‘I’m not that good,’ he said.
I threw the ball at him. He caught it reflexively.
‘Let’s see. I’m Madhav, by the way.’
‘Parth,’ he said and dribbled the ball.
I tackled him as he ran across the court. He was good, but not experienced. It took me twenty seconds to take the ball back from him. I took a shot even though the ring was quite far. I missed. Parth collected the ball and took a shot. He scored. I high-fived him.
The last of the sunlight fell on the court. It cast long shadows of the already tall players. I stared at the darting shadows, unable to focus on the game.
‘What?’ Parth said. He had scored another basket.
‘Nothing,’ I said, blinking rapidly.
He passed me the ball. I caught it by habit, still lost in thought. I wondered if they had basketball courts in London. I was pretty sure they did. I wondered if she still played. And if she did, did she think of me?
‘Shoot, bhaiya,’ Parth said.
I threw the ball. It not only missed the basket, but also the entire frame. My laziest and worst shot ever.
Parth looked at me, shocked.
‘What level did you play, bhaiya?’ Parth said. His hopes of joining Stephen’s went up. If someone as sloppy as me could get in through sports quota, so could he.
I smiled at him. I ran across to pick the ball. I took a shot. I missed again. I passed the ball back to Parth.
‘I guess I’m not much of a player anymore,’ I said.
‘Should I call my other friends? We can play a game.’
I shook my head.
‘I’ll just bring down your level,’ I said and left the court.
‘Why has the MLA called us? This can’t be good,’ my mother said.
‘Let’s find out. Why are you getting so stressed?’
My mother and I walked from our house to MLA Ojha’s residence.
‘Useless fellow,’ Ma said.
‘Shh, we’re here,’ I said as we entered the compound of Ojha’s bungalow.
A freshly shaved Ojha in a sparkling white kurta-pajama received us with folded hands.
‘What an honour, Rani Sahiba,’ he said, beaming.
‘You ordered us to come. What choice do we have, Ojha ji?’ my mother said.
‘It was a humble request, Rani Sahiba,’ Ojha said. We followed him to his huge living room and took our seats on red velvet sofas with huge gold embroidered flowers. His dutiful wife, her head covered, arrived with a tray of water and juice. My mother took the tray from her. Mrs Ojha touched my mother’s feet.
‘Bless you, Kusum,’ my mother said. Kusum scurried back into the kitchen and brought back a tray of snacks comprising laddoos, kaju katli, bhujia and almonds.
‘Please don’t be formal,’ my mother said.
Ojha sat on the sofa across us, a fixed grin on his face. ‘Rajkumar ji came to me for assistance. I’m sorry but I explained my helplessness,’ he said.
‘We understand,’ my mother said.
‘Well, I have a proposal. You can help me. In return, maybe something can be done for the school.’
‘Is it legal?’ my mother said.
Ojha laughed hard. His plate shook in his hands.
‘Nothing like that at all. In fact, a chance to make Dumraon and your school proud.’
Mother and I waited. Ojha put his plate down. ‘Frankly, it’s a big headache for me. I need your help as I’m stuck.’
‘What’s the matter?’ my mother said.
‘Have you heard of Bill Gates?’
‘Bilgate? No. Is it a place?’ my mother said.
‘No, a person. Some videshi who makes computers or something.’
‘Mr Bill Gates, chairman of Microsoft. They make computer software,’ I said.
My mother and Ojha looked at me as if I were a genius.
‘You know this person?’ my mother said.
‘The richest guy on earth,’ I said.
‘Yes, that’s what I have heard. He has lots of money,’ Ojha said.
‘Sixty billion dollars,’ I said.
‘How much?’ Ojha said.
‘Two lakh forty thousand crore rupees,’ I said.
Ojha’s eyebrows went up an inch.
‘What?’ my mother said. ‘So much? And how do you know all this?’
‘Read it in a magazine. It’s common knowledge, Ma,’ I said.
