Half Girlfriend (2 page)

matter. 1 don’t want to get involved. Okay?’

His gaze remained directed at the floor.‘I don’t want the journals

either,’ he said after a while.

‘That is for you to decide.'

‘It's too painful for me,’ he said.

'I can imagine.’

He stood up, presumably to leave, He had not touched his sandwich

—which was okay, because I could eat it after he left.

‘Thank you for your time. Sorry to have disturbed you.’

‘It’s okay,’ I said.

He scribbled his phone number on a piece of paper and kept it on

the table.‘If you are ever in Dumraon and need anything, let me know.

It’s unlikely you will ever come, but still...’ He stood up, instantly

dwarfing me, and walked to the door. *

‘Madhav,’ I called out after him, ‘you forgot the journals. Please

take them with you.’

‘I told you I don’t need them.’

‘So why are you leaving them here?’

‘Because I can’t throw them away. You can.'

Before I could answer, he stepped out, shut the door and left. It

took me a few Seconds to realize what had happened.

I picked up the journals and ran out of the room, but the sole

working lift had just gone down. I could have taken the stairs and

caught him in time but, after a long day, I didn’t have tjie energy to do that.

I came back to my room, irritated by his audacity. Dumping the

notebooks and the slip with his phone number in the dustbin, I sat on

the bed, a little unsettled,
I can’t let someone I just met get the better
of me
, I thought, shaking my head. I switched off the lights and lay down. I had to catch an early-morning flight to Mumbai the next day

and had a four-hour window of sleep. I couldn’t wait to reach home.

However, I couldn’t stop thinking about my encounter with the

mysterious Madhav, Who was this guy? The words ‘Dumraon’,

‘Stephen’s’ and ‘Delhi’ floated around in my head. Questions popped

up:
What the hell is a half-girlfriend? And why do l have a dead girl’s
journals in my room?

Eyes wide open, l lay in bed, staring at the little flashing red light

from the smoke detector on the ceiling, The journals bothered me.

Sure, they lay in the dustbin. However, something about those torn

pages, the dead person and her half-boyfriend, or whoever he was,

intrigued me.
Don’t go there
, I thought, but my mind screamed down its own suggestion:
Read just one page
.

‘Don’t even think about it,’ I said out loud. But thirty minutes later,

I switched on the lights in my room, fished out the journals from the

dustbin and opened the first volume. Most pages were too damaged to

read. I tried to make sense of what I could.

The first page dated back nine years to 1 November 2002. Riya had

written about her fifteenth birthday. One mere page, I kept thinking. I

flipped through the pages as I tried to find another readable one. 1

read one more section, and then another. Three hours later, I had read

whatever could be read in the entire set.

The room phone rang at 5 a.m., startling me.

‘Your wake-up call, sir,’ the hotel operator said.

‘I am awake, thank you,’ I said, as I’d never slept at all. I called Jet

Airways.

‘I’d like to cancel a ticket on the Patna-Mumbai flight this

morning.’

Pulling out the slip of paper with Madhav s number from the

dustbin, I texted him: We need to talk. Important.

At 6.30 a.m., the tall, lanky man was in my room once more.

‘Make tea for both of us. The kettle is above the minibar.’

He followed my instructions.The early morning sun highlighted his

sharp features. He handed me a cup of tea and took a seat diagonally

opposite me on the double bed.

‘Should I speak first, or will you?’ I said.

‘About?’

‘Riya.’

He sighed.

‘Do you think you knew her well?’

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘You feel comfortable talking about her to me?’

He thought for a few seconds and nodded.

‘So tell me everything. Tell me the story of Madhav and Riya.’

‘A story that fate left incomplete,’ he said.

‘Fate can be strange indeed.’

‘Where do I start? When we first met?’

‘Always a good place,’ I said.

ACT I

Delhi

1

Where?’ I gasped, trying to catch my breath.

I had two minutes left for my interview to start and I couldn’t ad

the room. Lost, I stopped whoever I could in the confusing corridors

of St. Stephens College to ask for directions.

