my best work yet...

The Clique

We giggled like frivolous girls as we tiptoed down the hall towards the fish tank. “Shut up you idiots! If we get caught we’ll all get blacklisted” whispered Saed. Four teenage boys in school on a weekend was the best known recipe for mischief. Nervously, I intermittently looked back. We had not been spotted by any of the security guards. The sheer aura of the college would have been daunting enough for any other; we, however, felt that it was daring us to defy it. Hamid breathed heavily as he lifted the lid of the mini aquarium. Ahmed lowered the plastic bag with surgical precision. The goldfish seemed bemused at the sudden intrusion on its, until then, peaceful habitat. “Thefto”, as it later came to be known, fought valiantly but it was only a matter of time before which it was bested by Ahmed’s strategic bag movement tactics. We scampered to the car, unspotted. There was a month left to our O level exams.

I huffed heavily after hauling myself up Ahmed’s narrow, steep stairway. His grandmother, who lived downstairs often complained about our pounding and occasionally made jokes about how the first floor was inhabited by horses rather than humans. This equine endowment, however, did not extend to her son and merely to the rest of the family. Ahmed’s mother was a modern day superwoman. She had six children; four boys and two girls and then there was me who was there more often than usual. They lived in an apartment with three medium sized bedrooms. I always felt welcome at Ahmed’s.
We anxiously awaited Aunty’s departure. The minutes seemed like hours. We shouted out our chemistry notes to ensure they were clearly audible to those that mattered. However, once the proverbial cat was away the mice came out with bat and ball and scurried to the veranda. It no longer mattered how Hydrogen bonded with Chlorine or how Fritz Haber revolutionised the fertilizer industry by creating Ammonia. All that mattered was who outdid who in this epic battle between bat and ball. A horn at the gate was the equivalent of a military code red alert. It meant Aunty was back. Ahmed’s sentiments changed drastically from ecstatic glee to extreme horror at the prospect of being discovered. The only thing we lacked were halos and some ruffled wings to complement our angelic expressions as aunty walked in to check on us. “Shabaash, well done!” she would say and with a click, the door closed shut and the mission was a success.
“Ahmed, we can’t keep this up yaar. Aitchison will throw us out if we mess up our O’s” sprung my conscience.
“I know, I know. We’ll make it back. You worry too much.” Ahmed mocked.
“If either of us don’t make it back, we’ll never hear the end of it from our parents and beyond that, there is hardly any time after school, we won’t be able to meet as often as we do.” As soon as I said this, a silence fell over the room. It was the first time that either of us had looked into the possibility of college life without the other. Neither spoke. The silence got louder. If it were possible I would say the silence started screaming. I breathed a sigh of relief when finally Ahmed spoke.
“That’s never going to happen. We stay friends, no mater what! If either of us doesn’t make it back, nothing changes; we will still meet very frequently.” I otherwise knowingly, nodded at what Ahmed had just said. Another spell of silence cast itself over the room. This time it was broken by Aunty. “Azam beta, your car is here.”
“I’ll see you in school. Take care.” We embraced, shook hands and parted ways temporarily. I hardly said a word on my way home. I stared into the emptiness. There was a thought in my head, a splinter in my mind that was begging an answer. Would things remain as they were?
The orchestral chirping of the birds greeted us as we walked to class. The branches and leaves filtered the rays of the sun that pervasively made their way to earth. The condensed dew on the grass put a fragrance in the air that gave the otherwise unwelcoming college a warm and convivial feeling. Good omens, we thought. Fate, as it turned out, had other plans in store for us that day. The Dean’s Canteen was our favourite haunt during recess. Pooling our funds didn’t result in a substantial amount so Hamid declared his only calculator as collateral for the food we ate that day. Since Hamid would eventually be paying, the rest of us deliberately over ordered. If anyone could afford it, Hamid could.
The gong indicating the end of break resounded loudly across the lush green lawns and aged structures of the Aitchison College. All the students made their way to class. All save us. Hamid suggested that we bunk English that day. Saed immediately protested. “What’s Suzy (Shazia Atif Tuffail, the English teacher) going to teach us that we don’t already know?” spewed Hamid. It took some time, a combination of reasoning and coercing before Saed too was lured into playing truant. We were heading towards the labyrinthine, less known and less inhabited regions of Aitchison when a low pitched, authoritative, booming voice called out to us. We froze. Saed’s face immediately grew ashen. It was as if an imaginary rope around his neck was cutting the blood supply to his face. Ahmed patted him firmly on the back. The air in his lungs returned. The booming voice called out again. We turned around and saw three prefects glaring at us.
