrian Christians and not Bengali Hindus. But ah! What coincidence. The book starts with the death of a little child, drowned in a river, left behind by friends. If only Baba had read it.

  Unfortunately, my birthday wasn’t a secret in school either. My new school had an ancient birthday rule wherein even older students were supposed to break the monotony of uniform and wear anything that was not a part of it—a pair of shoes, a different shirt or miss out the tie. I, of course, was dressed more properly than a Head Boy leading a march. My hideout, the perfect uniform, and my silence, were broken into at lunch.

  ‘Take off your tie and give it to me,’ said Brahmi Sharma without missing a beat. She smelt of coconut oil and Pond’s Dreamflower talc.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Happy birthday, Raghu Ganguly. Try to have a good day. Now can I have the tie please?’

  I took off my tie.

  ‘How did you know it is my birthday?’

  ‘It’s my job to know. I am the class monitor,’ she said.

  ‘There’s something on your nose,’ I said.

  ‘What?’

  She touched her nose and soiled her fingers with blood and pus. The pimple at the tip of her nose that had ballooned with white pus last week had finally burst. I touched my tie, which I was holding to give her, to her nose to staunch the flow. She took the tie from me and held it against the nose.

  ‘I will return it to you tomorrow. Don’t worry, I will ask Mumma to wash it.’

  ‘You can keep it.’

  ‘Why would I want to keep it?’

  ‘Umm . . . I don’t know why I said that. It just felt like a thing to say.’

  ‘It’s not a handkerchief,’ said Brahmi.

  ‘It’s a tie.’

  ‘Yes, it’s a tie. Also, the next time you try to hide from your birthday, be less conspicuously dressed. A well-dressed student is an anomaly not the rule,’ she said and smiled.

  I nodded.

  ‘Enjoy your birthday,’ she said as if she knew I wouldn’t.

  For the rest of the day even though my eyes followed Brahmi Sharma I couldn’t see her anywhere during the chemistry double-period practical. If she had bunked the class, she had done it well because no one asked for her. How could people overlook her absence?

  Coming back to Dada, he gave me what he thought was a special gift. He told me it was an Apple PowerBook he’d borrowed from his boss. Inside it was a CD with a media file he wanted me to watch and I should have guessed what it was. It was supposedly a rite of passage for every teenager. The media file wasn’t just Kate Winslet lying down naked from the movie Titanic that came out a couple of years ago whose pirated cassette Dada got hold of. This was much more. Dada was surprised I didn’t enjoy the two naked girls touching each other.

  ‘You have to grow up,’ said Dada.

  ‘I was kidding, Dada! I loved it!’

  I lied and he smiled. I can’t have Dada being miffed with me. After all he’s my insurance policy against Maa–Baba’s grief. God forbid if anything happens to me, self-inflicted or otherwise, there should be someone to hold Maa–Baba’s hand. Isn’t that the only reason why people have the second kid? To have a spare part if one’s broken? In our case the spare’s broken.

  ‘I knew it, you bastard. Why do you play these games with me?’ asked Dada and slapped my back.

  How could I have enjoyed when I knew the two women on screen were play-acting? They weren’t enjoying kissing each other or caressing each other’s bodies. They weren’t in love with each other. I could see that. If they hadn’t promised to live their lives together, to die together if they could synchronize it, then how the hell was I supposed to enjoy what they did on screen?

  Now that the day has ended, I have successfully fooled Maa–Baba and Dada that I had fun turning seventeen.

  But it wasn’t all that bad. I have a tendency to focus on the morose and miserable. I am ignoring that Brahmi Sharma, the girl with the bleeding nose, the girl who went missing in the middle of the day, knew exactly how I felt about my birthday.

  30 January 1999

  There’s a rather interesting development to talk about today.

