12. Danish Roy

I was not corrupt.

  I was not the one hollowing out this country's fortunes, taking horrendous decisions that affected real people, and from that perspective I was much better than my father who got me a job at a fancy school as a counsellor to young boys and girls. Anyone with an elementary level education would know why this was such a bad decision. I made a quick stop at the local liquor store and picked up a bottle of white wine and drained it into a bottle of Sprite. Don't get me wrong, I'm not an alcoholic. It's too expensive an addiction to have. But there was no way I was getting through this sober.

  The principal met me at the reception. 'You come highly recommended. Your father told me you have quite a lot of experience working with young people. I don't need to tell you what to do,' he said, smiled widely and shook my hand with both of his. A firm, tendon-snapping handshake. His confidence in me gave me nausea.

  Coming back to a school may flood some with nostalgia but to me it felt like someone had thrust an umbrella up my ass and opened it. At least there was hope when I was young, now there was just disappointment. But I felt shamefully proud when I was shown my room which had a top-of-the-line Mac desktop, a nameplate, letterheads, a printer and a personal peon who would bring me whatever I asked for.

  'Should I send the first person in?' asked the peon.

  There were already four students waiting outside whom I had to counsel, and my knees shook like fucking tongs.

  'Yes, please do.'

  I decided I would sit like psychiatrist, nod my head seriously, scratch my forehead from time to time, and pray they didn't look for guidance or comfort or whatever the hell they were here for.

  The first boy was Aryan, thirteen, who had been caught smoking weed in the school premises after it set off a smoke alarm. I kind of expected that a rich boy would waltz in, spit on my face, wave his middle finger, and tell me how powerful his father was. Instead, a rather shy boy with round, Harry Potter glasses walked in with his gap-toothed, shy smile.

  'Hello sir,' he said.

  I nodded. I didn't know what to say so I just let him talk. Every time he would stop complaining about something I asked him if there was something else he would like to talk about.

  Depressed. Sad. Tired. Alienated. Rejected. Alone. Lonely. He used words which were expected from an investment banker going through a nervous breakdown.

  In thirty minutes, he had cried, apologized, lost his temper twice, called the counselling session a sham, abused his friends, realized he was hurti 

ng his parents, and that he did really have two friends, not popular kids but friends nonetheless, and that right now he would rather be on his PlayStation with them, and then he told me he would never smoke weed again.

  'I'm writing in your report that it was a one-time mistake, okay?'

  'But it isn't.'

  'We can all catch a break sometimes, can't we?'

  He smiled and left the room.

  Then the second kid came in. The Sprite bottle lay untouched. All I had to do was listen and make them talk. These were smart kids who knew what they were doing. It was a cry for help, an appeal for someone to listen. They weren't twisted, just lost. I had been scared for no reason. There were times when I wanted to jump out of my seat and tell them how I felt the exact same things when I was growing up, how I felt so terrible myself. But I didn't.

  I called the next kid in.

  'Hi.'

  I doubled checked her file that lay on the table. Seventeen? When I was seventeen, girls had unibrows and sideburns that could put John Travolta to shame. This girl was . . . a woman.

  'Come in.'

  She took her seat, poured herself some water in a glass and drank from it. A pall of silence fell between us.

  'Are you nervous?' she asked when she saw me with my fingers resting under my chin—a pose I thought exuded confidence. 'I would be nervous too if it were my first day.'

  'I . . . I'm not nervous. You should be nervous.'

  Wow, Danish. What a comeback!

  'I am.'

  I took my serious thinking pose again. 'Why are you nervous?'

  'For Megha, she's my friend, well she's not really my friend, but we've known each other since the second standard and we go for movies sometimes, and sometimes our cycles match, so yeah.'

  'You missed the part where you should tell me why you are nervous about Megha.'

  'Oh yes. That. Megha is going out with a guy. I'm not sure he likes her a lot. But he will try to get his hands under her skirt.'

  'Oh, shouldn't you have stopped her?'

  'I told her what I could. It's up to her now.'

  'So let's talk about why you are here. Do you want to tell me yourself?'

  'There was a misunderstanding. The principal thought I have started having sex with people, while all I admitted to was being a compulsive masturbator.'

  'You what?'

  'I'm sorry.'

  'Umm . . . you don't have to be sorry,' I said reflexively.

  'But the principal thinks I should be and that's why he has sent me here. To talk to you. You will set me right, he said.'

  'I don't think there's anything wrong with . . . umm—'

  'Masturbating?'

  'Yes, that's perfectly normal.'

  'That's what I tried to tell him. The boy outside? Aryan? He told me he does it too. Every boy does it, he said. Then why did the principal call me out?'

  I shrugged my shoulders.

  She continued. 'You would have such a long day if every boy who masturbated was sent to you, right?' She chuckled. 'I think even my brother masturbates. Sometimes he spends too much time in the washroom. But why isn't he sitting here? He's in the same school, by the way. And we hardly ever talk.'

  There has to be a handbook on how to tackle such questions from precocious teenagers. What right did she have to be so straightforward and . . . confident? Like, why? She was seventeen. A kid!

  Finally, I came up with a question which seemed most appropriate and I said it in my most serious voice. I asked, 'I'm just trying to get where you're coming from, Aisha. Also because I have to file this report, so don't get me wrong, but you have told people you're a compulsive masturbator. Like why is it a compulsive habit?'

  'Why do you masturbate?'

  'What?'

  'I read in the book Student Careers and Counselling that therapy sessions should be a two-way conversation,' she said, 'so I thought I can ask you the same question.' She waited for my answer with a bright smile. She was screwing with me.

  'But that's inappropriate.'

  'Why?'

  'Umm . . . because you're seventeen.'

  'I will ask you next month then,' she said. 'I'm turning eighteen.'

  And just then, the peon walked in and informed us that the principal wanted to introduce me to the rest of the faculty and saved me from the most embarrassing conversation ever.

  'See you tomorrow?'

  'Sure.'