It was yet another boring lunch break. The Awesome Fivesome were wallowing in their misfortune. Nitin started another still-life sketch – it was his seventh drawing of a desk. Sachin tapped his fingers, trying to come up with a new ditty.
We can’t just sit around and wait,
Wasting lunch and snack break.
We need to jump and play.
We must have fun and games.
The song lacked Sachin’s usual zing. Disheartened, he nodded off to sleep.
Kiran alternated between flipping through the pages of his book and rubbing his tired eyes.
Pushkin rearranged his empty tiffin boxes again.
Jatin stormed up and down the classroom. “Why can’t we go to the ground?” He slammed his fist on the nearest desk. Sachin woke up with a jolt.
“That’s the twenty-fourth time you’ve asked.” Pushkin was keeping count. He added another tally mark.
“The teachers give a different reason each time,” Jatin grunted.
“The principal said it is because students could get injured,” Nitin reminded him.
“Strange that they didn’t object to our using the ground during the monsoon. The rains make the ground slushy. That’s when we could easily slip. Why bring in this rule now when it is as dry as sawdust?” Kiran was playing a devious detective, much like the characters in the mysteries he had been devouring.
“Something is fishy,” Sachin agreed groggily.
“Don’t remind me of fish,” Pushkin pleaded. He licked his lips, thinking of the tender, fragrant fried ilish his grandmother dished up, her crispy recheado and rava mackerel fry, her crunchy golden-brown Goan kingfish-and-potato croquettes, the Kottayam-style tangy red fish curry she served with mashed tapioca…
Jatin was itching for action. “Let’s snoop around.” He was out of the classroom.
The others – who were fast turning into sloths – had yet to move.
As they were shuffling out, Arjun rushed in and announced, “Games period is cancelled.”
“Good that Jatin is not here,” was Nitin’s immediate reaction.
“He would have been shattered, devastated, disconsolate.” Kiran used the big words with a certain relish.
“How will we break the news to him?” Pushkin appeared agitated.
Just then, Jatin walked in. His face was ashen.
“You’ve heard the news?” Sachin asked.
Jatin nodded. He seemed speechless.
“We’ve just heard too.” Sachin patted his shoulder.
Petu was relieved that they did not have to break it to him.
“Sit down.” Nitin held Jatin by the elbow and led him to a desk. He unscrewed his water bottle and handed it to Jatin. ‘Have a sip.’
Jatin went along meekly. It was so unlike him that the boys were frightened out of their wits.
“Are you okay? You look shocked,” Kiran asked. He had read all about trauma and its effects on the nervous system. But the book had not said how bystanders could intervene in such a situation.
“Two weeks ago, Sari ma’am borrowed games class to complete the portions. Last week, she used it for revision,” Sachin said, still stupefied.
“It is the third time in a row that games class is being cancelled.” Kiran looked grim.
“Games class has been cancelled?: Jatin asked, as if waking up from his stupor.
“You said you had heard.” Pushkin’s tone had a hint of accusation.
“Shock can lead to memory lapse,” Kiran mumbled. “Sometimes, it is temporary.”
“Sometimes? Does that mean…” Nitin let his voice trail away.
“It can be permanent?” Sachin finished.
Jatin’s indignation reached boiling point. “When did I say I had heard?”
“It is confirmed. He has definitely lost his memory.” Kiran shook his head.
Jatin’s face went from ash grey to pomegranate red. “I have not lost my memory.” He pounded on the desk.
“Classic case of memory loss,” Kiran clucked sympathetically.
The colour of Jatin’s face changed from red to magenta to deep purple. “There’s nothing wrong with my memory. I can prove it. I can tell you the words Ms Mudgaonkar used while complaining about losing her job.”
“What?” Kiran, Sachin, Pushkin and Nitin said in perfect symphony. Four jaws dropped synchronously. Four pairs of eyes popped out of their respective heads in flawless concurrence.
“You said you’d heard too!” It was Jatin’s turn to be incredulous. “Have you forgotten already?”
“Ohhh! I get it.” Sachin’s jaws resumed motion when the mix-up became apparent to him. “We heard that games class is cancelled.”
“And you heard that Ms Mudgaonkar has been fired,” Kiran finished, sorting out the misunderstanding.
“O!” Jatin’s mouth remained wide open. The realisation had finally dawned on all of them.
Jatin began talking excitedly, “Just as I stepped into the corridor, I heard sniffing. Then I saw Ms Mudgaonkar. She was crying.”
The others gasped. Sachin pinched himself to make sure he wasn’t asleep. The games teacher, Ms Mudgaonkar, did not sob or even sniffle. She made others weep.
“She didn’t realise I was there,” Jatin said. “She kept muttering to herself.”
“Of course, you must have been stunned into silence,” Sachin said. ‘So she wouldn’t have noticed your presence.”
Jatin copied Ms Mudgaonkar, down to the trembling voice and sniffles. “‘Firing me with hardly any notice. How will I pay my rent and electricity bill? All this to please some politician whose brothers and sons are real estate tycoons.’ I was afraid I would forget the words, so I kept repeating them to myself as I left. See, my memory is fine.”
Thinking was not among Jatin’s strengths; he hadn’t realised that the games teacher being fired meant no games period. Neither did he wonder what real estate barons had to do with Ms Mudgaonkar being fired.
But Kiran did. “What’s the connection between real-estate tycoons and Ms Mudgaonkar? Why do they want her fired?”
“Looks like your question will be answered.” Sachin pointed out of the window.
Four heads turned in absolute harmony.
And ogled at a high-end white SUV with tinted windows rolling into the school compound.
It was followed by a couple of nearly-as-fancy cars.
The boys gaped, mugging up model names and taking in headlight shapes.
Kiran brought them back to reality. “These must belong to the property magnates. Even the richest parents will not be able to afford –” he paused mid-sentence.
The doors of the SUV flew open. A twirly-moustachioed, black-kurta-clad, crimson waistcoated, burly hunk of a man spilt out. Gold chains jingled and chunky bracelets jangled as his underling banged the doors shut behind him.
“You’re right,” Petu said, glancing in Kiran’s direction. “There’s no doubt now. He’s the tycoon.”
The hurly-burly-surly-curly man turned and stomped towards the principal’s office.
Trailing behind him were several almost-as-burly, whirly-twirly-swirly deputies.
“Follow them,” Kiran commanded. “Camouflage yourselves, O Clan of Creepers and Climbers,” he added cryptically.
“Be eavesdroppers, not leavesdroppers,” Sachin responded, equally mysteriously.
The others nodded their understanding. Years of maintaining secret codes and hideouts had not gone in vain. All those stealthy activities had led up to this major, top-secret, life-or-death operation. The Awesome Fivesome were prepared. For whatever lay ahead.
Excerpted with permission from Petu Pumpkin Freedom Fighter, Arundhati Venkatesh, Duckbill.
