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Authors: Chetan Bhagat

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BOOK: Half Girlfriend
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I kept quiet.

‘It’s okay. Answer in Hindi,’ Prof. Pereira said.

‘Backward compared to what, sir?’ I said in Hindi, looking at Prof.

Gupta.

‘Compared to the rest of India.’

‘India is pretty backward,’ I said. ‘One of the poorest nations in the

world.’

‘Sure. But why is Bihar the poorest of the poor?’

‘Bad government,’ Piyush said, almost as a reflex. Prof. Gupta kept

his eyes on me.

‘It’s mostly rural, sir,’ I said. 'People don’t have any exposure to

modernity and hold on to backward values. There’s poor education.

Nobody invests in my state. The government is in bed with criminals

and together they exploit the state and its people.’

Prof Pereira translated my answer for Prof. Gupta. He nodded as

he heard it. ‘Your answers are sensible, but your English is terrible,’ he said.

‘Would you rather take a sensible student, or someone who speaks

a foreign language well?’

My defiance stumped them all. Prof. Fernandez wiped his glasses

as he spoke, turning his head towards me. ‘English is no longer a

foreign language, Mr Jha. It’s a global language. 1 suggest you learn it.’

‘That’s why I’m here, sir,’ 1 said.

My answers came from the heart but I didn’t know if they had any

effect on the professors. The interview was over. They asked me to

leave the room.

*

I stood in the corridor, figuring out where to go next. Piyush came

out of the committee room. His lean and fit frame made him look like

a student, despite him being much older. He spoke to me in Hindi.

‘Your sports trial is in one hour. See me on the basketball court.’ ‘Sir, is there even a point? That interview went horribly.’

‘You couldn’t learn some English, along with basketball?’ ‘Nobody

speaks it in our area.’ I paused and added, ‘Sir.’

He patted my back. ‘Get out of Bihar mode, son. Anyway, sports

quota trials are worth 85 per cent. Play well.’

‘I’ll do my best, sir.’

2

If she weren’t tall I wouldn’t have noticed her. It is funny how her

height shaped my life.

If she had been four inches shorter, my eyes may never have met

hers and everything would have been different. If I had not been

bored and arrived at the basketball court an hour earlier, it would have

been different. If someone had not missed a pass and the ball had not

come out of the court and hit me on the head, I would have had a

different life.Tiny bumps in time shape our lives, even though we

spend hours trying to make long-term plans. I had no plan to meet the

love of my life on a basketball court. I was there only to kill time and

because I had nowhere else to go.

A small crowd of students, mostly men, had gathered around the

Stephen’s basketball court. Girls’ sports trials always garnered an

audience—-there was no better excuse to check them out. Everyone

spoke in English. I didn’t speak at all. I straightened my back and

stared at the court with a sense of purpose, mainly to come across as if

I belonged there. As ten girls came on to the court, the crowd cheered.

Five of the girls belonged to the existing college team; the other five

had applied for admission under the sports quota.

Piyush came to the centie of the court, ball in hand and whistle in

mouth. As he blew it, the girls sprang into action.

Five feet, nine inches is tall for an Indian girl. It is tall even for a

girl in a basketball team. Her long neck, long arms and long legs held

every guy’s attention. She was a part of the sports-quota applicants’

team. She wore black fitted shorts and a sleeveless sports vest with ‘R’

printed in yellow at the back. She collected the ball within seconds.

She wore expensive Nike ankle-length sneakers, the kind I had seen

NBA players wear on TV. Her diamond earrings twinkled in die sun.

She dribbled the ball with her right hand. I noticed she had long,

beautiful fingers.

‘Ten points for looks, coach,’ a senior student called out as R

passed the ball. The crowd tittered. Well, the men did. The wisecrack

distracted R for a moment, but she resumed her game as if she was

used to such comments.

The sports-quota girls played well individually. However, they

didn’t play well as a team.

