Third Best

by K. V. Arjun Rao

Genres: Literary Fiction

Synopsis

Welcome to Shore Mount — one of India's most prestigious co-ed residential schools. Here, short skirts reign and sports stars are revered, and skinny dips and sneaking girls into boys' rooms are as much a part of the curriculum as the cool Mr Gomez's literature lessons... Into this world arrives Nirvan Shrivastava, with tremendous expectations weighing on his shoulders. After all, he's following in the footsteps of three generations of brilliant Shrivastavas immortalized on every possible honors board in the school. As he hesitatingly negotiates the crazy roller-coaster ride that is life at Shore Mount, he finds true buddies in Gautam, an unlikely musical genius obsessed with all things edible, and Faraz, the slick ladies' man. Together the boys discover that in Shore Mount survival means much more than braving the chill of heater-less dorms, or scrubbing toilets clean with toothbrushes. And as they learn to stand up to vicious bullies on and off the playing fields and survive the agony of heartaches and broken bones, they find themselves hurtling towards adulthood far sooner than they could have ever imagined...

Release date: March 12, 2012

Publisher: Hachette India

Print pages: 388

Sample

I must begin by thanking all the people who read this book and offered phenomenal criticism and advice – Deepthi Talwar, Disha Mullick, Manika Raikwar, Neel Chaudhuri, Radhika Roy and Stuti Kuthiala. Thank you for being kind.

My thanks to Tarun Tejpal, Ajoy Bose, Pradip Krishen, Anna Chandy, Samit Basu, Thomas Abraham and Monica Dutta for their advice and down-to-earth talks. This couldn’t have happened without you.

Thanks forever to Nandita Aggarwal and everyone at Hachette India. This book holds a piece of my soul inside it, and to be told that it is worth something, reassuringly and repeatedly, has been most heartening. I could not have entrusted this to anyone else. My gratitude to Rima Zaheer for gently guiding me through the first edit. My thanks to Poulomi Chatterjee, who firmly held my hand and walked me back to school. Thanks also to Prem Kishore who understood exactly what I wanted and designed a superb cover.

My eternal gratitude to The Lawrence School, Lovedale and all the teachers and Lawrencians, Old and New, who walked the many corridors before me, while I was there and those who will do so in the years to come. High-fives to the batch of 1999, who stood by me and laughed through it all – dame touch, skinning-ups and break-ups – and for still being there. Thanks to Shrimoy Agarwala and Manish Narain for showing me that in life you do need ‘best friends’. A special thanks to Indrani and Dev Lahiri who were the greatest substitute parents anyone could have asked for. Never Give In.

Equally, I must thank the teachers and the students of the Doon School, Dehradun. They opened their homes and Houses to me in a way that could not have been possible elsewhere. Thanks to Kanti Bajpai, for taking a chance with a kid who owned no trousers and had hair down to his waist and unleashing him on the classrooms at Doon and for all the freedom I was allowed, even when I was teaching classes about comic-book superheroes. Thanks to the boys of the Doon School who refuse to allow me to grow old. Everlasting gratitude and love to: Abia and Ashad, for all the evenings, the constant redecoration, the plays, holding my hand when I’ve hit rock bottom and all the love; Stuti, for showing me that despite all the odds the sun will shine tomorrow; Anez and Sam, for showing me the importance of living life; Pumima and Goutam, for teaching me that if you give without thinking you will never be short of anything. I’m spoiled for life.

Thanks to all those at Bangalore, Dehradun, Delhi and St Andrews who allowed me to stay the night and use their parking space – Brunda Ganesh, Deepthi Talwar, Dev Cariappa, Dipti Varma, Disha Mullick, Kaavya Asoka, Kathryn and Gareth Knight, Karam Puri, Mohit Sinha, Neel Chaudhuri, Pooja and Azmat ‘Juno’ Sikand, Rosie Wayte, Rudra ‘Rudy’ Chaudhuri, Sonali and Piyush Malaviya, Sophia Durrani and Phill Cheshire, Sue and Ben Fletcher-Watson, Yash Chandra, and everyone else. I can never thank you enough.