Most students ignored me. Many sniggered. I wondered why. Well,

now I know. My accent. Back in 2004, my English was Bihari. I don’t

want to talk now like I did back then. It’s embarrassing. It wasn’t

English. It was 90 per cent Bihari Hindi mixed with 10 per cent really

bad English. For instance, this is what I had actually said: 'Cumty

room...bat!aieyega zara? Hamara interview hai na wahan... Mera khel

ka kota hai. Kis taraf hai?’

If I start speaking the way I did in those days, you’ll get a

headache. So I’m going to say everything in English, just imagine my

words in Bhojpuri-laced Hindi, with the worst possible English thrown

in.

‘Where you from, man?’ said a boy with hair longer than most

girls.

‘Me Madhav Jha from Dumraon, Bihar.’

His friends laughed. Over time, I learnt that people often ask what

they call a ‘rhetorical’ question—something they ask just to make a

point, not expecting an answer. Here, the point was to demonstrate that

I was an alien amongst them.

‘What are you interviewing for? Peon?' the long-haired boy said

and laughed.

I didn’t know enough English back then to be offended. Also, I

was in a hurry. ‘You know where it is?’ I said instead, looking at his

group of friends. They all seemed to be the rich, English types.

Another boy, short and fat, seemed to take pity on me and replied,

‘Take a left at the corner of the main red building and you’ll find a sign for the committee room.’

‘Thank you,’ I said.This I knew how to say in English.

‘Can you read the sign in English?’ the boy with the long hair said.

His friends told him to leave me alone. I followed the fat boy’s

instructions and ran towards the red building.

I faced the first interview of my life. Three old men sat in front of

me. They looked like they had not smiled since their hair had turned

grey.

I had learnt about wishing people before an interview. I had even

practised it. ‘Good morning, sir.’

‘There are a few of us here,’ said the man in the middle. He seemed

to be around fifty-five years old and wore square, black-rimmed

glasses and a checked jacket.

‘Good morning, sir, sir and sir,’ I said.

They smiled. I didn’t think it was a good smile. It was the high-

class-to-low-class smile. The smile of superiority, the smile of delight

that they knew English and I didn’t.

Of course, I had no choice but to smile back.

The man in the middle was Professor Pereira, the head of

sociology, the course I had applied for. Professor Fernandez, who

taught physics, and Professor Gupta, whose subject was English, sat

on his left and right respectively.

‘Sports quota, eh?’ Prof. Pereira said. ‘Why isn’t Yadav here?’

‘I’m here, sir,’ a voice called out from behind me. I turned around

to see a man in a tracksuit standing at the door. He looked too old to be a student but too young to be faculty.

‘This one is 85 per cent your decision,’ Prof. Pereira said.

‘No way, sir.You are the final authority.’ He sat down next to the

professors. PiyushYadav was the sports coach for the college and sat

in on all sports-quota interviews. He seemed simpler and friendlier

than the professors. He didn’t have a fancy accent either.

‘Basketball?’ Prof. Fernandez asked, scanning through my file.

‘Yes, sir,’ I said.

‘What level?’

‘State.’

‘Do you speak in full sentences?’ Prof. Gupta said in a firm voice.

I didn’t fully understand his question. I kept quiet.

‘Do you?’ he asked again.

‘Yes, yes,’ I said, my voice like a convict’s.

‘So...why do you want to study at St. Stephen’s?’

A few seconds of silence followed. The four men in the room

lpoked at me.The professor had asked me a standard question.

‘I want good college,’ I said, after constructing the sentence in my

head.

Prof. Gupta smirked. ‘That is some response. And why is St.

Stephen’s a good college?’

I switched to Hindi. Answering in English would require pauses

and make me come across as stupid. Maybe I
was
stupid, but I did not want them to know that.

‘Your college has a big name. It is famous in Bihar also,’ I said.

‘Can you please answer in English?’ Prof. Gupta said.

‘Why? You don’t know Hindi?’ I said in reflex, and in Hindi.