  My initial assessment of Brahmi Sharma was deeply flawed. The furtive glances of my classmates weren’t because they found her beautiful or smart or like the warm sun on a winter morning but because they thought her to be strange. She sits alone, she eats alone, and she stays quiet until otherwise required, not because she is intimidating but because she has no friends. Like literally no friends, not even one. Isn’t that the most wonderful thing? It is the best thing one can do to oneself. I want to congratulate her on that. Why have friends and set them up and yourself for disappointment? Maybe even lead them to flooding their lungs. Didn’t Buddha advocate a life devoid of attachments as the only path out of suffering? Brahmi seems to have grasped it well because she glows like a halo’s lighting her face up. But what’s really getting my goat is where she disappears in the middle of the day, sometimes for consecutive periods. A little sleuthing told me she’s a part of a few academic and extracurricular groups, many of which she heads, thus wielding the power to call emergency meetings. Only that she’s never in those meetings.

  This past week I have been praying to all seven of Baba’s gods—Ganesh, Saraswati, Durga, Kali, Kartikeya, Ram, Lakshmi—for a fresh batch of pimples on Brahmi’s face so I could be the hero with my handkerchief dabbed in Baba’s perfume.

  Baba’s gods didn’t fail me.

  Amarjeet Kaur ma’am made me sit with her today. Second bench, third row—that was our seat. Throughout the six periods, I raced her to the solutions of chemistry numericals, maths problems and grammar questions. She won 17–21. She not only had the home-ground advantage she was also blissfully oblivious of the academic battle going on between the two of us.

  We will never be friends—I can’t afford to have friends and she doesn’t seem to want them—but we can be worthy adversaries. The only positive that has come out of the stupid change of schools is that I have new competition. Finally someone who can challenge my ruthless domination of merit lists.

  When I got back home, curiosity got the better of me and I dug out Brahmi Sharma’s phone number from the telephone directory. It was not an easy task, Sharma being a common surname. Despite not wanting to remember, the number is now imprinted in my memory. I ran my fingers over the buttons on my landline. I want to call her but with calls starts the slippery slope of friendship, love and attachment, and god knows nothing good comes out of it. The last time I dialled anyone’s number from the phone was Sami’s. He hated long silences. Much to the chagrin of Maa who went (and still goes) through the phone bill at the end of every month with a fine-tooth comb, we used to talk on the phone every day after school. He always had so much to say.

  Sami stopped being friends with me in death. Why else would he leave me with what he hated the most? Silence.

  It’s well-deserved.

  P.S. Rajasthali Apartments. It’s seven storeys, including the parking stilts. The guards are a little hard to get past but if you are in your school uniform they don’t stop you. The roofs of five out of the six buildings are locked and the keys are with the top-floor-flat owners. But getting to the sixth one is a breeze. Only problem? There are almost always children in the flat. But it wouldn’t be a problem late at night. A few seconds to touchdown and . . .

  Just saying.

  31 January 1999

  The mystery of my sudde
n seat change has been solved. It wasn’t due to Baba’s gods but my guardian angel and the charmer of women—Dada. He had met Amarjeet Kaur ma’am and requested her to make me sit next to Brahmi Sharma because I was still traumatized from the incident in my last school and I needed new, intelligent friends. Amarjeet ma’am would have had to bow down to Dada’s panda-like eyes and his brotherly love. Dada’s like honey, diamonds and pink colour to women.

  ‘You said she’s a class topper, didn’t you? Didn’t she wish you on your birthday? So what’s the problem?’

  ‘You shouldn’t have done it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it’s wrong!’

  ‘What’s wrong in it?’

  ‘Because you can’t force things to happen.’

  ‘Whatever that means,’ said Dada.

  ‘And I don’t want anything to happen. She’s just—’

  ‘Oh, take a chill pill, Raghu. You can thank me for what I did. Don’t think I haven’t noticed how you frown, how your voice becomes guarded when you talk about her, like you’re hiding something. Aren’t you?’

  ‘No, what would I hide?’