And, finally, love and thanks immeasurable to: Ma, for allowing me to inherit her love for reading – not just great literature – and for holding me as I wept after reading The Count of Monte Cristo and after watching Dead Poets’ Society; Dad, for passing on his passion for music and for listening to Territorial pissings without flinching; and to Jayant, for constantly reminding me just how cool younger brothers can be.

The corridor was never-ending. No matter how fast Nirvan tried to walk, it seemed to curve and wind, and carry on and on – almost as if it were mocking him, like everything else at this damn school!

As if on cue, he heard laughter around the end of the corridor and, as he turned the corner, he found he had walked into a party. Feeling underdressed, he tried to smooth down his kurta-pyjama as he peered at the people standing around, talking, laughing, gossiping. He knew these people, he certainly … He realized they were his family. As he pushed and shoved his way to the centre of the crowd, he saw they had gathered around Moksh. His grandfather was helping his brother slip into the prestigious jacket that could only be worn by the Head of The Mount and everyone was clapping and cheering. His friends were there too, he noticed. Faraz, Gautam, Billy, Adi … He grimaced. It had taken him so long to find this place and now he was the only one here in stupid night-clothes! The crowd swelled around him. Nirvan heard someone chuckle, and then everyone began to laugh. They pointed at him, and the laughter seemed to rise in pitch till the noise began to hurt his head. He looked around for a way to escape but there was none. The crowd moved in on him, and as they came closer he saw her – leading the pack. Nirvan found it hard to breathe. She was chanting something, and then, suddenly, everyone was chanting along with her. The chorus got louder and louder until Nirvan felt his ears would burst.

‘Come on, Azad! COME ON, AZAD! They don’t know how to play!’

Nirvan jumped up, breathing heavily. He was in a corridor all right, but it was pitch dark. He remembered where he was – outside the prefect’s room in Nehru House. Abhishek Yadav had asked him to be on Look-Out Duty, which involved sitting outside the room, walking around at intervals and knocking three times on the door if he saw anyone approach. Following this, he was required to hide in the bathroom or in his own dorm, then return when the coast was clear and get back on L.O.D. He looked at his watch. It was 3.25 a.m. He stood up and walked to the end of the corridor to see if his Housemaster, Mr Gomez’s – or ‘Go’, as everyone at Shore Mount called him – door was open and then to the other end, where he checked whether the chowkidars were around. All quiet. He sighed, rubbing his burning eyes. What on earth could Yadav be doing inside? Smoking? Drinking? Nirvan took a few deep breaths, but could smell nothing suspicious. He sat down next to the door again, leaned against the wall and waited.

A cold breeze blew through the corridor, making its way towards him. He huddled in the small warm space that the arch around the door provided and scowled as he felt his toes become numb. He hated the chill. There was nothing to protect him, or anyone else, from the icy temperatures that were legendary at Shore Mount. He had gathered from Moksh’s comments, and from his parents’, that the issue of introducing heaters in the dorms had been a controversial one for years; whenever it came up for discussion, the students were roundly told that their life here, as Spartan as it was, helped build character. What did that mean anyway, he thought angrily now. Build character? Why could ‘building character’ never be done in comfort?

Nirvan shivered and wrapped his arms around himself. He cursed the fact that his bed was the closest to the door in the junior dorm. The seniors always found him when they wanted some chore done. If it wasn’t L.O.D. then it was fetching something or making their beds or folding clothes or polishing shoes or just about anything else. Not that the rest of his class was spared, of course, but he always got a little more attention. He supposed it was because he, Nirvan Shrivastava, belonged to a family of Shore Mount legends. Other students would constantly ask him about his relatives. Teachers and parents would point to old photographs along the corridors of Nehru House and in the trophy cabinets and to honours boards displayed all over the school, and debate whether he looked more like his father or his mother, or had perhaps inherited his grandfather’s strong jaw or the hockey skills of one of his uncles. He loved his family, he admitted grudgingly, but he hated belonging to it. Moksh Shrivastava, cricketer, actor and soon-to-be Head of The Mount, was four years older than Nirvan but was already on the honours boards, record books and photographs of winning teams displayed around Shore Mount for the world to see. Why did everyone have to compare him with Moksh? Or Mo’, which is what he was known as by everyone in school. Mo’! What a stupid name! What was with that apostrophe, anyway?

