Half Girlfriend Read online

  ‘I’m not that good,’ he said.

  I threw the ball at him. He caught it reflexively.

  ‘Let’s see. I’m Madhav, by the way.’

  ‘Parth,’ he said and dribbled the ball.

  I tackled him as he ran across the court. He was good, but not experienced. It took me twenty seconds to take the ball back from him. I took a shot even though the ring was quite far. I missed. Parth collected the ball and took a shot. He scored. I high-fived him.

  The last of the sunlight fell on the court. It cast long shadows of the already tall players. I stared at the darting shadows, unable to focus on the game.

  ‘What?’ Parth said. He had scored another basket.

  ‘Nothing,’ I said, blinking rapidly.

  He passed me the ball. I caught it by habit, still lost in thought. I wondered if they had basketball courts in London. I was pretty sure they did. I wondered if she still played. And if she did, did she think of me?

  ‘Shoot, bhaiya,’ Parth said.

  I threw the ball. It not only missed the basket, but also the entire frame. My laziest and worst shot ever.

  Parth looked at me, shocked.

  ‘What level did you play, bhaiya?’ Parth said. His hopes of joining Stephen’s went up. If someone as sloppy as me could get in through sports quota, so could he.

  I smiled at him. I ran across to pick the ball. I took a shot. I missed again. I passed the ball back to Parth.

  ‘I guess I’m not much of a player anymore,’ I said.

  ‘Should I call my other friends? We can play a game.’

  I shook my head.

  ‘I’ll just bring down your level,’ I said and left the court.

  ‘Why has the MLA called us? This can’t be good,’ my mother said.

  ‘Let’s find out. Why are you getting so stressed?’

  My mother and I walked from our house to MLA Ojha’s residence.

  ‘Useless fellow,’ Ma said.

  ‘Shh, we’re here,’ I said as we entered the compound of Ojha’s bungalow.

  A freshly shaved Ojha in a sparkling white kurta-pajama received us with folded hands.

  ‘What an honour, Rani Sahiba,’ he said, beaming.

  ‘You ordered us to come. What choice do we have, Ojha ji?’ my mother said.

  ‘It was a humble request, Rani Sahiba,’ Ojha said. We followed him to his huge living room and took our seats on red velvet sofas with huge gold embroidered flowers. His dutiful wife, her head covered, arrived with a tray of water and juice. My mother took the tray from her. Mrs Ojha touched my mother’s feet.

  ‘Bless you, Kusum,’ my mother said. Kusum scurried back into the kitchen and brought back a tray of snacks comprising laddoos, kaju katli, bhujia and almonds.

  ‘Please don’t be formal,’ my mother said.

  Ojha sat on the sofa across us, a fixed grin on his face. ‘Rajkumar ji came to me for assistance. I’m sorry but I explained my helplessness,’ he said.

  ‘We understand,’ my mother said.

  ‘Well, I have a proposal. You can help me. In return, maybe something can be done for the school.’

  ‘Is it legal?’ my mother said.

  Ojha laughed hard. His plate shook in his hands.

  ‘Nothing like that at all. In fact, a chance to make Dumraon and your school proud.’

  Mother and I waited. Ojha put his plate down. ‘Frankly, it’s a big headache for me. I need your help as I’m stuck.’

  ‘What’s the matter?’ my mother said.

  ‘Have you heard of Bill Gates?’

  ‘Bilgate? No. Is it a place?’ my mother said.

  ‘No, a person. Some videshi who makes computers or something.’

  ‘Mr Bill Gates, chairman of Microsoft. They make computer software,’ I said.

  My mother and Ojha looked at me as if I were a genius.

  ‘You know this person?’ my mother said.

  ‘The richest guy on earth,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, that’s what I have heard. He has lots of money,’ Ojha said.

  ‘Sixty billion dollars,’ I said.

  ‘How much?’ Ojha said.

  ‘Two lakh forty thousand crore rupees,’ I said.

  Ojha’s eyebrows went up an inch.

  ‘What?’ my mother said. ‘So much? And how do you know all this?’

  ‘Read it in a magazine. It’s common knowledge, Ma,’ I said.

  ‘Hmm. . . Mr Ojha. You were saying?’ my mother said.

  ‘Well, this Gates is coming to India. To Bihar, in fact.’

  ‘Has he gone mad? He makes so much money so he can come visit Bihar?’ she said.

  Ojha laughed. ‘I don’t know much, Rani Sahiba. He has some NGO. They are bringing him here.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Maybe he will see the interiors of Bihar and feel richer.’

  My mother and Ojha laughed. Ojha left the room and came back with a letter. He handed it to me. The letter had come from the state ministry of rural welfare:

  To all MLAs/District Collectors/DCPs,

  The state ministry of rural welfare is pleased to inform that eminent entrepreneur and philanthropist Mr Bill Gates will be visiting Bihar along with delegates from the Gates Foundation from 15 April to 22 April 2009. The state government would like to extend its support to his team. In that regard, request your good offices to provide all cooperation as needed. Suggestions for places Mr Gates could visit or any events he could grace as chief guest on his week-long trip to Bihar are welcome and encouraged.

  Please contact the relevant officials in the rural welfare ministry with any queries or suggestions.

  Signed,

  Bhanwar Lal

  Minister for Rural Welfare

  State Government of Bihar

  The other side of the page carried the Hindi translation of the same letter.

  ‘So how can we help you?’ my mother said, after reading it herself.

  ‘Rani Sahiba, if Bill Gates comes here, my constituency will be in the news. Will be good for Dumraon.’

  ‘You will get press coverage. The minister will give you a pat on the back. Say that, Ojha ji,’ my mother said.

  He couldn’t suppress a smile.

  ‘Well, that too,’ he said. ‘But ultimately it is good for our town.’

  My mother knew the political game. Ojha wanted a Lok Sabha ticket in the next election. He had to do things to get noticed.

  ‘What exactly would you like us to do?’ I said.

  ‘Organize a school function. Invite him as the chief guest. Through me, of course. I’ll ask the ministry to put the school visit on his agenda.’

  ‘No, no, no. . .’ Ma threw up her hands in the air.

  ‘What, Rani Sahiba?’ Ojha said.

  ‘I can barely run the school. I don’t have the resources to organize a function. Who will pay for the arrangements?’

  ‘We will,’ Ojha said promptly. ‘I will pay for the function.’

  ‘I thought you didn’t have any funds,’ I said.

  The MLA looked at me.

  ‘See, son, I am trying to help you. But there has to be something in it for me.’

  ‘So you pay for the function. People come, attend and leave. What do we get in return?’ I said.

  ‘Your school’s name will be in every paper,’ he said.

  ‘We don’t need publicity, we need toilets,’ I said.

  ‘We will arrange some makeshift toilets for the day.’

  ‘Exactly. You are only interested in that day. What about us after that?’

  My mother stood up to leave.

  ‘We will whitewash the school for you,’ Ojha said.

  I looked at my mother. Perhaps there was something here.

  ‘Toilets?’ I said.

  ‘Over there,’ Ojha said pointed to a door in the right corner.

  ‘No, I don’t want to use the toilet. I meant, what about the school toilets?’

  ‘That’s a big project. The school doesn’t have plumbing. Eve