Nikhil and Riya

by Ira Trivedi

  With her in my life, I knew that I would not be happy any more being that obscure, skinny guy with his head stuck in his books, his spectacles slipping off his nose. I did not want to be that spineless fool that people like Vikram could jerk around. I still hated myself for how I had backstabbed Riya because I was scared of simply being hurt.

  I did not know how I would change, or whether I could. All I knew was that I could not be the same person that I had been for all of these years.

  I decided to look at my situation step by step, rather than all at once – like I did with difficult sums.

  For starters, I could no longer be an eleventh-standard walker and runner. Since sports were compulsory in our school, people like me were shunted into ‘walk and run’, which, in essence, was simply an hour of walking and running up and down an empty road. My walk-and-run status was pathetic, especially with B.P. being such a great sportsman and with Riya being the running prodigy that she was. So I called in a favour.

  An enterprising tenth-standard student had recently started a chess team. He owed me: the previous year, I had lent him my ninth-standard science notes, after his had been stolen. This kid was slightly savvier than most of the academically inclined students, and far better connected since his father was a local magnate of some kind. There was a deal in place – his father sponsored the chess team, while he got to choose his squad.

  It was a version of the King’s Indian Attack, a chess tactic that I had read all about, meant to be used only in cases of overwhelmingly poor odds. I wheeled and cajoled and even sort of threatened the kid, and in the end I became the sixth boy on the Residency School chess team: my first-ever sport. And that was the end of my walk-and-run days. Here on the chess team, I found myself perfectly and entirely capable, and after I had beaten everyone hollow they were forced to make me captain of the team.

  Academically, I had opted for the science stream – this was expected, since I was the topper of the school – and here I found my fit because paying attention in class didn’t make you the butt of all jokes and high marks earned you respect rather than mockery. While I missed some of the ‘lighter’ subjects like history and literature, I finally had the chance to immerse myself deeply into the subjects I loved – physics, chemistry and my beloved mathematics.

  Being a science student meant being separated from Riya, who had taken humanities. Though I missed her desperately – stealing glimpses of her during class had become so vital to my day – I knew that taking humanities would enable her to spend more time doing what she liked most, which was to run. Riya had no interest in sums or science, or history, or any subject at all. Riya was guided by her DNA, by God, or whoever decided our purpose on this planet for only one thing. She may have been a snail, a turtle, a donkey when it came to class but on the track, she was a winning racehorse who was a wonder to watch.

  As for dorm life, my streak of luck continued. Ansari Sir decided to move the science students out of the dorms and into rooms, so they could focus on their studies. I found myself sharing a room with another science student who was almost as uninterested in sports as I was, and spent most of his time doing Sudoku and quietly preparing for the IITs.

  I loved my tiny room, no matter how cramped it was. It provided a perfect hideaway from dorm life, with its noisome amenities and uncertain comraderies. Most importantly, it provided me a break from Vikram, something I needed now more than ever before. Now that Vikram had no use for me – he, like Riya, had taken humanities – whatever little semblance of friendship that we earlier had, vanished. He began taunting me like in mean little ways – grabbing the glasses off my nose and flinging them on the ground, or snatching a book out of my hands and throwing it into the dustbin. During morning assembly, he would pass embarrassing public remarks on the patches on my pants, the cheap quality of my shoes (the local brand that mostly the junior school kids wore), the oil in my hair (I had cut back on it, but it was a childhood habit, and I could not rid myself of it). An onlooker may have thought of all this as tomfoolery, but Vikram had mastered the craft of bullying over many long years and his antics felt like pointed, well-thought-out stabs at all my weak spots.

  This was the only blemish in an otherwise flawless term. But, even Vikram couldn’t bully me as much as he may have liked, because I still had my old students on my side. Each of the athletes I had taught the previous term ended up passing with better marks than they had ever gotten in any subject at any time in their lives, and while I had expected that they would forget all about me in the eleventh standard, it turned out their goodwill had not yet run out.

  One night, as I sat at my little desk in my room, ensnared in double and triple bonds, I was jolted by a rap so loud the door almost flew from its hinges.

  ‘Nikhil,’ said a gruff voice in a gentle tone.

  ‘Yes?’ I asked alarmed, pushing my glasses up my nose.

  ‘It’s me,’ the voice said, and a muscle head, his big frame contained in tiny shorts, suddenly materialized in my small room.

  ‘He-llo-o,’ I said quietly, a feeling of dread overtaking me, wondering why he was here and what he wanted from me.

  He nodded vigorously for no reason at all, maybe it was some sort of reflex action that took place when he looked at me. I remembered all the times I had looked at him after explaining a sum and asked, ‘Understood?’

  ‘We got you something,’ he said, pushing a little package into my hand so hard that I almost fell.

  ‘Huh?’ I said, hoping that this was not a prank.

  The muscle head had a vague look of gratitude in his eyes. ‘It’s from all of us. For helping us,’ he said, fumbling around, in an embarrassed tone.

  ‘Oh,’ I said, a little confused. ‘Thanks.’

