Dumraon, District Buxar, Bihar
I wanted to surprise my mother, so I told her I was arriving a day
later than the actual date. I reached the Dumraon railway station after a
fourteen-hour train journey from Delhi.
As I walked out of the station, the familiar smells of my childhood
hit me straightaway.
There is nothing spectacular about my hometown. It is a small
place, less than three kilometres across on any side. Its only claim to
fame is being one of the oldest princely states of India. My family had
something to do with that achievement. However, I don’t know if I can
feel proud for what my ancestors did ten generations ago, Dumraon is
in Buxar district, around sixteen kilometres from Buxar town on the
banks of the Ganges. If you were not sleeping in history class you
would have heard of the Great Battle of Buxar in 1764. Frankly, it
should be renamed the Embarrassing Battle of Buxar. The battle was
fought between the British East India Company and the combined
armies of three Indian rulers—Mir Qasim, the Nawab of Bengal;
Shuja-ud-Daula, the Nawab of Awadh; and the Mughal king, Shah
Alam II. The Indian side had forty thousand troops. The British had
less than ten thousand. Guess what happened? The British clobbered
us. How? Well, the three Indian kings ended up fighting with each
other. Each Indian king had cut a side deal with the British and worked
against the other. In a day, the British had won the battle and taken
control of most of India. I don’t think Indians have learnt much since
that day. We remain as divided as ever. Everyone still tries to cut a deal
for themselves while the nation goes to hell.
Anyway, there is a reason I am telling you this. You may think
things are not connected, but think about this. If there was no Batde of
Buxar, or if it had had a different outcome, the British may not have
ruled India like they did. There would be none of the ‘English high
CHETAN BHAGAT - HALF GIRLFRIEND NOVEL
Re: CHETAN BHAGAT - HALF GIRLFRIEND NOVEL
class, rest low class’ bullshit that happens in India. There would not
even be a St. Stephen’s College. Just imagine, if only the jokers in
Buxar had done things a little differently, maybe the white man would
be speaking Hindi and Bhojpuri would be the new cool.
I took an autorickshaw. ‘Raja ki haveli,
’I told the driver. He put
the auto in first gear and drove off. In Dumraon, our house is a
landmark by itself.
It was the bumpiest ride ever. A cloud of dust surrounded us as we
drove through the city.
‘What happened to the road?’I asked the auto driver.
‘There are no roads,
’ he said and laughed.
*
Twenty minutes later, the auto reached the haveli’s main entrance.
Fifteen years ago, we had a guard post here. Now, we just had pillars
on each side. Along with my three fat suitcases I stood in the central
quadrangle, once a beautiful garden. My childhood picture, which
Riya had seen, had been taken here. I noticed a stack of bamboo poles
and bundles of cloth kept in the quadrangle. Two labourers sat in a
corner, smoking beedis.
‘What’s this?’I said.
‘We are putting up a tent,
’said one of them.
*
Ma wasn’t home when I arrived. I entered my old room. The large
wooden doors creaked more than before. The cupboard doors had
become stiff. I opened the windows. Sunlight fell on the posters of
Shaquille O’Neal and Magic Johnson stuck on my wall for the last five
years.
I lay on the bed, staring at the basketball champions. I wondered if
I should have focused more on the national trials.
A few hours later my mother returned from school. ‘Ma,
’I
screamed from the window.
My mother saw me as she entered the haveli gate. She waved at
me. I rushed downstairs and gave her a big hug. Girlfriends come and
go but, thank God, mothers don't break up with you.
‘You said tomorrow,
’she said. We sat on one of the living-room
sofas, frayed but still elegant.
‘I thought I would surprise you,
' I said.
‘That’s nice. But you spoilt our surprise.'
‘How?’.
Savitri tai, one of my mother’s oldest helpers, brought in tea and
sweet litti.
‘Your coronation.You saw the tents outside, right?’
‘What?’I said, a half-eaten litti ball in my hand.
‘It’s an auspicious day, Ashad Krishna.’
‘Ma, I don’t want this drama.’
‘It isn’t drama. It’s tradition,
’my mother said in a low, emotional
voice, the perfect starting point for female drama.
‘I’ll feel like a joker, being anointed a prince in a democracy.’
My mother stood up and walked to the dining table, her back to
me. She remained silent, her most potent weapon. Standing tall at five
feet, eight inches, in her starched saree, my mother did look royal. She
clenched her fists tight.
I walked up to her.
‘Ma, you shouldn't have sent me to college if you wanted me to
keep following such rituals.'
My mother spoke, her back still towards me.‘Funny, I was thinking
the same thing.’
I went around the dining table to face her. ‘We have an MLA,
’I
said. ‘What’s his name?’
