The Squad Leader
1057 Words
The worst part about remembering Manoj Varma wasn't remembering him.
It was remembering the trail of destruction he left behind.
The man had never committed crimes himself.
He simply inspired others.
Which, according to my father, was somehow worse.
Take Ravi, for example.
Poor Ravi.
Ravi spent most of his childhood suffering consequences on behalf of Manoj.
One summer afternoon, Manoj arrived with what he described as a brilliant business opportunity.
Whenever Manoj used those words, somebody should have informed an adult.
Unfortunately, we were children.
We lacked both wisdom and supervision.
"What if we collect money and buy ice candies?" Manoj announced.
"From where?" Ravi asked.
"Home."
"Our own money?"
Manoj looked offended.
"As if any of us have money."
That should have been the moment we walked away.
Instead, we listened.
Several minutes later, Ravi was sneaking into his house.
I still remember standing outside feeling nervous.
Manoj looked perfectly relaxed.
The confidence of that boy was deeply suspicious.
A few minutes later Ravi emerged carrying money.
Actual money.
Not much.
But enough to make me panic.
"Isn't this stealing?" I asked.
"No," said Manoj.
"Then what is it?"
"Temporary family investment."
Even at ten years old he sounded like somebody avoiding legal responsibility.
The entire operation lasted less than an hour.
We bought ice candies.
Enjoyed them.
And then got caught.
Mostly because I accidentally informed Ravi's father.
In my defense, I genuinely thought adults preferred honesty.
An assumption life quickly corrected.
Ravi received the beating of a lifetime.
I cried.
Ravi cried.
His mother cried.
The neighbors gathered.
Meanwhile Manoj had mysteriously disappeared before the investigation began.
To this day, I don't know how he did it.
The next morning he showed up carrying guavas.
As if nothing had happened.
Ravi nearly strangled him.
Looking back, it was a reasonable reaction.
Then there were the marbles.
My father wanted me to behave like a proper girl.
Manoj wanted me to become useful during marble tournaments.
Guess who won.
For nearly three months, Manoj trained me with the seriousness of an Olympic coach.
Every evening after school he would sit beneath the neem tree explaining angles and techniques.
"You're aiming too hard."
"It's a marble, not a missile."
"You have no vision."
"I am ten."
"Exactly. Plenty of time to improve."
The irritating thing was that he was actually good.
Within weeks I was defeating most of the boys.
Unfortunately my father discovered this achievement.
Apparently daughters weren't supposed to spend evenings crouching in dirt while arguing about marbles.
I still remember the lecture.
It lasted forty-five minutes.
Manoj received no lecture whatsoever.
Because somehow nobody knew he was responsible.
A recurring theme in our childhood.
Another memorable disaster involved poor Ramesh.
A tiny, fragile boy who looked permanently one strong breeze away from flying away.
During one cricket match, Manoj convinced me I should try bowling faster.
"Imagine you're Kapil Dev."
"I don't know how Kapil Dev bowls."
"Then imagine you're angry."
That advice proved surprisingly effective.
Unfortunately Ramesh happened to be standing in the wrong place.
The ball hit him.
Ramesh fell.
Chaos followed.
His parents arrived at our house.
My mother apologized.
My father apologized.
I apologized.
Ramesh accepted the apology.
The cricket ball remained unapologetic.
Manoj, meanwhile, spent the entire evening hiding behind a tree.
Coward.
Then there was the well incident.
The incident I have never fully confessed to anyone.
Even now.
The old irrigation well stood at the edge of the fields.
Wide.
Deep.
Terrifying.
Naturally Manoj viewed it as a challenge.
One afternoon he announced that he could jump across it.
The rest of us immediately informed him he was insane.
He interpreted this as encouragement.
The i***t actually did it.
Ran.
Jumped.
Landed safely on the other side.
Then stood there looking unbearably pleased with himself.
Most normal children would have stopped there.
Not Manoj.
"Ravi, your turn."
Even today those words sound dangerous.
Poor Ravi.
Peer pressure defeated common sense once again.
Ravi jumped.
Unlike Manoj, Ravi possessed realistic athletic abilities.
He missed.
Fortunately there was enough water inside the well.
Unfortunately there was also enough panic to alert half the village.
Adults arrived.
Ravi was rescued.
Everyone demanded explanations.
And somehow nobody discovered the truth.
Nobody except me.
I knew exactly who suggested the jump.
I knew exactly who started everything.
But when the adults asked questions, Manoj looked so innocent that I almost doubted myself.
Almost.
The strange thing is that despite all this, we still followed him.
Again and again.
Not because he was convincing.
Although he was.
Not because he was smart.
Although he was.
But because life around Manoj was never boring.
Every day felt like an adventure.
Possibly a dangerous adventure.
But still an adventure.
The nights were even worse.
Especially during power cuts.
The entire neighborhood would gather outside.
Children sat in circles.
Adults chatted nearby.
And Manoj transformed into a professional horror storyteller.
The boy knew stories from every possible source.
Village ghosts.
School ghosts.
Highway ghosts.
Ghosts living in wells.
Ghosts living in trees.
Ghosts apparently struggling with real-estate shortages.
By the time he finished narrating, none of us wanted to walk home alone.
Then he would generously volunteer to accompany us.
The fraud had created the problem and then offered the solution.
Years later I realized he probably enjoyed frightening us more than the stories themselves.
He also introduced me to movies.
Not ordinary movies.
Never ordinary movies.
Horror movies.
Thrillers.
Action films.
English films.
Tamil films.
Malayalam films.
Movies I was definitely not supposed to watch.
My parents believed I spent evenings studying.
Meanwhile Manoj was secretly expanding my cinematic education.
To this day, my love for horror movies can be traced directly to that nuisance.
Sometimes I think my entire personality contains traces of Manoj Varma.
The horror movies.
The curiosity.
The willingness to try ridiculous things at least once.
Not the well jumping.
I have standards.
The memory made me smile despite myself.
Funny.
Back then, I thought childhood would last forever.
That Ravi would always be getting into trouble.
That Manoj would always be planning it.
That the rest of us would always be there to witness it.
I didn't know how quickly life could scatter people.
Or how many years could pass before a single name brought everything rushing back.
- Writer