  My guest then left, bumping his large frame into the bunk bed on the way out.

  I opened the red, shiny wrapping on the small box. Inside was an expensive Walkman, peacock blue and silver. I could tell it was imported, from the glossiness of the box and the many labels that were stuck to it.

  I had never received such an expensive gift. My grandparents used to send cash for my birthday, but that had stopped a few years ago, because they probably just forgot the date.

  I sat there for a few moments, holding the Walkman, taking in the weight and the scent, plastic and perfume, the smell I would associate with all things precious for years to come. Only one thought occurred to me – how great would it be for Riya to run with music.

  29

  I AM DRIVING now and everywhere there are blue-green mountains and little clouds that rise like puffs of smoke in the sky. In them I see her here, then there and then also over there. I realize now that she, her memories, are like these mountains – too strong, too high, too difficult for me ever to scale.

  A few years ago, I had tried to scale a mountain as part of a team-building exercise. Just like that mountain, Riya had brought me so much pleasure, but she had also brought me pain. In the early days of that journey, my leg was in constant pain, till slowly my body became used to it and the pain became part of my being. And then in one sudden moment I discovered pleasure in the pain. With Riya too, the worst pain had been in the beginning and not at the end.

  The annual function was an important event in the Residency School calendar. Teachers rushed around preparing for the one day of the year on which the entire Board of Governors would descend. The gardeners, the sweepers, the maids and peons scrubbed every bit of the campus, till even the leaves on the trees seemed to shine. As for the students, the motivated ones spent weeks preparing skits, plays, dances and musical performances; the unmotivated ones took this opportunity to bunk endless classes, saying that they had to ‘practise’, but instead going off to take naps in the dorm.

  On the night of the annual function everything seemed transformed under a magical spell. The buildings worn with age sparkled as if they were new, the impromptu stage felt like a dais, a grandstand, when just till the day before it had been a bunch of dusty poles and
creaky boards. Our school band, usually horrendously out of tune during the morning assemblies when they played all sort of religious songs, managed to get their act together and put together an uplifting show. Even our formal uniform, grey trousers, white shirt, blazer and tie – the same we wore every Saturday – somehow looked different, much smarter and even the people who wore them seemed transformed.

  I always wondered if I too was under this spell; if I too exuded magic like the rest of them. But when I looked into the hazy mirror, I generally found that I looked very much the same – skinny, with my faded long pants that hung more loosely around my left leg, black hair oiled and parted at the centre and the spectacles which took over most of my face.

  The annual function truly was like no other night on campus. There was a sense of carnival, and everyone seemed to dance to its heady tune. This was the only evening of the year when there was there was no prep, no attendance, no teachers watching and even special food. Students ran amok, laughing and shrieking, up to all sorts of mischief until the small hours of the morning, and for once, no one bothered to check. The teachers, wanting to make an impression on the board and all the important guests, seemed for once to forget about the students. The prefects too were so busy collecting prizes that they forgot all about discipline. And so on the night of the annual function, it felt like none of the rules applied. In mathematical terms, it was a function without any limits at all.

  Perhaps the most exciting part of the annual function were the seniors who had graduated the previous year and who returned on this day to claim their awards. The boys swaggered like grown-up men, dashing and debonair in their suits. The girls floated about like graceful sari-clad swans – so different than the awkward uniform-clad geese of just a few months ago.

  Ordinarily, I would have used this time to read in peace, but that evening, even I had gotten caught up in the excitement. Obviously, this year was different – because of her.

  The evening began with students performing skits, dances and plays that they had prepared for months. Although Residency School did not particularly prioritize the dramatic arts, many of these performances were very good. They had to be: Principal Sir let it be known that if we embarrassed the school in front of the visitors, we would be in deep trouble. After the plays came the lectures, first by Principal Sir, then the chief guest – a politician – who spoke so lengthily, and so incomprehensibly, that the audience was almost stupefied by the end.

  Thankfully, the academic prizes were always the first to be given, probably because they were the least exciting for everyone. Every year without fail, I had been a part of the award ceremony, because for the past eleven years, I had been ranked first in my batch. Still, I got increasingly anxious as my turn approached. This stage seemed very large and high and to climb it wouldn’t be easy for me, especially because I had been standing for such a long time and my leg was going numb. Riya stood a little behind me amongst the sportspeople, who were rowdy and loud; a stark contrast to the academics, who stood silent and orderly in a straight line.

  I tried not to turn around and stare at her, but right before I had to go on stage, I could no longer resist. There she stood scratching the back of her right leg with her left shoe, her hair tied tightly in a mandatory braid, her face flushed under the bright lights of the canopy, her eyes bright with the excitement of the night. Transfixed, I would have kept staring, but then a boy elbowed me and I saw that it was my turn to go up on stage. It went off as smoothly as it possibly could. I hobbled up on stage, a line of students trailing me, and shook the hand of the chief guest as the photographer blinded us with his flash. Ansari Sir handed each student their ‘prize’ – a book no one read but which was used to prop up their tables, chairs and beds. It was all over in a few seconds, and we were herded into a waiting area close to the stage.

