Authors: Chetan Bhagat
Ma wasn’t home when I arrived. I entered my old room. The large
wooden doors creaked more than before. The cupboard doors had
become stiff. I opened the windows. Sunlight fell on the posters of
Shaquille O’Neal and Magic Johnson stuck on my wall for the last five
years.
I lay on the bed, staring at the basketball champions. I wondered if
I should have focused more on the national trials.
A few hours later my mother returned from school. ‘Ma,’ I
screamed from the window.
My mother saw me as she entered the haveli gate. She waved at
me. I rushed downstairs and gave her a big hug. Girlfriends come and
go but, thank God, mothers don't break up with you.
‘You said tomorrow,’ she said. We sat on one of the living-room
sofas, frayed but still elegant.
‘I thought I would surprise you,' I said.
‘That’s nice. But you spoilt our surprise.'
‘How?’.
Savitri tai, one of my mother’s oldest helpers, brought in tea and
sweet litti.
‘Your coronation.You saw the tents outside, right?’
‘What?’ I said, a half-eaten litti ball in my hand.
‘It’s an auspicious day, Ashad Krishna.’
‘Ma, I don’t want this drama.’
‘It isn’t drama. It’s tradition,’ my mother said in a low, emotional
voice, the perfect starting point for female drama.
‘I’ll feel like a joker, being anointed a prince in a democracy.’
My mother stood up and walked to the dining table, her back to
me. She remained silent, her most potent weapon. Standing tall at five
feet, eight inches, in her starched saree, my mother did look royal. She
clenched her fists tight.
I walked up to her.
‘Ma, you shouldn't have sent me to college if you wanted me to
keep following such rituals.'
My mother spoke, her back still towards me.‘Funny, I was thinking
the same thing.’
I went around the dining table to face her. ‘We have an MLA,’ I
said. ‘What’s his name?’
My mother looked at me in defiance.
‘What’s his name, Ma?’
‘Ojha. Useless fellow.’
'Yes, Ojha. We also have an MP in Buxar and a CM in Patna.’
‘The villagers still care for us.You know why?’ she said.
‘Because they are old-fashioned and uneducated?’
My mother looked at me sharply. ‘You’ve become like them.’
‘Like whom?’
‘The over-educated idiots in big cities. Whenever they don’t
understand villagers, they call them uneducated and old-fashioned.’
I listened to her reprimand, keeping my head down. The Rani
Sahiba’s rare loss of temper could not be taken lightly.
‘So why do they want to coronate me? Nothing else entertaining
happening in Durnraon?’
‘They want to because the so-called government doesn’t seem to
care.’
I poured a glass of water and handed it to my mother.
'Ma, I have finished college and come back. Can you not shout at
me within the first hour of meeting me?’
‘Your actions deserve it, so what can I do?’
‘Okay, sorry. I am sorry, Ma.’
She relented and we sat on the sofa again. I placed four more littis
on my plate.
‘There’s dinner. Don’t stuff yourself with these,’ Ma said.
‘Sorry,’ I said, and put my plate back on the table.
‘Anyway, it is just a two-hour-long ceremony—the rajyabhishek
puja and lunch. What is the problem?’
‘No problem at all. I’ll do it.’
The fan in the room stopped. In seconds, sweat beads appeared on
our foreheads. In minutes, mosquitoes hovered over us.
‘What happened?’ I said.
‘Load-shedding. Go thank your government for this,’ my mother
said.
16
'How much longer, Pandit ji?’ I said. My back hurt from sitting
cross-legged on the floor for over two hours. Marriages get done faster
than this. The village priest chanted holy mantras for my peaceful and
successful rule. Whatever.
Around two hundred people from Dumraon and nearby villages
had come to attend the ceremony. People sat on red plastic chairs.
Giant pedestal fans recirculated the hot air.
I recognized a few important guests. MLA Vijay Ojha, a sixty-year-
old man who had been in local politics for over forty years, sat in the
front row.The district collector and the police inspector sat next to him.
Local press reporters took pictures and hovered around them.
