Episode _2

It had been one year in Hindu College, Delhi University, and there had not been a single

day that he had not called me to let me know about the scheduled lectures, the extra classes, the extra notes that I might need, et cetera. My default state was to ignore his calls. I picked up the sixth call.

‘Why don’t you pick up my calls?’ Eshaan said angrily.

‘I was a little stuck,’ I said. ‘What happened?’

‘Okay. Next time, please pick it up the first time,’ he said. Yeah, right!

Eshaan told me that a tax-planning professor was less than impressed about being offered

money (by Dad) to mark my internal exam paper (I had decided to leave the answer booklet blank) a little leniently. The professor wanted to talk to me in person now.

‘Your father cannot buy everything!’ Eshaan had said once.

He was not quite right. My father was a wealthy man. I was born with a silver spoon in

my mouth, or diamond. You get the drift. My bank accounts were always loaded; credit-card bills were never a problem. The car I drove, the house I lived in, it was all his but still mine.

Last year, when I had screwed up my board exams and it looked like it would be hard to

get into a Delhi University college, I had called up my father. Next day, I was a Delhi squash champion, and I got admission in BCom (Honours) through the sports quota. Not bad at all, was it? I did not hate studying, but when you have everything, education is never the top priority.

My father was kind to me but not without reason. My parents were divorced and we were never on talking terms. He was a stranger to me, and I was brought up fatherless since I was eight. I did not miss him. Until a year ago, till the time Mom was alive, he had some point of contact in the family. However, when she lost her battle to cancer last year, he had no one left. The car, the house, the gym—all these were his attempts to buy me. I was greedy enough to let him buy things, but not as much to sell myself.

I drove all the way to college to meet the honest, upright, asshole professor of mine. Why couldn’t he just accept the money and shut up? I always assumed that professors are poorly paid. Why would he turn down extra money?

‘Have you thought about what you will say?’ Eshaan asked as soon I got down from my

car.

‘No. He wants to meet me, right? He wants to talk, not me,’ I said as I walked towards the

professor’s offices.

‘Benoy. Listen.’

Eshaan was always full of motherly advice. Nevertheless, I could not ignore Eshaan

either. If there was anything I knew about BCom, it was through him. Well, not just BCom: he had my back for everything.

‘Yes, Eshaan?’

‘Just go in and tell him that you weren’t well and you had to go home. Tell him you

passed all the other exams … and that your dad was just concerned about your future, that’s why he—’

‘Eshaan? Why don’t you go and talk to him?’ I joked.

‘I did.’