‘I love Maa, though,’ said Boudi.
‘You don’t have to lie. She has done nothing to deserve your love,’ I said.
‘No, I do, and she has done more than my parents did. I have no reason not to love her. I lost a home but I somewhat gained one in real terms. They did let go of their prejudices a little, didn’t they?’ she asked.
‘I thought we were supposed to talk about my plight, not yours,’ I said.
‘Such an attention-seeker,’ said Dada teasingly.
‘Look who’s talking. Everything has been about you these past months.’
‘Envy, thy name is Raghu Ganguly.’
‘Oh please, shut up. I didn’t want to come out. I was doing very well with my broken heart,’ I said.
Going out did take my mind off but now darkness awaits . . .
A while back, I called her office and she wasn’t at her desk again. I had called just twice when the receptionist advised me to not call on the board so often or she would have to put the number on the block list.
9 January 2000
I had always thought there were only a few things in the world more humiliating than your teachers berating you in front of the entire class and complaining to your parents in a PTA meeting. And today, I was proven right when three teachers stood in front of Maa–Baba with my half-yearly answer sheets, pointing out the silly mistakes that riddled the papers.
‘We didn’t expect this out of him,’ they echoed. ‘He’s dipped to the middle of the class from the top three.’
Maa–Baba felt as I did sitting there, the nerves in the necks pulsating in perfect synchronized rhythm. When the humiliation ended, Maa–Baba walked in perfect silence to the parking lot, their faces red, Baba’s fist clenching–unclenching, Maa curling the end of her saree around her thumb till she cut off circulation.
‘I forgot my purse in the class, get it,’ said Maa.
I ran to the class, searched high and low for the purse, and couldn’t find it. I ran back to the parking lot to find Maa–Baba and the car gone. I didn’t have money so I walked my way home. It took me an hour and by the time I was home, Maa–Baba were done with lunch.
‘You can go out and have some,’ said Baba.
‘I don’t have money,’ I said, pissed off at their cruel game.
And that’s where I went wrong. They had me set up to say this exact line. They had planned their entire charade around this. Because at that very moment, they both turned to me and threw me volleys I had no intention to counter.
‘If you don’t clean up your act, you won’t ever have any money,’ said Baba.
‘How can you get a 78 in mathematics? Chhee! 78! Why are you punishing us?’ said Maa.
‘Did you see how the other parents were looking at us? Like our son’s an alcoholic or a drug addict!’ said Baba.
‘At least that would have been a better explanation. But a girl? A girl? Heybhogowan! Oh god!’
‘We should have known what to expect seeing how Anirban behaved.’
Then Maa added calmly, ‘If don’t want to study, just tell us. You can get a diploma and be a foreman at a construction site. I am asking you genuinely. As parents, we want to know what you want to do when you grow up. You can be a labourer, we don’t mind, but don’t make us spend unnecessarily.’
Baba said, ‘Why didn’t you take humanities? We wouldn’t have said anything.’
I zoned out for a bit. At that point I marvelled at how indifferent I was. Two years ago the very same comments would have reduced me to tears, multiple times.
‘Why are you now just looking at us and not saying anything?’ asked Maa.
‘Answer your Maa,’ said Baba.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I will do well in the finals. Can I go study?’
