Between Victory and Defeat

Subhankar Bhattacharyya

• Publisher: Global Collective Publishers
• Year: 2022
• Topic: Literature
• eBook ISBN:
  9781954021464
• Subtopic: Historical Literature
• Index: Literature

Torn between the high Marxist ideals of the bygone days and the lures of an aggressively captivating market economy, Abhi, the protagonist, can keep his trust in none but himself. The novella is a political thriller that breathlessly narrates the inside story of the deteriorating student politics in Bengal during the early days of the 21st century. A page-turner. An admirer of Che Guevara, Abhi, the erstwhile GS (general secretary) of the college union, fights from the beginning with the shadows of his unknown enemies. And when he is about to enter into the heart of the matter, he gets devastated discovering the truth. An action thriller, the novella is not without a romantic angle. However, here, too, the readers keep guessing: Does Diya, the bold and the beautiful fresher from the Department of English, nurture romantic feelings for Rishi, the newly elected GS from the rival union? Or does she have a weakness for Abhi, the defeated one?

1

COLLEGE

The repetitive growls—Grrr, Grrr, Grrr—of the sea blue Kawasaki, but then growing louder and louder. As it circled the football field and approached the Central Library, one’s ears almost bit the dust. But still, Rishi would do nothing about his faulty silencer. Why? Rishi’s whim! After all, he was the GS (General Secretary) of the college. And so, he would patrol the entire campus in this fashion.

The lecturer of History—Deboleena-di—would fall silent in the course of her lecture, Professor Gomez, the Principal, would rest his chin on his left fist and sit in glum silence, but no one would say a word to Rishi. His family was the founder of the college, weren’t they?

Nearly seventy years ago, Rishi’s great grandfather Ratanlal, or Seth Ratanlal Singhaniya, had got Governor-General Lord Irwin himself to lay the foundation stone of this college. Ratanlal was a well-connected and resourceful man and hence the sourcing of funds, building the campus, getting government sanctions, had all happened smoothly. He had paid hefty salaries and wooed talented educators, thereby taking Prabhabati Science College (yes, Prabhabati was the name of his Bengali wife who had died young) to great heights in a very short time indeed.

The past glory was beginning to fade in contemporary times. The college too had expanded from a ‘Science’ college to include Commerce, Arts, Education and lately engineering degrees as well. Old-timers claimed that the old flavour—the colonial grandeur—was missing in the present day.

But in this industrial town on the banks of the river Hooghly, about fifty miles from Kolkata, the bright young students who hailed from here had not yet relegated this college to their second choice. Moreover, a degree from this college would be awarded by the University of Kolkata after all.

Ratanlal’s enterprise had centered around tea and jute, which had done roaring business in the Raj era and earned them the fortune and the laurels that they now rested on. His son Suraj Prasad had added jewellery and hotels to the list. And now, Suraj’s son Aditya Pratap had spread his wings to cement, software, satellite channel, film distribution—the Singhaniyas had a finger in every pie.

Rishi was Aditya Pratap’s son. He had lost his mother at the age of ten. His Kaka and Kakima (his father’s younger brother and his wife) had raised him. Business commitments would take Aditya Pratap away to Mumbai-Shanghai-Singapore at the drop of a hat. So, he was unable to give time and attention to his son. Neither did he have any time to spare for college. But then, it would be fair to say that there was no overseeing required as far as the college was concerned. According to the regulations laid down by Ratanlal, no member of the Singhaniya family would ever be allowed to become a member of its Board. Until Suraj Prasad’s days, there was still covert supervision. But ever since the government began to pay the salaries of the teaching staff, that too was a thing of the past.

Rishi switched off the ignition of his bike and took the black Ray-Ban glasses off. Then he fixed an unblinking gaze on Deboleena-di’s soundless classroom as if the entire college was his personal property.

2

UNION

The Students’ Union of our college has, for the longest time, been controlled by the SD or Students for Democracy. Two years ago, after Rishi entered the college, the FS or Forum for Students got its first foothold in the Union. Rishi’s seductively macho, John Abraham-like appearance was about as responsible for this as was I—and my unbridled democratic ethos!

The general rule goes that one should nip the Opposition in the bud. In the years before me, during the reign of almost every GS, the FS representatives used to be singled out and beaten to a pulp. They were barred from conducting meetings on the college premises and processions and marches were out of the question. During the ragging rituals the freshers were given the message very clearly that if they signed up with them, they’d be eliminated in the elimination test. Despite all this, were there no FS supporters in the college? Of course, there were. Like the minority in every democracy—they lived in fear, with a smile on their faces.

When I was elected the GS, I changed the picture (albeit I was supported by a youth leader of the regional committee). At the very outset, ragging was banned. Then, a room was allotted for the Opposition. Initially, no one wanted to step into it for fear. My Party members were instructed not to threaten or intimidate anyone for signing up in the FS; any stronger form of violence would lead to a cancellation of their membership to the Party. And they (or the FS) would have the right to do everything that we did—in other words, meetings, processions, protests, squads, class boycotts.

Fearfully in the early days, gradually fearlessly, and eventually idiotically, they began to make their presence felt. Every wall face was defaced with a flood of posters: War, war, war! We want War!

Our core committee—Shounok, Jeet, Raktim, Chandreyee—were furious. Shounok hissed at me through his thin lips, ‘Abhi, they are growing!’

‘Let them grow,’ I took a final drag on my Wills Flake.

That was when Rishi arrived. And as was usual, the freshers were just settling in when the elections were announced, just before the Puja holidays. That was the first year that the FS was able to file a nomination in the history of our college (courtesy: my brand of democracy).

But I was stunned when they nominated Rishi against me. For one thing, it was suicidal to nominate a fresher (people barely knew him), and to top that, this arrogant capitalist scion! He could barely talk. What kind of campaign would he run?

Just as Condoleezza Rice was a saviour to President Bush, Rishi’s saviour came forth in the form of Diya. Oh no, not Diya Mirza! Diya Moitra of English (Hons) first year. If one can imagine a being whose face was Perizad and Katrina rolled into one, whose figure was like Neha Dhupia’s and whose gait was like Britney’s, then that was Diya. To add to that, her eyes fluttered like Preity Zinta and she was an orator as passionate as Indira Gandhi (albeit the content was far weaker). That was that. I, along with all my achievements—a superb environment for studies, destroying the alcohol dens within th...

Table of contents

• Front Cover
• Half-Title Page
• Title Page
• Copyright Page
• Dedication
• Table of Contents
• About the Author
• About the Translator
• Epigraph
• A Note on Bengali Pronunciation & Forms of Address
• 1. College
• 2. Union
• 3. Comeback
• 4. Lift
• 5. Pothole
• 6. Haze
• 7. Telephone
• 8. Saviour
• 9. Sms
• 10. Hawa Mahal
• 11. Trapped
• 12. Stunt
• 13. Long Drive