Like it was previously stated, man in Silverns was born for a particular task.

Therefore, as may be expected, schools for the eliteratti were designed in a very

specific way. Each birth ‘right’ – in this case, the job they were naturally selected for

– had their own compartments and an inclusive party. The building was like a

towering metal beanstalk without any seemingly visible doors or windows. Jeter, Nin

and Harris had their own separate areas within the building where they were taught

only the subject they were born to carry out. Monotonous to the third degree!

However, it was not just these three in their exclusive classrooms all alone, but rather

every elitist child who was born looking the same way was placed with the rest of

them.

The name of the school was “Izhar”. What were the children going to express here? It

is so ironic. There was no real freedom to express yourself unless it was in sync with

your looks. Instead of expressing, it felt more like repeating and constantly

reinforcing your genetic design. What you are you cannot change, so dictates the

academy, and thus you are to keep performing as that. You must forcefully construct

yourself to fir the mould you were designed to look like at birth, by a natural order, so

dictates the academy, so dictates the eliteratti.

Jeter was on the business floor. Here, there were columns and rows of fine chestnut

wood computer tables leaden with big, fat files, costly ink pens, and several

documents placed like a silky stack of cards, ripe and ready for the game to

commence. There was a large white board on one end of the room, and a massive

computer screen on the other tail of the rectangular proportioned setting.

The white board had a business plan scribbled all over it, with several marketing

strategies briefly laid out. Similarly, the computer screen had more intense intricacies

of the plan chalked out. I saw all the children settle down in their seats. It looked like

a giant office room full of underage employees. Jeter also took his seat and began to

fill up his shiny gilt ink pen. All the children around him had similar skin uniforms

on. Most of them came in their standard black suits except for a few girls who had

variations in vermillion, yellow, pink and lime green. And of course Jeter stood out in

his flaming glory.

About five minutes after the flustering of the students had died down, the teacher of

the class finally entered. This I was the most curious to see since the common

perception at Silverns was that the profession of teaching became included in the

miscellaneous after that legendary showdown between the former golden quartet. To

my absolute shock and amazement, the teacher turned out to be none other than…Mr.

Kit!

‘Welcome class 049, we will begin where our proposal was last left off. Sameen? I

hope your power point presentation is intact,’ he spoke in a grandiose manner.

Immediately the temporary silence of the classroom was replaced by the shuffling of

books, crinkling of papers, sketching of pens and tip tapping of computer keyboards.

But the strangely rhythmic sounds of the class could not deter me from thinking about

how it was possible for a businessman like Mr. Kit to take on a side profession of

teaching? After all that happened in the past between the founders? Also, it was

supposed to be blasphemous, wasn’t it?

‘Ah, yes, Raisa?’ he asked one of the students, who shot up her pink arm.

‘Um, sir, I had a question about my report on analytics, while Sameen sets up her

slide show, may I ask you if taxi transport is logistically sound?’ was her summary of

a rather long winded inquiry that I do not exactly remember.

‘Of course, come to my desk,’ said Mr. Kit in an uncharacteristically collaborative

tone.

This was all so confusing. How could he branch into something like teaching?

Wasn’t it against their whole divine code or something? I tried getting Jeter to make

eye contact with me so I could signal to him asking what was up. But he just did not

look in my direction. However, since I was standing right next to the door, there was a

desk right beside me. It was a girl in a mustard suit. I distinctly remember she and her

group of friends staring at me the most like I was some blasphemous abomination

without a tag. The peril of having an ‘undetermined’ identity in this town, I tell you.

‘Psst,’ I tried getting her to look at me without arousing Mr. Kit’s attention – who

did not see me in the class as I kept mostly to the side, ‘heyyy!’

‘Oh gosh,’ she gave a start, then breathed a heavy sigh of relief, ‘oh it’s you! Oh, I

thought you were Mr. Kit. Oh wait, what ARE you?’ it’s like she finally remembered

the great question of the day.

And of course, I completely ignored that. ‘Why is Mr. Kit your teacher?’

‘What do you mean teacher?’ she whispered back, ‘he’s our expert for this week and

we’re his apprentices.’

So, Mr. Kit wasn’t a teacher because having an apprentice meant you didn’t teach

them anything, but casually instructed and guided them through the basics of the area

of specialisation and then tested them. This, by all standards, is not the definition of a

teacher in any dictionary.

It was exactly at that point of inner and outer reflection that Mr. Kit turned his head

towards me.

He eyed me nastily, and while getting up from his desk and walking towards the

whiteboard, he announced rather ceremoniously, ‘I will commence the lecture after

Sameen’s presentation, all those in suits mark your presence,’ ending on a stern note.

While I never understood that phrase, it was a signal for me to leave. Honestly, how

did I end up in Jeter’s class anyway, I was supposed to stick with Nin. So I took off

on a search for her class, or rather apprenticeship den or something as completely

masked.