My mother looked at me in defiance.
‘What’s his name, Ma?’
‘Ojha. Useless fellow.’
'Yes, Ojha. We also have an MP in Buxar and a CM in Patna.’
‘The villagers still care for us.You know why?’she said.
‘Because they are old-fashioned and uneducated?’
My mother looked at me sharply. ‘You’ve become like them.’
even be a St. Stephen’s College. Just imagine, if only the jokers in
Buxar had done things a little differently, maybe the white man would
be speaking Hindi and Bhojpuri would be the new cool.
I took an autorickshaw. ‘Raja ki haveli,
’I told the driver. He put
the auto in first gear and drove off. In Dumraon, our house is a
landmark by itself.
It was the bumpiest ride ever. A cloud of dust surrounded us as we
drove through the city.
‘What happened to the road?’I asked the auto driver.
‘There are no roads,
’ he said and laughed.
*
Twenty minutes later, the auto reached the haveli’s main entrance.
Fifteen years ago, we had a guard post here. Now, we just had pillars
on each side. Along with my three fat suitcases I stood in the central
quadrangle, once a beautiful garden. My childhood picture, which
Riya had seen, had been taken here. I noticed a stack of bamboo poles
and bundles of cloth kept in the quadrangle. Two labourers sat in a
corner, smoking beedis.
‘What’s this?’I said.
‘We are putting up a tent,
’said one of them.
*
Ma wasn’t home when I arrived. I entered my old room. The large
wooden doors creaked more than before. The cupboard doors had
become stiff. I opened the windows. Sunlight fell on the posters of
Shaquille O’Neal and Magic Johnson stuck on my wall for the last five
years.
I lay on the bed, staring at the basketball champions. I wondered if
I should have focused more on the national trials.
A few hours later my mother returned from school. ‘Ma,
’I
screamed from the window.
My mother saw me as she entered the haveli gate. She waved at
me. I rushed downstairs and gave her a big hug. Girlfriends come and
go but, thank God, mothers don't break up with you.
‘You said tomorrow,
’she said. We sat on one of the living-room
sofas, frayed but still elegant.
‘I thought I would surprise you,
' I said.
‘That’s nice. But you spoilt our surprise.'
‘How?’.
Savitri tai, one of my mother’s oldest helpers, brought in tea and
sweet litti.
‘Your coronation.You saw the tents outside, right?’
‘What?’I said, a half-eaten litti ball in my hand.
‘It’s an auspicious day, Ashad Krishna.’
‘Ma, I don’t want this drama.’
‘It isn’t drama. It’s tradition,
’my mother said in a low, emotional
voice, the perfect starting point for female drama.
‘I’ll feel like a joker, being anointed a prince in a democracy.’
My mother stood up and walked to the dining table, her back to
me. She remained silent, her most potent weapon. Standing tall at five
feet, eight inches, in her starched saree, my mother did look royal. She
clenched her fists tight.
I walked up to her.
‘Ma, you shouldn't have sent me to college if you wanted me to
keep following such rituals.'
My mother spoke, her back still towards me.‘Funny, I was thinking
the same thing.’
I went around the dining table to face her. ‘We have an MLA,
’I
said. ‘What’s his name?’
My mother looked at me in defiance.
‘What’s his name, Ma?’
‘Ojha. Useless fellow.’
'Yes, Ojha. We also have an MP in Buxar and a CM in Patna.’
‘The villagers still care for us.You know why?’she said.
‘Because they are old-fashioned and uneducated?’
My mother looked at me sharply. ‘You’ve become like them.’
Re: CHETAN BHAGAT - HALF GIRLFRIEND NOVEL
‘Like whom?’
‘The over-educated idiots in big cities. Whenever they don’t
understand villagers, they call them uneducated and old-fashioned.’
I listened to her reprimand, keeping my head down. The Rani
Sahiba’s rare loss of temper could not be taken lightly.
‘So why do they want to coronate me? Nothing else entertaining
happening in Durnraon?’
‘They want to because the so-called government doesn’t seem to
care.’
I poured a glass of water and handed it to my mother.
'Ma, I have finished college and come back. Can you not shout at
me within the first hour of meeting me?’
‘Your actions deserve it, so what can I do?’
‘Okay, sorry. I am sorry, Ma.’
She relented and we sat on the sofa again. I placed four more littis
on my plate.
‘There’s dinner. Don’t stuff yourself with these,
’Ma said.
‘Sorry,
’I said, and put my plate back on the table.
‘Anyway, it is just a two-hour-long ceremony—the rajyabhishek
puja and lunch. What is the problem?’
‘No problem at all. I’ll do it.’
