We went to watch the movie Josh, starring Shahrukh Khan. When we came out of the theater we felt a strange sensation in our body. From the world of Shahrukh Khan and his Eagle gang we had suddenly been thrown into the real world. Our mind was reluctant to absorb this fact. We sat under the peepul tree in silence. Buntu spoke, “Blockbuster movie. It is the best movie made in history.” We added: “Absolutely,” “I agree,” “No doubt.”
Aman came to tell us that we were getting late for the cricket match. Playing cricket with these twelve-year-old children every Sunday – it seemed so childish now. “No yaar, we’re not in a mood today,” said Michael. We sat there quietly and parted before dusk. Josh had stirred something in us, and we needed some time to understand what it was. When we met the next morning we agreed in unison that we had to make a gang of our own.
We were sitting under the peepul tree that afternoon, waiting for Atif. Atif parked his dazzling new Karizma next to our Scooties and Activas. He took off his Fastrack shades and hung them over his collar. At fourteen, he was the eldest in our group (sixteen, if rumors were to be believed). He always tied a handkerchief around his left knee, over his baggy jeans. He had handsome blue eyes and fair skin. He brought with him an odor of sophistication and class. We felt proud as he smiled and gave us high-five.
We congratulated him on his new Karizma and told him that we had worked out new names for ourselves. I, Dinesh, became Danger Dinesh. My cousin Michael became Michael Murder. Buntu became Buntu Bomb, and his younger brother Chotu – the youngest of our group – became Chotu Chhuri. Atif looked hesitant. When we asked him what name he wanted for himself, he said, “No, no, call me Atif only.”
Atif suggested the gang’s name to be Fast Bikers. We wanted it to be Eagle gang. He sighed, “Yaar, let me make one thing clear – we are not playing a game here. I am serious about this gang. We will have our own, original name. Get that movie Josh out of your heads. Understand?”
Just then, Chotu Chhuri came running. Before we could say anything, he burst out, “I am Max. I said it first.” (For those who don’t know: Max was Shahrukh Khan’s name in Josh.) Atif kept his cell phone in his pocket and stared at Chotu Chhuri. Chotu Chhuri’s face lost its mirth, and he looked at us. We pretended to talk to the paanwalla. Atif said in a calm voice, “Come here, Chotu Chutiyea. Come here.” Chotu Chhuri stepped closer. Atif said, “What do you think we are doing here, huh? Speak up.” Atif continued, “Tell me, are we playing a game here? Or are we enacting the movie Josh? Speak up, don’t be afraid. I won’t squeeze your balls.” Atif patted Chotu Chhuri’s back, and said, “Run home, little kid, run home. Play hide-and-seek or Josh-Josh with your friends. Come back after some years, when your milk teeth come out – we will include you in our gang then. Now go away, shoo, shoo.”
Chotu Chhuri ran away on the verge of tears.
We told Atif that Fast Bikers was a better name than Eagle gang. Michael Murder asked if Delhi Sandwich stall could become our hideout. We ruled it out because it was too crowded. We felt Juice Walla was better. Hardly any customers came there. Juice Walla was new in our city. Prakash worked on the juice machine, while his father Ramnarayan crushed ice and served the sugarcane juice to customers. We arranged our vehicles around Juice Walla and drank fruit beer. We didn’t like its taste, and were often tempted by the sugarcane juice. This is strong – it’s a man’s drink, we told ourselves. That thing is for children.
Buntu Bomb showed us his new Mouser one day. We gave him money and next day he bought each of us a Mouser and two packets of plastic pellets. “Come here,” Atif said to me. “It won’t hurt much.”
“Why can’t you try it on Buntu Bomb or Michael Murder.”
“Now why is your penis quivering with fear, huh?”
Atif shot at my hand. It was painful, but wasn’t as bad as I had thought. It left a small red mark.
We usually gathered at the Juice Walla by four in the evening. We drank fruit beer, talked loudly, guffawed, cursed, and shot with our Mousers in the air, while people stared at us. Sometimes little children gathered around us and asked if we were drinking a new type of Pepsi. Their mothers were quick to grab and pull them back. We usually parted before dusk.
Buntu Bomb knew how to drive his Activa, but it was Chotu Chhuri who came to drop him each day at Juice Walla. Chotu Chhuri would stroll about at some distance from us, kicking stones and cellophanes, drinking soda, and smiling at us every now and then. When Atif went to pee, he dropped by for a small chat and offered us his soda. We still called him Chotu Chhuri.
