I have a very hazy memory of when I first met Aniruddha. He was a stout kid, long of jaw and raw of bone, and possessed of the conviction that schooling was an utter waste of time. He rarely let it 'interfere with education'. Little wonder then that he was the favourite punching bag of a formidable battalion of teachers. The one thing all the instructors agreed upon wholeheartedly was that the best pupil is one who is regularly thrashed. And Aniruddha kept them perennially busy with their caning skills. Slower than most kids and not one to touch a book unless threatened with grave bodily harm, he always found himself at the wrong end of the stick. Yet, Fate ensured that Aniruddha would have the last laugh. It was at school that he and I encountered our first-ever egghead. Bald as a coot, 'Jackie Sir' -- as he was respectfully addressed -- was alarmingly brainy and had an everlasting supply of vitriol. Aniruddha was the perfect receptacle for all the caustic stuff that 'Sir' doled out. At a time when we were more interested in the birds and bees, he would try to get us interested in algebraic conundrums, historical garbage and literary brainteasers. But, mostly, he took our English lectures. On one side we had the stickler for accuracy and perfection -- Jackie the 'Baldy' -- and on the other, Aniruddha the 'Oaf'. And it rarely took Baldy more than a question or two to kayo Aniruddha. Especially, while he was teaching figures of speech: onomatopoeia, oxymoron, irony, the works... to morons like us. Our revered teachers had a rather nasty habit of luring sleepy kids into giving wrong answers with utmost confidence. Once we walked into the trap, out popped the cane and swished through the air before coming in searing contact with one's derriere. With most of the caning coming his way, Aniruddha had almost started growing horizontally, too. The leading question would go something like: "Taj Mahal was built by Aurang...Aurang... Aurang...?" And the over-enthusiastic kid, occasionally Aniruddha, would trip over himself to complete it with a loud "...zeb!" Normally, such answers divested one of a lot of rump skin. If asked for an example of irony, Aniruddha would stare blankly, grin stupidly, and say: "Oh, er... Sorry, Sir, I don't know." "Well, that's a good example," Jackie would say. "He says he's sorry. Now, isn't that ironical?" Aniruddha was a bit thick to understand that, and yet he was to be the part of the ultimate irony... And by some quirk of fate, so were some of his pals. He was probably the most regularly whipped student in school. And since he could not get even with the teachers, he got mad at schoolmates and was frequently found indulging in fisticuffs. A stout physique, two siblings in the school and the proximity of his residence to the alma mater provided him with the perfect opportunity to play the bully with aplomb. Yet, he was more often on the wrong end of the gun than anyone else. Schooling, thus, held few happy memories for Aniruddha. And most of the unhappy ones it did hold are probably etched on his rump. So, suffering innumerable thrashings and insults, and using his fists and legs more than his pens, Aniruddha muscled his way through to college. A different world awaited us. Jeans, cigarettes, girls, bikes, freedom... ah! Aniruddha had his share of fun and pain here, too. His infamy soon spread and girls refused to have anything to do with him. Brawls had a far more telling effect now than in school. And education was getting tougher. But by then he had found his calling. While we agonised over what would we do with our lives, Aniruddha was actively involved in student-level politics. Nonetheless, that didn't help one clear tests. So Aniruddha took recourse to small chits secreted away in socks, 'undies' and fake bandages to see him through many an exam. Yet, the one thing he couldn't stand was being dubbed dumb. To refurbish his image, he had to acquire some 'professional' qualification. Dr Aniruddha would have been Dr Death, so medicine was out of the question. Engineering entailed maths and the idea was therefore dropped like a hot brick. So 'management' was the thing: hep, happening and good enough to prop up a sagging status. He flunked the first entrance exam, but pledged to get through the next time around. And he did that. Nobody knows how, least of all him. Soon the final exams were at hand and there was no way Aniruddha was going to clear them. By this time, however, Aniruddha had graduated to bigger things. While the managers-in-waiting burnt midnight oil and held loquacious seminars to pontificate on management thought, Aniruddha just smiled serenely. He had it all figured out. There was no way the university was going to deny him the opportunity of having a prestigious management degree under his belt. He eschewed 'plans' in favour of a 'scheme' he had hit upon. It worked somewhat this way: He would get into the examination hall armed with a blank answer-sheet, 'arranged' from some helping hands in the university, and the previous year's question paper stuffed under a loose shirt. The new question paper and the answer sheet would then be secreted out to the boy who distributed water to examinees. The boy, his palms generously greased, would then smuggle the merchandise to a waiting motorcyclist. Ten minutes later the bike would screech to a halt at Val's place, where Shiraz and Val would be waiting for the biker. They would then set about 'helping' Aniruddha realise his dream. Having flunked the entrance test the last time around, he was a year behind and had chosen S and V because of long-standing camaraderie. The plan worked just fine, and S and V found themselves ready to fill up the blank answer sheet. There was much deliberation between the chosen ones over what kind of score should Aniruddha 'get'. He could have scored full marks, but that would have set alarm bells ringing, so it was decided that a modest 60 per cent was just about enough. Accordingly, S and V answered the questions in no time and through the same channel sent the answer sheet safely into the sweaty, eager hands of a very anxious Aniruddha. No one was going to deprive him of the laurels. His scheme was perfect. And he scored what had been decided by his ghostwriters. Thereafter, he trod along the perilous political route -- first through students' politics and then via some serious avenues, having been handpicked by the leader of a large political party to head a state unit -- to try and fulfil his long-cherished dream: a berth in the state ministry. He read long-winding speeches, but never bothered to spruce up his knowledge and diction of either the regional tongue or English. He flaunts his management degree, but ask him about Peter Drucker or Philip Kotler and he's likely to stare at you in his trademark goldfish-like manner. A cocktail of street-smartness, skulduggery, cloak-and-dagger stuff and diplomacy has seen Aniruddha ascend the political ladder. In life, as in school, education was never a matter of racking his brains for him. How do I know all this, you enquire? Well, I have it from the horse's mouth: after all, yours truly and Aniruddha have been party to many a ball and brawl. Fate, certainly, has funny things in store for us. What happened to Aniruddha would be the ideal example of 'irony': perhaps, even good enough to satisfy Jackie Sir. For Aniruddha went on to become the minister for higher education of a prosperous Indian state. Aniruddha, Shiraz and Val, Shishir Bhate adds, are not their real names. Illustration: Uttam Ghosh Tell us what you think of this diary Be part of an exciting venture! Write a Diary!
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