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  ‘Aarti’s here. How are you, man? How’s Kota? We miss you.’

  ‘Aarti is at your place?’ I asked, puzzled.

  ‘Yeah, she wanted me to help her choose her course. She is not sure about Psychology.’

  Aarti snatched the phone from Raghav mid-sentence.

  ‘Gopal! Where are you?’

  ‘In Kota, of course. I called you,’ I said. I wanted to ask her why she had come to Raghav’s place. However, it didn’t seem the best way to start a conversation.

  ‘Why didn’t you call back? I don’t even have a number to call you,’ she said.

  ‘Will ask my landlord if I can receive calls. Tell me when you will be home. I will call you. I want to talk.’

  ‘Talk now. What’s up?’

  ‘How can I talk now?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You are with Raghav,’ I said.

  ‘So?’

  ‘What are you doing at Raghav’s place?’

  ‘Nothing. Generally.’

  When girls use vague terms like ‘generally’, it is cause for specific concern. Or maybe not. It could be my overactive mind.

  ‘I have to choose a course. Should I do Psychology or BSc Home Science?’ she said.

  ‘What do you want to do?’ I said.

  ‘I have to finish my graduation before becoming an air hostess. That’s the only reason I am doing it. I want an easy course.’

  ‘Oh, so your air hostess plans are not dead,’ I said.

  ‘Well, Raghav says one should not give up one’s dream so easily. Maybe BSc Home Science is better, no? Sort of related to hospitality industry. Or should I leave Agrasen and join hotel management?’

  I kept quiet. Raghav’s advising her? Who is he? A career counsellor? Or does he have the license to preach now because he has a fucking JEE rank?

  ‘Tell me no, Gopi,’ Aarti said. ‘I am so confused.’ Then I heard her titter.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ I said.

  ‘Raghav is pretending to be an air hostess. He has a tray and everything,’ she said, greatly amused.

  ‘I’ll talk to you later,’ I said.

  ‘Okay, but tell me which course to take,’ she said, her tone finally serious.

  ‘Ask Raghav, he is the better student,’ I said.

  ‘C’mon, Gopi. Nonsense you talk.’

  ‘Let us talk when you are alone,’ I said.

  ‘Call me this time tomorrow.’

  ‘Okay, bye.’

  ‘Bye,’ Aarti said.

  ‘I miss you,’ I said, a second too late. I only got a click in response.

  I returned to my room where my dinner tiffin and the brochures awaited me. I imagined Aarti at Raghav’s place, in peals of laughter. My insides burnt.

  I picked up a brochure in disgust. I took a blade from my shaving kit, cut out the cover pictures of the IIT-selected students, and ripped them to shreds.

  Bansal classes did not look like the small tuition centres run out of tiny apartments in Varanasi. It resembled an institute or a large corporate office. I stood in the gigantic lobby, wondering what to do next. Students and teachers strode about in a purposeful manner, as if they were going to launch satellites in space. Like in many other coaching classes in Kota, the students had uniforms to eliminate social inequality. You had rich kids from Delhi, whose parents gave them more pocket money than my father earned in an entire year. On the other hand, you had losers like me from Varanasi, who had neither the cash nor the brains required to be here.

  Equality in clothes didn’t mean Bansal believed all students were equal. A class system existed, based on your chances of cracking the entrance exam.

  The person at the admissions office took my form. ‘High performer?’ he quizzed.

  I wondered how anyone could respond to such a question. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘If you have more than 85 per cent aggregate in class XII, or if you have an AIEEE rank up to 40,000, you get a thirty per cent discount,’ the bespectacled gentleman at the counter explained to me.

  ‘I have 79 per cent. AIEEE rank 52,043,’ I said.

  ‘Oh. In that case you apply for full-rate programme,’ the admission officer said. I didn’t realise my AIEEE rank could directly translate into money.

  ‘Can I get a discount?’ I said, wondering if one could bargain here.

  ‘Depends on how you do in our entrance exam,’ the officer said and stamped my form. He handed me a receipt-cum-admit card for the entrance exam.

  ‘Do I have to study for your entrance exam?’ I said.

  ‘What will you study in two days? Anyway, you don’t look like such a bright student going by your marks. My suggestion is to apply to other institutes,’ he replied.

  ‘Thanks, I will,’ I said.

  The officer looked around to ensure nobody could hear us. ‘My cousin has just started an institute. I can get you a fifty per cent discount there,’ he whispered.

  I kept quiet. He slipped me a visiting card: ‘Dream IIT’.

  ‘Why waste money? Course material is the same. My cousin is an ex-Bansal faculty.’

  I examined the card.

  ‘Don’t tell anyone, okay?’ he said.

  I had similar experiences at other institutes. Walls covered with stamp-sized pictures of successful JEE candidates, resembling wanted terrorists, greeted me everywhere. I also realised that the reputed institutes kicked up a bigger fuss about ‘repeaters’. After all, we had failed once, and institutes didn’t want to spoil their statistics. Top institutes claimed to send up to five hundred students a year to IIT. Of course, the institutes never reveal that they enrol ten thousand students, out of which only five hundred make it. This meant a low selection ratio of five per cent. However, the JEE had an overall selection ratio of less than two per cent, and Kota institutes claimed to beat it. The pre-screening of candidates could be the sole reason for the higher-than-average selection. However, students like me flocked from around the country anyway, and queued up to submit the admission forms.

  AimIIT and CareerIgnite had less people lining up. In fact, they gave me spot offers. The latter even offered a twenty per cent discount.

  ‘The discount is applicable only if you sign up right now, not if you come again,’ the aggressive salesman-cum-admissions in-charge told me.

  ‘But I have not decided yet,’ I protested.

  ‘You are appearing for Bansal, aren’t you?’ he said and gave me an all-knowing look.

  I kept quiet.

  ‘I am an ex-Bansalite,’ he said.

  ‘Is there anyone in Kota who is not?’ I said and left the institute.

  8

  ‘Gopal! So nice to hear your voice,’ Aarti said. She recognised me in a second. It felt good.

  ‘Go to hell, you don’t care,’ I said.

  ‘Huh? How stupid. I do care. Firstly, do you have a number I can call?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said and gave her my landlord’s number. ‘But don’t call a lot. He said no more than twice a week.’

  ‘So what? I will be the only one calling you, no?’ Aarti said.

  ‘Yeah. Anyway, how’s life? I hate it here.’

  ‘Is it that bad? Have you started studying?’ she asked.

  ‘No, I can’t. It is hard to pick up the same books again. Maybe I will get motivated after I join a coaching class.’

  ‘I should have been there, I would have motivated you.’ She laughed.

  ‘Don’t make such jokes.’

  ‘You will be fine, Gopi. One more attempt. If you get through, your career will be made.’

  ‘I miss you,’ I said, less interested in useless things like my career.

  ‘Oh,’ she said, somewhat surprised by my shifting gears. ‘I miss you too.’

  ‘I have no one, Aarti,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t say that. Baba is there. Raghav, me … We talk about you a lot.’ Her voice trailed off.

  ‘Why don’t we become a couple?’

  ‘Don’t. Please don’t start that again. We have d