The Fifth Page

It was a windy evening. The kind that made almost every window whistle in alternate beats. Storm clouds had been circling the hills since late afternoon, hanging low over the Oak trees. The strong winds were fighting the heavy clouds that were swallowing Mussoorie in a grey, shifting curtains. As the games time was coming to an end, boys would for the faint scattering of lights from above the nets of the front and back pitches — small, golden promises of a life beyond roll-call and the prep-time bell. That evening, there was nothing. Just rains threatening to arrive, clouds pressing down upon the hills, and the wind rushing through the trees like an upset housemaster looking for a culprit.

As per standard Hills Schools’ Association rules —boys and girls were categorized on a height and weight formula system and all Sports and Athletic Committees ensured compliance – Sub-Juniors, Juniors, Inters and Seniors. Athletics was competed fiercely, across the groups. Sports team were fairly predictable. If you witness two matches of a team, you could take a calculated guess if your team will reach the finals or not. On the day of the finals though, it would be a whole new emotion. Much would depend on the venue, the crowd, the adrenaline and the referee! The camaraderie and conflicts of teams on some other day.

Today, was a very chilly day. Both the junior and senior boys’ cricket teams had won the finals. The juniors had defended a total of 112 on a difficult, uneven pitch; the seniors had chased 168 with two wickets to spare, largely because one batsman who refused to give up and a last over blinder by the captain. The two winning teams were awarded a special Mussoorie outing. Out of turn. In boarding schools, those three words carried more magic than a scholarship letter. And that too right after the match, which meant an evening outing, with a late-night movie and walking back to school through the dark slops, well past mid-night. The cheer leaders first carried the team on their shoulders and then carried back the kit bags with great warmth. Shared glory is glory, nonetheless! However, there were some special orders. Most of them were the usual individual asks – Royal Blue Chelpark ink bottles, Pilot pens and their dropper ink bottles, some gift items for the imaginary girl-friends, or siblings upcoming birthdays etc. Then came the exquisite ones – Sportstar, Filmfare & Stardust editions. Old editions that were cheaper. Because, one boy could not afford the cost of a new one. One time, one of the new-joinee swanky boy’ had asked his batchmate to bring him a Swiss Army knife. The boy stared at him and replied, “where do you think I am going - Switzerland?” Beneath the harmless requests lay some raw, unspoken items. Mussoorie had bookshops. And behind the bookshops, were small lanes, with tiny stalls, offering new and second-hand books and magazines already packed in brown-paper. These were the orders that could not be called out, spelt or written. They were simply, whispered and understood. Well, cricketers returned late night, victors and swollen celebrities. They brought the predictable items—some chocolates, comics, pens, cheap key rings.  And, the fully loaded magazines. Just not of guns. But for guns! New and second-hand adult magazines. Few of them had dog-eared novels whose covers had seen better years. Books passed from hand to hand with the solemnity of secret government files. Nobody ever openly admitted buying them. If seniors caught a junior with such such non-existing pages, it would be confiscated, rather non-seriously. For their reading. And returned without any damage. Tradition to be maintained. The official version was that the magazines had been “found.” Or “came along in the folds of another book, by mistake – since it looks like Reader’s Digest!  Within the class, every contributor had his turn. The system was democratic. The highest contributor received an early turn. Those who had paid less had to wait. Even the ones who could not pay, in the end, would get their hands on the pages. In fact, everyone managed to experience life —including the so-called intelligent, innocent and simple boys of the class. Many a times, they would first lecture us about moral decline. Then, after a week would innocently drop a one-liner, “Is my turn after @Sushil or before?”

Evening prep would be the masterpiece timing of concealment. Textbooks were opened on desks. Exercise books were placed strategically. A geography atlas could hide almost anything if held at the correct angle. One could keep his contraband of Stardust or Filmfare inside. Another used the Science Guide Book perhaps believing that no teacher would voluntarily inspect Physics after 6 PM in the evening.

My turn came on this particularly stormy night. The wind was howling outside, and rain had begun striking the metal roofs in quick, hard bursts. Prep time had started at six-thirty. Seven was dinner. My turn came in the post-dinner prep time, before eventually retiring to the dormitory. I acquired the magazine. Slipped it between my Social Science textbook, positioning myself in a way that my left part of the body was on the window wall, where the lightening would flicker in weakly, while the class tube lights would fall right through the cracks of my folded elbow, hiding the real reading for today. It was a copy of Gladrags. Shyla Lopez was on the cover. My heart was beating with the unnecessary seriousness of a boy doing something he had no real understanding of. The pages of the old edition still had the shine of new. Shyla had made it even more special. The mag smelled of nervous excitement and several previous young boy’s owners shaky fingers that would have turned the pages.

I had barely reached the fifth page. Shyla was saying all the nice soft and mushy things in her interview. When her Lopez appeared to rise from the center page. At first, I thought the outside storm noise is making giving a background effect. But she seemed to move towards me now. She took a long hair-pin bend into the air and I looked up. There was Mr. Bhat. The moment froze. The blood froze. Our eyes locked. And my unfortunate imagination flashed in front of my eyes with the efficiency of our PWD staff! I was rusted and rusticated. I was sitting by the window of a train, leaving Doon station, forever. The hills were disappearing behind me. And there, absurdly, impossibly, Shyla Lopez sat in my lap—still on the cover, still inside the magazine, solely responsible my destruction.

Mr. Bhat said nothing for what felt 1888, the day school was established till date when it was closing all doors on me. He slowly folded the magazine now that was in his hands, looked at the cover and then looked at me. In a voice, as stern, clear and as cold as the rain drops outside, he said, “This is not what one should read, especially before bed”.

He walked away. The memory gives sweet shivers —not because I could never lap Shyla. Because, I still carry an image of a bending Shyla and Mr. Bhat together, on the fifth page.

-Q