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Random House Publishers India Pvt. Ltd. - Chetan Chhatwal

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98 pages

English

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'Tried to picture myself in a shady second-rate college and realized that even thinkingabout it was difficult.' Arjun Singh is a typical South Delhi brat whose biggest worry is securing a much-coveted seat in one of the city's top colleges. But his ambitious plans come to a screeching halt when he scores a paltry '55' in English in the board exams. Unable to meet the cut-off, Arjun is forced to take admission in a neighbouring second-grade college. Between grappling with his identity as a Sikh and facing repeated misfortunes in love, Arjun's only solace is his three best friends from school who have also ended up in the same dump. What will happen to his future now?Witty, naughty, and plain irreverent, 55 is a delightful, mad caper about growing up and surviving three tumultuous years in the hallowed corridors of Delhi University.

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Publié par	Random House Publishers India Pvt. Ltd.
Date de parution	18 janvier 2013
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9788184003895
Langue	English

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RANDOM HOUSE INDIA
Published by Random House India in 2013
Copyright Chetan Chhatwal 2013
Random House Publishers India Private Limited Windsor IT Park, 7th Floor, Tower-B A-1, Sector-125, Noida-201301, U.P.
Random House Group Limited 20 Vauxhall Bridge Road London SW1V 2SA United Kingdom
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. All opinions expressed in this book are the author s own.
This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law.
Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author s and publisher s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
EPUB ISBN 9788184003895
For Reds
Contents
Prologue
Surdy
Options
55
Re-evaluate This
The Gang
The Lists
The Shart
Ragging-Shagging
Radha
My Friend s Problem
The Other Woman
Growing Up
Happy Birthday!
What s That Smell?
Voulez-vous Coucher Avec Moi (Ce Soir)?
Confusion
Should I or Shouldn t I?
The Aftermath
Goodbye?
Goodbye!
Acknowledgements
A Note on the Author
Prologue
M Y name is Arjun Singh, you fuckin gende, and you have ruined my life, I said unbuttoning my overcoat. Pulling out the two Uzi submachine guns I had hidden earlier, I pointed them at Yadav s forehead.