Nirvan snarled as he recalled his dream. Damn them all. Laugh at him, would they? And that… girl! How dare she? It was bad enough that he was stuck with her in every class, and now for her to invade his dreams … He began pacing the corridor. He hated her. He had hated her from the day he had met her. Even back then she had certainly thought a lot of herself. Nirvan unconsciously touched his ear as he thought about that day, almost feeling the pain from a year ago, his first day at Shore Mount.

Nirvan entered his classroom for the first time and looked around. The classroom was empty; the rest of the school was at assembly. He had slept through breakfast and no one had bothered to wake him up! The first night at school, too, had gone by without anyone acknowledging his presence let alone attempting to be friendly. It had taken him all of breakfast time to organize his kit, consult his timetable and find his way to what he believed was among the oldest parts of the school. He tried to ignore the rumbles his stomach made in protest; he was not about to come in contact with a morsel of food till the tea-break, three hours later, as the timetable specified. Entering his first classroom, he noticed that half of its floor was wooden and the rest was cemented – almost as if the forest had disappeared by the time the builders had gone back for more. Nirvan sat down near a window halfway along the rows of desks and chairs. The windows that made up the outside wall of the room were ridiculously enormous and offered a brilliant view of The Lake.

‘You’re in my seat.’

‘Sorry?’ He turned around to face a girl with the shortest hair he could imagine on a girl. She was wearing the Shore Mount girls’ uniform, similar to that of the boys’ except that a beige skirt replaced the shorts. She, too, had chosen the royal blue waistcoat over a sweater, though hers certainly fit better than his. He supposed that The Shore, as the girls’ residential building was called, looked after its residents better. Nirvan’s waistcoat was an old one, passed down from a previous owner, part of Shore Mount’s hand-me-down policy. The Shore, he had noticed, was located across The Lake and was surrounded by tall fences on all sides, giving it the distinct impression of being something out of a fairytale, complete with its own wicked witch, the Head of The Shore, who was cheekily referred to as ‘The Mistress’ by the boys and masters – behind her back, of course.

‘I sit here,’ the girl declared.

Considering that it was the beginning of a new term and a new classroom, Nirvan couldn’t see how this could possibly be true. But, not in the mood to argue, he apologized and moved to the seat next to the girl, who, like him, was evidently missing assembly.

‘Rita sits there.’

Nirvan moved in front.

‘Nomi sits there.’

Nirvan moved behind.

‘Aarti sits there.’

‘Where do I sit then?’ Nirvan asked, getting irritated.

‘There,’ she said, pointing to a seat right at the back of the class, looking down at him over her slightly upturned nose.

‘Fine,’ Nirvan said, stomping off to where she had sent him.

She settled into her seat, took out a book and started reading it.

‘I’m Nirvan.’

‘Hmm.’

‘What’re you reading?’

She took a deep breath and ran her hands through her hair. ‘Great Expectations.’

‘Any good?’

‘Haven’t finished.’

‘Good so far?’

‘It’s okay.’

‘Do you read a lot?’

‘Only when people aren’t disturbing me.’

‘I’m sorry.’

Nirvan felt his face becoming warm.

He fell silent. He didn’t know anyone else in the school and the first person who was speaking to him was a very exasperating girl. It made him nervous that they were still the only ones in the classroom.

‘This is 7C, right?’

‘Hmm.’

Nirvan decided enough was enough. ‘Look,’ he said. ’I’m new. I’m just checking because no one else is here.’

The girl turned around and, unexpectedly, smiled.

‘Don’t worry. They’ll get here. Where are you from?’

‘Bombay’

Still smiling, she asked him, ‘Why did your parents send you away?’