  I looked at the stage, where things had become heated as the athletes swaggered across the dais in their particular way – chests out, legs bowed, arms a few inches away from their body, reminding me of the apes I had seen on TV.

  The real commotion began as the athletic cups were distributed – the epitome of success at our school that each house vied for all year long. The clapping – which for us academics had been tepid and lethargic – had now become loud, accompanied by howling, whistling and thundering shout-outs. I saw Riya go up to get her prize, walking straight, chin up in the air, her skirt swinging like a pendulum. I clapped until my hands were sore. And then, there came Vikram, who even I had to admit, looked formidable in his blazer and tie.

  My attention waned once Riya had received her award. I couldn’t talk to her: she was still amongst the sports people, cheering and hooting for the seemingly unending procession of sports acknowledgements that became almost comical in their permutations and combinations – best bowler, best fast bowler, best spin bowler. As I watched, one thing began plaguing my mind. I had to pee so badly that I could hardly stand. I slipped away from the waiting area and walked as fast as I could to the bathroom, sorely resisting the urge to relieve myself in the fields.

  Feeling much more relaxed after the visit to the bathroom, I dallied in the quadrangle and then decided to head back to the dorm and read. I had been hoping to catch Riya, to maybe talk to her, but on a night like tonight, with so many people around, I knew that we would probably not get a chance.

  I walked back, whistling a tune that some junior school kids had danced to tonight, and crossed the dark academic block, so quiet and serious now compared to the rowdy stage. Just as I was contemplating taking a shortcut through one of the classrooms, I heard the tremor of a voice I knew so well, a voice that I could recognize from miles away, a voice that often came to me in my dreams.

  How could this be? Here at this time?

  I stood there and everything was so quiet that I could hear the breeze blowing through the trees. Then I heard it again, and then I saw the light shining from a single classroom.

  Before I could fully understand what was happening, I found myself standing outside the classroom, looking through the grills of the window, staring at her standing with him next to the blackboard. The same classroom where I had tutored her, the same board on which we had solved hundreds of sums.

  It couldn’t be. It couldn’t possibly be.

  But it was.

  There she was, my girl in flesh and blood, standing next to him. Abdul Sami Khan, the big man on campus last year, the former hockey captain of our school. I knew him – who didn’t? He had walked around campus as if he owned the school despite continually getting into trouble with the teachers, who had to inevitably let him off the hook since he won so many accolades. I remembered him so clearly, short but broad, golden studs in his ears and long greasy hair that he slicked back. He was always surrounded by his band of boys, everyone looked up to him, even boys like Vikram. Now he was back in a fancy suit and tie, looking so much older than last year.

  What was Riya doing here with him? And then, my head spun as I remembered snippets of things I had heard. Abdul had asked boys to deliver notes to her. He had once told a boy to fill her desk with rose petals and on another occasion had Vikram deliver chocolates on his behalf. But these were just the antics of boys and Abdul being Abdul could do as he pleased. Riya had always seemed so far removed from anything to do with this school that I never for a moment thought that she might have been involved with him. But maybe she and Abdul had been friends? If that had happened, how would I have known? But how could I not have known? I’d spent all those hours tutoring her, and then there were those long summer days, but then again we never spoke about such things.

  My thoughts were broken with a sound. I saw him walking towards her, holding a small bottle in his hands. He took a swig, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and then with a devilish grin, he handed the bottle to her.

  No, Riya, no. Don’t do this.

  I wanted to scream, to stop her, but how could I? None of this was making any sense to me. She did not take the bott
le from him but stared at him coolly and then he lurched towards her and put the bottle to her lips. She did not resist but swallowed slowly and then she moved away.

  She did not speak much. Neither did he. She just looked at him obscurely, her smile small and fixed.

  Then he stepped forward, towards her, and she, she did not move. He reached over to her and then bent his head down towards hers. No. No. No. Those lips, those were mine. I clutched the grill with all my might and then I dropped the book I was holding and it landed on my foot and tumbled to the ground.

  They both looked up towards the window, startled, like wild animals caught in a hunt. I moved away as quickly as I possibly could, but it was me, and I simply wasn’t fast enough.

  30

  EVEN NOW, AFTER everything that happened, those days strike me as the most painful, as if someone had punched me very hard, making my blood rush to my head, my head spinning round and round. It’s the one time that I never want to think about, but it’s the one that haunts me to this day. I had made the discovery of not being loved and there was nothing worse in this world.

  Following the annual function, I avoided her completely. I did not meet her in the academic block during tea, I did not meet her at the art block after games, I did not even go watch her practise on the tracks. I fell into a dark dark place, into a void growing deeper and wider every day. I had always prided myself on having an orderly mind, on always acting sanely, on always being in control. All that fell away, like so many of my other dreams, and I, too, gradually began to fall apart.

  I did everything, attended classes and assembly, even did my homework, but I went through it all getting sucked deep into the mud.

  Everything felt like it took a vast amount of effort but even though I was so tired I could not sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I wondered about her. How could she do this to me? What had she done? Was everything I had with her a total lie?