Finally, my mother presented the royal crown to Pandit ji; she had
taken it out of our family safe. It was one of the few precious items we
had left.
Pandit ji placed the two-kilo crown on my head. The crowd
applauded. My mother burst into tears. She gave me a hug—an
embarrassing public display of affection.
‘Happy now?’ I said, whispering in her ear.
‘My rajkumar.’ She hugged me even tighter.
I was sweating profusely in my velvet bandhgala suit. ‘Rajkumar is
melting in the heat. Can I change?’ I said.
I came down from the stage. Reporters made me pose for photos.
My mother introduced me to guests even as reporters took my
pictures.
‘Mubarak, Rajkumar sahib,’ said a young man in his twenties. My
mother introduced him as Akhtar Hussain, one of the two teachers in
her school.
‘Call me Madhav,’ I said to Akhtar, shaking his hand. He seemed
embarrassed at the suggestion.
‘Madhav, meet Tej Lal, another teacher at our school, and
Tarachand ji, the administrative officer,’ my mother said.
I folded my hands to wish both men, each in their fifties. ‘I will be
joining the school too,’ I said.
My mother’s staff looked at her in surprise.
‘I thought you went to a top college in Delhi,’Akhtar said.
‘So?’ I said.
‘You can get a good job anywhere,’Akhtar said.
‘This is not a good job?’ I said. Everyone grinned.
MLA Ojha reached us. He had a thick moustache, upwardly mobile
on either side.
‘Congratulations, Rani Sahiba,’ he said.
'Ojha ji, thank you so much for coming,’ my mother said.
He folded his hands to take permission to leave.
‘But what about lunch?’
‘I have two other functions in Buxar. Please excuse me,’ he said,
hands still folded.
My mother looked at me. She wanted me to persuade him to stay.
‘Ojha ji, stay a little while. We can eat together,’ I said.
‘No, Rajkumar ji. Besides, you won’t be done soon. See, the line
has built up.’
I turned around to find a queue of about fifty villagers waiting to
seek my blessings. A few kids came up to me. They wanted to touch
the sword attached to my waist. I guess if you look like a clown, you
do attract some attention.
'If only voters loved their netas like they love you,’ MLA Ojha said
before he left.
One by one, I blessed the villagers.
‘Is he a real prince? Like those in stories?’ I overheard a young girl
whisper to another.
‘Of course he is,’ her friend said.
‘So where is his princess?’ the young girl said.
I smiled. My princess had moved to another faraway kingdom.
‘What time is school tomorrow, Ma?’ I said.
‘Seven in the morning. Think about work later. Enjoy being the
ruler today,’ she said.
It is no fun being a ruler when someone else still rules you.
*
The Dumraon Royal School is a twenty-minute walk from our
haveli. I accompanied my mother as we hiked through fields at 6.30 in
the morning. ‘There are three shifts, over two hundred students in
each,’ my mother said.‘7 to 10.30, 10:30 to 2, and 2 to 5:30.’
We reached the grey-and-black school building. It seemed much
older than the last time I’d seen it.
‘Why is it black?’ I said.
‘Hasn’t been painted in five years. Every year, the rains wreck the
plaster even more.’
I wondered how Stephen’s managed to keep its walls a perfect
reddish-brown.
The first-shift kids had arrived. They played in the fields outside
the school. We had two classrooms and a common staffroom. The
staffroom had a long table with several chairs—the teachers used the
room to rest in during breaks or to check notebooks.
‘Why is it so dark?’ I said.
‘Power comes at eight,’ my mother said.
The long table had a stack of files and books at three corners.
‘Akhtar, Tej and I have a corner each. The empty one is yours,’ my
mother said.
She sat down on her end. She lit a candle and opened a file.
‘These windows could be bigger,’ I said.
My mother nodded without looking up. Akhtar,Tej andTarachand
arrived in the next five minutes. They folded their hands when they
saw me.
‘Please treat me as a new employee,’ I said to them.
Amused, Akhtar and Tej collected their books for class. Tarachand
stepped outside the staffroom. He rang the brass bell in the corridor.
