When fate gives you lemons, make lemonade. By this remarkably upbeat maxim did our principal protagonists, Ramu Somu, juvenilely vile, deviously clever, inseparable in their pursuit of dubious aims, aspire to live by. For the cunningly canny duo, best friends from kindergarten, who had shared many an exciting adventure (and occasional misadventure) were no mopers. Outstanding thinkers they may not have been, but despair was an emotion that seldom had opportunity to cross their feverishly active little minds, humming as busily as the newfangled electric toothbrushes which the communists swore was part of a capitalist plot to debilitate the nation by making it dependent on foreign capital for basic oral hygiene, opining that the masses should instead make the switch, en masse, to neem twigs to foil their evil designs. Those clowns, relics from a bygone era, political coelacanths. Where would we go to for comic respite in these grave times were it not for these entertainers exemplaire in political garb as white as their deeds were dark?
The lemon in this case happened to be the duo’s lack of aptitude for bookish knowledge, upon which shaky stone of course, the entire Indian education system was founded, a remnant from the days of the Raj, that torpid educators were loath to change, given the India penchant to bow and scrape before all things of Caucasian origin. Indeed, one wonders if we wouldn’t still be ruled by the Queen herself, had the British been less savage and more statesmanlike in their colonial dealings, had they not employed brutality as their principal instrument of governance. Ramu Somu, having been blessed with very little rote memory, had no chance of succeeding in such a system. Therefore, it was but natural that their thoughts should drift towards other, greener pastures. It was in just such a buffalo-filled pasture that they were presently loafing around, having decided to pass over Mehta Sir’s history class. Mehta Sir, that grand master of insipidity, that cadaver posing as history teacher, that ancient ancestor of modern day humans to whom today’s history must have been the current affairs of youth. Imagine the possibilities if history had been taught by persons of such ilk who had experienced it, living and breathing those dull dates and limply lifeless facts, which it was the lot of hapless Indian school kids to learn by rote and disgorge in exam papers. Sadly, as most possibilities which seldom condescended to descend upon the plane of real life, this one too lived and died in imaginary space.
Ramu, whose neural circuitry was wired for speed of thought like Somu’s was wired for action, was tossing possibilities around like Somu was tossing pebbles into the lake. How to pass the final exams, and Mehta sir’s dreaded History exam in particular, renowned for it’s sadistically difficult questions based on memorizing mountains of meaningless facts, and at the same time, derive some childish benefit, some satisfaction arising out of the act of conception (good or bad - issues of morality never interfered with Ramu’s plans), which was lamentably lacking within the stifling confines of those four gray walls that bore the same name as a mechanical group of fish - and with good reason one could surmise. Ramu and obedience were like like poles, perpetually repelling each other with magnetic vigor.
Ramu’s plan was cannily simple as always. He had made the discovery through his well-connected network of sources that question papers this year were to be printed at Sri Ranga press. Somu, the henchman, had systematically befriended a typesetting clerk in said press, by name of Raman, upon instructions from Ramu who had observed his penchant for an evening snack at the Haldiram’s place. This gentleman was somewhat of a gourmand, with a voracious appetite, and a weakness in particular for bhajias, vegetable fritters fried in oil of dubious freshness. Somu made it regular practice to hang around Haldiram’s around Raman’s snack time, and to offer to pay for a large plate of bhajias, which munificence it was beyond Raman’s helplessly salivating tastebuds to decline. After a few days of thus befriending Raman, Somu had managed to gain his confidence to a degree sufficient enough for him to drop gentle hints about the exam papers for VJHS (Veermata Jijabai High School), and whether copies could be procured for a sum. Now Raman not being the most highly principled fellow going round, was not averse to making a quick buck. At the same time, he did not want to lose out on his free evening refreshment yet, to which he had grown rather fondly accustomed. He kept Somu on tenterhooks for a few days, during which he savored the bhajias with extra relish, knowing that they would not last forever.
After a few days of suspense, an oily 20 rupee note, a small fortune in Shivajinagar, clandestinely exchanged hands, hidden underneath a pile of bhajias. A small parcel was conveniently forgotten on Raman’s seat. Badri, the star student, was innocently befriended to procure answers to the papers thus procured, on the pretext of group study and reviewing questions from prior years, which ruse it never occurred to the poor unsuspecting helpful soul to question. Answers supplied by Badri, were neatly written down by Somu and copied dutifully by Ramu. Small pieces of rolled up paper were carefully pocketed on exam day.
The first paper was History. Last minute cramming, fervent prayers to the almighty of various denominations, faces locked into various rigid tension-filled poses, the routine pre-exam exhortations to leave books and other material outside the class - the usual pre-exam theater played itself out. Ramu Somu, au contraire, were cool as refrigerated cucumbers on a hot and humid summer day, swaggeringly smug, super-confidently nonchalant. The hall monitor handed out the question papers. Dismay. Shock. Awe. Sweaty palms. Nervous gulps. Visions of repeating the class floated before their rattled eyes. How could it be? Some sneaky rascal had switched the papers at the last minute. Only a handful of the questions seemed familiar. The others had to be answered, nay manufactured, to the best of their meager knowledge. Would it be enough? That was the million dollar question. Most of the other exams also more or less followed similar patterns. Discreet enquiries made later revealed that it was common practice to have two sets of papers, sent to different printing presses, as a security measure. At the last minute, the monitors randomly selected one set for distribution. The conniving rats.
The post-exam vacations were not as enjoyable as they could have been. The big day finally arrived after what seemed like an infernally long wait. Ramu Somu could not bring themselves to look at the bulletin board where the results were published, rather inconsiderately in their opinion, for the world to see. There was a small crowd surrounding the board, out of which the familiar figure of Badri emerged, all smiles. He greeted Ramu Somu with the good news that he had come first, again. Oh by the way, congratulations on passing! What relief! What wild euphoria! What conviction in the heartfelt thanks to Almighty! Further enquiries revealed they had scraped through by the most threadbare of margins, Ramu by a single percent, Somu by half a percent!
Appropriately muted celebrations ensued with cool glasses of lemonade accompanied by freshly fried bhajias at Haldiram’s. Raman looked on expectantly, but receiving only cool indifference in return, lugubriously summoned the waiter to bring him a plate of bhajias.