Revolution Twenty20 Read online

  Raghav chatted with his friends. Aarti sliced the cake for everyone. The music became loud again. I made another drink and leaned against the wall, wondering if I should leave.

  Aarti offered me cake on a paper plate. I declined.

  ‘So, when does your college open?’ she said.

  ‘In three months GangaTech starts admissions,’ I said.

  ‘Really? Can I apply?’ She laughed.

  ‘I’ll print you a degree if you want, you do not even have to attend classes,’ I said.

  ‘Really?’ she said, wagging a finger. ‘Yeah, give me an Electronics Engineer degree like Raghav’s. But better marks than him.’

  ‘Sure,’ I said.

  She laughed even more. I had tried so hard the last four years to get over Aarti. Yet, one laugh of hers had set back years of effort. Suddenly it felt like we had never been apart.

  I had to leave. ‘I better go,’ I muttered.

  ‘Why?’ she said, ‘You just came.’

  ‘I don’t fit in here.’

  ‘It’s okay. I hardly know these people either. All nerdy engineers. Come, let’s go to the balcony.’

  We sat in Raghav’s balcony. I took little sips of my drink. The breeze blew Aarti’s hair in my face. I moved away a bit.

  ‘You finished your course at the aviation academy?’ I said.

  ‘Yes, Frankfinn ended two months ago. I am applying to all the airlines. Let’s see if they call me for interviews,’ she said.

  ‘There’s no airline in Varanasi.’

  ‘Yeah, I’ll have to move to Delhi or Mumbai. There’s even a new low-cost airline in Bangalore. It depends.’

  ‘On what?’ I said.

  ‘Where I get a job. Of course, now it is complicated as Raghav’s here.’

  ‘He can be a journalist in other cities too,’ I said.

  ‘I guess,’ she said as she tucked her hair behind her ear. ‘But he likes Varanasi. He knows this place and the issues here. How is your drink? Can I take a sip?’

  I gave her my glass. ‘How much does he get paid for this Dainik job?’ I said. I had to know how much Raghav made.

  She took a few sips and kept the glass for herself. ‘A third of what Infosys would give him,’ she said.

  ‘Wow. And his parents are okay with it?’

  ‘No way! They went ballistic when he told them. It isn’t just about the money, he isn’t using his engineering degree. They are still upset.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So what? He doesn’t care. He feels the revolution begins at home. Society changes only when individual family norms are challenged.’

  ‘Revolution?’ I said.

  ‘Oh yeah, he is quite into that. The Great Indian Revolution. Oops, I finished your drink. I am so sorry,’ she said and touched my arm in apology.

  ‘It’s fine. I’ll make another one. And you are cool with his career choice?’

  ‘Of course, I believe one should follow their passion. Am I not working towards mine? So an air hostess isn’t the same as a revolution, but still, that’s me.’

  ‘What exactly is this revolution?’ I said, irritated.

  ‘Well, Raghav believes there will be a real people’s revolution in India one day, that’s his thing.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Ask him, he will explain it to you. Wait, I will get us more drinks.’

  She went back in. I waited in the balcony. I did not want to be with the smug software types inside. I imagined a day when students from my college would get jobs. I wondered if big software companies would ever visit GangaTech. Of course, we had to open for admissions first.

  She came back with a tray. It had two drinks, and a plate with sandwiches, cake and potato chips.

  ‘I thought you might be hungry,’ she said. Aarti cannot help but be the caring mother types.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, taking my glass.

  ‘Now tell me, why did you forget me?’ Aarti said.

  ‘Who said I had forgotten you?’ I said. Our eyes met. It felt awkward after about three seconds. I blinked first.

  ‘I have a mobile phone now. Do you want my number?’ she said.

  ‘Sure,’ I said. Shukla-ji had given me a cellphone too. We exchanged numbers.

  ‘I’d like to see your college sometime,’ she said.

  ‘Let it open. I’ll do an inauguration,’ I said.

  ‘Is the college your passion?’ she said.

  ‘I don’t know. It’s the best opportunity life gave me.’

  ‘Have you felt passionate about anything, Gopal? It’s an amazing feeling,’ Aarti said.

  I remained silent as I stared at her, my passion.

  ‘Anything?’ she said.

  ‘Money, I want to make lots of money,’ I said.

  She threw up her hands in the air. ‘Oh, come on,’ Aarti said, ‘That’s not passion. That’s ambition.’

  ‘I don’t know, let’s go in.’ I stood up. I didn’t want Raghav to see us alone.

  ‘Stay here,’ she said cajolingly and pulled me down by my hand. ‘We haven’t met for ages. What are you up to? Do you have a girlfriend?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘You should get one. It is amazing to be in love. A feeling even better than passion,’ she said.

  ‘It’s amazing to be in love only when the other person loves you back,’ I said. I regretted my statement instantly.

  ‘Ouch! Below the belt.’

  ‘I am sorry,’ I said.

  ‘That was so long ago. And Raghav and I are happy. So happy.’

  ‘Should we go back in?’ I said.

  ‘If you are willing to open up,’ Aarti said, ‘you can find someone nice, Gopal.’

  ‘I don’t need anyone,’ I said and looked away.

  She held my chin and turned my face towards her. ‘You will own a college. I will be just a flight attendant selling chips, if I am lucky. You can get someone better.’

  ‘Someone better than you?’ I said.

  ‘Totally,’ she said.

  ‘That is not possible, Aarti,’ I said. Before she could answer, I stood up again and returned to the party.

  I went up to Raghav and told him I had to leave to meet a contractor. He didn’t seem to mind it much. I came outside his apartment and took the stairs down. Aarti came after me. ‘Gopal!’

  I looked back at her from the steps. ‘What?’ I said.

  ‘Don’t tell me you still have feelings for me?’

  I swallowed hard. ‘Not at all,’ I said and sprinted out.

  19

  ‘How long is your break?’ I shouted. A group of labourers sat under the banyan tree near the main campus building. ‘It’s two-thirty, lunch ended an hour ago.’

  We had only a week left for the final AICTE inspection. The classrooms needed a last lick of paint. The workers didn’t care.

  ‘Your work will be done, sahib,’ said one of the workers, folding the newspaper he had been sitting on. He wore a tattered vest and dark trousers with cream paint all over it.

  ‘My college won’t open if the inspector is unhappy with us,’ I said.

  ‘Who is going to say no to your college?’ the worker stood up.

  The other workers tightened their turbans. They picked up their brushes and moved to the classrooms. I remained under the banyan tree, exhausted by my daily ritual of hauling up the men every two hours. I glanced down at the newspaper left behind by the workers. A headline caught my attention: ‘Varanasi needs more colleges’.

  I picked up the newspaper. Under the headline was the writer’s name – Raghav Kashyap.

  The article talked about how the youth population of Varanasi had grown significantly in the last ten years. At the same time, the number of colleges had not kept pace with the demand. It made recommendations on how the government could make education a priority. He even argued that the government should allow colleges to make a legitimate profit, so that corporate bodies could enter the sector and improve quality. Even though it came from Raghav, I l