Nibandha

Students stand around pushcart tea stalls, discussing the burning issues of the day while haggling with the brewer over the price of tea. Some want Narendra Modi to scrap the contentious land bill; another set of intellectuals is busy deciphering Rahul Gandhi’s new avatar. Cheap biscuits are passed around, even as stray dogs look on expectantly, waiting for patronage.

Time, it seems, has come to a standstill.

It is 2:30 in the morning—or night, for that matter—but nobody seems bothered. There are, after all, far more important things than catching a wink.

These are members of a new India. Their lives are not spent in chic pubs or discos. Their hangouts are modest places where titbits can be shared over glasses of tea, and a new technique for cracking the prestigious Civil Services Examination might be gleaned from a friend, a senior, or sometimes merely an acquaintance who appears to know better.

They hope to carve a niche for themselves, as several generations before them have done, with the limited resources at their command. The bylane where they are spending the night belongs to Katra, a part of the historic city of Allahabad in the heart of Uttar Pradesh.

Though Mumbai gets to keep the sobriquet City of Dreams, Allahabad might be the truer contender in more ways than one. The holy city sees thousands throng its bosom to bid goodbye to their earthly existence. Here, at the confluence of rivers, they seek the washing away of sins and the promise of salvation.

Every year, the city also witnesses hordes of young, impressionable minds swooping down on the more than a century-old Allahabad University, carrying hopes of making something of their lives. This is a city where people come seeking both salvation and purpose. Teenage dreams and senile penance meet in a confluence of hope, much like the famed Sangam, where the Yamuna joins the Ganga.

The Price of Hope

Hope is what brings these youngsters swarming to the city.

Back home, many have seen abject poverty and felt want. They know what it takes to keep body and soul together on the paltry wages their fathers bring home. The meager fee, which many elsewhere might scoff at, is handed over after months of saving.

The notes are often crumpled, hiding tales of motherly love in their wrinkles. These soiled and nearly mutilated pieces of paper do not emerge from bank lockers. They find pride of place in the folds of a mother’s saree, where the money accumulates, drop by drop, until there is enough to send a child away in pursuit of a dream.

The group comprises young men from diverse backgrounds, united in the chase of an ideal.

By the standards of a society enamored of engineers, doctors, and chartered accountants, many of these youngsters might be considered academic pariahs. They pursue bachelor’s degrees in arts or commerce and endure the familiar questions about what, precisely, they intend to do with their lives.

Not all of them will make it.

They know this.

And preparing for it changes them. The arduous labor of planning, reading, and revising makes many lower-level competitive examinations appear considerably less formidable.

The Long Wait

Yet, for some, the journey is as important as the destination. The very pattern of the civil services examination offers them something precious: a fighting chance.

Saket, my schoolmate, first came to Allahabad in 2006. Ever since, he has been consumed by the idea of becoming a civil servant. He has appeared for the examination twice. He did not get through.

Introducing me to a group of youngsters, Saket gives me their short histories. The boys are polite, affectionate, and remarkably quick to make a stranger feel at home.

We share a meal in the afternoon.

It is no grand affair. The gruel is barely edible, but the lively tone these young men lend to the proceedings is something the poshest hotel would struggle to replicate. The ambiance is friendly, and even the most basic remark elicits a huge round of applause.

For a while, they forget the arduous labor, the gut-wrenching fear of failure, and the exhaustion that follows them from one day to another.

Why do these youngsters, far removed from the selfless companionship of their families, choose to grind themselves for an examination in which their chances of failing are considerably greater than those of succeeding?

Ask Anjani Upadhyay, and pat comes the reply.

“It’s an ideal. This pursuit gives us a chance to test our own qualities, be it patience or discipline. Moreover, what makes it all the more interesting is the fact that if I manage to crack it, I will get a chance actually to work for the betterment of society.”

Anjani has always set his sights high, but fortune has not been particularly gracious to him.

After a couple of failed attempts, he turned his attention to academics and cleared the National Eligibility Test, qualifying him to apply for teaching positions at universities across India.

Yet, he wants to give academia a chance only after one final attempt at the dream that brought him to Allahabad from Buxar, a sleepy town in Bihar.

For Raj Singh, it is a matter of prestige.

Having attended a coaching institute in Delhi—an expense he could ill afford—he believes his chances are bright.

“I am well-versed in history and want to take it up as my subject in the mains. I am sure I will be able to get through,” he says with a smile.

Raj was unclear about where his life was headed after failing to clear the engineering entrance examination. The beaten track had ended abruptly.

Of all the places he could have gone, he landed in Allahabad, his hopes of pursuing a technical course seemingly over forever. With dented pride and battered ambition, he arrived at the university listless.

Within weeks, however, new avenues for finding the “meaning of life,” as he puts it, began presenting themselves.

“The seniors showed the way. There were many examples of people who studied hard and became IAS officers. Some seniors made ghosts out of themselves while preparing, and we juniors used to be in awe of them.”

Those examples were enough.

The Ghosts Who Studied

Recounting the tale of a senior who is now posted as a senior superintendent of police in an Uttar Pradesh city, Saket Tiwary, a law graduate, speaks with the reverence normally reserved for folklore.

“There are many stories about how Prabhakar sir cracked the exam. He is a legend for us. His eyes were always puffed up, as if he had spent the night crying. But the thing was, he used to sleep in bursts, which came far in between.”

Prabhakar sir had his own method.

“With liberal helpings of Amrutanjan spread on his forehead, Prabhakar sir would seat himself on a chair and embark on a marathon spell of reading. Systematic and unrelenting. Amrutanjan was used to dispel sleep, as he had grown addicted to tea and coffee.”

Prabhakar eventually cleared the civil services examination on his third or fourth attempt.

What added to the legend was that he had changed his subjects for the mains along the way. To his young admirers, this was proof that their hero was no mere crammer.

But growing up in such an environment has its perils.

Some, overcome by peer pressure, attempt to follow in the footsteps of their seniors without understanding the sacrifice and discipline the endeavor demands. They see the puffed eyes, the sleepless nights, and the marathon reading sessions and mistake the outward signs of suffering for a formula.

Caught between their own inner demons and the enormity of the task before them, many flounder.

The scars of defeat are not always easy to erase.

Some leave Allahabad. Some find other professions. Some build lives far removed from the dreams that first brought them to Katra.

And some disappear from the stories told by the next generation of aspirants.

Victory, after all, is what becomes legend.

When Morning Comes

After a discussion with Saket that spans almost the entire night, he finally decides to call it a day.

I sit quietly in my corner, ruminating on the varied characters I have met on my first day, despite having barely scraped the surface.

There must be a thousand untold acts of courage hidden in these narrow lanes. Stories of men who stayed awake when their bodies begged for sleep; of mothers who accumulated crumpled notes in the folds of their sarees; of young men who arrived with battered ambitions and found new ones in the legends of seniors they had never met.

Most of those stories will never see the light of day.

Outside the window, night is silently giving way to morning.

The inclement weather that has threatened the city all night finally breaks, and rain begins battering the streets.

Suddenly, I hear cheerful noises.

The youngsters have come out to play in the rain.

It has been a long night for most of them.

But they do not want to miss the showers.