The walls of the building were so interesting. It was like an ice cave that was spray

painted metallic silver. Each career had a separate room allotted to them with a

specially configured environment that fit the theme. I had just seen Jeter’s and knew

that Nin’s and Harr’s would be artistic and scientific respectively. Jet had a kind of

clean working space, nothing theatrical, but very formal and matter of fact, like. Kind

of boring, but then that’s professional teaching, err, expert advising session in the

eliteratti school.

As I took the lift, I was more interested in seeing the astronauts’ space, with zero

gravity dimensions, large colourful planets and brightly lit up stars that would shine

competitively against the buttery sunlight. I thought I would even see some of them

flying about, learning about physics in an aerodynamic way, since they were young,

there would be some music about flying, some serene space like music.

But boy, was I wrong. They were in misery.

I did pass by the astronauts, as the sign indicated by the door since there was no

ounce of intergalactic activity that should have been intertwined with this. I guessed

at the time that it was only my understanding that led me assume as such. They were

the elitist children in there, on completely bare desks with a standard sheet in front of

them that they seemed to be memorising. None of them even played around with the

colours of their astronaut skins. White ghost like entities in hundreds all mundanely

answering the head astronaut’s questions after intervals of five seconds, was all I saw.

Peering closer into the door glass, I saw the head astronaut, come closer and scratch

off a heart sticker that was on one of the female student’s helmets, which surprisingly,

was a separate entity she could put on.

‘There will be no artificiality in Bano Bibi’s class,’ she asserted sternly, ‘now pay

attention to your blueprint of contingencies in case of a deadly spacewalk!’

The girl looked absolutely frightened – it was not hard to imagine how loud Bano

Bibi must have been, considering I could hear her behind a closed door. The name

was also so familiar. I seemed to have a vague recollection of having heard it

somewhere before and then it hit me. She was Jeter’s aunt. Were all the fierce

eliterattis lecturers here, or something? Also, how on Earth did Jeter, from such a

staunch family as his was, emerge to be so different? My suspicions would always

lean towards the only possible conclusion to this madness: that Jeter really was an

alien.

The scared astronaut girl was Shakeela Khanum and she quite literally detested any

and everything related to astronaut-ism. But she was stuck with this profession

whether she liked it or not. And was going to have to exist in its wholesomeness. She

was not like Jeter, who went to secret cave hideaways and explored ‘other’ loves and

interests, because she was not crazy. Or sane. Or justified. Or with a fundamental

right as a matter of fact. Because, in any case, this type of frolicking was very much

against the law of all births in Silverns Town.

I carried on with my own self appointed tour of the school. Next stop was for law,

and all the lawyers chosen by birth were in no better condition than the astronauts.

There was dreariness and monotony and tedium of a different level all entirely. But

since this profession had my father singing a separate tune from his natural calling, I

stopped a moment, just to observe.

There was not much for me to see. Once more, all the children were just sitting in

their seats, this time with no papers or pens, and just listening to the lecture of former

Judge Firdous – who was the sister of current Judge Ghazala, and with two

significations. She was a member of Jeter’s family tree also, as well as someone we

would be showing our signed petition to, in hopes of allowing my father the chance to

participate in the profession, regardless of the rank he was born into.

I suppose at that time I came under the illusion that the law class would include

simulations of real court room scenes, or perhaps debating sessions on the defendant

and accused podiums. The scene that I saw could also have meant that Judge Firdous

wanted to sharpen up her students’ or listeners’ minds with real life legal anecdotes.

But that just was not the case, as I got to know later on. It was simply a mundane

lecture on how she was the best judge Silverns had ever seen and what an easy

privilege it was for them to look like her, and be associated with law simply through

birth.

If father ever saw this scene, I know he would not have liked it. To him, law was a

glorious profession, with every romantic attribute of its integrity kept intact. What I

saw before me was like someone punishing the other for thinking about the utilitarian

benefits of the venture and reaping its foul repercussions by having to listen through

to a dreary lecture on the individual advantages instead.

If Jeter were here, he would have pointed out the poetic irony in the situation, how

law, and partly why my father was so entranced by it, provided a chance to fight for

someone, and here, the judge was literally fighting for herself.

Moving on, as the elevator went up, I could see through one of the stained windows

some people working on a giant computer. They were probably engineers. I then

entered a completely deserted floor. Silence engulfed the space, except for swift

squishy stroking against a canvas that penetrated the air. It seemed as if I was nearing

Nin’s sphere of mentorship, as ‘teaching’ is something that clearly has no name here.

