sonu kumar
Posted On: 09-04-2019
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Half Girlfriend

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ACT I Delhi 1

Where?’ I gasped, trying to catch my breath.
I had two minutes left for my interview to start and I couldn’t ad
the room. Lost, I stopped whoever I could in the confusing corridors
of St. Stephens College to ask for directions.
Most students ignored me. Many sniggered. I wondered why. Well,
now I know. My accent. Back in 2004, my English was Bihari. I don’t
want to talk now like I did back then. It’s embarrassing. It wasn’t
English. It was 90 per cent Bihari Hindi mixed with 10 per cent really
bad English. For instance, this is what I had actually said: 'Cumty
room...bat!aieyega zara? Hamara interview hai na wahan... Mera khel
ka kota hai. Kis taraf hai?’
If I start speaking the way I did in those days, you’ll get a
headache. So I’m going to say everything in English, just imagine my
words in Bhojpuri-laced Hindi, with the worst possible English thrown
in.
‘Where you from, man?’ said a boy with hair longer than most
girls.
‘Me Madhav Jha from Dumraon, Bihar.’
His friends laughed. Over time, I learnt that people often ask what
they call a ‘rhetorical’ question—something they ask just to make a
point, not expecting an answer. Here, the point was to demonstrate that
I was an alien amongst them.
‘What are you interviewing for? Peon?' the long-haired boy said
and laughed.
I didn’t know enough English back then to be offended. Also, I
was in a hurry. ‘You know where it is?’ I said instead, looking at his
group of friends. They all seemed to be the rich, English types.
Another boy, short and fat, seemed to take pity on me and replied,
‘Take a left at the corner of the main red building and you’ll find a sign
for the committee room.’
‘Thank you,’ I said.This I knew how to say in English.‘Can you read the sign in English?’ the boy with the long hair said.
His friends told him to leave me alone. I followed the fat boy’s
instructions and ran towards the red building.
I faced the first interview of my life. Three old men sat in front of
me. They looked like they had not smiled since their hair had turned
grey.
I had learnt about wishing people before an interview. I had even
practised it. ‘Good morning, sir.’
‘There are a few of us here,’ said the man in the middle. He seemed
to be around fifty-five years old and wore square, black-rimmed
glasses and a checked jacket.
‘Good morning, sir, sir and sir,’ I said.
They smiled. I didn’t think it was a good smile. It was the high-
class-to-low-class smile. The smile of superiority, the smile of delight
that they knew English and I didn’t.
Of course, I had no choice but to smile back.
The man in the middle was Professor Pereira, the head of
sociology, the course I had applied for. Professor Fernandez, who
taught physics, and Professor Gupta, whose subject was English, sat
on his left and right respectively.
‘Sports quota, eh?’ Prof. Pereira said. ‘Why isn’t Yadav here?’
‘I’m here, sir,’ a voice called out from behind me. I turned around
to see a man in a tracksuit standing at the door. He looked too old to be
a student but too young to be faculty.
‘This one is 85 per cent your decision,’ Prof. Pereira said.
‘No way, sir.You are the final authority.’ He sat down next to the
professors. PiyushYadav was the sports coach for the college and sat
in on all sports-quota interviews. He seemed simpler and friendlier
than the professors. He didn’t have a fancy accent either.
‘Basketball?’ Prof. Fernandez asked, scanning through my file.
‘Yes, sir,’ I said.
‘What level?’
‘State.’‘Do you speak in full sentences?’ Prof. Gupta said in a firm voice.
I didn’t fully understand his question. I kept quiet.
‘Do you?’ he asked again.
‘Yes, yes,’ I said, my voice like a convict’s.
‘So...why do you want to study at St. Stephen’s?’
A few seconds of silence followed. The four men in the room
lpoked at me.The professor had asked me a standard question.
‘I want good college,’ I said, after constructing the sentence in my
head.
Prof. Gupta smirked. ‘That is some response. And why is St.
Stephen’s a good college?’
I switched to Hindi. Answering in English would require pauses
and make me come across as stupid. Maybe I was stupid, but I did not
want them to know that.
‘Your college has a big name. It is famous in Bihar also,’ I said.
‘Can you please answer in English?’ Prof. Gupta said.
‘Why? You don’t know Hindi?’ I said in reflex, and in Hindi.
I saw my blunder in their horrified faces. I had not said it in
defiance; I really wanted to know why they had to interview me in
English when I was more comfortable in Hindi. Of course, I didn’t
know then that Stephen’s professors didn’t like being asked to speak
in Hindi.
‘Professor Pereira, how did this candidate get an interview'?’ Prof.
Gupta said.
Prof. Pereira seemed to be the kindest of the lot. He turned to me.
‘We prefer English as the medium of instruction in our college, that’s
all.’
Without English, I felt naked. I started thinking about my return
trip to Bihar. I didn’t belong here—these English-speaking monsters
would eat me alive. I was wondering what would be the best way to
take their leave when Piyush Yadav broke my chain of thought.