Dodging the millions of hangers-on and other indigenous species-stray dogs, cows, and beedi smokers, squatting on their haunches by the side of the road-the car crawled to a halt outside the gate. Bhawani, the driver, turned to face me.
Park around the corner and keep an eye out for me. We might need to leave in a hurry, I said opening the door.
As the world outside the tinted windows of the car came into focus, a sea of people, blinding sunlight, and a wall of heat assaulted my senses. It was a typical, hot, crowded, stinking, mid-morning July in Delhi. I felt the last wisp of air conditioning on my arm as I slammed the car door shut. Squinting, while fumbling for my sunglasses in my various pockets, I watched Bhawani pull away, his face obscured by the darkened windows. Almost immediately, I felt a hundred eyes on me, watching, staring, without any curiosity. Turning quickly, I walked towards the dilapidated building in the centre of the gated compound. It was a red brick building and the architecture was old and colonial-like most government structures in the capital.
I caught a glint of sunlight as it reflected off my wristwatch. It was half-past eleven. Inside, I found myself in a large, decrepit hall. It had probably looked majestic in its heyday with its wide sweeping archways and tall ceilings. Any hint of grandeur now long gone, the room, along with the rest of the edifice, was falling to bits. There were cobwebs in the corners and loose paint chips hanging from walls that had turned black from years of accumulated filth and water seepage. The original colour of the paint had been yellow, but it had since faded to a deeper shade of shit. There was no air conditioning. I could hear the loud hum of a desert cooler that sounded like it was well past its recommended life. A strong whiff of body odour, mixed with equal parts urine and cow dung, stifled me as I entered the hall.
I saw six aluminium tables arranged in two columns of three. Files could be seen everywhere-some stacked, others strewn. Paperwork lay across the tables, behind the tables, on the floor, and even on the spare chairs at each table. Dirty and half-eaten (no doubt by the rats that infested the place), the files looked like they were a 100-years-old.
The door to the adjoining room was shut; a peon sat sleeping on a stool outside. He was wearing a khaki uniform and a Nehru topi. His head was resting on the door and he was snoring lightly. From the high ceiling hung three long fans that were rotating slowly, making an irritating squeaking sound as they fought a losing battle with the heat. Familiar portraits of Gandhi and Nehru, which had turned yellow with age, adorned the dirty walls. A leaking water cooler stood in one corner of the room. Only a couple of the six clerks had shown up for work, it seemed. I use the word work lightly here-they were simply chatting. A small, dark, almost sickly thin child was carrying a tray holding a few glasses of chai. His sweat-stained vest was torn in places and he looked like he hadn t eaten a decent meal for weeks. He was offering the clerks tea as I walked in.
Seeing me enter, they stopped chatting and stared in that pleasant way that only Indians can. It was nearing 45 degrees outside-a classic Delhi summer day when it is so hot that it feels like your scalp is on fire (or so my friends tell me). What bothers me the most is the humidity-it makes you sweat bad, and I mean real bad. I hated Delhi. Pandit, in one of his joint-induced spells of lucidity, once described the city as The asshole of the world . I think he stole that line from Stephen King. Still, the guy could be quite astute when he was suitably inebriated, or high, or both. Anyway, the reason why the clerks had been staring, the reason why I had been attracting queer glances all morning, was that I was wearing a long overcoat. I was also wearing those creepy, wraparound shades that most cricketers wear.
I had to, you see, despite the heat. It was the only way I could hide the guns.
Where is Yadav s office? I barked.
Who are you to ask? one of the clerks queried in broken English.
His father, I replied in as menacing a voice as I could muster and removed my glasses. Now, where the fuck is he?
They knew I meant business. Someone pointed to the peon at the end of the room.
I approached the door-the smell of sweat and alcohol was overpowering. I shook him. He fell off his stool but remained asleep. I looked at the name on the door-it read: Manoj Yadav, Controller of Examinations, Central Education Board . Under the nameplate, there was a sign that said Please to knock before enter . I kicked the door. It flew open with a loud thud and bounced back on its hinges. The peon tried to open his eyes, mumbled something incomprehensible, and became comatose again. Behind me, I heard the clerks run out of the room-they were scared. They had every reason to be.
Yadav s office was slightly better than the adjoining room from which I had entered. The same posters hung on the dirty walls. There was a desert cooler in this room. One of Yadav s amazing perks, I thought. In addition, there was a large desk overflowing with dozens of exam answer sheets, a covered glass of water at the edge of the desk, an ugly sofa with what looked like a piss stain in one corner, and a dusty filing cabinet next to it. The exalted one himself probably weighed at least a hundred and fifty kilos and was completely bald-like Jabba, the frickin Hutt. He was wearing a white, half-sleeved shirt, the front pocket of which was hanging on for dear life under the strain of supporting a spectacle case, three pens, and several papers. He was marking the answer sheets when I barged in.
Aye-who you are? What is problem? Yadav yelled.
Ignoring his question, I walked up to him and snatched the answer sheet out of his fat hands. It was the 1996 English board exam paper. He wasn t marking it as much as just glancing through and randomly assigning a grade-that s what they all did anyway. He had just put down a score when I had pulled the paper from him. I looked down at his desk-all the other sheets had the same mark. It was on the front page in bright red ink with a neat circle drawn around it.
55.
The number seared itself into my brain.

Yadav first looked at the guns I was pointing at him-and then at me. His beady little eyes darted towards the guns again and then back at me. He tried to mouth something but his voice failed him. The room was suddenly filled with the stench of faeces. I looked down at his feet. There was a dark yellow liquid trickling from his trouser leg, forming a puddle on the floor. Slowly, it started to snake towards me.
I opened fire-there was a series of short, sharp bursts. Yadav s brain exploded onto the poster on the wall behind his chair. The glass on his desk shattered into a million pieces. Bits from the answer sheets on his desk scattered everywhere like confetti. His white shirt turned red with blood. I kept firing until both the magazines were out. I must have pumped fifty rounds into his fat, limp body. I was satisfied. Very satisfied.
As I turned to leave, I read the caption under the poster behind his chair. On the blood-smeared paper, below what looked like a small grey chunk of his brain, I could just about make out the words.
Mera Bharat Mahan!
No shit! I said, smiling, as I walked out
Surdy
T he loud knocking woke me with a start.
Bhaiya, its seex-thorty! What would you like for breakfast? Bina, the maid, yelled from outside the door in her heavy Bengali accent.
I had instructed her to wake me up early. It was the first day of college after the break and I needed all the time I could get in the morning to get it just right. I recalled my first time. I had to apply for a new passport. I did not want to wear it, but dad had insisted.
Do you want to look like a kid in your passport, Arjun? You will be stuck with that photo for the next twenty years, you know, he had said.
Since then, I had had just under three years of practice. Whereas its general shape had improved, it still took me ages to get it right. When starting out at college, I had even considered continuing with the patka, like I had at school. But, college meant adulthood and grown men did not wear patkas.
One second, didi, I answered in my hoarse mornin