  ‘I don’t know what goes on in that head of yours.’

  ‘Nothing goes on in this head of mine.’

  Dada might not have ever dominated merit lists like I have, but he’s sharp. Of all the lies I have told him, he found out about the little seismic shifts in my heartbeats whenever Brahmi’s name is taken. I have tried not to define the arrhythmia but now that he has mentioned the word ‘like’, it’s ricocheting in my mind. What are the conditions that need to be fulfilled for saying that X ‘likes’ Y? For example, one could have liked Brahmi Sharma’s face, her fluency in English, her impeccable report card, the smell of coconut in her hair, her handwriting and her long socks.

  But for hypothetical purposes if I were to admit I like her, these above-stated reasons mean nothing.

  The clincher for me is her being alone and being content with it. She doesn’t look wistfully at the other girls talking, laughing, and being with each other, wishing she were with them. She revels in her solitude. I like how she casually leaves the class, goes god knows where, and comes back like nothing has changed. How calmly she marks her missing attendance in the register. I like how her eyes trace the flying patterns of the pigeons outside, how she almost never laughs truly, how she fools everyone with her smiles, and how easily she convinces the teachers that she’s like everyone else. Darkness is her friend and her lover. Unlike me I am sure she has decided how she wants to die.

  But what if I like her?

  Eventually I will have to reveal myself to her along with my darkest secrets and she won’t like what she will see. And who knows what she’s hiding? It could be much worse. After all, her wrists tell a much gloomier story.

  But staying away from her might be easier said than done. Unlike her, my relationship with sadness is fraught with fault lines. My sinusoidal curve today tells me I can do with a little bit of like and hope.

  1 February 1999

  Baba has been working in a government bank for some twenty years now. In the evenings, he takes Sanskrit and English tuitions for tenth-standard students at a nearby tuition centre. Maa has been a lecturer of mathematics at Shaheed Bhagat Singh College in Delhi University for as long as I have been in this world. In their hands lie the futures of scores of young children who might or might not be the future of our great country. But no matter how important their jobs might be, they will never require them to go on business trips in airplanes like the one Dada went on today, clutching a briefcase and wearing a suit, looking dapper.

  ‘We are so proud of you. Now all I want is to find a nice Bengali girl for you. Don’t worry, we won’t get you married to the first girl you see. You can pick and choose carefully. Who wouldn’t marry my beautiful son?’ said Maa.

  Once we reached the airport, Maa clung on to Dada’s sleeve and wailed for his impending three-day absence, wiping her tears and snot on her kantha-stitch saree. It was lovely and sad to watch.

  After we dropped Maa home, Baba took me to his bank, probably to show that he was still relevant, despite Dada’s newfound economic freedom, his jacketed airline tickets and his office-funded stays in a four-star hotel in Bangalore. Baba has a decent cabin with teetering stacks of smelly files jammed with pages that have yellowed over time and a desktop of his own.

  ‘No matter how senior you are in these private companies, they still make you sit in a cubicle,’ said Baba. ‘Don’t make the mistake your Dada did. Join a government company. Why work for other people when you can work for the country?’

  ‘Of course, Baba,’ I said playing the dutiful son.

  ‘You can also take the UPSC after IIT.’

  ‘That’s always an option.’

  ‘Are you reading the newspapers every day?’

  ‘Yes, Baba.’

  ‘Who’s the defence minister?’

  ‘George Fernandes.’

  ‘Good, very good,’ he said.

  A few of Baba’s colleagues walked in at this point.

  While I played Fury 3 on the desktop, piloting a black jet, Baba and his colleagues sat arguing Atal Bihari Vajpayee’s decision to start the bus to Pakistan to improve diplomatic relationships. Baba might not have the strongest arguments but he has a heavy baritone which helps him browbeat even the most learned men into submission.

  When we got home Maa’s bloodshot eyes stared back at us. ‘He still hasn’t called. What if something happened on the way?’

