150

There was nothing in the air at all. I assure you…NOTHING AT ALL that subtly hinted at something mischievous. But anecdotes of such sort aren’t usually as benevolent as to letting tocsins slip accidentally.

It was meant to be a big day. When I say a ‘big day’…a day of great significance in an academic year that had seen much gloom, in an academic year that was ruled by an eccentric principal whose sole objective was academic excellence. If you’re wondering how the miracle had actually found its way through, then it was the result of unanimous student tumult outside his office that had caused him to budge reluctantly, fearing graver repercussions.

 

The effervescent fest was the only inter school competition in the whole of the year that saw our preternaturally talented contingent grace. The essence of a literary interschool festival had finally returned to fill our minds with delight. The very prospect of getting to finally resort to a fine and well deserved exhibition of talent amid equally proficient students lit up the otherwise glum countenances of 50 blokes. The scene could have been compared to that of an ardent cricket lover reacting to a boundary from Virender Sehwag, after watching Rahul Dravid bat in a stupor for an hour. The word ‘Delirium’ was given a whole new manifestation.

 

On D-Day, we lost no time in speeding to the venue an hour before the arrival of the organizers themselves. Since the canteens weren’t even organized then, we reclined to a giant tree overlooking the entrance and indulged in the usual tittle-tattle that is no foreigner where a bunch of 15 year-olds are around.

 

The day progressed in the most ballistic fashion. To say it was a rollercoaster ride would be a woefully incomplete understatement. Everything seemed to have happened in the blink of an eye, not even giving us time to keep count of it. Innumerable competitions taking place simultaneously, fellow-pals from various schools indulging in chat for the first time in months, people scurrying in scores to the canteen to get a taste of the ravishing cuisines that were on offer, the day encompassed everything. It ended, however, on a somber note with the droning words of a few enlightened men to whom ‘fun’ was anathema. We were instructed (I’m being way too polite) to get home at the earliest and do so in a diligent manner, with no routine ‘hanging out’ or anything of that kind. My dearest comrades, Gautham and Talwar to whom such orders were repugnant boilerplate vowed to defy the norms laid down by the organizers and decided that they would shoot off to the nearest bakery that was around for a celebration after pocketing their 7^th Quiz title in a row. Alas I couldn’t share their joy, the reason being the examination I was expected to grace in the coaching institution I attended.

 

“Biology examinations are always suckingly sick,” remarked Talwar, who was perennially a skeptic of the abhorrent subject.

 

“Yeah dudo…I offer you my deepest condolences,” continued Gautham, who derived sardonic pleasure in such scenarios. “I reckon you’d be doing yourself a whole lot of good if you scored somewhere around 150 out of 175…that’d rake in extravagant plaudits...Man...150 should be the number of the day for you,” he said, in his usually quixotic manner, scanning the menu card.

 

“Yep man…I thank you for your benign wishes of solidarity and support…will catch you tomorrow in school then…bye for now…” was the only reply I could muster, my misery containing everything else. Besides, there did seem to be something queer about Gautham’s deportment that afternoon (which isn’t very unusual actually…). A curt wave from Gautham and I was off, in pursuit of an auto-rickshaw to make my way to the sickeningly languid institute, where an even nauseating examination beckoned. Finally, I had managed with great persuasion to ensure my definite travel to the place, offering to pay 10 rupees extra to the autodriver.

 

A retreating sigh in the backseat of the auto brought my wristwatch to the sight of my cornea for the first time in the day. It was 4:30 PM, with an hour and a half to go for the apathetic ordeal to commence. It wouldn’t take me longer than 30 minutes to get to the coaching centre. And thus, I reclined…the dorsal modicum of my head resting on the pinnacle of the back rest, in the customary position of an exasperated passenger. 10 minutes had passed…my eye could sight unfamiliar undulant forms of buildings around…but I was probably in a sullen slumber and so did not pay much heed to it, but returned to rake in the harmony of the hitherto posture.   

 

15 minutes had passed and I could distinctly hear Dard-E-Disco playing in the audio system of the auto. Hazily humming the tunes of the song, I returned to the pleasurable nap I had taken to for the first time in an autorickshaw.

