‘If only voters loved their netas like they love you,’ MLA Ojha said before he left.
One by one, I blessed the villagers.
‘Is he a real prince? Like those in stories?’ I overheard a young girl whisper to another.
‘Of course he is,’ her friend said.
‘So where is his princess?’ the young girl said.
I smiled. My princess had moved to another faraway kingdom.
‘What time is school tomorrow, Ma?’ I said.
‘Seven in the morning. Think about work later. Enjoy being the ruler today,’ she said.
It is no fun being a ruler when someone else still rules you.
The Dumraon Royal School is a twenty-minute walk from our haveli. I accompanied my mother as we hiked through fields at 6.30 in the morning. ‘There are three shifts, over two hundred students in each,’ my mother said. ‘7 to 10.30, 10.30 to 2, and 2 to 5.30.’
We reached the grey-and-black school building. It seemed much older than the last time I’d seen it.
‘Why is it black?’ I said.
‘Hasn’t been painted in five years. Every year, the rains wreck the plaster even more.’
I wondered how Stephen’s managed to keep its walls a perfect reddish-brown.
The first-shift kids had arrived. They played in the fields outside the school. We had two classrooms and a common staffroom. The staffroom had a long table with several chairs—the teachers used the room to rest in during breaks or to check notebooks.
‘Why is it so dark?’ I said.
‘Power comes at eight,’ my mother said.
The long table had a stack of files and books at three corners.
‘Akhtar, Tej and I have a corner each. The empty one is yours,’ my mother said.
She sat down on her end. She lit a candle and opened a file.
‘These windows could be bigger,’ I said.
My mother nodded without looking up. Akhtar, Tej and Tarachand arrived in the next five minutes. They folded their hands when they saw me.
‘Please treat me as a new employee,’ I said to them.
Amused, Akhtar and Tej collected their books for class. Tarachand stepped outside the staffroom. He rang the brass bell in the corridor. The teachers left for their classes. Tarachand came back and spoke to my mother.
‘SMDC didn’t send anyone,’ he said.
‘Oh no,’ my mother said. ‘He promised. The officer gave me his word, Tara ji.’
‘I went to his house, Rani Sahiba. He said he tried. Hard to justify more funds,’ Tarachand said.
‘We want one toilet. How hard is it to justify funds for one toilet for seven hundred children?’ my mother said.
‘He said most schools in the area manage without one. Why is Rani Sahiba fussing?’
‘Ask him for half a toilet. Tell him to make one for the girls. One girls’ toilet, Tara ji,’ my mother said.
‘Don’t embarrass me, Rani Sahiba. I tried. We need money for so many other things too. We need to plaster the roofs, make more rooms and whitewash the building. SMDC said they have nothing.’
Noises came from the corridor. Kids had assembled outside.
‘Make them sit, please,’ my mother said.
Tarachand stepped out to manage the crowd. The children sat down at one end of the corridor. They faced a wall painted black.
My mother held her forehead with her right hand.
‘You okay?’ I said to her.
She nodded.
‘What’s SMDC?’
‘The School Monitoring and Development Committee. A government body meant to help rural schools. They come, watch and leave. Nobody ever helps anyone.’
The lights came on. The fan above started to creak. The cool breeze felt wonderful on my sweaty skin. My mother leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes, enjoying the fan’s breeze.
‘Why are the children sitting in the corridor?’ I said, disturbing her reverie.
‘Huh? Oh, that is class I,’ my mother said.
The morning shift had classes I to IV. Classes II, III and IV used the available classrooms. Class I used the corridor as their classroom.
I looked outside the staffroom. Kids sat on the floor, waiting for my mother.
‘Help me with enrolment. Villagers don’t like sending kids to school,’ my mother said.
‘But Ma, I want to teach as well,’ I said.
‘There’s lots of other work. Tarachand ji is hopeless at paperwork.’
‘Sounds boring.’
‘It’s important. I need someone to keep records and lobby with the authorities. I don’t have the energy.’
I took a deep breath and nodded. Like the school, my mother was turning old and weak.
‘Ma, can’t we pay for some of these repairs?’ I said.
My mother looked at me. I knew the answer from her expression.
‘I try to give what I can. We hardly have money to repair the haveli. You were studying in Delhi, so I had that expense. Don’t have much.’
I felt guilty. I wondered if I could have served my mother better by accepting that HSBC job. At least I could have sent her a cheque every month.
‘We manage. Don’t worry. I’m happy you’re here,’ my mother said, reading my mind.
‘How?’ I said.
‘I take no salary. I pay the staff. If something breaks down I pay for it. Beyond that, it is difficult. The government is supposed to aid us. They don’t.’
‘What about what we earn from the fees?’
‘It’s nothing. The fee is five rupees a month. Even then, many students don’t pay on time. If we are lucky, the fee covers the electricity bill.’
The noise levels in the corridor increased. A cacophony of conversation, laughter and screaming drowned our conversation.
‘Look at them. Noisy monkeys. I better go,’ my mother said. She walked out.