We soon realized that we had started getting bored. We didn’t feel like we were a gang. When we conveyed this to Atif, he told us to stay longer by the Juice Walla that day. He said he had made arrangements for our entertainment. At ten o’clock, a deafening cacophony pierced the dark. A pigmy bike staggered down the road. We saw an extremely fat, puny boy sitting on it, gleefully accelerating his beloved bike. Atif called out, “Hey you, come here.” The blare died in mid-air as the boy stopped his bike and looked at us, aghast. I shouted, “Are you deaf? Didn’t you hear what he said?” The boy looked around for help. I lost my temper: “Madarchod this is the last time I am shouting – come here.” The boy accelerated his bike, but it had hardly lurched a few meters before I dashed and caught him by his collar. I took him before Atif. The boy said tearfully, “Bhaiya, I was not running away. I swear. I was just . . . just taking a U turn. I swear on Mother Earth, I am not lying. I will swear on anything you want—”
Atif kept his cell phone in his pocket and stared at the boy. The boy stopped his blabber and looked at us. We pretended to look at his bike, and whispered amongst us: “Now he’s gone,” “No one can save him.”
Atif said in a calm voice, “Come here, aaloo-tikki.”
The boy looked at us.
Atif continued, “I am talking to you. Yes, you, aaloo-tikki. What do you think we are, huh? Speak.”
The boy mumbled, “I am sorry, I am sorry . . . let me go.”
Atif continued, “No, no, you don’t have to say sorry. You didn’t fuck my sister. What I am asking is – what do you think we are? Rapists? Murderers? The way you were running away – did you think we were going to gang rape and murder you? Don’t worry. Speak up. I won’t squeeze your balls.”
Aaloo-tikki was now crying. “Let me go . . . please, please, please.”
Atif looked at the pigmy bike and said, “From where did you get that cycle of yours?”
Aaloo-tikki looked around. Atif took out his mouser and shot at the bike’s petrol tank, and said, “That cycle.”
The gun didn’t scare off Aaloo-tikki. Aaloo-tikki said, “Raju Uncle bought it from
Buntu Bomb sat on the pigmy bike and asked, “Aaloo-tikki, where are the paddles?”
“There are no paddles. You have to accelerate it.”
Michael Murder kicked the bike’s engine and said, “It looks weak. I don’t think it will make it till monsoon.”
Aaloo-tikki cried, “Please . . . let me go. I join me hands in front of you.”
Atif inserted a rolled newspaper in the exhaust pipe and said, “Now it won’t make noise.”
When Aaloo-tikki tried to take it off, Michael Murder said, “Chutiyea, if you take that out, that thing will again make a lot of noise. Let it remain.”
Aaloo-tikki asked, “Then how will I drive?”
“Ask your Papa.”
Aaloo-tikki sat on his bike and wiped his tears. When we were not looking, he threw off the paper roll and tried to run away on his bike. We laughed. A few seconds later, Michael Murder screamed. “Who’s this madarchod—” We turned around and saw Aaloo-tikki standing in the dark, shouting, “You bhenchod, madarchod, harami.” He was holding a Desert Eagle. He shot again. This time it hit my head. It pained twice more than our Mousers. He fired two more shots and then sped away before we could catch him.
“Saala harami,” Buntu Bomb said, “I know where he lives.”
We went to Aaloo-tikki’s house and punctured his bike, smashed the rear-view mirrors, and broke the footrest. We never saw him in Chowk again.
It was Sunday. Chotu Chhuri was sitting with us, laughing at our jokes and praising our bravery. I noticed that Atif was looking troubled. I asked him what happened. Atif mumbled, “Those football-kids seem too excited nowadays. We need to teach them a lesson.
“I have an idea. Follow me.”
Numerous puny little boys came to Chowk at different times after dusk to practice their cycling skills, bike-riding skills or pillion-riding skills. For a few days after the Aaloo-tikki incident we got at least one catch each day. Because of our rising popularity, there was a sudden efflux of such kids. Those who did come came with their elder brothers. We hadn’t got a catch since two days and were dying with boredom. Messing with the football-kids was a welcomed relief.
Football-kids was a group of five weather-beaten, knickers-wearing, nose-picking kids who played football day and night near the jewelry shops. It was rumored that they were once Atif’s friends.
We parked our vehicles in a line next to the Delhi Sandwich, blocking the narrow lane from where they would come. From a small stall, Delhi Sandwich had turned into a shop that sold three types of juices, and bhelpuri, apart from seven types of sandwiches. It also had seating arrangements. Juice Walla didn’t have any chairs or the prefix
While we waited for the football-kids, Chotu Chhuri sponsored sandwiches and sugarcane juices from Delhi Sandwich. We saw a football-kid coming along the road. Atif blocked his way with his hockey stick (we all kept hockey sticks now) and said, “Go and fuck somewhere else. This is our area from now on.”
The boy ran away, but turned back every five steps to shout, “Wait right there. Right there. I’ll come back . . . just let the shops go down. Wait right there.”