 

25 minutes had passed and my palms ran over my complete face, and a giant yawn emanated from my mouth for the first time in 18 months. I had half expected to descend the autorickshaw in a few seconds time when for the first time I smelt something sinister…neither my coaching institute was around nor were any of its surroundings…instead I happened to pass by an enormous signboard that read- ‘Welcome to the National Institute of Nutrition, Hyderabad’…hang on…I remembered my Biology teacher mention that this pretentious laboratory was miles away from the heart of the city and that it would take an awfully long time to get there…

 

I sat up bolt, my stupor completely deserting me…

 

“Hello…I said we were to go SRI KRISHNA COACHING CENTRE,” I said to the autodriver in an uncannily aggressive tone.

 

“Yeah…that’s where we are headed,” he replied curtly in the local language. I couldn’t but observe a malicious gleam in his countenance, from the rear view mirror.

 

“Why the **** have you taken this route?” I exploded.

 

“Well…aapne mujhe route ke bare me kuch bataaya nahin”…he replied back, the grin on his face widening.

 

“How longer will it take for us to get there?” I asked, toning down my fury.

 

“Hmmm…we’ll get there in another half hour,” he replied deliriously, dripping sadism.

 

I went livid. I had the urge of obliterating the dorsal part of his head and driving the vehicle myself. A look at the meter almost made me do so. The meter, that was ticking faster than a scoreboard in a Sehwag-Gambhir run-fest, read 70-00 that implied that I had to shell out more than 130-140 rupees at the end of the crucifying journey.

 

35 minutes had passed and the impression that I had been kidnapped still didn’t desert me.

 

“Aur kitna waqt lagega?” I enquired, seeming desperate for the first time that afternoon.

 

“Aap ko chinta karne ki koi baat nahin hai…just sit back and enjoy the ambience,” he remarked chuckling to himself and breaking into a kind of jig with his hands, steering the auto almost out of control.

 

It is said there is no worse feeling in this universe than misery. I began to comprehend why.

 

45 minutes had passed and for the first time that afternoon, some mirth injected itself into my crestfallen veins. We were squeezing our way through recognizable places of the city and I knew my destination wasn’t too far way, although it would take 10-15 minutes to get there. I was getting there nonetheless! The cells of my body seemed to be reverberating as though they just had the import of 45621874629 ATP of energy.

 

10 minutes later, my eyes widened to alarming thresholds at the sight of the meter that now read 150-00. Haplessly, I coughed up the amount and handed it to the mordant-faced driver; including a free package of my choicest swear words.

 

I raced into the examination hall that was unpredictably full even half hour prior to the commencement of the test. The debonair ambience and the comforting Air Conditioners did nothing at all to make people see a better face in me. If anyone had the slightest of time to take their eyes off their book and accidentally glance at my face, they would certainly have mistaken me for a terrified fugitive, on whose trail are goons of the most gadarene kind.

 

I did the exam pretty well enough as I always do and rushed home as quickly as I could. I took to the bed almost immediately and dozed off without a word. The next day being a holiday gave me the liberty to do so.

 

Next morning, at about 10 AM, as the horror of the last afternoon unyieldingly occupied the forefront of my mind, I received a gentle knock at the door. It was the postman, in whose hands rested a letter for me. It was probably the first time in my life that a letter was addressed to me. “Are you sure it’s for me?” I queried.

 

“Yes Sir…are you Sameer Dharur?”

 

“That’s right…I am”

 

“Then this letter is addressed to you…it contains a hundred rupee note and a fifty rupee note.”

 

“Ah…is that so…?”

 

Enlightenment began to dawn upon me…

 

“Yes Sir…it has been sent to you by a certain Gautham Mehta who apparently is using the postal service for the first time in his life…Sir…are you all right?”

 

 

DISCLAIMER

This is a fable and all the characters involved in this tale are merely a figment of my imagination. Any resemblances to any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental. 

However, I will not shy away from conceding that certain portions of this tale are directly inspired by certain realities.