R dribbled the ball and reached the opposition’s basket. Three

opponents surrounded her. R passed the ball to her teammate, who

missed the pass.

‘What the...’ R screamed. Too late.The rival team took the ball,

passed it to the other end and scored a basket.

R cursed herself, inaudible to anyone tise. She then signalled to

three of her teammates to cover specific opponents and jogged across

die court.When she went past me, I saw her sweaty, flushed face from

up close. We made eye contact for nanoseconds, perhaps only in my

imagination. But in those nanoseconds something happened to my

heart.

No, I wouldn’t say I fell in love with her. I wouldn’t even say I felt

attracted to her. But I felt something deep inside, strong enough for my

heart to say,
You have to talk to this girl at least once in your life
.

‘Babes, cover her. I said cover’ R screamed. Her state of mind was

as far from mine as possible. She passed the ball to her teammate, who

missed scoring a basket again.

‘What are you guys doing?’ she shouted in perfect English. I felt

nervous; how would I ever speak to her? Her face was grimy, dust

sticking to her left cheek and forehead. Yet, it was one of the most

beautiful faces I had seen in my entire life. Sometimes it is hard to

explain why you find a person beautiful. Was it her narrow face,

perfectly in line with her slender body? Was it her flawless skin and

complexion, which had turned from cream to pink to red? Or was it

not about her looks at all? Was it her passion, her being totally

immersed in the game? I didn’t know.

Of course, I never actually thought it would lead to anything. She

seemed too posh to even give me a second glance.

Destiny, however, had other plans. For why else, in the seventh

minute of the first half, would the college team captain overthrow the

ball outside the court, where it hit my head as I stood on the sidelines?

Why would I grab the ball in reflex? More than anything, why would

R come to collect it?

‘Ball, please,’ she said, panting. I felt paralysed.

‘I said ball, please,’ she said. I held on to the ball for an extra half

second. I wanted to look at her a bit longer. I wanted to take a

snapshot of her sweaty face and store it in my mind’s camera for life.

I threw the ball at her. She caught it with ease and looked at me.

She could tell from my throw that I knew the game.

‘Change your point shooter,’ I said. For some reason, I had

managed to speak in correct English this time.

‘What?’ she said. She surveyed me from top to bottom. I now

wished I had worn better clothes. I had not changed out of my

interview shirt and pants, both of which the tailor back home had

stitched too loose for me. I looked out of place on the basketball court.

With my folder of certificates, I resembled a hero from those Hindi

films of the seventies—the one who could not find a job.
I have a

Bihar state team T-shirt
, I wanted to tell her. Of course, in the middle of a game, and as a first conversation, this was a terrible idea.

‘Your shooter is useless,’ I said.

The referee whistled to commence the game. She turned away and

forgot about me faster than her throw reached her team member.

‘Here, pass it to me,’ R shouted as she reached the opposition basket.

Her point shooter held the ball and looked around, confused.

‘I said
here
’ R screamed so loudly that pigeons flew off the trees in the lawns.The point shooter passed the ball, R caught it and took a

shot from well beyond the three-point line.

Whoosh!
'The ball went through the basket. The crowd cheered.

They already had a soft spot for R anyway.

The referee announced a break at the ten-minute mark. The college

team led 12-5. R huddled with her team, figuring out their strategy for

the next half. As her team meeting ended, she wiped her face and neck

with a towel.

I couldn’t take my eyes off her. I forgot I had my own trial in less

than an hour. I only wanted to figure out a way to talk to her a bit

more. Maybe I could tell her she played well. I wondered how to tell

her about my state-level game without coming across as a show-off.

And, more than anything, how would I go beyond five words of

English?

She caught me staring. I wanted to kill myself. She continued to

jgnli directly at me, the towel still around her neck.Then she walked up

to me. A shiver ran down my spine.

I didn’t mean to stare
, I wanted to tell her. I wondered if she

would scream at me like she had done during the match.

