A Few Good Friends Read online

  A Few Good

  Friends

  SWATI KAUSHAL

  First published in 2017 by Hachette India

  (Registered name: Hachette Book Publishing India Pvt. Ltd)

  An Hachette UK company

  www.hachetteindia.com

  This ebook published in 2017

  Copyright © 2017 Swati Kaushal

  Swati Kaushal asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

  All rights reserved. No part of the publication may be copied, reproduced, downloaded, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover or digital format other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or actual events or locales is purely coincidental.

  Paperback edition ISBN 978-93-5009-719-9

  Ebook edition ISBN 978-93-5009-726-7

  Cover illustration by Ranganath Krishnamani

  Originally typeset Adobe Jenson Pro 11.5/14.5 by R Ajith Kumar, New Delhi

  Hachette Book Publishing India Pvt. Ltd

  4th & 5th Floors, Corporate Centre,

  Plot No. 94, Sector 44, Gurugram 122003, India

  For

  the ‘Always 27’ batch from IIM Calcutta,

  my dear friends from LSR,

  the ‘mad bunch’ from Nestlé India…

  and a very special young man named Kanav

  Contents

  Then…

  Twenty-three years, five months and nineteen days later…

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  The IIM Calcutta Batch of ’92 Reunion 11–13 December 2015 Dona Alva Resort and Spa, Goa

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Acknowledgements

  Then…

  BACK IN 1992, when Kolkata was still Calcutta and Mumbai was Bombay, and good girls from quiet towns were supposed to get married after graduation, getting accepted to an IIM was a bit like winning a ticket to the moon – and every bit as life-changing. One minute you were plain old Aadi, hanging out the washing on the roof of your family home above a garment shop, the next you were Aadya Kapur, future MBA, master of your own destiny, marked for greatness.

  After twenty-one years spent in Ludhiana, Aadi didn’t have the faintest idea about stocks and bonds and consumers and careers, but she’d topped her college in Economics, and cracked the CAT, and made it past the group discussions and interview, and now, four months after the initial letter arrived in the mail like a prophecy, the gates of the Indian Institute of Management, Calcutta, stood open before her like a gateway to heaven.

  One that had burst open in welcome, really, for the rain was coming down in sheets, and the heavy drops pounding on the roof of her taxi sounded like her entire family hammering on her bathroom door, telling her to hurry up, hurry up!

  But she wasn’t in Ludhiana any more, was she? Aadi grinned at the thought as the taxi turned in through the dripping institute gates and turned left at the roundabout ahead.

  Saturday, 20 June 1992, 3.03 p.m. She made a mental note for posterity.

  This is really happening! A silent shriek echoed in her head.

  She braced herself as the taxi lurched down the slippery road and the campus stretched lush and rain-soaked all around her. Dense trees and overgrown grass cloaked the grounds in billowing ribbons and blotches of green; the road ahead glistened and merged with the darkened sky. Off the rain-dappled surface of the lake to her right, a lone bird lifted up and took flight.

  Aadi followed its path as it skimmed past a cluster of trees and disappeared behind a quaint building with a sign that read ‘Coffee Corner’. She gripped her seat as the driver skidded past a smart white building and another, even more expansive, lake. She gazed up with shining eyes as they slowed to halt outside a three-storeyed structure with a sign that said ‘Ramanujan Hostel’.

  ‘Thank you, Dada.’ Aadi beamed, handing the driver two hundred rupees and an unopened 5 Star chocolate bar. Over the course of the two-hour traffic-jammed journey from the train station to Joka they had become the best of friends. Aadi, given half a chance, could become best friends with a lump of coal.

  She helped the driver drag her bags to the safety of the overhang above the hostel entrance, and waved as the taxi skidded back down the path they had come. She watched it turn the corner and disappear, then pushed her damp hair out of her eyes, and reached in her handbag to double-check her room assignment on the welcome letter from the institute. Ramanujan Hostel, H1 313, she read. Around her, the rain continued unabated, making it hard to distinguish sky from lake, grass from ground, tree from bush, cat from dog…

  Cat, she decided, picking up the shivering bundle from the ground and nestling it against her bright pink chikan kurta. She held out the last of her Marie biscuits to the miserable creature, and walked with it through the door and into the building.

  Minutes later, she was at the north end of the H-shaped building, at the top of the stairwell on the third floor, in front of a door marked H1 309. Turning right, she followed the passageway past 310, 311, 312… The rain that pattered on the rooftop and swept in on gusts of wind seemed to stop as she neared the next door.

  H1 313.

  Aadi hugged the protesting cat closer and pushed open the door. It swung back under her fingers, revealing a shadowy space with a glazed floor, a low bed, a desk and a door at the other end that opened out to what looked like a tiny balcony. Aadi groped for the light switch, clicked it on, and felt her heart swell with pure, undiluted joy. So what if the bed was missing part of a front leg, and the mattress billowed tufts of yellowed cotton? Who cared if the whitewashed walls were cratered and pockmarked, and that in the far left corner of the room a starburst patch of seepage was powdering at the edges and spreading moist tentacles? And big deal if the window frame above the bed was peeling and encrusted with drips of white paint. What mattered was that the room was hers. Hers, and hers alone.

