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Revolution 2020
I leaned against the wall outside the class. Aarti wiped her eyes and walked past me towards the toilet *Drama queen!
It was only half a slice of chocolate cake!’ I thought. Anyway, that’s how I, Gopal Mishra, met the great Aarti Pratap Pradhan.
I must tell you, even though this is my story, you won’t like me very much. After all, a ten-year-old thief isn’t exactly a likable person to begin with
I come from Varanasi, which my social studies teacher says is one of the oldest cities on earth. People came to live here in 1200 BC.
The city gets its name from two rivers, Varuna and Asi, which pass through the city and meet the Ganga.
People call my city several names – Kashi, Benares, or Banaras – depending on where they come from.
some call it the city of Temples, for we have thousands of them, and some the city of learning, as Varanasi apparently has great places to study.
I simply call Varanasi my home. I stay near Gadbolia, a place so noisy, you need to put cotton balls in your ears if you won’t sleep.
Gadholia is near the ghats, along the river Ganga. So the crowds of Gadholia becomes too much to take, you can always run to the ghats and sit by the Ganga and watch Ty the temples.
Some call my city beautiful. holy and spiritual – especially when we have to introduce it to foreign tourists. Many call it filth and a dump.
I don’t think my city is dirty. It is the people who make it dirty.
Anyway, they say you must come to Varanasi once in a lifetime. Well, some of us spend a lifetime here.
I had a pencil in my pocket. I used it to scribble ‘5 c’ on the wall It had helped me pass the time, and would make our class easier to find too.
She came out of the toilet-face wet, drama-queen expression intact and gaze firmly fixed on me – and walked back to the class.
She continued to stare at me as she came closer. ‘You are scribbling on the walls!” she said.
‘Go complain,’ I said, ‘Go’ “How can you steal my tiffin?” she said. “I didn’t steal your tiffin’ I said ‘I had three bites of your chocolate cake.
You wouldn’t even have noticed. “You are a really bad boy. Aarti said. Dubey’s uncle, our lawyer, pushed a small box of four laddoos towards us.
“Sweets? What for?” my father said. Dubey’s uncle had come home. Baba and I faced him across our ancient dining table.
“You’ve got a hearing date.” Dubey uncle said. “This itself took so long. I thought we should celebrate.
I wondered if I could give some laddoos to drama queen Aarti as compensation for the cake. I wanted to buy a chocolate cake and slam it on her desk.
However, I didn’t have money for that. My father didn’t give me any pocket money, and he didn’t have much money in his own pocket.
My mother’s illness had wiped out all his savings. She died two weeks after I turned four, I don’t remember much of her or her death.
Baba did say he had to wear her dupatta and sleep next to me for a month. After her death, the land dispute started. Dubey’s uncle had become a frequent visitor to our house for this reason.
| Author | Chetan Bhagat |
| Language | English |
| Pages | 251 |
| PDF Size | 1.5 MB |
| Category | Fiction & Novel |
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