The fan in the room stopped. In seconds, sweat beads appeared on
our foreheads. In minutes, mosquitoes hovered over us.
‘What happened?’I said.
‘Load-shedding. Go thank your government for this,
’my mother
said.
16
'How much longer, Pandit ji?’I said. My back hurt from sitting
cross-legged on the floor for over two hours. Marriages get done faster
than this. The village priest chanted holy mantras for my peaceful and
successful rule. Whatever.
Around two hundred people from Dumraon and nearby villages
had come to attend the ceremony. People sat on red plastic chairs.
Giant pedestal fans recirculated the hot air.
I recognized a few important guests. MLA Vijay Ojha, a sixty-yearold
man who had been in local politics for over forty years, sat in the
front row.The district collector and the police inspector sat next to him.
Local press reporters took pictures and hovered around them.
Finally, my mother presented the royal crown to Pandit ji; she had
taken it out of our family safe. It was one of the few precious items we
had left.
Pandit ji placed the two-kilo crown on my head. The crowd
applauded. My mother burst into tears. She gave me a hug—an
embarrassing public display of affection.
‘Happy now?’I said, whispering in her ear.
‘My rajkumar.’ She hugged me even tighter.
I was sweating profusely in my velvet bandhgala suit. ‘Rajkumar is
melting in the heat. Can I change?’I said.
I came down from the stage. Reporters made me pose for photos.
My mother introduced me to guests even as reporters took my
pictures.
‘Mubarak, Rajkumar sahib,
’said a young man in his twenties. My
mother introduced him as Akhtar Hussain, one of the two teachers in
her school.
‘Call me Madhav,
’I said to Akhtar, shaking his hand. He seemed
embarrassed at the suggestion.
‘Madhav, meet Tej Lal, another teacher at our school, and
Tarachand ji, the administrative officer,
’my mother said.
‘The over-educated idiots in big cities. Whenever they don’t
understand villagers, they call them uneducated and old-fashioned.’
I listened to her reprimand, keeping my head down. The Rani
Sahiba’s rare loss of temper could not be taken lightly.
‘So why do they want to coronate me? Nothing else entertaining
happening in Durnraon?’
‘They want to because the so-called government doesn’t seem to
care.’
I poured a glass of water and handed it to my mother.
'Ma, I have finished college and come back. Can you not shout at
me within the first hour of meeting me?’
‘Your actions deserve it, so what can I do?’
‘Okay, sorry. I am sorry, Ma.’
She relented and we sat on the sofa again. I placed four more littis
on my plate.
‘There’s dinner. Don’t stuff yourself with these,
’Ma said.
‘Sorry,
’I said, and put my plate back on the table.
‘Anyway, it is just a two-hour-long ceremony—the rajyabhishek
puja and lunch. What is the problem?’
‘No problem at all. I’ll do it.’
The fan in the room stopped. In seconds, sweat beads appeared on
our foreheads. In minutes, mosquitoes hovered over us.
‘What happened?’I said.
‘Load-shedding. Go thank your government for this,
’my mother
said.
16
'How much longer, Pandit ji?’I said. My back hurt from sitting
cross-legged on the floor for over two hours. Marriages get done faster
than this. The village priest chanted holy mantras for my peaceful and
successful rule. Whatever.
Around two hundred people from Dumraon and nearby villages
had come to attend the ceremony. People sat on red plastic chairs.
Giant pedestal fans recirculated the hot air.
I recognized a few important guests. MLA Vijay Ojha, a sixty-yearold
man who had been in local politics for over forty years, sat in the
front row.The district collector and the police inspector sat next to him.
Local press reporters took pictures and hovered around them.
Finally, my mother presented the royal crown to Pandit ji; she had
taken it out of our family safe. It was one of the few precious items we
had left.
Pandit ji placed the two-kilo crown on my head. The crowd
applauded. My mother burst into tears. She gave me a hug—an
embarrassing public display of affection.
‘Happy now?’I said, whispering in her ear.
‘My rajkumar.’ She hugged me even tighter.
I was sweating profusely in my velvet bandhgala suit. ‘Rajkumar is
melting in the heat. Can I change?’I said.
I came down from the stage. Reporters made me pose for photos.
My mother introduced me to guests even as reporters took my
pictures.
‘Mubarak, Rajkumar sahib,
’said a young man in his twenties. My
mother introduced him as Akhtar Hussain, one of the two teachers in
her school.
‘Call me Madhav,
’I said to Akhtar, shaking his hand. He seemed
embarrassed at the suggestion.
‘Madhav, meet Tej Lal, another teacher at our school, and
Tarachand ji, the administrative officer,
’my mother said.