  ‘Yes, yes, yes, yes, yesss!’

  She skipped over to the bed and sat down, causing it to keel precariously. The cat leaped out of her arms with an indignant meow and slinked out the door, tail held high. Aadi watched with a grin as its thin little rump disappeared, and then lay back on the bed to gaze up at the ceiling fan, where some free-spirited bird had evidently chosen to make its nest.

  She was free, she thought happily. Free to eat or drink, sing or dance, wake or sleep, naked or clothed, entirely as she pleased. No one keeping tabs, not even pes
ky wardens; no more sharing a room with Ashu and Anju, her younger sisters; no more endless exhortations to tidy up, put away, fix, fold or straighten. No more bathroom wars or fights over the TV remote, and no one to eavesdrop on her phone calls. No more unsolicited advice on what to wear and how to study and who she could invite over. For the first time in her life, she was fantastically, unbelievably, mind-bogglingly, free.

  A flash of lightning lit up the narrow room, followed by a low rumble of thunder, and the light bulb above her head went out with a pop. Unperturbed, Aadi pushed herself off the rickety bed. Time to bring up her suitcases, take a quick bath, and then go look for people…food…adventure…

  Two doors down, in room 311, Malini Rao swore in the sudden darkness as the light went out. For the past two hours she’d been spray-painting the walls of the room with cans of black, silver, red and blue paint while her suitcase and trunk sat neglected in the corner.

  So far, she had covered the closet door with a silvery image of two fish swimming in a bowl and the wall above her desk with a light-splitting prism. She was up on the bed, the words ‘Libre comme l’air’ that were tattooed across her hipbone peeping out between the top of her frayed shorts and the bottom of her cutout tee, midway through spraying the lyrics to her anthem: ‘All in all it’s just a…’

  ‘Fuck,’ she cursed again. She put down her can of paint and sat back on the bed. The words of the Pink Floyd song glittered momentarily as a fresh flash of lightning lit up the room.

  Malini reached into her backpack for the pack of cigarettes and matchbox she always kept handy. The place was a dump, she thought, casting an indifferent glance around the room as she struck the match, but it was good to be away again. The past summer in Dehradun had been endless. Her parents’ house, with its rolling lawns, its sweeping view of the Himalayan foothills, its acres of litchi orchards, was sprawling and tranquil, and yet it was no match for the venom that hung in the air like an ominous smog. There was no home big enough, it seemed, no place on this planet serene enough, to mute the strident accusations and labyrinthine resentments that was her parents’ marriage.

  Well, she was rid of it for the next two years, at least, she thought, taking a slow drag. She’d stuck it out at home all summer on account of Papa’s surgery; she’d paid her dues. And after the whole sordid scandal with that asshole Rohit Chandra, she was pretty much done with all things Dehradun as well. God save her from guys who had honourable intentions attached to their penises. Did he really think things were ever going to get serious between them? And did he really have to go squealing to his mother of all people, about their little ‘excursions’? How old was he, five?

  Malini, who had hated being called Maalu in boarding school and Maal in college,and who had chosen ‘Miru’ as a moniker for IIM, flicked the ash to the floor and lay back on the bare mattress. Oh, she was glad to be away from the lot of them, she thought. Mom, Dad, the neighbours, family friends, offspring of family friends, Rohit Chandra included. The guy had turned out to be a surprisingly good fuck – that much she had to grant him. Too bad it was the only interesting thing about him. She stood up on the bed, and picked up the can of paint again.

  ‘…nother brick in the wall’ – she sprayed across the whitewashed surface in the flickering shadows that danced around the darkened room.

  Across the field that separated the boys’ hostel wing from the girls’,Tarun Dhall,working by flashlight in the darkness,finished hanging up his hammock in the recessed space between Rooms H4 305 and H4 306.

  ‘Thanks, yaar,’ he said to Senthil, the guy from Room 305 who’d popped his head out earlier and offered to help. Together, despite the relentless rain and the gusts of wind, they had somehow managed to unfurl the massive rope contraption and fasten it between the two narrow pillars in the common area.

  Tarun, who’d introduced himself to Senthil as ‘TD’, secured the final knot around the top of the pillar, gave it a sharp tug, and jumped off the shipping carton he’d been using as a footstool. ‘There,’ he said, lying back in the hammock and crossing his feet in their worn-out hiking shoes. ‘Now I can easily spend the next two years here, no problem.’

  Senthil, who’d been going by the name of Senti since his IIT Madras days, smiled. He liked this guy, TD, who’d arrived earlier in the morning, with a bulging duffel bag slung over one shoulder and a tangled mess of a hammock over the other.

  ‘I don’t have an assigned room yet because I’m waitlisted,’ he’d told Senti ruefully, ‘but hopefully my admission will get confirmed in a day or two.’

  ‘Hopefully,’ Senti had agreed, admiring the guy’s optimism.

  ‘And even if it doesn’t, I can just hang out here in my hammock for the next two years, right?’