‘They … umm … I… well… what?’

‘Your parents don’t like you or something?’

‘Well, my parents are both Old Mounts. My grandfather was too, and my…’

‘You know Nidhi?’

‘Who?’

‘Nidhi Noorani? Her dad’s also an Old Mount.’

‘No, I don’t know her.’

‘Didu?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Are you sure your parents went here?’

‘Yes!’ he snapped.

‘Okay,’ she said, reaching for her book again. ‘No need to be rude.’

‘Sorry,’ said Nirvan, realizing that he’d already apologized three times to a girl he didn’t even know. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Ruma,’ she said, still reading. ‘Yours?’

‘Nirvan. I told you.’

She looked up. ‘That’s like Nirvana without the “a”. You like them?’

‘Them?’

‘The band?’ she asked as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Honestly, he hardly knew the band or any other music too well. Moksh was a fan, though, and this particular name had registered because he had seen their poster, with a strange photograph of a baby swimming in a pool, in his brother’s room at home.

‘They’re okay,’ Nirvan said, not knowing what he was talking about but hoping that this Ruma would not be able to figure it out.

‘Okay?’ She looked at him as if he had just shot someone. ‘They’re the coolest! I’m growing my hair to look like Courtney Love.’

Considering that her hair was as short as it was, Nirvan guessed she had taken the decision that morning but he dared not voice the thought.

‘Who?’

‘Don’t you know anything?’ she said, rolling her eyes. ‘She’s Kurt Cobain’s wife.’

‘Right,’ said Nirvan, who still had no idea whom she was talking about. ‘So … uh … what else do you like to read?’ he asked, desperately praying that someone would walk into the room right then.

‘Oh, you know.’

‘Name some authors.’

‘You wouldn’t have heard of them. You name some.’

Nirvan could feel his face going red. At such times he wished he could remember the names of all the cool-sounding books that Moksh read – Midnight in the Secret Garden or Clocked Fruit, or something like that. But all that came to him was, ‘Enid Blyton, Franklin W. Dixon and Alistair MacLean.’

The look of horror on her face said it all. ‘Ew! Baby books! And I bet you still watch cartoons! What’s your favourite film?’

Nirvan, now frantically looking at the door for reinforcements, nervously mumbled, ‘Chariots of Fire.’

‘Humph! All about stupid athletes. Have you watched Dead Poets’ Society!’

He shook his head.

‘What exactly is wrong with you? It’s the best film ever!’

Then, as Nirvan looked on in astonishment, she jumped on to her desk and shouted at the top of her voice, ‘O Captain! My Captain!’ She looked down at Nirvan, ‘Come on! Say it with me!’

Ordinarily, Nirvan would never do such a thing, but this was a poem he had finally recognized from a poetry recitation competition that he had been forced to participate in a few years ago, before he joined Shore Mount. He looked at her, eyes closed in concentration, a weird calm-yet-manic expression on her face, and after one last look at the door jumped up on the table and, swaying like her, spouted Walt Whitman.

‘Get off the desk! No respect you have?’

That was Nirvan’s introduction to his first teacher at Shore Mount: Mr Chipkalkar, who had walked in to take a Hindi class. Nirvan turned to look into the pockmarked face, the thin reading glasses that balanced on a hooked nose and eyes that became slits as Mr Chipkalkar looked at them disapprovingly, a look that Nirvan would soon become very familiar with.

‘Get out of the class! Kneel down!’

Nirvan’s first class at Shore Mount was thus spent kneeling outside the door. Everyone who walked into the classroom stared at him, some even pointed and laughed. He felt his eyes burn. He didn’t dare look at Ruma, sitting quite comfortably on her knees next to him chatting ceaselessly into his ear. He noticed she had mastered the art of shutting up whenever Chipkali approached the door …

‘What did you say?’

Nirvan only heard the whoosh of the hand and felt a hard smack on his head.

‘Can’t shut the bloody up?’

‘Sorry, sir,’ he whimpered.

‘New boys. Humph!’ Chipkali strode back into the classroom with a loud snort.

