Chapter 3: Power Plays and Nostalgia

High school memories flooded my mind as I entered the main hall—corridors scribbled with 'Amit woz here', gossip about the principal’s new scooter, and the echo of our PT sir’s whistle. Maybe nostalgia is why so many of us showed up tonight, clinging to a past that never truly existed. Still, my current job—a bit sensitive, not meant for these flashy events—hadn’t stopped me from attending.

It felt odd, like a plainclothes police officer at a family shaadi. I had debated for weeks, knowing my department colleagues would scoff at such emotional indulgence. But something tugged at me—a need to test how far I’d come from the shy, bespectacled boy of 12C.

Yet, as soon as I took my seat, all I saw in my classmates’ eyes was a contest of status and endless flattery. Nobody asked about family or happiness; instead, the air buzzed with CTC packages, job titles, and overseas trips. Each greeting was measured, as if everyone calculated your worth from your car or company. Even their laughter felt forced, heavy with competition.

I picked at my butter naan, unable to find any taste. The din of hollow praise and self-congratulation made the AC-blasted room feel as suffocating as a Mumbai summer with no power. My phone buzzed with a meeting reminder—a lifeline.

Rohan noticed I hadn’t gone to toast him, and his smile faded. 'Amit, I heard people who work in the sarkari system are all good drinkers. Why aren’t you drinking with me?' His voice sliced through the clatter. I looked up—his face now a challenge. A couple of classmates craned their necks, waiting to see if I’d buckle. There was a hush, like before exam results.

Before I could answer, Kunal, his old sidekick, nudged another classmate with his elbow, whispering in Hindi. 'Haan bhai, Class 12C ka batch hai, Amit. Sab se mil le. Ya sab pe upar se dekh raha hai?' Kunal’s oily grin was unchanged from school days, his tone needling. Around us, the air held its breath, anticipation thick as pre-monsoon clouds.

I pressed my lips together, just like Ma taught me—never let anger show in public. 'I don’t look down on anyone. I just really can’t drink—I have a meeting later.' My words were calm but firm, meeting Kunal’s gaze squarely.

Rohan suddenly stood, chair scraping the marble. 'Amit, kya matlab? You think we’re not worthy of drinking with you, just because you’re a government babu?' The word 'babu' was flung with both envy and disdain. I took a deep breath, holding back.

Kunal’s voice rose. 'Wah, bada officer ban gaya hai! Most of the time you’re just carrying files and pouring chai for your boss. Who do you think you are?' A few giggles erupted, someone mimed carrying a file, and the group’s mood turned pack-like. Priya shot me a sympathetic glance; I shrugged it off.

Laughter burst out, performative and loud. Some classmates slapped their thighs, eyes bright with the thrill of mockery. Even the waiters exchanged glances, sensing the drama. The air was thick with the old urge to gang up.

'Exactly! Isn’t he just a low-level clerk? Lucky if he makes 35,000 a month. Acting all busy now—trying to get attention?' came a nasal-voiced classmate, who looked familiar but whose name I couldn’t recall.

Another piped up, 'Some people just think too highly of themselves. The people I eat with are all a few grades above him.'

'Yeah, being a good student means nothing these days. Paisa bolta hai. Only those who drive a nice car, like Rohan’s Mercedes, have any real status.' Heads nodded, eyes drifting to Rohan’s car keys lying ostentatiously on the table. The promise of meritocracy seemed to vanish in the haze of imported perfumes and bank balances.

All I’d done was not toast the prefect, but suddenly every joke was at my expense. It felt like I had committed some unspeakable crime by refusing to join their sycophancy. The room’s energy shifted—now, every barb was for me.

A part of me wanted to shout back, to remind them of the football matches and late-night study sessions. But I just wondered, almost sadly, whether their success was real or just for nights like these.

No fancy branding, no imported watches—just my old Timex, and a wallet with a fading family photo inside. I glanced at my reflection in a serving tray and wondered if they saw me, or just the job title they had assigned to me.

In my job, I can’t wear a suit that costs lakhs, or drive an Audi or BMW. There are rules—written and unwritten—about appearances in government service. The simplicity that was once my shield now felt like a target on my back.

Unable to take more, I stood up. 'Sorry, everyone. I really do have an important meeting later. How about this: enjoy yourselves, just have the hotel send me the bill afterward—this meal’s on me.' My voice was calm, though my hands trembled behind my back. As I slipped my phone back in my pocket, I automatically checked for missed calls from Amma and the government group chat. A couple of heads turned in surprise, but most thought I was just trying to buy respect.

Suddenly, a female classmate in gold jewellery blocked my path, bangles jingling, her saree shimmering under the LED lights. The unmistakable whiff of Chanel No. 5 tried to drown out even the buffet. Her smile was both familiar and challenging, her maang-tikka sparkling as she looked me up and down.