Anyone Else But You... Read online

  © 2011 | Anyone Else But You…

  ANYONE ELSE

  BUT YOU…

  would understand that it’s not life! It’s a freakin’ game!

  RITWIK MALLIK | ANANYA VERMA

  To Aditi,

  And to those little flowers named Ashmi and Udita…

  Life... is like a box of chocolates - a cheap, thoughtless, perfunctory gift that no one ever asks for, unreturnable because all you get back is another box of chocolates. So, you're stuck with mostly undefinable whipped mint crap, mindlessly wolfed down when there's nothing else to eat while you're watching the game. Sure, once in a while you get a peanut butter cup or an English toffee but it's gone too fast and the taste is fleeting. In the end, you are left with nothing but broken bits filled with hardened jelly and teeth-shattering nuts, which, if you are desperate enough to eat, leaves nothing but an empty box of useless brown paper.

  ~ The X-Files

  Life is a game that must be played.

  ~ Edwin A. Robinson

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Writing a book is never easy and more so when you have to juggle it between your studies and extra-curriculars. So, the entire support system that helps me bring this book to you should be the ones acknowledged really. In comparison to their contribution, I haven’t done much really – just added a few words here and there and made the story readable.

  My parents form the backbone of this support system and without their guidance and motivation; it’d be really hard for me to continue writing. A big hug to my elderly grandparents – both my grandmothers have played the role of efficient PR managers and my grandfathers have always egged me to follow my heart. The attempts made by my maternal grandmother to translate my works into Bengali and the publicity provided by my paternal grandmother for both my books, have been commendable.

  Lots of love to my Appa, Mamu-Mami & MumMum-Cream dadu. I’m ever grateful to my aunt in Jersey, who has made sure that people read my books in the US too. All my uncles and aunts deserve a big mention for the way they’ve supported me all throughout and so do my army of cousins.

  I extend my heartfelt gratitude towards all my teachers who’ve truly inspired me at every sphere of my life. And some of the mentions I’d want to make here: The ever amazing Mrs. Gurleena Sikka, who has always backed me during the worst of times; Mrs. Rekha Jha, for pointing out my shortcomings in the sweetest manner possible; Ms. Renu Saxena, for being like a mother at all times and for pampering me whenever I ran short on cash to treat my valentine; Mr. Puneet Sharma, for teaching me what it is like to be dedicated towards a purpose and the ever inspiring and supportive, Mrs. Arpita Sen, Mr. Kannan, Mr. Beniwal, Mr. Ashish Singhal and Mr. Santosh Gupta.

  My existence would be in jeopardy if the likes Himanil, Mayank and Srishti weren’t there for me. It is hard to imagine how hard it’d be to do anything without constantly asking them for advice.

  Lots of love to a certain Daksha, for being there and making my life so much more beautiful. You are really really special, idiot. Remember that always…

  A big thank you to Aditi Verma, Runjhun Sharma, Siddhartha Sinha and Mihir Paul. I extend my warm regards to the ever loving, Ira ma’am for agreeing to go through my manuscript and point out the flaws in it.

  My publishers have made me what I am and I am indebted to them for the rest of my life. From the MD to the person who packages my books, every single person deserves credit for this work. Sumit Sharma needs a mention for the wonderful covers he makes. And not to forget my benevolent readers who keep on showering their best wishes and support at all times, I love each one of you.

  And lastly, I’d like to thank my co-author Ananya – for trying to teach me the art of perfection. Her constant jibes on my faulty grammar and “melodramatic” writing style have made me improve leaps and bounds. With all the workload, it’d be hard to imagine how I could singlehandedly go through with this book.

  I sincerely hope that you all enjoy this story and accept it like the way you have accepted ‘Love Happens Like That’ and ‘Because You Loved Me..’ into your lives.

  Ritwik Mallik

  My sister, I kid you not, is the best. Thank you for just being there. I cannot begin to thank you for all the times you’ve saved my a**.

  I’d want to thank my co-author Ritwik Mallik, who has given me the opportunity of writing this book with him. Although it is very hard to make him listen to what I am saying, he was pretty patient when it came to this book. Only we know what ups and downs this book has been through.

  I would like to thank my parents for helping me out whenever I have sought help.

  My existence would be incomplete had it not been for my best friend. Thank you for being there always, for putting up with me. We will always have that weird connection, like we do, always.

  Heartfelt gratitude to my teachers who have been there for me and have always encouraged me.

  This is my first step into the world of writing and I hope that all of you enjoy reading this as much as we enjoyed bringing this to you.

  All the best!

  Ananya Verma

  This story is purely a work of fiction. As a result, any resemblance to a person, living or dead is purely co-incidental. The names of characters, places and organizations are all fictional in nature and they have been used without any ill-will.