Flunks,’ R said.

She had walked across the court, to thank me?

She was breathing hard. My eyes were glued to hers.

Look away, Madhav
, I scolded myself and turned away.

'That was a good tip,’ she said to my left profile.

'Welcome... You...are...good,’ I said. Uttering each word was like

hitting a brick.

'Any other suggestions for the second half? We’re losing.’

Yes,’ I said, turning to face her again. I wanted to give her more up

but couldn’t in English.‘You speak Hindi?’ I said.

She looked baffled. Nobody in St. Stephen’s had ever asked

anyone that question.

‘Well, yeah, of course,’ she said.

‘Okay,’ I said, and explained in my language,‘they have two strong

players. Cover them tight. Don’t fix formations for your players. Two

of yours should move with them. You become the shooter. Of the

other two, one is your defence, the other supports you.’

The whistle blew again.

‘Got to go,’ she said. ‘Catch you later.’

I didn’t understand what ‘catch you’ meant. Did it mean she would

catch what I had said later? Did it mean she didn’t understand what I

had' said? Or did she mean she actually wanted to catch me? Like, she

liked me so much she wanted to catch me? Of course, this seemed

unlikely. But then I had given her good tips and you never know with

these modern people.You see, my mind has this overdrive switch,

especially when it’s excited. It starts to get ahead of itself and thinks useless thoughts when I could actually be doing something

constructive, like watching the game or finding out that girl’s name.

The game restarted. The referee’s whistle, the sound of the players’

shoes as they run across the court, the shrieks, the yells and the cries

of victory and defeat—few things in life match the excitement of a

sports court. Basketball, underrated as it might be in this country,

packs it all in half an hour. I cannot understand why Indians don’t play

this game more. It doesn’t take up too much space, doesn’t need much

equipment and a big group can play it all at once.

‘Yes!’ she screamed as she scored a basket.The hall went in without

touching the ring, making the most beautiful sound in a basketball

game—the soft ‘chhciak’ when only the net touches the ball. S\?eat

dripped off her face as she ran back to her side of the court.

The match ended 21-15. The newbies had lost, but still kept pace

with the college team—a considerable achievement. R, however,

seemed disappointed. She wiped her face with a towel and picked up

her blue Nike kitbag. A few boys tried to make eye contact with her

but she ignored them, i wanted to speak to her. However, no boy from

Dumraon has ever had the guts to approach a high-class girl from

Delhi. I wanted her to watch my game.There was nothing else I could

impress her with. Coach Piyush went up to her. They became

engrossed in a conversation.This was my chance. Underconiident guys

need a go-between to speak to a girl. I ran up to Piyush.

‘My trial now. I change, sir?’ I said to him.

Piyush turned to me, surprised, I don’t know whether at my

English or my stupid question or both.

‘Aise kheliyega? Trial-va hai ya mazaak?’ he said in Bhojpuri, not

even Hindi. He meant: will you play like this? Is it a trial or a joke?

I regretted knowing him.

‘I...I...’

Then R interrupted. ‘Oh, you are also sports quota?’

Piyush looked at both of us, surprised at the familiarity.

‘Yes,’ I said, one of the few English responses I could give with

confidence.

‘State-level player. Watch this Bihari’s game and go,’ Piyush said

and guffawed before he left.

I could have taken offence. He had used the word ‘Bihari’ as if to

say 'Watch, even this poor little Bihari can play’, despite being a Bihari himself. However, he had helped me without knowing it, so I was

grateful. She looked at me and smiled.

‘No wonder you gave those tips.’ she said.‘State level, my God,’

‘What is your good name?’ I blurted out, without any context or

sense of timing. Also, who on earth says ‘good name’ these days? Only

losers like me who translate ‘shubh naarn’ in Hindi to English.

‘Good or bad, only one name. Riya,’ she said and smiled.

BOOK: Half Girlfriend
11.18Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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