‘Hmm. . . Mr Ojha. You were saying?’ my mother said.
‘Well, this Gates is coming to India. To Bihar, in fact.’
‘Has he gone mad? He makes so much money so he can come visit Bihar?’ she said.
Ojha laughed. ‘I don’t know much, Rani Sahiba. He has some NGO. They are bringing him here.’
‘Why?’
‘Maybe he will see the interiors of Bihar and feel richer.’
My mother and Ojha laughed. Ojha left the room and came back with a letter. He handed it to me. The letter had come from the state ministry of rural welfare:
To all MLAs/District Collectors/DCPs,
The state ministry of rural welfare is pleased to inform that eminent entrepreneur and philanthropist Mr Bill Gates will be visiting Bihar along with delegates from the Gates Foundation from 15 April to 22 April 2009. The state government would like to extend its support to his team. In that regard, request your good offices to provide all cooperation as needed. Suggestions for places Mr Gates could visit or any events he could grace as chief guest on his week-long trip to Bihar are welcome and encouraged.
Please contact the relevant officials in the rural welfare ministry with any queries or suggestions.
Signed,
Bhanwar Lal
Minister for Rural Welfare
State Government of Bihar
The other side of the page carried the Hindi translation of the same letter.
‘So how can we help you?’ my mother said, after reading it herself.
‘Rani Sahiba, if Bill Gates comes here, my constituency will be in the news. Will be good for Dumraon.’
‘You will get press coverage. The minister will give you a pat on the back. Say that, Ojha ji,’ my mother said.
He couldn’t suppress a smile.
‘Well, that too,’ he said. ‘But ultimately it is good for our town.’
My mother knew the political game. Ojha wanted a Lok Sabha ticket in the next election. He had to do things to get noticed.
‘What exactly would you like us to do?’ I said.
‘Organize a school function. Invite him as the chief guest. Through me, of course. I’ll ask the ministry to put the school visit on his agenda.’
‘No, no, no. . .’ Ma threw up her hands in the air.
‘What, Rani Sahiba?’ Ojha said.
‘I can barely run the school. I don’t have the resources to organize a function. Who will pay for the arrangements?’
‘We will,’ Ojha said promptly. ‘I will pay for the function.’
‘I thought you didn’t have any funds,’ I said.
The MLA looked at me.
‘See, son, I am trying to help you. But there has to be something in it for me.’
‘So you pay for the function. People come, attend and leave. What do we get in return?’ I said.
‘Your school’s name will be in every paper,’ he said.
‘We don’t need publicity, we need toilets,’ I said.
‘We will arrange some makeshift toilets for the day.’
‘Exactly. You are only interested in that day. What about us after that?’
My mother stood up to leave.
‘We will whitewash the school for you,’ Ojha said.
I looked at my mother. Perhaps there was something here.
‘Toilets?’ I said.
‘Over there,’ Ojha said pointed to a door in the right corner.
‘No, I don’t want to use the toilet. I meant, what about the school toilets?’
‘That’s a big project. The school doesn’t have plumbing. Eve
rything needs to be done from scratch. Too expensive and too little time to do that.’
‘That is what we need. Toilets, electricity and a new roof,’ my mother said.
‘For just one function I can’t justify so much. I will whitewash the school, make all the arrangements for the function.’
‘Sorry, MLA ji,’ my mother said.
We walked out of the house. The MLA called me aside.
‘Think about it,’ he whispered in my ear. ‘Rani Sahiba never trusts me. But you know how important this Gates is. A lot of important people will come.’
I walked up to my mother.
‘Let’s do it,’ I said.
‘Who’ll do all the work?’ she said.
‘I will. Don’t you want a whitewash?’
She looked at me.
‘Please, Ma.’
She gave a brief nod.
‘Okay?’ I said.
‘This is the first time I’ve seen a sparkle in your eye since you came back. So yes, okay.’
I gave Ojha a thumbs up.