  - Authors

  PROLOGUE

  The aroma of freshly picked daffodils filled the air as the sunlight peeped into her office through the tinted window pane. Mrs. Meena Singhal paced the floor of her office in anticipation of some good news. She walked towards the window that overlooked the lush front lawns of the school and stood for a moment to admire its’ beauty. When she had first entered this school as a Physics teacher, seventeen years back – it was this very lawn and its beauty that had caught her attention. The dream to be the Principal and the passion for the job of teaching was as strong then as it was now but something about the school, its’ lawns, the then-Principal’s office had appealed to her and that appeal was yet to recede.

  She had some fond memories of her first year, way back in the Summer of 1993. The then Principal, Mr. Chavan showed her around the school that was not yet fully built. Void of a Senior wing, she remembers how Mr. Chavan insisted that she put forward her ideas, her inputs and opinions regarding what all could be done to help the school expand and grow. The graciousness and display of respect by a Civilian Award recipient educationist towards an ordinary first-day teacher was commendable according to Mrs. Singhal. And she pledged that from that day on, she would not only be an excellent teacher but a warm hearted mother and an approachable friend to all the hundreds of students she would teach in years to come. And the results were instant, her popularity grew. Students swore by her name and in the process, the respect she was entitled to, became unmatchable. A couple of years later, she was entrusted with certain administrative responsibilities of that of a Coordinator which she fulfilled to perfection. A Head of the Department post followed and by the time she was about to complete her sixth year, she was already being talked about as a possible replacement for the soon to be retiring Mr. Chavan.

  And the much expected call came; May 2000, Mrs. Meena Singhal officially took over as the Principal of the Delhi High School, thus taking over from a person, a premier educationist who had left behind a legacy of sorts. If one felt that the hard work had borne fruits, it wasn’t to be as the hard work would now be needed.

  A popular English news daily named the Truth of India started an annual award for the Best School and as expected Delhi High School won it a record 6 times in 7 years to become the first school ever to make it to the Hall of Fame.

  And then the ominous signs, as M
rs. Singhal aged, the magic touch in her administrative abilities soon started diminishing. The popular and motivational leader soon began getting confused over her own theories. The man management capabilities were deteriorating and there was unrest everywhere. The calls for change grew louder as teachers and students alike wanted a relatively younger Principal to take over the reins. She believed that it was the best time for her to leave and so did many others including the Chairman of the trust, Mr. A.Chandrashekhar. She applied for a voluntary retirement from her active responsibilities of teaching and being the Principal of an institution. And in return she was offered the post of the Director of Delhi High Schools, which she gladly accepted.

  A knock on the glass door of her cabin diverted all her attention from her past to her present.

  “Come in,” she said in a gentle voice.

  Her teary eyed secretary walked in, “they’ve accepted it ma’am. So it’s final then?”

  Singhal pursed her lips, “Yes. And you should be happy that I am going before people ask me to go. The question is that they will say ‘why now?’ rather ‘why not?’.” Singhal could afford a smile. A lot of stress dropped from her shoulder, she could leave happily now and with her head held high.

  She gracefully walked across her room towards her grand revolving chair. She sat down and took a sip of water. “So Sunaina…” she said.

  “…I hope you will forgive me if I’ve ever given you a tough time over these 10 years that you’ve worked as my Secretary. I sincerely apologize.”

  Ms. Sunaina wiped a bead of tear, “Not at all. It’s been an honour serving you.” Sunaina tried hard to put up a smile but failed miserably.

  Almost immediately Singhal’s phone buzzed. It was the Chairman.

  “Could you excuse me for a minute?”

  Sunaina nodded and left.

  Very few would know that the winds of change had begun to blow over Delhi High School.

  ONE

  A lot of commotion surrounded the Reception area of DHS. On a normal day you would find it to be deserted but the first round of interviews for Class XI had begun and hundreds of applicants had to be interviewed. Admission during this time of the year of the students of Class XI was of topmost priority for the school. It was so because those very students would be the face of the school, representing the prestigious institution for two years to come in every competition in different schools in different cities. Their results would be printed in the brochure of the school. They couldn’t afford to take this lightly.

  For the new-admissions, it was a chance to rub shoulders with the future IITians, businessmen and leaders of the country. It was a chance for them to bask in the glory of being a Delhite - a tag which is privileged to a few yet wanted by all. It was a chance to make new friends, enemies. A chance for girls to swoon over hot guys and as for teachers, it meant a fresh bunch of students with fresh ideas, handpicked to suit their standards of ‘quality students’.

  For Meena Singhal, it was her last responsibility as the Principal of a school she had dedicated a major part of her life working for. As for Rishav Sen it was a chance to fulfill a childhood dream of wearing the coveted bottle green blazer.

  Tall, slim built, a little bit of stubble on his face, with a white shirt casually worn over a worn out jeans; Rishav Sen walked towards the door leading to the reception with careful steps. There was a hint of nervousness in his walk which he disguised with a confidence that only some would be able to see as what it was- superficial. He had achieved more than what a 16 year old would ever dream of – youngest writer to get published, former Junior Editor at the Truth of India.

