Revolution 2020 by Chetan Bhagat Page A

the white sheet and felt nauseous. A crowd had
gathered around us. I did not say anything and ran out. I left the
stadium and continued to sprint down the main road for two hundred
metres.
    I stopped to catch
my breath and heard footsteps as Sunil jogged towards me.
    Both of us held our
sides and panted.
    ‘Fuck,’
Sunil said. ‘Lucky escape.’
    We went to a
chemist’s where I applied some dressing on my cheek.
    ‘Come, I will
take you to CCD. It opened last week,’ Sunil said.
                                                                 ♦
    We walked to Cafe
Coffee Day at IP Mall, Sigra. Sunil bought us two cold coffees with a
crisp new hundred-rupee note. I could live on that cash for a week.
    ‘What was
that? They own a college?’ I said.
    ‘It is the
Verma family from Allahabad. They are into country liquor. Now they
have opened a college.’
    ‘Why?’ I
said.
    ‘Money.
There’s huge money in private colleges. Plus, it enhances their
name in society. Now they are noble people in education, not liquor
barons.’
    ‘They behaved
like goons’
    ‘They are goons. Brothers had a fight, college split and now they try to bring
each other down.’
    ‘I can’t
do this,’ I said.
    ‘Don’t
worry, we will get you another college. We will bargain hard. They
have seats to fill.’
    ‘It scares me
to even think of studying at these places. Liquor barons running
colleges?’
    ‘Yeah,
politicians, builders, beedi- makers. Anybody with experience
in a shady business does really well in education,’ Sunil said.
He picked his straw to lick the cream off.
    ‘Really?’
I said. ‘Shouldn’t academicians be opening colleges? Like
exprofessors?’
    ‘Are you
crazy? Education is not for wusses. There’s a food chain of
people at every step,’ Sunil said. He jiggled his leg as he
spoke to me. He took out his mobile phone. Cellphones had started to
become common, but they still counted as a status symbol.
    Sunil called someone
who seemed to be in a crisis. ‘Calm down, Chowbey-ji. MLA
Shukla-ji has blessed the fair. Yes, it is closing time. Give us two
more hours ... Hold on.’ Sunil turned to me. ‘Events
business, always on my toes,’ he said to me in an undertone.
‘Mind if I step out? I’ll be back.’
    ‘Sure,’
I said.
    I sat alone with my
drink. I scanned the crowd. Rich kids bought overpriced donghnuts and
cookies to go with their whipped-cream coffee.
    Two men in leather
jackets came inside CCD. I recognised them from the funeral. I
shilled sideways on my seat to avoid them. However, they had already
seen me. They walked up to my table.
    ‘Celebrating
your fathers death?’ said one. His muscular arm kept a cup of
chai on the table.
    ‘I don’t
have the money right now,’ I said in a soft voice.
    ‘Then we will
take your balls,’ said the person with the moustache. He
gripped a can of Coke in his right hand.
    ‘Except they
are not worth a lakh each,’ the teacup goon said. They laughed.
    Sunil returned after
his call. He was surprised to see the new guests.
    ‘Your
friends?’ he said.
    I shook my head.
    ‘His
father’s,’ said the teacup guy.
    ‘I have seen
you ...’ Sunil said.
    ‘ I his is our
town. We are everywhere,’ the Coke guy said.
    ‘You work for
MLA Shukla-ji, don’t you?’ Sunil said.
    ‘None of your
business,’ the teacup guy said, his voice a tad nervous.
    ‘I saw you at
his house. Hi, I’m Sunil. I am a manager at Sunshine Events. We
work with MLA Shukla-ji a lot.’ Sunil extended his hand.
    After a few seconds
of hesitation, they shook Sunil’s hand.
    ‘Your friend
owes us money. He’d better pay up soon. Or else.’ The
teacup guy paused after ‘or else’, partly for effect but
mostly because he didn’t know what to say next.
    Sunil and I kept
quiet. The moustache goon tapped the table three times with his bike
key. After a few more glares they left.
    I let out a huge
sigh. Fear had flushed my