What is the question? │✔

{ 1 }

"Masterji, this question is wrong."

Squashing the thin red-rimmed glasses against his nose, he lifted his eyes from the unsolved crossword puzzle ahead of him. Letting go of the sandy old newspaper, he dropped his red and black lined pencil on top of it, the fall resulting in the untimely demise of the gleaming charcoal. Disapproval and irritation painted over his sharp features, he snatched the slate from the little hands and picked up the chalk lying next to the rug on the table.

"Sourabh, just because you are not able to solve it, doesn't make the question wrong!"

The chalk, tied to Masterji's strings, danced up and down the sleek plane, squealing after every move. Underlining the final answer with the classic 'double underline', he dropped the chalk in frustration. The child was not able to solve such a simple problem!

Bringing out his infamous wooden ruler, he grabbed the sweaty palms of the child and smashed it against the cold knuckles. Restraining his screams and tears of agony, the child jumped back, closing his eyes, unable to bear the sight of his bright red knuckles. Three is enough, decided Masterji and let go of the ruler. The other children winced, gritting their teeth, hiding away their tiny clammy hands.

To cut their misery short, the peon rang the bell, smashing it with all his might, signaling the end of another useless day. The children, young and old alike, rushed out of their confinements, free at last. As the cycles started disappearing one by one, Masterji made his way towards his dull grey Bajaj Chetak scooter, his black leather sling bag by his side. Starting the scooter, which emitted its own battle cry, he rode away, glaring at every pothole, his arch-nemesis.

Stopping in front of the tea stall, he thought of buying a cup but struck down the idea, observing the lack of content inside his wallet. Fumbling with a few crumbling notes, he handed them over to the shopkeeper next to the stall, dropping the bread packet inside his bag. Struggling with the zip, he tenderly brushed it up and down a few times and successfully closed the bag.

"Masterji, care for a discussion over yesterday's match?"

"Very busy Tripathi Ji! Some other time!"

Speeding away, he entered into the narrow lane, Feroz Bagh Road, the old scooter running between the wickets instead of the children, disrupting the victory of team B. A cry of outrage was let out by them as their rival, the wicket-keeper, nudged the middle stump with the ball. Jumping into a narrower lane, the tired Chetak bounced now and then, under the amazing condition of the road. At last, he gave it some rest, switching off the engine, covering it with an old, battered waterproof rain cover.

Leaping across the steps, he entered the floor, peeking into one of the open doors, eyeing the crowd near the screen, skeptically. Leaning against the blue door, lost in his own thoughts, he stood, motionless. Breaking him from his trance, he mused over the question shot at him.

"Masterji, a penny for your thoughts?"

Snooping.

Devi Mandal was recognized in the whole colony for her prying skills. And it was truly a skill! If she wanted information, she got it. Very few were exempted from her list. And her lifelong mission was to crack open those precious untouched secrets. Barely two years since she came to their small locality, newly married. And now she was not just a resident of the colony, rather a member of the Feroz Bari  family, one of their own. The mustard green scarf tied into a careless knot, she was currently wringing the clothes, laying them out on the rope, in the direct view of the sunlight.

"Just some school matters, Devi."

And Masterji strikes again! Successfully waving away her intrusive question, leaving no space for more, he made his way past her. Digging into his pant pockets, his search concluded as he produced the right key. Unlocking the door, he stood still for a second or two. Sighing, he knew there was no other person he could ask right now, especially when everyone was glued to the only television and radio in the whole colony, immersed in the supposedly thrilling India V/s Pakistan match. Tilting his head, he asked, in his monotonous voice.

"Devi, you know where V would be?"

Her reply, bubbly and cheerful, just like her. Just like her. Pointing towards the roof, she gave him his answer.

"Masterji, up there!"

Angling the antenna to the left and then right. Left then right. And shouting on top of his voice, one could witness the difficulty of watching a match. Sometimes the screen was fuzzy. Otherwise, the sound was gone. And repeat. No wonder the people had crowded the television screen.

Sighing, yet again, Masterji replied to the girl with a polite smile. That would be satisfactory, after all, Masterji was not someone who would waste too much time loitering around, unlike his friend who was busy fighting his own war with the television antenna.

Shutting the door with a bang, he disappeared, while the peeling paint fell into bits, right there on the ground, outside the door.