  He wasn’t entirely new to the school, its lawns, its grand reception and the sense of being lost in the winding corridors seemed all too familiar. He could remember exactly where he had sat, six years ago in the same reception area. The chairs were green then. He was new to the city then. All he had was a not-so-impressive report card with average marks. On top of that he was applying mid-session.

  For Rishav it was going to be sweet revenge. To walk around among those who had spurned him six years ago. It would totally be an “in-their-face” thing. He wanted to prove a point and he wasn’t going to rest until he had done so. The pile of certificates in his hand should be enough he said to reassure himself.

  *

  Jai Chauhan fell on top of his bean bag with a thud. An hour of intense work out had drained every ounce of energy that he had. He barely managed to reach for his iPhone which was luckily lying somewhere close to his couch. He dialed the number of his personal caretaker and waited for him to answer.

  He picked up after the first three rings.

  “Omar chacha, ek Breezer aur ek packet chips le aana,” he ordered in an exhausted voice and hung up even before Omar could reply in an affirmative. Jai knew that an order was an order and it was now up to Omar to arrange for what he asked. He turned on the Air conditioner with disdain as though His Royalty was doing a favour by allowing the Hitachi people to manufacture Air conditioners that would cool his sweaty body.

  Jai lifted his t-shirt and observed his chiseled stomach. His abs were considerably well shaped now and he decided to name them after six random Wonders of the World. His next prey was the television set which he glanced spitefully at. You tiny screened bastard, he thought. It had been seventeen attempts since he had successfully managed to scale a level in the popular war game, Call of Duty and he took it upon his moral obligation to blame his 32” television (which he considered small by his standards) for every wrong button pressed as a result of his born incompetence.

  The television was on, Xbox plugged in, Air-conditioner producing a chilling effect and his favourite falvour of potato wafers and Breezer beside him, the stage was set for Jai to exhibit his jainess and so he did. He clumsily ate the chips, took gulps of the Breezer in between and left his Commando to fend for himself in the game. And every time he lifted the analog to move further, his hungry stomach called for his attention. And as a result of which, his poor commando (who had already experienced 23 rebirths before that) continued to be denied moksha, over and over and over again.

  Jai Chauhan surprisingly was one of the model students of Delhi High School. He was the incumbent to the post of the Head Boy. A shocking transformation in the ape that he was to a more civilized form of a human being led to his teachers living under the illusion of Jai being a direct descendent of the old man who lived in Vatican City and ruled the hearts of a million with his holiness.

  *

  Singhal keenly observed the young boy’s face, the one who was sitting in front of her. She could see that he was trying to be confident. He tries too hard, she thought. If only he would just loosen up a little bit, it’ll do wonders. His application is quite impressive though. For an ordinary person, the boy would seem over- confident and too much into himself. But years of experience had made reading the micro-expressions of a student, cakewalk for her. She could sense a little bit of arrogance in his voice. But he was polite.

  It’d be interesting to have him in this school. Too bad I won’t be there to see what becomes of him, she thought

  Rishav on the other hand sat with goose-bumps on his arms. It wasn’t even that cold in there. Weird, he thought. But he quickly regained his composure, ready to answer what was asked of him.

  He was totally in awe of the lady in front him. She looks so calm. Not judgmental about students, he noticed. He couldn’t read anything from her face. It was contemplative. A little pucker between her eyes appeared as she scanned the application intensely. Like there was nothing more important than that. He thought it to be a privilege to be studying in a school that was being run by a person of Mrs. Meena Singhal’s stature and caliber.

  The classroom sized Principal’s cabin seemed smaller than what it appeared the day Singhal received the news that her retirement request was accepted. It was far more cramped than usual. Mainly due to the presence of eight different teachers who were an integral part of the Sel
ection Committee.

  On the extreme left sat Ms. Veenu Sharma (Vice Principal 1), next to her was Dr. Madhuri Singh (Vice Principal 2). On either side of Mrs. Singhal were Mrs. Neeti Chopra (Headmistress) and Ashish Dutta (Mathematics). Apart from them, there was the unimportant bunch consisting of a megalomaniac Physics teacher, a demented English teacher and a stern looking Economics person.

  “Please go ahead,” Singhal directed the Eco teacher to start.

  Rishav expected some subjective questions but to his utter surprise, the first question was totally something he was not prepared for. “Rishav, can you please differentiate between growth and development?” Now, that’s what you call a bolt out of the blue! He wanted to ask whether they had seen the certificates. Aren’t they going to ask about my achievements?

  His throat was dry and it seemed his façade of confidence had shattered into a million or maybe a zillion pieces. “Ma’am, uhh.. I beg your pardon?” he tried to buy time.

  “What’s the difference between growth and development?” The stern looking lady repeated, with a hint of annoyance.