Atif turned to Chotu Chhuri, “There will be bloodshed today. Go and get your hockey stick. You’re in the gang.” Chotu Chhuri ran away gleefully. Football-kids came as soon as the shops were down.
Michael Murder shouted, “Abbey oye! Back off, this is our area.”
One of them shouted back, “Abbey oye! You back off!”
“Abbey oye! Do you know whom you’re talking to?”
“Abbey oye!”
Atif drew a line on the road with a piece of brick, and said, “If you cross this line, I’ll squeeze your balls.”
We showered insults and abuses on them. When they abused back, we started laughing and mocked that their voices sounded like girls’ (we had pre-planned this). We told them to get their brooms and bangles before we started fighting. Their faces turned grave. They replied back by mocking our names. We hadn’t expected this, and were out of words. We felt we were losing, when suddenly Buntu Bomb pushed a fat boy of their group. The fat boy pushed him back. They held each others’ collars for a minute, before leaving them and we went back to abuses. Suddenly, Michael Murder and the leader of football-kids started fighting. They rolled on the road, and cursed and threatened each other, while we shouted encouragements. Then they separated and we went back to abuses.
After half an hour, the tired football-kids started going back. They turned their heads every two steps to abuse us. Chotu Chhuri came running, holding aloft a hockey stick, and before we could stop him, he hit one of the football-kids. We dashed over before they could harm Chotu Chhuri. After a long of negotiation, it was agreed that the fallen kid would hit Chotu Chhuri to even the matter. The fallen kid kicked Chotu Chhuri in the butt with his NCC boots. Chotu Chhuri stood up and started laughing and said that it felt like an ant sting. Their leader said, “This is not over,” and the football-kids went away. Chotu Chhuri wiped his tears and said, “Yes, it is not over.”
We had won. We felt proud and powerful as we rode through the sleeping
We felt that our decision to change our names was a bit childish. We reverted back to our original names.
The next morning I found my Activa punctured and the petrol tank empty. I found Atif and Michael under the peepul tree. The same had happened with them. An hour later we saw Buntu coming on his Activa. He was sitting over the dickey and Chotu was sitting on a pillow above the petrol tank. “Those madarchod took away our seat,” Chotu said.
We found the football-kids eating sandwiches at Delhi Sandwich. They started laughing when they saw us. Michael shouted, “Don’t show your teeth homeless kids, they are dirty.” Their laughter died. The words ‘Homeless Kids’ were apt because we had never really seen these kids entering in or coming out of a house. “Good one,” said Buntu, patting Michael’s back.
We were sitting around the Juice Walla, pondering over our next action. Atif said, “I think we should just break into Delhi Sandwich and smash all the things.” We didn’t understand the joke, but laughed anyway. When we stopped, we saw Atif’s solemn face staring at us. “I’m serious,” he said. “Listen. Let me explain. Tell me – who owns Delhi Sandwich? Mustan Ali. Mustan Ali is the father of Hamza and Nadeem – two of the Homeless Kids.
We will break into Delhi Sandwich and smash all the things. It is our revenge. They threw a brick, we will answer with a stone.
There was silence and antagonism in the air. We looked around uneasily, trying to figure out what the others were thinking. Buntu spoke hesitantly, “Atif, but . . . we are going over the top now. This is not required . . . I mean we can beat them or something—”
Atif shouted, “Why, is your penis quivering with fear bhenchod?”
Buntu looked helplessly at me and Michael.
Atif said, “Those who think they are a man – prove it by meeting me under the peepul tree at eleven o’clock. The eunuchs can stay in their house with their quivering penises.”
At half past ten I stopped by Buntu’s house to ask him if he was coming. I rung the door bell for fifteen minutes and called out his name, but no one answered. Chotu leaned across the veranda for a fleeting second. A servant approached me and said no one was at home. When I protested, he tried to push me. “Bloody dogs,” I muttered as I drove alone toward the peepul tree.
I found only Atif there. “So,” I said, “it seems Michael didn’t come.” Atif was visibly hurt. Michael mattered more to him that any of us. Atif said, “Let wait for half an hour.” Michael didn’t come, but Buntu did. We wore masks and went to Delhi Sandwich. Atif had the right key with him. We didn’t ask him from where he got it. We went in and pulled down the shutters after us. We squashed the fruits, dismantled the juicers, and poured all the masalas on the floor.
Buntu said, “Yaar . . . just come here for a second.” Buntu’s torch was pointing at a fat man crouched in a corner, shivering. Probably a worker. A cold liquid gathered around my toes. I looked down and said, “He pissed.” We laughed. While we were tying him with a rope, I saw a telephone next to where the man had been sleeping. “He must have called the police,” Atif suggested. We looked at each other in horror. Just then, someone banged the shutter. A voice called from outside, “You’re all dead today.”