I saw my blunder in their horrified faces. I had not said it in

defiance; I really wanted to know why they had to interview me in

English when I was more comfortable in Hindi. Of course, I didn’t

know then that Stephen’s professors didn’t like being asked to speak

in Hindi.

‘Professor Pereira, how did this candidate get an interview'?’ Prof.

Gupta said.

Prof. Pereira seemed to be the kindest of the lot. He turned to me.

‘We prefer English as the medium of instruction in our college, that’s

all.’

Without English, I felt naked. I started thinking about my return

trip to Bihar. I didn’t belong here—these English-speaking monsters

would eat me alive. I was wondering what would be the best way to

take their leave when Piyush Yadav broke my chain of thought.

‘Bihar se ho? Are you from Bihar?’ he said.

The few words in Hindi felt like cold drops of rain on a scorching

summer’s day. I loved Piyush Yadav in that instant.

‘Yes, sir. Dumraon.’

‘I know.Three hours from Patna, right?’ he said.

‘You know Dumraon?’ I said. I could have kissed his feet. The

three English-speaking monsters continued to stare.

‘I’m from Patna. Anyway, tell them about your achievements in

basketball,’ Piyush said.

I nodded. He sensed my nervousness and spoke again.‘Take your

time. I am Hindi-medium, too. I know the feeling.’

The three professors looked at Piyush as if wondering how he had

ever managed to get a job at the college.

I composed myself and spoke my rehearsed lines.

‘Sir, I have played state-level basketball for six years. Last year, I

was in the waiting list for the BFI national team.’

'BFI?’ said Prof. Gupta.

‘Basketball Federation of India,’ Piyush answered for me, even

though I knew the answer.

‘And you want to do sociology. Why?’ Prof. Fernandez said.

‘It’s an easy course, No need to study. Is that it?’ Prof. Gupta

remarked.

I didn’t, know whether Gupta had something against me, was

generally grumpy or suffered from constipation.

‘I am from rural area.’

‘I am from a rural area,’ Gupta said, emphasizing the ‘a' as if

omitting it was a criminal offence.

‘Hindi, sir? Can I explain in Hindi?’

Nobody answered. I had little choice. I took my chances and

responded in my language. ‘My mother runs a school and works with

the villagers. I wanted to learn more about our society. Why are our

villages so backward? Why do we have so many differences based on

caste and religion? I thought I could find some answers in this course.’

Prof. Gupta understood me perfectly well. However, he was what

English-speaking people would call an ‘uptight prick’. He asked

Piyush to translate what I had said.

‘That’s a good reason,’ Prof. Pereira said once Piyush was done.

‘But now you are in Delhi. If you pass out of Stephen’s, you will get

jobs in big companies. Will you go back to your native place?’ His

concern seemed genuine.

It took me a few seconds to understand his question. Piyush

offered to translate but I gestured for him not to.

'I will, sir,’ I finally replied. I didn’t give a reason. I didn't feel the need to tell them I would go back because my mother was alone there.

I didn’t say we were from the royal family of Durnraon. Even though

there was nothing royal about us any more, we belonged there. And,

of course, I didn’t mention the fact that I couldn’t stand any of the

people I had met in this city so far.

‘We’ll ask you something about Bihar then?’ Prof. Fernandez said.

‘Sure.’

‘What’s the population of Bihar?’

‘Ten crores.’

‘Who runs the government in Bihar?’

‘Right now it’s Lalu Prasad’s party.’

‘And which party is that?’

‘RJD - Rashtriya Janata Dal.’

The questions kept coming, and after a while I couldn’t keep track

of who was asking what. While I understood their English, I couldn’t

answer in complete sentences. Hence, I gave the shortest answers

possible. But one question had me stumped.

‘Why is Bihar so backward?’ Prof Gupta said.

I didn’t know the answer, forget saying it in English. Piyush tried

to speak on my behalf. ‘Sir, that’s a question nobody can really

answer.’ But Prof. Gupta raised a hand. ‘You said your mother runs a

rural school.You should know Bihar.’