The prefects for some reason did not take us to the Headmaster. Instead, they decided to take matters into their own hands. They stood the four of us on one end of the vast field and began to explain the intricacies of the drill they were about to give us.
ON THE OTHER END OF THIS GROUND, THERE IS A BENCH.
I squinted to bring it into focus. It seemed like a speck from where we stood.
NOW EACH OF YOU MUST TOUCH THAT BENCH AND RETURN TO THIS STARTING POINT.
The instructions seemed simple enough to me and I was about to set off.
WAIT THERE IS MORE. ONLY THE ONE THAT FINISHES FIRST, STAYS BACK. THE OTHERS RUN AGAIN. DO THIS UNTIL THERE IS ONLY ONE OF YOU LEFT RUNNING. NOW START RUNNING.
I had run half the distance to the bench when I finally fathomed what the prefect had bellowed. I realised that one of us would have to run four rounds. A cowlick was plastered to my forehead when the intensity of the midday sun beating down on us began to set in. Our polyester shirts clung to us and hindered our motion in this already tedious and torturous endeavour. We touched the bench simultaneously and were on our way back. “Who is going to stay back?” came Saed’s worn out voice. It was met by expressions conveying confusion and concern, both at the same time. Our first round was about to end soon. We had to decide who was going to stay back.
I checked my pace to keep up with Saed and found Saed checking his to keep in line with Hamid who was slowing down to run alongside Ahmed. Instinctively, our strides became synchronised. Left right, left right, we all finished first or last. It was up to the prefect to decide. The prefect’s crossed arms fell to his sides and a smile appeared on his face. He seemed pleased at the solidarity and comradeship we had displayed. Nodding his head he dismissed us to class. I sighed with relief.
My limbs were still sore and ached with pain when I rang the bell at Hamid’s door that day. I was greeted by a smiling, cheerful Hamid that held a can of fish food in his hand. “What’s that for?” I inquired. “For the fish!” he exclaimed with a wink. The smell of gladiolas filled the entire house and one could tell almost instantaneously that Hamid’s mother was a meticulous and exhaustive house wife. The cutlery on the dining table, the paintings on the walls, the soothing symphony in the background; all made me envious of Hamid’s social status. I made my way across a well lit corridor that lead to Hamid’s room and opened the door to a wide eyed goldfish. It swam frantically as I approached the bowl it had been reduced to.
“What do you call it?” I asked.
“Thefto” said Hamid with an air of finality.
“That’s just priceless” I chuckled. Hamid fed the fish eight flecks of fish food, gently tapped the bowl several times and then turned his attention to me.
“Let’s scale a wall.”
I wasn’t taken aback by Hamid’s sudden interest in this pointless climbing. I had learnt to expect the unexpected when dealing with him. Myself, I wanted to delve into the yet unknown world of physics but knew that Hamid would be distracted if we commenced just then and so gave into his whining. I looked up the wall that Hamid had pre-approved for us that day. I pulled my sleeves back, vigorously rubbed my hands together and lunged for the first jagged protrusion I could reach. Completely fatigued, I was gasping for air once I had reached the top.
The refreshments were perfectly timed. I drank to my stomach’s capacity and was offered some ice cream with assorted fruit to cool myself off. We then opened our books to Newton’s First Law of Motion. Fifteen minutes in, my car arrived. Our academic session came to a stand still, a screeching halt and would have to resume, if ever, on a later date. Our O’ Levels were slowly, inexorably drawing closer and we weren’t nearly as prepared as we should have been.