  TD had said it jokingly, like he said most things, but in his mind he knew that there was no way he was heading back home. The younger offspring of the illustrious Shri V. K. Dhall, Additional Commissioner of Income Tax, he had no illusions about where he stood with his father. Varun, his older brother was perfection personified, but Tarun was the one who could do no right. Varun Bhaiyya had made it to Captain of his school cricket team in Class X; TD had trouble connecting bat with ball. Varun Bhaiyya was made House Captain in Class XII, TD was suspended for sneaking out during school hours without permission. Varun Bhaiyya won trophies and awards and got into both IIT Delhi and AIIMS; TD appeared for his medical and engineering entrance exams only to doodle cartoons on his answer sheets until the time ran out.

  Somehow, despite the second division in BComm at Delhi University, and the debacle that was the GMAT, TD had managed to clear the CAT and get waitlisted at IIM Calcutta. Ma had been over the moon. Varun Bhaiyya had opined that there must be some administrative error. Papa said it was only a matter of time before TD was sent home again.

  Papa was probably waiting for him to come back home with his tail tucked between his legs,TD imagined. There was no way he was going to give him that satisfaction.

  ‘You know you can share my room until you get yours,’ Senti offered, indicating his door.

  ‘Thanks,but I think I’ve got everything I need right here.’TD waved a hand at the duffel bag that sat in the corner, the trunk on which he’d stacked his books and tapes; the bucket in which he’d stowed his toiletries. ‘King of my castle.’ He grinned, reaching for a pillow from the duffel bag.

  ‘Nice castle,’ Senti agreed, ‘but I doubt the hostel manager will be quite as enthusiastic about it.’

  ‘I’ll just squat in that room if he comes by,’ TD said, pointing to the still closed door to H4 306. ‘Since no one seems to have claimed it yet.’

  ‘Oh, but that’s Srini’s room,’ Senti said. ‘I saw his name on the room assignment list downstairs.’

  ‘Srini?’ TD repeated, squinting up at him.

  ‘R. Srinivasan,’ Senti said. ‘He was the topper of our batch in Mechanical Engineering from IIT Madras.’

  ‘Just what I need,’TD said,making a disgusted face. ‘Another genius muggoo type.’

  ‘Genius, maybe, but Srini’s not a muggoo,’ Senti said. ‘The guy just cracks every course without even trying.’

  ‘Sounds totally obnoxious.’

  ‘He’s okay once you get to know him. His crashers are the only reason I managed to pass all my courses.’

  ‘Every pain has a higher purpose, huh?’ TD hoisted himself out of the hammock and stretched. ‘I don’t know about you but all that hammock hanging’s got me starving. Want to go hunt down some food?’

  Back in Room 312 in the ‘ladies’ wing’, Ambika Tendulkar set aside the letter she’d been writing by candlelight. Not that Kaka and Kaki in Pune would care very much what her class schedule was going to be or whether her room was comfortable or what the weather was like, but she owed it to them anyway. They had taken care of her since her parents had passed. They were the ones who’d be paying her way through management school for the next two years, howsoever grudgingly.

  Just two more years, she told
herself as the thunder and rain roiled outside, before she would start to pay it all back. Two years in which to pick up the intricacies of finance and sales and systems and marketing, and the biggest, highest-paying job the institute had to offer.

  She could do it. She was an average girl from an average family, of medium height and ‘medium complexion’, but her ambition and resolve were anything but middling. With her frizzy locks and prominent chin she’d never be one of those radiant girls one saw in TV ads, with luminous skin and a life that was one happy frolic under a waterfall, but she would have a house and a car and a corner office some day, and a bank account filled with her own hard-earned cash; of that she was sure.

  Her Aji used to say that there were some people to whom things never came easily, who had the misfortune of being born on the wrong day, at the wrong time, under the wrong stars, when Rahu and Ketu and Shani just weren’t in the mood to play along. Orphaned at twelve and friendless ever since, Ambika believed she was one of them. She used to imagine herself caught in the crosshairs of a war between temperamental celestial forces, desperately trying to shake the long tail of misfortunes that seemed to cling to her.

  ‘What happens to them?’ she had asked Aji. ‘The people born on the wrong day?’

  ‘Some outrun their misfortunes,’ Aji had told her, her eyes aglow with kindness and love. ‘The ones with strength and courage so extraordinary that they vanquish even the planets.’

  She was going to be one of them, Ambika had decided right then. She would vanquish Rahu and Ketu and Shani and any other obstacles that got in her way.

  She unzipped the backpack that lay on the floor beside her desk, pulled out her notebook, and looked over the syllabus that she had copied down earlier from the institute’s administration office. She had eight courses to study in the first term and there were six weeks to go until the mid-term exams – which meant five days per subject, five days each to master courses with names like ‘Corporate Financial Reporting and Analysis’, ‘Microeconomics’ and ‘Marketing and Behavioural Sciences’, none of which she had ever encountered before. Ambika pulled out the thick, worn copy of the microeconomic theory textbook she had found at the library and picked up her pen. There was not a second to waste.