I saw Mummy and Papa coming along the road. Papa looked weak, and didn’t raise his eyes from the ground. Mummy was holding his hand, like he was an old man unable to bear his own weight. I tried to give Papa an explanation, but he pushed me and walked towards Mustan Ali, the owner of Delhi Sandwich. Mummy had always warned me against Atif and Michael. We often had fights over this at home. This time I knew she would beat me with my grandfather’s baton in front of everybody. When she came running towards me, I ducked and shielded myself with my hands. She hugged me. It felt odd. She hadn’t hugged me since I was four years old. I looked up and saw that she was crying. She held her hand across by back and took me across the street. We sat on a platform. “Don’t cry,” she said, “nothing will happen. Your Papa and I are here, don’t cry.” Papa and Buntu’s father were trying to reason with Mustan Ali. They begged him not to call the police, we were just children. Mustan Ali’s voice towered above them. It seemed he was just about to strike them. Papa had a famous jewelry shop, and I had always seen people coming to him and begging for job or money or discount. It was the first time I had seen Papa begging. He looked so helpless. I had thought that we would somehow make our way through this muddle, and then get back to our gang the next day. But the look on Papa’s face made me realize how heartless and foolish I was. I prayed for God to come down and fast forward the time so that we could get back to our lives, and I would get a chance to atone for my mistakes. I promised God I will forget the gang. I will study and get good marks. I will never make my parents cry. I will always keep them happy.
No one from Atif’s family was in city. He was sitting alone on his bike. Every now and then someone would come and chide him, call him a goonda or hit him on his head. Buntu was crying in his father’s car, while his mother shouted and hit him. I could hear the sound of her bangles breaking. Chotu came with his uncle after some time and surveyed the scene like a high-rank police officer. Chotu, Buntu and their uncle went away.
When Papa offered Mustan Ali money, he grew furious and moved towards him. My heart pounded. I felt Mustan Ali would hit Papa, and Papa would go to the hospital in a serious condition, and I would never see him again. Mummy was still holding me tightly and mumbling consoling words.
Papa and Buntu’s father finally convinced Mustan Ali. Buntu’s father had enough money in his wallet. Papa walked home to get the money. When Mustan Ali or Buntu’s father came to scold me, Mummy grew furious, tightened her grip around my back, and shouted back at them. She had bought puri and pickles with her. I wasn’t hungry, but she force fed me two puris. Papa gave Mustan Ali the money, but Mustan Ali still kept shouting. I saw Papa take out his watch and hand it over.
Some people had come out of their houses to stare at us. After Mustan Ali had gone away, two of them approached Papa. One of them was Aaloo-tikki. The other one was his father, and probable an acquaintance of Papa. I tried to lean closer but Mummy wouldn’t allow me to move. From the little I could hear, I made it out that Aaloo-tikki was telling my father how I and my friends had insulted him, beat him and damaged his bike.
As we walked home, Mummy kept asking me what I wanted her to cook when we got home. Papa didn’t speak.
At home, Papa sat on the sofa and buried his head in his hand. I stood in front of him. My sister, cousin brother, and Mummy were standing behind me. With lightning-fast speed, Papa picked up the telephone directory and started hitting me with it. Mummy dashed forward, snatched the directory from him, and stood shielding me. She glared at Papa, and said, “He’s just a child.” Papa sat down again, and told me in a tearful voice that I had bought disgrace to the whole family. I had ruined his name.
I wept. “I’m sorry.”
Papa said that he always knew Atif was a goonda. Atif’s brother was sent to jail for two months because Mustan Ali had caught him thieving. Atif was taking revenge by breaking into his shop, Mustan Ali had told Papa.
Mummy said, “This is what happens to boys who don’t have parents to look after them. Atif is a number one goonda.”
My younger sister narrated the incident when Atif had badly beaten her friend’s brother, even though her friend’s brother had done nothing. “He is a number one goonda,” Mummy repeated.
Mummy looked at me for confirmation. I jerked away her hand, ran upstairs and threw myself on my bed.
There was something sinister about Mustan Ali’s face. I was sure he was lying to Papa. Or perhaps Papa was lying to me. I refused to believe Atif had used us for his own purpose. Atif was not like that. I knew it.
My sister and cousin brother peeped into my room every two minutes, like I was a sleeping dinosaur. Mummy came in after half an hour. She scolded them, “Go away, don’t disturb us. He will talk to his mother now.” Mummy raised my head from the pillow and kept in her lap. “OK, now, stop crying and talk to me nicely.” I pulled my head back on the pillow. She said, “Look at me, and stop crying. Talk nicely. Tell me – you want to buy something? A new bag? I will buy it, tell me now—” When she tried to flip me over, I resisted. My hand accidentally hit her mouth. She remained still for a minute and then she walked out.
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