‘But they would still want you to score as much as, say, I did, wouldn’t they?’
‘They would love it. But they know I’m not smart enough—’
‘Oh please! Not that intelligence crutch again. Everyone can score. It’s just about putting in the hours. I’m not gifted, I just work harder. And you don’t work hard enough for your parents’ happiness.’
‘That’s not very nice of you to say.’
‘No, I am saying that’s good. Like how do you do it? Like how do you ignore your parents’ wishes just like that?’
‘By doing what I want! It’s pretty simple. You should try it out sometime,’ she said and giggled.
25 May 1999
A deathly silence has descended over the Ganguly household. The three men had each vowed wars—the father against a religion, the elder son against an ideology, and I against love. The mother looked like she would have a stroke any moment. Let’s start with the eldest—Baba—whose worst fears have come true. In what’s being said to be one of the biggest intelligence gaffes, 800 Pakistani infiltrators have been found occupying 25 kilometres of Indian Territory in Kargil and Drass.
‘IT’S A WAR!’ said Baba, waving his fists. ‘Look at the betrayal. Our government sends buses to them and they send us dead bodies of our soldiers. See, Raghu, didn’t I tell you? We Hindus are too soft! We gave them a country and yet they want more! You think the Musalmans who live in Hindustan are loyal to the country? Thoo!’ Baba spat on the ground and stomped on it. ‘If they are so loyal, let them fight on the front lines, let them fight their co-religionists, spill their blood!’
‘Baba, you’re overreacting. Why do you think the Muslims chose to stay back? Because we promised them a secular state. Their allegiance lies with us. Our country was built on these principles,’ grumbled Dada.
‘Bullshit! Secularism, my foot! What will we get out of secularism, haan? Tell me?’ he shouted. ‘It’s because of people like you that we are treated like second-class citizens in our own country. Always with the appeasing of the minorities. You think they will be brothers, no they won’t, they find you sleeping and they . . . ’ Like always, Baba put forward a chilling scenario of an impending massacre. Gruesome stories with gruesome endings come easily to Baba. Strange that he and Didimaa don’t get along.
‘Ei!’ Maa shrieked to stop Baba but the words had flown out of his mouth.
‘I’m saying nothing wrong. Just wait and see what happens to us. We should all band together before it’s too late and . . .’
Midway through Baba’s rather hilariously impractical but cruel plan, Dada had left. Baba turned his attention to me. He said, ‘Do you have any Musalman friends?’
‘No, but—’
‘Good. Good. Never make a Musalman your friend. We are not the same, remember that!’
Maa asked me to go to my room. I was happy to oblige. Pakistan’s betrayal of the olive leaf that the Indian government had extended to them was nothing compared to what Brahmi and Sahil Ahuja had done to me. Today’s lesson wasn’t about an arch nemesis’s betrayal, but that of a friend’s.
Earlier today I was intentionally late for school. I had given Brahmi the chance to wait for me but she went about her day like I didn’t exist. I had followed their trail . . . the dead frog with the still heart in the dustbin, the crumbs of wafers in the canteen, the lingering echoes of Sahil’s laughter in the empty corridors. I found Sahil and her sitting with their legs dipped in the swimming pool, their hands within touching distance.
Of all the places—the swimming pool—where it had all begun.
They must have sneaked in like Sami and I had, feeling brave, feeling adventurous. Unlike the swimming pool here, the one in my older school had new diving boards, the ones Sami and I were the first ones to test. They were dismantled soon after Sami plunged to his death. I didn’t want to enter the swimming-pool area but Sahil’s laughs drew me in. And in the water, I saw Sami. He was right there, struggling, looking at me, taking my name and begging me to save him.
Their smiles, their little murmurs shook me out of my reverie and broke something inside me, like Sami himself was reminding me what I had done to him. It could have been a minute or an hour that I stood there, watching. The pain spread through my body like a plague. The anxiety gave way to despair, the despair to anger, the anger to pain, and the pain fuelled an urge to avenge myself. I woke up the watchman and told on the two of them. The watchman hurried inside and caught them by their ears. I came back home and waited for her call. None came. Now I’m thinking of ways to lay waste their love story before it begins.
I will have my war.
I was still weighing my strategies when Dada stumbled into my room. It was only then that I noticed the scraggy beard and the overcast eyes of a heartbroken lover. I know because I have looked into the mirror and I look a bit like him. Two brothers with doomed love stories.
‘Her parents know,’ he said, slowly and painfully, as if the words were carving their way out of his throat. ‘They have locked her in. Her brothers said they would strangle me if they found me near her ever again. They are planning to get her married to someone else.’
‘Dada.’
‘Can you imagine what she must be going through?’ he asked, his eyes glazed over.
‘You should have been ready for this. You should have never fallen in love, held her hand, gone on dates. What good has ever come of falling in love? Didn’t you tell me you weren’t sure?’
‘I need to talk to her parents,’ he said with a sense of urgency. Like he wasn’t listening to me.
‘Won’t you make it worse by talking to her parents? Just let it be. Slowly everyone will forget everything,’ I said, despite knowing that if his love story meets this abrupt end, it will break his heart and he might not love ever again. We aren’t on a merry-go-round; love doesn’t keep happening to us. It’s one moment, one person, one life.
‘I don’t want to forget her. I want to get married to her.’
