Page 113 - Half Girlfriend

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