‘His shoes squeak,’ Ruma said, trying to stop giggling. ‘Listen carefully and you’ll hear them.’

He glared at her but his curiosity got the better of his momentary urge to nudge her hard with his elbow. ‘Are all the teachers like this?’

‘Only Chipkali. And everyone hates Tambi.’

‘Who’s Tambi?’

‘Our English teacher.’

‘But my brother said English teachers were cool.’

‘Who’s your brother?’

‘Moksh Shrivastava.’

‘My sister hates him.’

His eyes widened. Finally, here was someone who could give him some dirt on Mo’.

‘Why?’ he asked in anticipation.

‘She says he’s the only guy who can dance better than her.’

Nirvan screwed up his face. What use is that, he thought, disappointed.

When the bell announced the end of the class and Chipkali emerged from the classroom, they both stood up. He glared at them, his tongue darting out to lick his lips, almost like a lizard trying to catch flies.

‘Sorry, sir.’ Ruma batted her eyelids and looked at her feet. Chipkali smiled.

‘Sorry, sir,’ Nirvan echoed.

The smile was replaced with a sneer, then he snorted and walked away. Ruma nonchalantly walked back into the class, and a few minutes later Nirvan saw her exit with a group of girls, giggling and chattering loudly. The class was empty when he walked in to collect his books. Realizing he was clueless about where to go next, he quickly ran to keep up with the girls.

‘Rum, your new boyfriend is following us,’ one of the girls sneered.

‘Yuck, please!’ she said, stopping. ‘What do you want?’ she turned and asked Nirvan.

‘I don’t know where to go.’

‘We have science next. Don’t you have a timetable? Who’s your guide?’

Nirvan took out a piece of paper and read out the name scribbled on it by his Housemaster, ‘Ramesh Triveni.’

The girls giggled loudly. The sound was beginning to bother Nirvan.

Aarti loves Ramesh! Aarti loves Ramesh!’ they chanted, while a short, long-plaited girl squirmed and protested.

‘Eww! No! Nomi loves Ramesh!’

‘Nomi loves Ramesh! Nomi loves Ramesh!’

Nirvan had to end this. ‘Do you have science too?’ he asked quickly.

‘Obviously!’ one of them exclaimed.

The bell rang again. The girls ran down the corridor with loud shrieks and Nirvan ran after them. As they darted past the Senior Master’s office, the portly man jumped up from behind his desk and stepped outside – just in time to catch Nirvan running after the girls.

‘Here boy!’ he bellowed, forcing Nirvan to screech to a halt.

Prateep Kanwar, MA, BEd, PhD, was not a small man. A stickler for cleanliness, he wore suits the year through and sported a pencil-thin moustache, fashioned after Clark Gable and long outdated, much like Kanwar himself, who had, after years of service at Shore Mount, found himself relegated to being head of the Junior Wing and curiously christened ‘Senior Master’. Kanwar marched up to Nirvan and grabbed his ear with a bucket-sized hand.

‘Chasing after girls? Aren’t you a junior?’

‘No, sir,’ Nirvan squeaked.

‘Don’t lie to me! You are, and they were screaming as they ran from you.’

‘We are late for class, sir,’ said Nirvan, writhing.

‘I saw you, boy. What’s your name?’

‘Nirvan Shrivastava, sir.’

The Senior Master looked at him.

‘Moksh’s younger brother?’

Nirvan nodded, still squirming.

‘Siddhartha and Neelima’s son?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Nirvan’s ear was starting to feel like it was going to fall off any second.

‘Jitu’s nephew?’

‘Yes, sir.’

The Senior Master tut-tutted. ‘A shame on your family, you are.’

‘Sorry, sir.’

‘Running after girls on your first day in school. And late for class …’ He gripped Nirvan’s ear even harder.

‘Seventh, isn’t it?’

Nirvan nodded.

‘What class do you have?’

‘Science, sir,’ Nirvan squeaked.

‘Come with me,’ he said, deftly switching ears as he dragged Nirvan towards the Science Block.