But that was not so. It turned out to be a miscellaneous janitor, doing his own kind of

painting with translucent ink, erasing every blotch and blot off of the silver sheathed

ground. He was a short man, with navy blue skin that had ruffled layers accumulated

at the bottom, like fat towards the end of his legs. It was like crumpled pants. There

was a triangular white on his chest, surrounded by the darkness of his skin. He had a

bushy little moustache and was wearing a baseball cap, busily at his job.

I was going past him, and thought of giving a little greeting, ‘Asalam mualai kum!’

He looked up at me, very startled. Then he eyed me from head to toe, clearly a little

worriedly.

‘Who is you being?’ he asked me after a minute had elapsed, ‘I is not seeing your

kind in time.’

I think what he meant was that he knew about my ‘kind’ but was sceptical since it

was a long time since he last saw one or personally got acquainted with one. Also the

fact that I was roaming around so freely in the school without having bumped into any

authority was a little shocking for him. After all, post the miscellaneous, there is no

one more germ like to the eliteratti than me.

‘I’m here looking for my friend Nin, or perhaps even Harris? One is an artist and the

other is a doctor. There is nothing in this area, it seems.’

The janitor just continued to stare at me.

‘What’s your name?’ I asked, trying to elicit some kind of response from him.

‘Naming is Bashir Thakka,’ he replied, ‘and you! I knowing you, nameless, hmm.’

‘Why do you speak like that?’ I asked him, ‘there was a maid from where I came,

and she had a different style of speaking too. What do you think? Is it because of

differences in education among the miscellaneous?’ But it could not be as father

spoke just like the rest of the eliteratti.

‘Na eju-kew-shun,’ he replied, enunciating education very elaborately in a sort of

mockery of the word, ‘them elitez makkit compulsion on us workers to speak

different in dere world sa we stand out ‘n not sit among dem!’

That height of ridiculous was before me: poetically ironic again, if Jeter’s visionary

voice within me ever ceased, because it was not the language that was so preposterous

and absurd but rather the principle. The purple principle. Devoid of any blood, any

compassion.

‘Speak normally with me. Even if you do not like me, we are equals. There is no

division based on how we appear to be,’ I urged him earnestly.

‘Kid, wish ah could, but forget,’ he answered back sadly.

This was bound to happen at some point. The fact that the eliteratti forced the

miscellaneous to damage their faculty of the tongue was perhaps the most gruesome

method of snatching away someone’s rights. They treated language like a malleable

toy for their play and amusement. These constant demarcations! The eliteratti, so

insecure in their dealings, so threatened by the miscellaneous, never failed to surprise

me with their shallowness.

‘You are an honourable person, who is working hard in an environment that does not

deserve you,’ I began, because one way to gauge his honesty is seen clearly in how

fastidiously he carried on with his purpose despite the derogatory comments in a

space where there was no one watching him. Yet he carried on.

‘I bet your family is back in Left Arrow?’ I asked.

His face seemed to light up a little as he narrated with pride, ‘got the missus ‘n my

three tots beck in Lef-arro indeed! Sendin ‘em money tonight if postman friend come

through.’

Somehow, it felt as if I had a connection with him. Both of us were so concerned for

our families. What I really wanted was to offer him my free services of delivery, since

we were going to Left Arrow after everyone’s classes got done. But deep down, I

knew he would not trust a stranger so soon, thus forth, I instead offered:

‘Is the postman in Left Arrow too? I will make sure I send him to you so that your

family gets the money. I will be going there myself.’

He looked at me with eyes that glinted gratitude, along with a little disbelief at this

random display of camaraderie from a strange excluded being such as myself, from a

system that defined his world.

With the impetus of time behind me, I patted Bashir on the back and moved forward.

There was a resurgence of hope within me, though it never died out. But I was

equipped with its rebirth, and rejuvenation of purpose and resolve to make sure that

the bridge dividing these factions of life was torn down, with a vengeance.

These thoughts were my companion as I wandered off further into the academy and

finally came across familiar ground, well, only because of one person I knew. It was

the science block. I stood by the door and beheld several skeletal figures next to each

desk. The students seemed to be writing something on the bones, probably labelling

them. I tried very hard to spot Harris but somehow my eyes could not distinguish

between what looked like clones of multiple Harris-es and the multitude of similar

laboratory dummies next to their desks.

‘Class, you have fifteen minutes remaining,’ spoke a recognizable voice, and what

are the odds! The speaker was none other than Harris’s father, Dr. Rafi.

Did all these adults actually realise that they were more teachers than their actual

professions? Or did I just come on a bad day? Furthermore, it seemed like they were

super interested in drilling and reiterating the students’ identities more than

consolidating them with new information.

But then I am neither judge nor teacher to make these statements.

But I will, anyway.

