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Authors: Vikas Swarup
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Victorian fortress sprawling over a hundred acres of land, complete with crenellated turrets, stone parapet spires and angels and gargoyles embedded in the Gothic façade of the main building. Perched atop a low green hill, it is surrounded by mist-clad mountains and oak, pine and deodar forests. From our house we could even see the eye-shaped Naini lake, glimmering darkly.
Papa had a long association with the Academy, beginning his teaching career in 1983 and working there continuously for more than twenty-five years. We were a middle-class family, leading a quiet, middle-class existence. The atmosphere in our house was one of discipline, responsibility and few extravagances. In many ways it was an idyllic life of peaceful solitude and diligent study, punctuated by summer storms, lazy boating trips on the lake and winter excursions to our ancestral home in Hardoi.
Though we grew up together in the same house, we three sisters had very different personalities and approaches to life. I was the shy, bookish nerd. Neha was the snobbish show-off. And Alka was the free spirit who marched to her own tune. She had a great sense of humour and found joy in even the smallest things. She was boisterous, vivacious, spontaneous, outrageous, even bordering on rash at times. But the moment she flashed her impish smile and said, â Kamaal ho gaya! â all was forgiven. She was the apple of my eye, the life of the party, the heart of our family.
We were schooled in an environment of regimented duty, where rules were more important than feelings. Alka, Neha and I attended St Theresaâs Convent, an exclusive English-medium boarding school for girls run by Catholic nuns. We three were non-fee-paying day girls, a privilege afforded to us by virtue of Papaâs employment at Windsor Academy, which had a reciprocal arrangement with the Convent. Sister Agnes, our tyrannical principal, had very clear ideas on the things we were allowed to do as girls, what we could not do and what we must never do. At home, our father enforced the same strict code of conduct, including an eight p.m. curfew. Without discipline, there is only anarchy, Papa used to say. Being a mathematics teacher, he had reduced his world to the binary of black and white, good and bad. There was no allowance for grey in his universe.
He had also mapped out the futures of all three of his daughters. I, the studious one, was to become a civil servant; Neha, the beautiful one, was to pursue a career as a TV journalist; and Alka, the compassionate one, was to be a doctor.
Like an obedient daughter, I did what Father expected of me. I excelled at school and then joined the BA course at Kumaun University. Even though my subject was English literature, I read up everything that I could lay my hands on. From the life cycle of a moth to the fuel cycle of a nuclear power plant, from black holes to brown clouds to cloud computing, I hoovered up every bit of arcane information to hone my general knowledge, which is essential for success in the civil services exam.
My fatherâs most important rule inevitably had to do with boys. A few years ago, a fellow teacher, Mr Ghildayal, had been singed by his eighteen-year-old daughter Mamtaâs secret romance with the school head boy, which had resulted in an unexpected pregnancy, and Papa was petrified by the prospect of a similar scandal attaching itself to his family. âIf I catch any of my daughters even so much as looking at a boy on campus, Iâll take off her hide,â he would threaten us. But he couldnât prevent the boys from looking at us, or, rather, at Neha and Alka. They were the prettiest girls on a hormone-filled campus, where every day brought a new sexual awakening to some tormented soul. The boys were mostly spoilt rich kids from places like Delhi, Mumbai and Kolkata who had been banished by their parents, and were intent on making full use of their new freedom. Windsor Academy prided itself on
Papa had a long association with the Academy, beginning his teaching career in 1983 and working there continuously for more than twenty-five years. We were a middle-class family, leading a quiet, middle-class existence. The atmosphere in our house was one of discipline, responsibility and few extravagances. In many ways it was an idyllic life of peaceful solitude and diligent study, punctuated by summer storms, lazy boating trips on the lake and winter excursions to our ancestral home in Hardoi.
Though we grew up together in the same house, we three sisters had very different personalities and approaches to life. I was the shy, bookish nerd. Neha was the snobbish show-off. And Alka was the free spirit who marched to her own tune. She had a great sense of humour and found joy in even the smallest things. She was boisterous, vivacious, spontaneous, outrageous, even bordering on rash at times. But the moment she flashed her impish smile and said, â Kamaal ho gaya! â all was forgiven. She was the apple of my eye, the life of the party, the heart of our family.
We were schooled in an environment of regimented duty, where rules were more important than feelings. Alka, Neha and I attended St Theresaâs Convent, an exclusive English-medium boarding school for girls run by Catholic nuns. We three were non-fee-paying day girls, a privilege afforded to us by virtue of Papaâs employment at Windsor Academy, which had a reciprocal arrangement with the Convent. Sister Agnes, our tyrannical principal, had very clear ideas on the things we were allowed to do as girls, what we could not do and what we must never do. At home, our father enforced the same strict code of conduct, including an eight p.m. curfew. Without discipline, there is only anarchy, Papa used to say. Being a mathematics teacher, he had reduced his world to the binary of black and white, good and bad. There was no allowance for grey in his universe.
He had also mapped out the futures of all three of his daughters. I, the studious one, was to become a civil servant; Neha, the beautiful one, was to pursue a career as a TV journalist; and Alka, the compassionate one, was to be a doctor.
Like an obedient daughter, I did what Father expected of me. I excelled at school and then joined the BA course at Kumaun University. Even though my subject was English literature, I read up everything that I could lay my hands on. From the life cycle of a moth to the fuel cycle of a nuclear power plant, from black holes to brown clouds to cloud computing, I hoovered up every bit of arcane information to hone my general knowledge, which is essential for success in the civil services exam.
My fatherâs most important rule inevitably had to do with boys. A few years ago, a fellow teacher, Mr Ghildayal, had been singed by his eighteen-year-old daughter Mamtaâs secret romance with the school head boy, which had resulted in an unexpected pregnancy, and Papa was petrified by the prospect of a similar scandal attaching itself to his family. âIf I catch any of my daughters even so much as looking at a boy on campus, Iâll take off her hide,â he would threaten us. But he couldnât prevent the boys from looking at us, or, rather, at Neha and Alka. They were the prettiest girls on a hormone-filled campus, where every day brought a new sexual awakening to some tormented soul. The boys were mostly spoilt rich kids from places like Delhi, Mumbai and Kolkata who had been banished by their parents, and were intent on making full use of their new freedom. Windsor Academy prided itself on
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