19
I prepared a proposal for Ojha as per his directions. We proposed Bill Gates make a visit to a self-run, not-for-profit school. We would celebrate the annual day of the Dumraon Royal School with Mr Gates as chief guest. The MLA forwarded the proposal to the rural ministry.
‘They have ninety requests,’ Ojha said, ‘and he can only visit ten places during his trip. So they will shortlist and let us know.’
‘I didn’t realize there would be so much competition,’ I said, surprised.
‘I’m going to Patna tomorrow. Come with me and I’ll introduce you to the ministry people. You can persuade them.’
I accompanied the MLA in his lal-batti car on the three-hour ride to Patna. We reached the state government offices. I met Mr Shyam Kaushal, a middle-aged official in the rural welfare ministry, in his dusty office. He wore a grey safari suit that I think all government employees get free with their offer letters.
‘Headache. This whole Gates trip is a headache,’ he said and held his head.
He showed me the file of requests. Alongside, another fat file contained press requests for interviews, communication with the foundation and papers on various official government functions being planned.
‘Why do we go crazy over these white guys visiting India?’ Mr Kaushal said.
‘Because of this white guy, my school will get a whitewash,’ I said.
‘Do you speak good English?’ he said. ‘Because they will call you many times.’
‘I manage,’ I said.
‘Manage means what? When he comes, who will talk to him?’
‘I will.’
‘What will he see in your annual day? It’s a Hindi-medium school. The entire programme will be in Hindi, right?’
I kept quiet.
‘See.’ He opened the file. ‘There is this school in Patna that really wants him. They will do a skit in English for him. About the invention of computers and the role of Microsoft.’
I saw the request. It had come from the Delhi Public School in Patna.
‘This is an English-medium school. He can find this anywhere. What’s so Bihari about it?’ I said.
‘Well, it is convenient. We can take him to DPS straight from Patna airport.’
‘Mr Kaushal, I think Mr Gates wants to see the real Bihar. The posh English school you will take him to means nothing.’
‘So what to do?’
‘Bring him to Dumraon Royal. Don’t worry, we will do a dance or something without words.’
Mr Shyam Kaushal remained hesitant. Government employees are the lowest risk-takers on earth.
Finally, he shook his head. ‘Something needs to be there in English. His team has told us. They want Mr Gates to engage with the event.’
‘Okay, we’ll do something in English.’
‘What?’
‘I’ll figure it out,’ I said.
A knock on the door startled us. MLA Ojha came in. Mr Kaushal stood up automatically. Government employees have a servile switch in their brains. It makes them grovel in the presence of netas.
‘Listen to us poor Dumraon people at least once, Kaushal ji,’ Ojha said.
Mr Kaushal folded his hands. ‘Trying, Ojha sahib. Goras want to see the real Bihar but in English. I’m going crazy.’
Ojha slapped my back.
‘Rajkumar ji went to the best English college in India. He will handle them well.’
I smiled. I did go to the best English college, but my English still, well, sucked.
My cell phone rang in the middle of a maths class. The call came from an unknown number. The class III students looked at me. I held a chalk in one hand and the phone in the other. I cut the call and continued to teach.
‘Twenty-three multiplied by twelve,’ I wrote on the squeaky blackboard.
The phone rang again.
‘Do this sum, I’ll be right back,’ I said and stepped out of class.
‘Is this Mr Madhav Jha?’ asked a female voice in an unfamiliar accent when I picked up the call.
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘This is Samantha Myers from the Bill Gates Foundation, calling from New Delhi.’
‘What?’ I said. I tried to figure out her words despite the strange accent. ‘Hello. Myself Madhav. What can I do for you?’
I kicked myself for saying ‘myself Madhav’.
‘I am part of Mr Gates’s advance party. We would like to inspect your school before we decide our itinerary.’
She spoke so fast I couldn’t understand most of what she said.
‘Yes, Mr Bill Gates. Is he coming?’