‘Bihar se ho? Are you from Bihar?’ he said.
The few words in Hindi felt like cold drops of rain on a scorchingsummer’s day. I loved Piyush Yadav in that instant.
‘Yes, sir. Dumraon.’
‘I know.Three hours from Patna, right?’ he said.
‘You know Dumraon?’ I said. I could have kissed his feet. The
three English-speaking monsters continued to stare.
‘I’m from Patna. Anyway, tell them about your achievements in
basketball,’ Piyush said.
I nodded. He sensed my nervousness and spoke again.‘Take your
time. I am Hindi-medium, too. I know the feeling.’
The three professors looked at Piyush as if wondering how he had
ever managed to get a job at the college.
I composed myself and spoke my rehearsed lines.
‘Sir, I have played state-level basketball for six years. Last year, I
was in the waiting list for the BFI national team.’
'BFI?’ said Prof. Gupta.
‘Basketball Federation of India,’ Piyush answered for me, even
though I knew the answer.
‘And you want to do sociology. Why?’ Prof. Fernandez said.
‘It’s an easy course, No need to study. Is that it?’ Prof. Gupta
remarked.
I didn’t, know whether Gupta had something against me, was
generally grumpy or suffered from constipation.
‘I am from rural area.’
‘I am from a rural area,’ Gupta said, emphasizing the ‘a' as if
omitting it was a criminal offence.
‘Hindi, sir? Can I explain in Hindi?’
Nobody answered. I had little choice. I took my chances and
responded in my language. ‘My mother runs a school and works with
the villagers. I wanted to learn more about our society. Why are our
villages so backward? Why do we have so many differences based on
caste and religion? I thought I could find some answers in this course.’
Prof. Gupta understood me perfectly well. However, he was what
English-speaking people would call an ‘uptight prick’. He askedPiyush to translate what I had said.
‘That’s a good reason,’ Prof. Pereira said once Piyush was done.
‘But now you are in Delhi. If you pass out of Stephen’s, you will get
jobs in big companies. Will you go back to your native place?’ His
concern seemed genuine.
It took me a few seconds to understand his question. Piyush
offered to translate but I gestured for him not to.
'I will, sir,’ I finally replied. I didn’t give a reason. I didn't feel the
need to tell them I would go back because my mother was alone there.
I didn’t say we were from the royal family of Durnraon. Even though
there was nothing royal about us any more, we belonged there. And,
of course, I didn’t mention the fact that I couldn’t stand any of the
people I had met in this city so far.
‘We’ll ask you something about Bihar then?’ Prof. Fernandez said.
‘Sure.’
‘What’s the population of Bihar?’
‘Ten crores.’
‘Who runs the government in Bihar?’
‘Right now it’s Lalu Prasad’s party.’
‘And which party is that?’
‘RJD - Rashtriya Janata Dal.’
The questions kept coming, and after a while I couldn’t keep track
of who was asking what. While I understood their English, I couldn’t
answer in complete sentences. Hence, I gave the shortest answers
possible. But one question had me stumped.
‘Why is Bihar so backward?’ Prof Gupta said.
I didn’t know the answer, forget saying it in English. Piyush tried
to speak on my behalf. ‘Sir, that’s a question nobody can really
answer.’ But Prof. Gupta raised a hand. ‘You said your mother runs a
rural school.You should know Bihar.’
I kept quiet.
‘It’s okay. Answer in Hindi,’ Prof. Pereira said.
‘Backward compared to what, sir?’ I said in Hindi, looking at Prof.Gupta.
‘Compared to the rest of India.’
‘India is pretty backward,’ I said. ‘One of the poorest nations in the
world.’
‘Sure. But why is Bihar the poorest of the poor?’
‘Bad government,’ Piyush said, almost as a reflex. Prof. Gupta kept
his eyes on me.
‘It’s mostly rural, sir,’ I said. 'People don’t have any exposure to
modernity and hold on to backward values. There’s poor education.
Nobody invests in my state. The government is in bed with criminals
and together they exploit the state and its people.’
Prof Pereira translated my answer for Prof. Gupta. He nodded as
he heard it. ‘Your answers are sensible, but your English is terrible,’ he
said.
‘Would you rather take a sensible student, or someone who speaks
a foreign language well?’
My defiance stumped them all. Prof. Fernandez wiped his glasses
as he spoke, turning his head towards me. ‘English is no longer a
foreign language, Mr Jha. It’s a global language. 1 suggest you learn it.’
‘That’s why I’m here, sir,’ 1 said.
My answers came from the heart but I didn’t know if they had any
effect on the professors. The interview was over. They asked me to
leave the room.
*
I stood in the corridor, figuring out where to go next. Piyush came
out of the committee room. His lean and fit frame made him look like
a student, despite him being much older. He spoke to me in Hindi.
‘Your sports trial is in one hour. See me on the basketball court.’ ‘Sir,
is there even a point? That interview went horribly.’
‘You couldn’t learn some English, along with basketball?’ ‘Nobody
speaks it in our area.’ I paused and added, ‘Sir.’
He patted my back. ‘Get out of Bihar mode, son. Anyway, sports
quota trials are worth 85 per cent. Play well.’‘I’ll do my best, sir.’

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