was lying a few feet away from him, bleeding from the nose. So far, in this unexpected contest, round one had gone conclusively to Tolstoy. Arnab could hear several people shouting something, and when he looked to his left, he saw the copy of
'Why the fuck did you have to be a hero?'
As Arnab passed out, he saw the copy of
'It wasn't my fault, it was Tolstoy.'
***
When Arnab woke up, he couldn't see much. For a panicked instant, he thought he had gone blind, but then he calmed himself by remembering that he wasn't wearing his glasses. As someone helpfully handed him his glasses, he put them on and was surprised to see Jayantada sitting at the foot of his hospital bed. Jayantada was hardly the person Arnab was most looking forward to meeting, especially as he had no idea where the book had disappeared in the melee, but his presence at least reassured him that he wasn't dead.
That was of course unless he had died and been condemned to a hell of enduring Jayantada every day. That thought was further reinforced when the first words out of Jayantada's mouth were, 'Why do young people today have to get themselves into so much trouble?'
It always struck Arnab as ironical that Jayantada revelled in flaunting his age and experience, and thus by implication his wisdom, but also tried desperately to not look his age, down to the meticulously dyed hair and faded jeans. Arnab groaned loudly in exasperation, and Jayantada leaned forward with a look of concern, thinking it was because of the pain.
'Arnab, should I call the doctor?'
Before Arnab could reply, the door swung open, and Arnab expected the doctor to walk in. He cringed inwardly, realizing that his face hurt like hell, and he really didn't want to find out just how badly his misadventure at the bank had rearranged his face. With his big glasses, slightly buck-toothed expression and gaunt features, Arnab had never considered himself good-looking, but he was sure that a few stitches and broken teeth would do nothing to enhance his appearance.
'Jayantada, where is this hero of yours?'
The shrill voice belonged not to the doctor, but to a young woman who had walked into the room and stood behind Jayantada. Unsure who she was referring to, Arnab looked around in confusion to check if he was sharing the room with someone else. Seeing his expression, the woman laughed and came forward, extending a hand towards him.
'Hi, I'm Mishti, Jayantada's niece.'
Arnab extended his hand only to find it attached to an IV drip, so he settled for saying hello. In their first five minutes together, he learnt several things about Mishti. First, that she was working for some corporation in Bangalore and was in Delhi on holiday. Second, that she seemed to be struck by the mistaken notion that he was some kind of hero who had single-handedly grappled with three armed robbers, and finally, the fact that he found her big eyes and ready smile pretty attractive. Point Three made certain that he said nothing to contradict Point Two.
He would have loved to just sit there and chat with her, but the next few minutes saw a veritable invasion of his room. The first was the doctor, who informed him that he was lucky to have escaped alive, and had suffered no lasting damage, other than perhaps to his vanity, as he'd have a few scars down the side of his face for some time. The doctor informed him that he had taken most of the blows to his head, and when he had been brought in, they had suspected severe brain haemorrhage. He showed Arnab scans of his brain, saying that it was a miracle that there did not seem to be any internal damage. Just then, more visitors arrived.
The next was a portly nurse who waddled in and stuck a thermometer in his mouth, changed his dressing way too roughly, informed him that dinner was lentil soup, and walked out, leaving him wincing in pain at the disturbed stitches, and dreading the prospect of his first meal in hospital. But it was his final visitor who created the greatest impact. Visitors, to be accurate. First in were two dour faced commandos who barged in, scanning the room from one side to the other, as if expecting an imminent assault by bedpan-wielding terrorists. Next in was a short, skinny man wearing a safari suit who walked up to Arnab, folded his hands in greeting and said,
'I am P.C. Sharma, Personal Assistant to the Honourable Minister. You are very lucky, he has come himself to visit you.'
Before Arnab could mutter 'What Minister?' a policeman walked in. He was a study in contrast to P.C. Sharma, towering over him, and with a khaki uniform that was stretched to its limits with the arduous task of keeping his huge belly contained. He proclaimed that he was Siddharth Upadhyay, the Deputy Commissioner of Police and was there to ensure security for the Minister. Arnab could hear P.C. Sharma mutter 'Very lucky' once again as his final visitor walked in.
Wearing a traditional khadi kurta-pyjama of the sort favoured by so many of India's politicians, and carrying a bouquet of flowers, was the much-awaited Minister.
'Hello, young man, I hope you are being taken care of.'
'Yes, thank you.'
Arnab could see both Sharma and Upadhyay raise their eyebrows in disgust. He wondered what offense his harmless reply could have caused when Sharma whispered into his ears, 'Stand to meet the Honourable Minister.' Before Arnab could point to the IV drip and the fact that it was an absurd suggestion given his current situation, the Minister sat down next to Arnab.
'I am Balwant Singh, the Minister for Law and Order, and I am much impressed by your bravery.'
The Minister stank of stale cigarette smoke, and his lips were stained red from chewing tobacco, but Arnab put on his best polite face as they exchanged pleasantries and Arnab realized that the walloping he had received at the bank was being misinterpreted as an act of courage on his part.
'Sir, it was nothing, it was actually…'
Before he could complete the sentence, the Minister said, 'Brave and humble. PC, we must reward this young man. Call a press conference at the college as soon as possible.'
As the Minister and his entourage walked out, Arnab saw Mishti standing in a corner, looking at him with scarcely disguised awe. He would have felt guilty about the misunderstanding if Mishti's expression hadn't felt so good.
***
Three days later, Arnab was back at the college, though for a change, he was not toiling away in some dark corner of the library, but up on stage in the auditorium. As he found out later, the Minister he had met was not only a political bigwig but also a key donor to the college, which bore his name as a result. He was sitting at a table on the stage, flanked by Balwant Singh, Upadhyay and the college's Principal. P.C. Sharma was hovering in the background, barking commands to underlings to bring hot tea and snacks for the Honourable Minister. Arnab felt totally out of his depth, being the focus of attention of the more than fifty reporters and cameramen gathered at the Press Conference. His head still hurt a bit from the beating and he realized that every time he took a deep breath, his ribs would scream in protest, but for now, all that lay forgotten before his newly found celebrity status.
Balwant Singh got up to take the mike and began his speech.
'My party has always said that we want law and order and in the short time we have been in power, crime rates have dramatically reduced.'
P.C Sharma and some members of the audience clapped wildly as the Minister took a pause, and Arnab began to suspect how many in the crowd were genuinely reporters and how many were the Minister's cronies.
'When there is crime, we want to bring those responsible to justice as fast as possible, and with the help of this brave young man here, Mr. Amitabh Bannerjee, we have done just that.'
Amidst the applause, Arnab realized that the Minister had gotten his name totally wrong and was wondering how to correct him, when Upadhyay stood up and called out loudly to one of his men in the distance.