The teachers left for their classes. Tarachand came back and spoke to
my mother.
‘SMDC didn’t send anyone,’ he said.
‘Oh no,’ my mother said. ‘He promised. The officer gave me his
word, Tara ji.’
‘I went to his house, Rani Sahiba. He said he tried. Hard to justify
more funds,’ Tarachand said.
‘We want one toilet. How hard is it to justify funds for one toilet
for seven hundred children?’ my mother said.
‘He said most schools in the area manage without one. Why is Rani
Sahiba fussing?’
‘Ask him for half a toilet. Tell him to make one for the girls. One
girls’ toilet,Tara ji,’ my mother said.
‘Don’t embarrass me, Rani Sahiba. I tried. We need money for so
many other things too. We need to plaster the roofs, make more rooms
and whitewash the building. SMDC said they have nothing.’
Noises came from the corridor. Kids had assembled outside.
‘Make them sit, please,’ my mother said.
Tarachand stepped out to manage the crowd. The children sat
down at one end of the corridor. They faced a wall painted black.
My mother held her forehead with her right hand.
‘You okay?’ I said to her.
She nodded.
‘What’s SMDC?’
‘The School Monitoring and Development Committee. A
government body meant to help rural schools. They come, watch and
leave. Nobody ever helps anyone.’
The lights came on. The fan above started to creak. The cool
breeze felt wonderful on my sweaty skin. My mother leaned back in
her chair and closed her eyes, enjoying the fan’s breeze.
‘Why are the children sitting in the corridor?’ I said, disturbing her
reverie.
‘Huh? Oh, that is class I,’ my mother said.
The morning shift had classes I to IV. Classes II, III and IV used
the available classrooms. Class I used the corridor as their classroom.
I looked outside the staffroom. Kids sat on the floor, waiting for
my mother.
‘Help me with enrolment. Villagers don’t like sending kids to
school,’ my mother said.
‘But Ma, I want to teach as well,’ I said.
‘There’s lots of other work.Tarachand ji is hopeless at paperwork.’
‘Sounds boring.’
‘It’s important. I need someone to keep records and lobby with the
authorities. I don’t have the energy.’
I took a deep breath and nodded. Like the school, my mother was
turning old and weak.
‘Ma, can’t we pay for some of these repairs?’ I said.
My mother looked at me. I knew the answer from her expression.
‘I try to give what I can. We hardly have money to repair the
haveli. You were studying in Delhi, so I had that expense. Don’t have
much.’
I felt guilty. I wondered if I could have served my mother better by
accepting that HSBC job. At least I could have sent her a cheque every
month.
‘We manage. Don’t worry. I’m happy you’re here,’ my mother said,
reading my mind.
‘How?’ I said.
‘I take no salary. I pay the staff. If something breaks down I pay
for it. Beyond that, it is difficult. The government is supposed to aid
us. They don’t.’
‘What about what we earn from the fees?’
‘It’s nothing. The fee is five rupees a month. Even then, many
students don’t pay on time. If we are lucky, the fee covers the
electricity bill.’
The noise levels in the corridor increased. A cacophony of
conversation, laughter and screaming drowned our conversation,
‘Look at them. Noisy monkeys. I better go,’ my mother said. She
walked out.
The difference between seventy kids on their own and seventy kids
with a teacher can be immense. In an instant, the class fell silent.
I spent the rest of the morning reading all the files and documents
related to the school. I quickly realized that running a school of seven
hundred with a staff of four is no joke.
‘Okay, start counting in English,’ my mother shouted outside.
‘One, two, three...’ the kids chanted in unison. I didn’t know
whether these kids from the village would ever use their knowledge of
English numerals. Still, watching them learn something felt good. It
felt better than watching a movie at a Delhi multiplex. It felt better than the posh party at Riya’s house.
‘From now on, these kids are my life,’ I told myself.
17
Six months later
'You promised, Sarpanch ji,’ I said, using a hand fan to cool
myself. I had come to his house a third time. Sarpanch Gopi, the man
in charge of Aamva village, had assured me that every child in his