The difference between seventy kids on their own and seventy kids with a teacher can be immense. In an instant, the class fell silent.
I spent the rest of the morning reading all the files and documents related to the school. I quickly realized that running a school of seven hundred with a staff of four is no joke.
‘Okay, start counting in English,’ my mother shouted outside.
‘One, two, three. . .’ the kids chanted in unison. I didn’t know whether these kids from the village would ever use their knowledge of English numerals. Still, watching them learn something felt good. It felt better than watching a movie at a Delhi multiplex. It felt better than the posh party at Riya’s house.
‘From now on, these kids are my life,’ I told myself.
17
Six months later
‘You promised, Sarpanch ji,’ I said, using a hand fan to cool myself. I had come to his house a third time. Sarpanch Gopi, the man in charge of Aamva village, had assured me that every child in his village would come to school.
His wife brought us two glasses of lukewarm sattu, a roasted powder of pulses and lentils mixed in water. I wished it was a little cooler and less sweet, but drank it anyway.
The sixty-year-old sarpanch wore a greyish-white turban, matching his clothes.
‘I thought they joined school. We sent eight children,’ he said.
‘They stopped coming after a week.’
‘So what can I do, Rajkumar sahib? I tried.’
‘You have to tell them to commit to it. School isn’t like visiting the village fair. It takes years to get educated.’
‘And what do they do with it?’
‘Excuse me? It’s almost free. Where is the problem?’
Gopi paused to look at me. He took out a beedi from his pajama pocket and lit it.
‘Time. Their parents would rather the children help in the fields.’
‘And what will they do when they grow up?’
‘They will grow up only if they have food. They need to work in the fields for that.’
I fell silent. You can’t win over villagers with an
argument. You have to listen to what they have to say.
The sarpanch took a deep puff from his beedi.
‘You studied in a big city?’ he said.
‘Yes. Why?’
‘Big-city types never get it. Without knowing us they have all the answers for us.’
‘I am from here. You know that, Sarpanch ji.’
‘I know, Rajkumar ji. But what do these poor farmer’s kids do with the A-B-C and 1-2-3 you teach them?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘A farmer sends his small child to school. Sounds great. But what does the school give him?’
‘Education. What is he without education?’
‘What will he do if, say, you make him an eighth-class-pass from Dumraon? Will he get a better job? More money? Nothing. It’s a useless qualification. Here, he at least helps at home.’
‘What is his future?’ I said, confused about how to convince someone about something as basic as schooling.
‘He has no future. Like his father, he will also work in the fields and try to survive. Schools are for rich people.’
I hung my head.
‘Don’t make the poor dream of having a future, Rajkumar ji. The schools you have don’t help us get ahead in life. So we don’t send our kids there. It’s as simple as that. We are not village idiots who don’t know better.’
I nodded. On the one hand I had to increase enrolments and, on the other hand, I couldn’t fault his logic.
‘Anything I can do to help you?’ I asked as I stood up to leave. His own little grandkid lurked behind him, watching me with curiosity.
‘Help us get water. Kids in the village walk two kilometres for it every day. If that ends, we will send them to school.’
Every politician’s office always has people waiting outside. On a per-capita basis, netas meet more people than anyone in any other profession on earth. MLA Ojha’s home-cum-office was packed. Groups of villagers sat outside on the veranda, each with a set of complaints or demands. Pankaj, the MLA’s secretary, offered to push me ahead in the queue. I declined. I had little interest in my entitlements as a fake prince.
The villagers waited silently. There is something about people with no hope for a better future in life. You can identify them from their expression. Most of all, it is in their eyes, which don’t sparkle anymore. They aren’t sad eyes. They are resigned eyes. The villagers had accepted that life would be what happened to them, not what they made of it. After all, this was rural Bihar. You can’t decide one day to work hard and make it big in life. Nobody will let you. You have ramshackle schools that teach you how to read and write, but not help you make it in life. Even if you did educate yourself, you would find no jobs. What is the point of dreaming big? It is better to sit, wait and retire from life.
‘What have you come here for?’ I asked one of the village elders.
‘Power. We get it one hour a day in our village, Bastipur. Not enough to pump water. We want to ask for two more hours.’
That’s it. The man wanted three hours of power in twenty-four hours. And even for that he had to wait to meet his leaders with folded hands. There must be millions of Indians like this, I thought. A lot more than those who attend sushi parties on Aurangzeb Road, for instance.
I waved a bunch of flies away. Pankaj came up to me.
‘Come, Ojha sir doesn’t like it that you’re waiting outside,’ Pankaj said.
‘I’m fine, really,’ I said.
Ojha came out of his office. ‘You’re sitting on the floor?’ he said, surprised.
‘Like everyone else,’ I said.
He looked around. ‘Enough now, just come in, Madhav ji,’ he said.
We sat in the MLA’s living room. His wife brought me orange juice.
‘You should have just walked in,’ he said.
‘I didn’t want the villagers to think you give me preferential treatment,’ I said.
‘Now the villagers will say that I made the prince of Dumraon sit on the floor. Trust me, they care more about class than fairness. Anyway, what brings you here?’