  We huddled around the phone and waited for it to ring. It wasn’t the first time Dada simply forgot us, like we didn’t exist, like he could live without us. How hard was it for him to understand that Maa–Baba would only be at rest when they know we were safe and well-fed?

  Dada called three hours later. Maa broke down again and told Dada he’s never going to any business trip again, at which Dada laughed.

  ‘I love you,’ he told Maa.

  Earlier these words never came easily to Dada. It’s only recently that he has picked it up from me. We know these words work like magic on her. Till a couple of years back I used to say it at the drop of a hat—probably another reason why Maa keeps me close to her bosom—but it doesn’t come naturally to me any more. Saying those words now seems like a betrayal. Who knows what happens tomorrow? When they read the letter I write them before I go, if I choose to go, will they think I didn’t really love them and I was lying all this time?

  So now I let Dada say it more often. He may have to take my place some day. Be the favourite son. Be the only son.

  Later when Maa–Baba had gone to sleep, Dada called again to say he had something exciting to tell me once he’s back. He told me it will be our secret. SECRET. I feel bad for Dada when he thinks I will be his confidante, his brother in blood and soul. Last year I caught him smoking and he told me it was our secret. I made sure Maa–Baba found out about it and emotionally blackmailed him into stopping.

  He has to learn to be twice as good a son, make up for my absence. He can’t afford to be careless like this.

  I will have to take a break from writing this journal for a few days. The board exams start in a couple of weeks and I have got to do well. We need to keep up pretences, don’t we? For as long as I can, I will give my best to this role. I will see you in about a month.

  7 March 1999

  Welcome back.

  Today’s not a happy day.

  It’s one of god’s cruel games, tempting me with happiness, luring me into a friendship and then splintering my heart. I know god well. He’s not kind and benevolent. He’s like us, capricious and evil and corrupted by power. How twisted do you have to be to invent birth and death? One moment you’re just nothingness, air, vacuum and poof . . . suddenly you’re a foetus trapped in a womb, a helpless baby, a confused toddler, an angst-ridden teenager, a depressed young person, a burdened middle-aged person and then you slowly rot to death. Great art never dies but he made us mortal. That�
�s if men are really god’s best creation. He loves to play around with us. That’s what he did with me. He reminded me of my place, telling me that no matter how hard I try he can fiddle with my fate.

  Brahmi Sharma is in my class again.

  I thought I had seen the last of her with the tenth standard coming to an end but there she was again. It had been thirty-three painful days since I last saw her. As I am often wont to do, during the first week I lied to myself that I hadn’t been looking for her face in others. This, despite the recurring dream I had of the two of us standing at the top of the Statesman House in Connaught Place in the dead of the night with our wrists slashed and fingers intertwined. The dream ended with us endlessly falling, endlessly smiling, endlessly in love.

  The second week went by with me reaching and recoiling away from the phone like a drug addict wanting to call her, then not wanting to call her. The third week, and the most painful of all four weeks, was spent imagining an entire fictional relationship between Brahmi and me, at the end of which, we get to know each other so well that we are disgusted with what we have done and we part ways and promise to not see each other ever again. Comparatively, the fourth week was the easiest. I have never had a relationship or a break-up, and I have only seen it in the movies, but I know now how it feels. A bit like your heart’s being spit-roasted, turning slowly. On a pain scale of Mom’s food to Sami’s passing, it was tantalizingly close to the latter. Which makes me feel appalled at my softness and my gall to compare an imagined break-up with his death.

  She came and sat next to me. ‘Welcome to the eleventh standard. You did well?’ she asked. Without waiting for my answer she got back to her crossword. She said a little later, ‘Mumma’s waiting for the results more than I am. Apart from you, there’s no one who can really score more than me so I wanted to know how you did.’

  ‘I might score more than you.’

  ‘No, you won’t.’

  ‘I might,’ I said.