The tube light flickered erratically for quite a while before it eventually revealed a silhouette. It was Saed. He extended his arm and shook my hand firmly. I followed him, heaving myself up a long, spiral staircase. The metallic stairs squeaked with each step. The moisture and dampness in the air made beads of sweat appear on my forehead. The floor we finally reached was Saed’s humble dwelling. I made my way across a dimly lit hallway that seemed to get narrower with each step. The paint on the walls had begun to chip. Saed had, by then, stopped noticing. He ordered his younger brother out of the room and sunk into a chair. I half expected him to concoct some anti-academics scheme similar to those of Ahmed and Hamid, but was proved wrong almost immediately. “I’ve done all the questions from the miscellaneous exercises and have circled the questions that seemed difficult” he stated without any hint of boastfulness. My jaw dropped. I stared at him wide-eyed and wondered how he had managed to do a week’s work in just two days. As it turned out, Saed was not one to indulge in pointless loitering and never put off until tomorrow something that had to be done today. With a silent prayer I opened my book and hesitated into the most intense study session up till then. I struggled with algebra for several hours that day and, perhaps for the first time, felt completely mentally drained. I walked down the same flight of stairs, this time with a sense of accomplishment. I sat in my car realising that the ever looming pendulum was now swinging very close for as of then only three days were left.
I did not experience the elation that others did when I walked out of the examination hall on the last day. I knew that my performance was not something one would have written home about. Still, I felt relieved of the ever tightening noose around my neck and considered myself completely free once again. The clique shared my sentiments. We consoled each other and in a few moments all was forgotten. We all looked ahead to summer, looked forward to holidays. Our parents had planned out the entire summer vacations on our behalf. As a personal favour to his father, Gogi Alauddin (once ranked world no. 2 in squash) began coaching Saed making him more eligible for a sports scholarship whenever and if ever, he decided to apply. Thinking along similar lines, my parents cajoled me into doing an internship with the American Express bank. The office hours were long and the stipend was meagre. Hamid, as always fled to his flat in Mayfair, London and Ahmed started spending more and more time in the somewhat dubious, gaming arcades. That summer we saw very little of each other, and soon enough began to dread the awful day our results would arrive.
Not a word was spoken on the ride to school. My leg was uncontrollably bobbing up and down. An edgy Ahmed fiddled with his thumbs. Saed bit his lower lip. Hamid repeated an incantation his mother had made him memorise moments before we had picked him up. I could hear my temples throbbing. We had all received calls that our results had arrived. The imaginary rope around the neck was back again, this time; it was around all of us. We pulled out our results with shaky hands and in turn, read out our fates. Saed had missed the Headmaster’s honour list by only a few marks. I had made it back into Aitchison but only marginally; Ahmed had not. Hamid had failed in both his principal subjects. The journey back home was just as quiet as the one to school.
The skies rumbled, roared and the clouds began to drizzle. The Ravens swooped their way to the withering trees. A grey gloominess enveloped the entire college and it seemed more forbidding than ever before as I walked to class alone. It rained all day. There was no silver lining. I hastened to meet Saed as soon as I heard the bell indicating break time.
“Are you hungry?” I pleaded.
“Yaar, I got an upset stomach from the food at that canteen. I’ll grab a bite from the cafeteria. You go ahead, I’ll catch you later” he said with a sullen expression. I stared at him in disbelief and saw him walk away with the boys that had done exceptionally well in their exams. The rain began to fall more heavily as I resigned myself to the painful truth. Saed had made new friends.
Once home, I dried myself and turned to my computer. I felt there was something I had to write. I digressed only long enough to open my inbox and found several new messages one of which was sent by Hamid. I opened that one first.
I hadn’t cried in several years. I had stopped weeping long ago thinking it was a sign of susceptibility, of vulnerability but as I perused the seemingly emotionally detached contents of the mail, tears welled up in my eyes and as much as I tried, I could not keep them from running down my face. I threw my head in my hands and cursed fate at the hand it had dealt me. Unintentionally, the mail had moved me. In it was written:

“Hope you’re well. I know I am. My visa just arrived. I unconditionally got accepted in Imperial!! I’ll be doing my A Levels from there. I’m leaving tomorrow, early morning. Heard Ahmed has gone to study in some crummy college in Faisalabad and is living with his chacha. His dad thinks there won’t be any distractions. That’s us, by the way. I won’t be back any time soon but I’ll see you when I get back. By the by, forward this to Saed for me.

Hamid Shahid.
P.S. I’ve got some really sad news. My servant was dusting my room today and he accidentally tipped over the fish bowl. I’m sorry yaar, but Thefto is dead.”