I had not had any update since my visit to Patna a week ago.
‘Well, I need to visit you first.’
‘Your school is. . .’ Samantha paused as she hunted for the right word.
‘Not in great condition?’ I said.
I had taken her on a school tour.
The plaster was coming off the walls. The noise of kids repeating mathematical tables drowned out our conversation. Students peeped out of classroom windows. They stared at the alien creature with golden hair and white skin.
‘No. I wanted to say quaint.’
‘Quaint?’ I said. I didn’t understand the word.
‘Different. Different in a charming sort of way.’
I failed to understand the charm of a school with leaky roofs and furniture that was falling apart. White people think differently, I guess.
We came to the staffroom. She greeted my mother and the other teachers. Tarachand ji brought us two cups of tea. Samantha noticed the damp walls.
‘We will whitewash everything. The local government has assured us,’ I said.
‘Yeah, that is fine. Can we sit outside? I’d love to get some sun,’ Samantha said.
We walked out, carrying a classroom chair each. We sat in the fields facing the school entrance. The February sun felt warm. It made Samantha’s golden hair shine even more. She was pretty. Why had she left the comforts of her own country to roam dusty villages in India?
‘This is gorgeous,’ she said, looking at the rice crops sway in the air.
‘Mr Gates will like it? We can arrange the annual-day function in the fields.’
‘Oh, I’m sure he will.’
‘We’re a little short on funds. But we will do our best to put up a good show.’
‘Sure. Are there enough toilets for the dignitaries?’
‘Well,’ I said, wondering what to say. In some ways, the entire field was available as a toilet.
‘Western-style toilets, I meant.’ Samantha laughed. ‘Most of the delegation is from the US.’
‘We will have temporary ones put up,’ I said.
‘You don’t have them at the school?’
I looked at her. She seemed more curious than judgemental. I decided to be honest.
‘We are a poor school. We don’t have the money to do many things. We are doing this to get noticed so some government officia
ls might help us.’
Samantha frowned.
‘We will, however,’ I said, ‘do a good show. The local MLA is with us.’
‘I believe you will. Since you mentioned lack of funds, would you like to be considered for our grants programme?’ Samantha said.
‘What’s that?’
‘Our foundation gives grants, or a sum of money, to deserving social projects. We had you as a tourist stop for Mr Gates, but you are doing social service, too.’
‘Well, it is service for us. My mother has given her entire life to this school. Even I turned down job offers to come here.’
‘Great. You can make a pitch for that, too.’
‘Pitch?’
‘The grants programme is highly competitive. We get a lot of wonderful proposals, but give funding to only a few.’
‘What do I need to do?’
‘Ideally, you need to submit a proposal and make a presentation to the selection panel. However, there’s no panel meeting expected anytime in the near future.’
‘Then?’
Samantha paused to think.
‘Please, Miss Samantha, I really need money for my school. You have seen the condition it is in.’
Samantha finally spoke. ‘Here’s what I suggest. Make a good speech to the visiting delegation. Mr Gates himself will be present. If he and the delegation like what you say, they may grant you something on the spot.’
‘Really?’
‘If you can say something inspiring, a pitch that comes across as genuine, a small grant might be possible.’
‘What’s a small grant?’
‘Twenty thousand dollars. Maybe more. But like I said, it may not work.’
I let out a huge breath. Eight lakhs could transform my school.
‘A speech, eh?’ I said.
‘Yes, not too preachy, not salesy. Just from the heart.’
‘How long?’
‘Five to ten minutes. In English, of course.’
‘What?’ I said and jumped up from my chair. My sudden movement caused her to spill her tea.
‘Sorry? Everything okay?’ Samantha said.
I sat back down.
‘English?’
‘Yes. But we are speaking in English.’
‘I can barely talk to you. Addressing a US delegation in English in front of an audience? I can’t.’
‘Well, we could have translators. But I’m afraid that just doesn’t have the same effect.’