‘Mr Rana!’ he bellowed outside one of the lecture rooms. ‘I have a troublemaker for you.’

Mr Rana, peering through the thickest glasses known to man, came out of the classroom. He sighed. ‘What would you like me to do with him?’

‘Punish him, Mr Kanwar. Make him kneel down outside or something. Use your imagination.’

‘Kneel down,’ said Mr Rana wearily. Nirvan was on his knees again, though greatly relieved at finally getting his ear back.

‘Boy, don’t think that I will forget this very quickly,’ the Senior Master growled. ‘Who is your Housemaster?’

‘Mr Gomez, sir.’

Mr Kanwar looked like he would explode. He expected nothing but this sort of behaviour from boys of Nehru House. ‘Well, I shall be speaking to him. Chasing girls … Humph!’ He marched off, grumbling to himself.

Mr Rana sighed and went back into his classroom.

Kneeling outside in the empty corridor, Nirvan heard Mr Rana droning on about the biosphere; ‘evaporation’, ‘lack’, ‘affect its development’ floated out to him. He knew he should listen closely so as not to miss two entire lessons on his first day, but the Senior Master’s words echoed in Nirvan’s ears. He would bring shame to his family. His name would never be on any board. It didn’t look like he’d even last a day. And then his mother would say, ‘See, I told you he wasn’t ready to be by himself.’ How would he face his father? And Dadu?

It was all that Ruma’s fault. He hated Ruma, he decided, and all those giggly friends of hers.

‘Hey! Get up, man!’

Nirvan opened his eyes. Yadav was looming over him. He scrambled to his feet.

‘Sorry, sir. I went to sleep and then –’

‘Yeah, yeah. Shut up and disappear. Come back later to make my bed.’

‘Yes, sir.’ All seniors had to be addressed as ‘sir’ once they were in the eleventh standard. A few did ask their juniors to call them by their names, but were often held in contempt by the rest of the class.

Yadav shut the door behind him. These were his last few days as a prefect at The Mount and Nirvan would be among the last to refer to him as ‘sir’ for a while. The board exams would begin in a month, and the new set of prefects was going to be announced at the end of the week.

His head hurting, Nirvan made his way to the dorm. It was 5.30 a.m. Half an hour of sleep would be a godsend. He was about to enter his dorm when he heard a growl behind him.

‘Shrivastava?’

He turned. Shaukat Ali was standing in the doorway.

‘Yes, sir?’

‘Go to the dining hall and tell Raka I’m asking for tea.’

Shaukat Ali was not someone you messed with. He was an accomplished bully with his face perpetually stuck in a scowl and an intimidating physical presence. Besides, he was, in all likelihood, going to be appointed prefect next year. The juniors all wondered if their Housemaster had had a momentary lapse of sanity. Cursing his luck, Nirvan went back the way he had come, past Yadav’s room, where another string of curses whizzed past his ear, and stepped outside into the cold February air. Still cursing, this time his mother for insisting that cotton pyjamas would be the ‘best at this age’, he ran to the dining hall. He found Raka, their House bearer, who frowned at him and refused to give him tea. After spending the larger part of twenty minutes arguing with Raka, who was just as aware that Nirvan dare not return to the House without tea, he finally wrangled a stainless steel jug and a mug from him, promising to return them on pain of death though both knew that they were gone forever.

Back at the House, he wove his way past bleary-eyed boys getting ready for P.T. and knocked on the door to Shaukat’s room.

‘Took so fucking long, man!’

‘Raka wasn’t giving me the tea, sir, and –’

‘Shut up, asshole,’ Shaukat snatched the jug from him. For a brief moment, Nirvan thought the bully was going to pour the tea all over him.

Menacingly, Shaukat said, ‘Make sure you’re in time for P.T.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Nirvan, and ran to his dorm which was, by now, empty. In an effort to impress everyone with the authority he could wield, Shaukat had ensured that the juniors of his House were always on time for P.T. by assuring them that they would spend the afternoon running cross-country each time they were late.