‘I need help for my school. And some hand pumps for the nearby villages.’
‘Your school I can understand,’ Ojha said as he raised his eyebrows just a little, ‘but hand pumps for villages?’
‘Yes. In Aamva.’
‘You’re turning into a social worker? Or entering politics?’
‘None of those. The kids are not allowed to go to school. They have to walk two kilometres to fill water. More hand pumps in villages, more enrolment in my school.’
‘Ah,’ the MLA said as he finished his glass of orange juice. ‘Thank God.’
He burst into laughter. I sat there, puzzled.
‘If you join politics, my job is in danger,’ he guffawed.
‘Don’t worry, I will not. Also, my school needs help.’
‘I know. Your mother told me. It needs repairs worth lakhs. Unfortunately, it is not a government-run school.’
‘But it is the only option for our kids.’
‘You want something to eat? My wife made pakoras.’
I shook my head.
‘If you could help with the school,’ I said, as he interrupted me.
‘Rajkumar ji. . .’
‘Madhav. Please call me Madhav.’
‘Okay, Madhav ji, see, my MLA funds are limited. I have to repair roads, fix power and install hand pumps. In fact, I have already run out.’
‘How about the state education ministry?’
Ojha laughed. His laugh gave away the answer.
‘It’s Bihar. You should know,’ he said.
‘So you can’t do anything?’
‘You want a personal donation from me? I am a humble government servant,’ he said.
‘No, that is not what I came for. I felt the local government should support the only proper school in the area. Parents of these kids vote for you.’
‘They do. However, they also have other, more important issues they want me to focus on.’
I stood up to leave.
‘You sure you don’t want to try the pakoras?’
An angry Rani Sahiba is not a pretty sight. I sat at the dining table, eating pulao and raita for dinner.
She stood before me.
‘Sit,’ I said.
‘Stand up,’ she said, her voice calm; too calm, in fact.
I flicked the rice from my fingers and stood up.
‘What happened?’ I said.
‘I’m allowing you to help out in the school. It doesn’t mean you do whatever you want.’
‘What did I do?’ I said.
‘You went to meet that arrogant MLA without telling me?’
‘I thought he might help. We can’t run the school without toilets forever.’
‘Him? He wants the royal family to look bad.’
‘Why?’
‘How else will he look good?’
I kept quiet.
‘Sit,’ my mother said.
We both sat down, facing each other at the dining table. The huge dining-cum-living room was eerily silent as she spooned some rice on to her plate.
‘What did he say, anyway?’ she said.
‘He said he had no money left from his fund.’
‘Because he ate it all up,’ my mother said. ‘Sometimes I wish I had not declined the ticket.’
‘What ticket?’
‘His party had asked me to contest last time. Why do you think Ojha is so insecure about our family?’
‘Contest elections? You didn’t tell me.’
‘Well,’ my mother said, ‘I wasn’t interested. And did you have time in Delhi to listen to your mother?’
‘I was studying, Ma.’
‘Or playing basketball.’
The mention of basketball, without any warning, made me go blank.
‘But you never really listened to me even when you called. Wonder what kept you so distracted there. No girl and all, no?’
I kept quiet.
&
nbsp; ‘Was there?’ she said and laughed. ‘Can’t imagine you having a girlfriend.’
‘Pass me the raita,’ I said.
‘Say, no, if there was someone.’
I shook my head.
‘What?’
‘Nobody.’
‘You sure? Why have you become all quiet?’ my mother said.
‘I miss the game. You mentioned basketball. I haven’t played in a long time.’
‘So go play. Go to Raj High School, people still play there.’
I nodded.
‘In fact,’ my mother said, ‘you could even. . .’
She turned silent mid-sentence.
‘Even what?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Say it.’
‘Was going to say you could even teach the kids at school. But. . .’
‘We don’t have a court. Or the money for it,’ I said, my voice irritated.
‘So I didn’t mention it. Anyway, you go play. It’ll clear your head.’
‘My head is fine.’
‘See how you talk to your mother? If your head was fine, you wouldn’t have gone to the MLA.’
‘I just wanted to help.’
‘Enough. Eat your food.’
My mother still treated me as if I was ten years old. The funny thing was, I let her.
18
I reached the Raj High School playground at 6 in the evening. I saw a few teenage students on court. We smiled as we acknowledged each other. I asked for the ball. A student passed it to me. I was touching the dusty and dotted-rubber texture of the ball after ages. I took a shot.
Chhaak. The soft sound of the ball going through the net without touching the ring told me I still had it in me.
A few students clapped.
‘Where’s St. Stephen’s?’ one boy said. He had noticed my college T-shirt.
I looked at the boy. He seemed clueless about my fancy college. I had been like him not too long ago. I told him about my alma mater.
‘English college?’ he said.
‘Completely. That too high-class English,’ I said and laughed.
‘I will never make it.’
‘I entered through the sports quota. Maybe you can too.’
I dribbled the ball. The thumping sound matched my heartbeat.