I decided to take the lift for one more floor, before going back to the entrance, as the

hour was almost up, and if we were going to Left Arrow, we had to be back before the

carnival that night. Not only was it important for my friends since their parents would

surely miss their presence before the other elite families, but I felt like my father

would also come. Maybe he would be there as a back up performer since the other

clown with the difficult name was chosen. Whatever the case, I had to be there

cheering father on, always.

The area I entered was pretty bare. This was not fit for an artist like Nin, I felt. Then

I thought about how all the classes looked boring and uninteresting, save for Jeter’s,

which was a little better than the rest.

Suddenly, I could see some glow in the dark lines. They were scribbled all over a

door, behind which was revealed Nin’s class. Finally! But before I could step a little

closer and observe, I got an unexpected jolt. Someone, rather ruthlessly turned my

arm and to face them. It was a security guard.

‘What are you?’ he asked me in a needless to say, derogatory manner.

‘Which identity do you conform to?’ was his next demand. This was quite an

intellectually charged guard, unlike those at Jeter’s mansion. But perhaps this one had

been trained to know exactly which professions were being taught and to keep an eye

on them. The students, after all, could not under any circumstances bunk their lectures

or God forbid, attend a lecture that was not assigned to them by birth.

‘I do not belong to any,’ I answered steadily.

‘Oh? Being wise, eh? Though you look like those taints as we call ‘em, those dry

bones, ones that were born naked, without a tag,’ he added. Clearly he wanted to flout

his superiority.

‘Well clearly, I am not naked,’ I said pointing to my body, which was covered.

‘You come with me,’ he said sternly and took me by the arm again.

Impulsively I just shouted, ‘NIN!’ and sure enough she heard me, rushing out of her

class to my assistance.

‘What is going on?’ she asked confusedly, also looking at me wondering where I had

been all this time.

‘M’am Joyce, this one will not be bothering you, we will be making a visit to the

elite jail for illegal trespassing. But of course, we all know who will stay there longer

than is required as visit time,’ he added after sneering menacingly.

‘Oh no! Let me explain to you the circumstances,’ Nin began. Then she narrated the

entire situation of my unlikely companionship with her, and by extension, her friends.

Of course, the security guard could do no more damage, since Nin carried a whole

lineage on her shoulders. It was her word against his. He had no choice but to relent.

And that he did with every inch of animosity as was possible to emanate.

Then Nin turned to me.

‘I thought you were right behind me!’ she said, ‘when you did not enter the lift with

me I assumed you would follow! I could not have been late to class, it would have

been my third tardy appearance, which means bad news.’

At that very moment, there was a loud ring that piqued my ears. It was the bell that

signalled the end of all lessons.

‘Oh! Well, I guess we are together now! So let’s go!’ She rushed into classroom to

retrieve her belongings. Since the door was open and several artist and writer children

came out, I could see they were all similar in appearance to Nin, except the splash of

colour on their eye was different. Also I could see that there was no head inside,

which was moderating the entire affair. Instead, there was a computer screen that was

recording their every move. Nin was simply in the middle of an imitative painting. It

did not turn out to be the abstract painting class, I have no idea why, I pictured rather

definitively in my mind. As far as the writers were concerned, I could not really

discern what their line of activity was like so I left with the thought of them working

on some grand adventure pieces.

We went down to the entrance cum exit of the academy, and waited for Harris and

Jeter. Once they came, I asked them the most important question of the day:

‘Are we ready to go to Left Arrow?’

Jeter unzipped his bag and took out his personal organising device, the POD. From

there he took out some routes, marked them yellow, and gave a call to a taxi driver,

setting up a time to be picked up in the next five minutes.

‘We’ve got two hours! I put this in mother’s organiser back in the kitchen saying we

had some research fieldtrip for Nin’s novel, so let’s make sure we don’t overdo the

timings on the first day! Not that it will be of much consequence, considering tonight

is the carnival.’ he said.

‘Yeah. But, what about your father?’ I asked, ‘and yours Harris? They were both the

teachers here. They might see us and ask us, no?’

Harris gave out a little laugh.

‘We do not use the term teacher here, you probably learned that by now,’ he said

shortly after, ‘they are our experts.’

‘So when do they do their real jobs?’ I asked with a raised eyebrow.

‘The rest of the time,’ he answered in a casual tone.

‘I would like to see them during their work sometime,’ I could not help but say, ‘you

know as part of my understanding of the eliteratti world.’

‘Of course,’ Harris answered, ‘I have never actually seen them do their work. It

should be fun. I mean, it is not like they just sit around and simply impose their

identity or anything.’

Well, as a matter of fact, that is exactly what I suspected. At the time, I thought it

would be best to let the matter go for a while, and make sure I checked the scenario

out with my friends after we made a little progress in the land of the miscellaneous.

‘Sure, buddy,’ I amicably concluded.

‘Well Careem, our taxi service, is here,’ Jeter said upon seeing the green taxi park

itself in front of us, ‘let’s go.’