As he got into his games kit – sneakers, black shorts and a dark blue t-shirt with the Nehruvian rose on it – Nirvan recalled how often he had been ordered on these runs since he had joined Shore Mount the previous year. Perhaps Shaukat, like some of the other seniors, resented the fact that Moksh, having been on sports teams with seniors for years was never bullied and rarely punished, and like many others he too hated Moksh. The thought made Nirvan feel better. His misery was entirely his brother’s fault.

But first he had to make Yadav’s bed.

As Nirvan entered the prefect’s room, he heard voices. Yadav’s he recognized, but the other was too soft for him to make out clearly.

‘Sir?’ he called out tentatively.

Yadav appeared suddenly from one corner of the room, red in the face, looking rather angry.

‘Can’t knock or what?’

‘Sorry, sir. I –’

‘What do you want?’

‘You asked me to make the bed, sir.’

As Nirvan looked beyond Yadav, he noticed a blue sweater among the clothes strewn all over the floor. A girl’s blue sweater. His eyes widened as he saw her. Radha Thyagarajan. Every boy at The Mount had had a dream of some kind or the other about her at some time or the other. And here she was, in Abhishek Yadav’s room.

She smiled at him as she got out of the bed. She was wearing a pair of shorts (definitely Yadav’s) and her school shirt. Her hair was tousled and Nirvan could not stop staring. He gulped.

‘Hi!’ she said.

He mumbled something in response.

‘Thanks for looking out last night,’ she said cheerily.

So that’s what was going on in the room. He wondered how it had been so quiet. Wasn’t the act supposed to be accompanied by a lot of noise? And how the hell had Yadav managed this, sneaking a girl into the House in the middle of the night?

‘Hey, just hurry up, okay?’

Nirvan remembered Shaukat’s threat about being late for P.T. He’d better hurry up. As he started making the bed, Radha picked up her sweater from the floor and skipped into the bathroom adjoining the room, leaving Nirvan facing Yadav’s glares. Swallowing nervously, Nirvan quickly went back to the task at hand.

Ten minutes later, he was out of the House, sprinting as fast as he could towards the cross-country route. Slowly, the burning in his eyes lessened. This was the only time he truly felt free – from the pressure of being a Shrivastava, from the intimidating seniors, from his teachers and even his classmates who sometimes got on his nerves. He wound his way down the road that led to The Shore, picking up pace as he ran past the building and made his way up the slope on the other side. As he reached the top of the slope, he looked to his right and stopped to jog on the spot. This was his favourite place. The waters of The Lake stretched as far as the eye could see. They would have given anything to jump into The Lake at a moment’s notice, but, disappointingly, the students were only allowed to swim in the pool. On The Mount side of The Lake, covered in moss and creepers, was The Edge, a large staircase that rose into the air and ended quite abruptly. It was part of an old bridge that had been built to allow girls from The Shore quicker access to the classrooms, which were all located in The Mount along with the boys’ Houses. Three years after its completion, the bridge had collapsed in a storm but the stairs leading up to it had somehow survived. It hadn’t been rebuilt and the hundred-and-twenty-odd stairs that were just as old continued to lead nowhere.

Nirvan finished stretching and cursed as he heard a bell ring. He started running again. He couldn’t be late for breakfast.



For Eid that March, Faraz Baig had decided to visit Jamshed Muhammed, their history teacher. Jamshed celebrated every Eid with much enthusiasm – he would put up fairy lights in his garden and serve the most amazing kebabs and biryani. If it was winter, fires would burn in copper angeethis all over the garden and make the experience all the more heartening. Faraz was feeling particularly triumphant that this time he had baited Nirvan with stories of the famous kebabs and biryani and had dragged him away from the clutches of the seniors, who seemed to take special pleasure at giving him a hard time, and the Nehru House common room or their prep room in the House where Nirvan could usually be found sulking and moping about his fate as the ‘lowliest Shrivastava in a family of legends, man’. If nothing else, Faraz hoped it would relieve him of the constant whining he had been subjected to since Nirvan had been assigned the bed next to his in the dorm.

Faraz had not been brought up