Revolution 2020 (2 page)

It
is
not
a
price
issue,
I
wanted
to
tell
him
but
didn
’
t.
T
don
’
t
drink
whisky.
Too
strong
for
me
’
I
said
instead.

Gopal
laughed.
‘
Live
life.
Start
having
fine
whisky.
You
will
develop
a
taste!

I attempted
another sip and winced. He smiled and poured more water in my drink
to dilute it. It ruined the scotch, but saved my sanity.

'Life
is
to
be
enjoyed.
Look
at
me,
I
will
make
four
crores
this
year.
What
is
the
point
if
I
don
’
t
enjoy
it?
’

In most parts of
the world, speaking about your income is taboo. In India, you share
the figures like your zodiac sign, especially if you have lots.

He seemed to have
put the question more to himself than to me. His dark eyes continued
to bore into me. They demanded attention. The rest of

him - wheatish
complexion, modestfive-feet-seven-inch height, side-parted hair - was
reassuringly normal.

‘
Yeah,
of
course.
One
should
enjoy...
’
I
said
as
he
cut
me.

‘
Next
year
I
will
make
five
crores.
’

I realised he
would keep forecasting his salary until I demonstrated suitable awe.

‘
Five
crores!
’
I
said,
my
voice
loud
and
fake.

Gopal
grinned.
‘
Baby,
eat
this,
for
I
have
made
it,
’
is
probably
the
T-shirt
slogan
he
would
choose.

‘
That
’
s
incredible,
’
I
murmured,
wondering
how
I
could
switch
the
topic.
I
noticed
stairs
winding
up.
‘
What
’
s
upstairs?
’
I
said.

'Bedrooms
and
a
terrace.
Come,
I
will
show
you.
’

We climbed up the
steps and walked past a room with a luxurious kingsized bed.

I took in the
panoramic view from the terrace.

‘
This
was
a
wasteland,
all
of
it.
My
grandfather
s
old
agricultural
land,
’
Gopal
said.

'Ten
acres?
’
I
made
a
guess.

‘
Fifteen.
We
had
fifteen
acres
more,
’
Gopal
said,
‘
but
we
sold
it
to
fund
the
construction!

He
pointed
to
a
small
array
of
lights
towards
the
eastern
wall
of
the
floodlit
campus.
‘
Right
there,
see.
There
is
a
mall
coming
up.
’

‘
Every
Indian
city
is
building
malls
now,
’
I
said.

‘
India
shining,
Chetan-ji,
’
he
said
and
clinked
his
glass
with
mine.

Gopal
drank
more
than
four
times
my
pace.
I
hadn
’
t
finished
my
first
when
he
poured
his
fifth.
‘
You
big-city
types.
Drinking
for
style,
’
he
teased
when
I
refused
a
refill.

‘
I
don
’
t
drink
much.
Really,
’
I
said.
I
checked
the
time;
10:00p.m.

‘
At
what
time
do
you
eat
dinner?
’
he
asked.

‘
Up
to
you,
’
I
said,
though
I
wished
he
’
d
decide
to
eat
right
away.

‘
What
is
the
big
hurry?
Two
men,
one
educated,
one
uneducated.
Having
a
good
time,
’
Gopal
said
and
raised
his
glass
in
the
air.

I nodded out of
courtesy. My stomach rumbled for food. We came downstairs to sit down
in the living room again.

‘
Did
you
really
go
to
the
professor
’
s
daughters
house?
’
Gopal
asked.

I
smiled.
‘
Love
makes
us
do
stupid
things.
’

Gopal laughed out
loud.. He gulped his drink bottoms-up, then grabbed the half-empty
bottle to make his sixth tipple.

‘
Love?
Forget
stupid
things.
Love
fucks
you,
’
Gopal
said.

‘
That
’
s
harsh,
’
I
said.
‘
Is
that
why
there
is
no
Mrs
Director
yet?
’

Gopal
’
s
hand
trembled
as
he
continued
to
pour
his
drink.
I
wondered
if
I
should
stop
him
from
drinking
more.

‘
Mrs
Director!
’
Gopal
smirked.
He
gripped
the
whisky
bottle
tight.

‘
Easy,
Gopal,
you
are
drinking
too
fast.
It's
dangerous.
’

Gopal
plonked
the
bottle
on
the
coffee
table.
‘
Why
dangerous?
Who
is
going
to
fucking
cry
for
me?
If
I
live,
I
want
to
enjoy.
If
I
die,
who
cares?
’ ‘
Your
parents?
’

Gopal shook his
head.

‘
Friends?
’

‘
Successful
people
don
’
t
have
friends,
’
Gopal
averred.
'It
’
s
true,
no?
’

His lavish house
felt cold and isolated. I took the whisky bottle and placed it back
in the bar.

'Pessimist,
eh?
’
I
said.
'Surprising,
given
you
are
doing
so
well
’

‘
What
well,
Chetan-ji?
’
Gopal
said,
now
completely
drunk
and,
presumably,
completely
honest.

He pointed to the
huge TV, stereo system and the silk carpet under our feet in quick
succession.

‘
What
does
all
this
mean?
I
’
ve
lived
with
nothing..
’

Our
conversation
had
become
serious.
I
patted
his
back
to
cheer
him
up.
‘
So
you
read
about
my
girlfriend
in
the
book.
How
about
you?
You
ever
had
one?
’

Gopal
didn
’
t
respond,
but
looked
distraught.
He
placed
his
glass
on
the
coffee
table.

Touchy topic, I
figured too late.

He retched.

‘
Are
you
okay?
’
I
said.

He ran to the
restroom. I heard him throw up. I browsed the display shelves to pass
time. I saw framed news stories about GangaTech, trophies,

pictures of Gopal
with guests who had visited the college. I wondered if my picture
would also be there soon.

When
he
hadn
’
t
returned
in
twenty
minutes
I
called
for
the
maid.
She
took
me
to
the
bathroom.
I
knocked
at
the
door.
No
answer.
I
banged
my
fists
on
the
door.
Nothing.

'Looks
like
we
will
have
to
break
the
door
’
the
maid
said.

I wondered how I,
who had come as a chief guest for a college orientation programme,
became involved with forcing open random toilets in Varanasi.

♦

The rustle of
sheets on the hospital bed woke me from my nap. The bedside clock
showed 3:00 a.m. I had brought a passed-out Gopal to the Heritage
Hospital, in the Lanka area of Varanasi.

Gopal sat up on
the bed now, massaging his temples.

His
hangover
reminded
me
of
my
college
days.
However,
here
the
director
had
binged
on
alcohol,
not
a
student.

‘
You
were
here
all
night?
’
He
looked
surprised.

‘
I
could
not
let
my
host
die
on
me,
’
I
said.

‘
I
am
sorry.
I
had
a
bit
too
much.
’
Gopal
gave
a
sheepish
grin.

‘
Are
you
alright?
’

‘
Yeah,
I
am
good.
’

‘
Not
right
now.
Are
you
okay
generally?
’

He turned his
head to stare at the opposite wall.

‘
How
’
s
life,
Gopal?
’
I
asked
softly.

He
didn
’
t
answer.

I
stood
up
after
a
minute.
‘
I
should
leave,
catch
some
sleep
before
my
flight.
’
I
walked
to
the
door.

‘
Do
you
think
I
am
a
good
person,
Chetan-ji?
’
he
said.

I turned around.