Sanghvi hadn’t had a happy campaign at MES High School. In fact, few campaigns had been worse. The Sanghvites’ reputation of being a formidable footballing force had been built over years of terrific tournaments. They weren’t a team that crashed out in the round of 16. That was the forte of schools like Bluebell Academy, which is why it had come as a surprise to all when Satvik Mukherjee of Dingreja Educational Society scored in the final minute of extra time to eliminate S4. So huge was the shock that Ghadge Sir still hadn’t spoken to them.
Two days later, Purohit was still shaking and thrashing about with anger as he related the events to Rishabh. Their tutorials had just got over, and they were standing near the bus stop in the narrow lane outside Oswal’s.
‘Who won the tournament?’ asked Rishabh.
‘We did,’ said a voice to their left.
Often people found themselves being at the right place at the right time. Eklavya Bhamtekara had a knack for being at the wrong place at the wrong time. Or so Rishabh thought as he stared at Eklavya’s bulbous head and buck teeth. He had his arms crossed over his chest and was leaning against a Pulsar motorcycle.
‘Kamani Krida are the champions again,’ he said in a mock announcer voice.
‘Oh, God, not again,’ groaned Puro.
‘Is that what you said when DES beat you? We saw you losers. It was too funny.’
‘Buddy, not now,’ said Puro quietly.
‘I would have said ‘Well played’ but I don’t want to lie.’
‘Okay. I don’t know what you’re doing here, but get the hell out,’ snarled Rishabh.
‘Good question. I’m waiting for my girlfriend. I don’t know if you know her . . .? Her name is Tamanna.’
Puro put a hand on Rishabh’s shoulder. He expected Rishabh to blow a fuse, to rush at Eklavya, to at least lash out with some degree of violence. Rishabh brushed off his hand. Puro stepped forward. Here it comes, he thought. But Rishabh burst into . . . a smile. Puro did a double take.
‘I’m so glad she’s not my girlfriend because she’s clearly into losers.’
It was now Eklavya’s turn to get flustered. He sprang forward. ‘I heard you play with the juniors now.’
‘I’ve heard you’ve always been doing that. How old are you, dadaji?’
Eklavya’s breathing had quickened. Still, he persisted. ‘Be honest, did I end your career? Is that why you didn’t come? I was looking forward to whacking you at MES too.’
‘Puro, do you think it would fix his face if I punched it?’ asked Rishabh dramatically.
Purohit gave him a sidelong stare. He was as proud of his friend as he was concerned. The Rishabh he had first met in the seventh standard had been a diffident runt with an atrocious middle parting, who read books and wore his trousers an inch below his spectacles. For most of their friendship, Rishabh had left the trash-talking to Puro, preferring to mumble in fear in the background instead. Puro hadn’t noticed when the boy growing up beside him had brushed back his hair, lowered his pants to his waist and begun quipping like a thug. As glad as the change made him, though, Puro worried if Rishabh had the will to back up the words.
Rishabh’s jibe had penetrated Eklavya’s ugly mug. It took him a few seconds to process it but when he did, he bellowed and rushed Rishabh. He grabbed Rishabh by his shirt front, who gripped his combatant’s neck in a vice.
‘Say that again, you bastard!’
‘I knew you wouldn’t get it the first time.’
Purohit tried his best to prise the two apart, but their ferocity repelled him. He could see that Eklavya was gearing up to slam his fist into Rishabh’s gut. He was about to grapple the older boy from behind, when Tamanna exited Oswal’s building. She immediately saw her boyfriend and her admirer locked in combat and shrieked.
‘STOP IT!’
But the two boys neither stopped it nor let go. Their teeth were bared. Tamanna grabbed Eklavya by the shoulders and pulled as hard as she could.
‘Look, your girlfriend’s here, do you really want to do this?’ panted Rishabh.
‘Are you jealous?’ sneered Eklavya.
To call the question intelligent would be going too far, but as far as Rishabh was concerned, it definitely was thought-provoking. An instant after Eklavya spoke, Rishabh looked at Tamanna. Her face was contorted with the effort of hauling Eklavya away. Then he looked at the leering melon that Eklavya called a head. A thought crossed his mind: If this is what she wants, I am happy for her.
‘Not at all,’ Rishabh said and released his hold on Eklavya, who rubbed his palm along his throat.
‘Good. Because if I see you near her, I’ll kill you!’
‘You won’t. Because I like someone else.’
Rishabh’s gaze didn’t flinch from Eklavya, but he could see the effect his words had had around him. Tamanna cocked her head; Purohit put his hands on his hips; Eklavya spat at his feet.
‘Stay. Away,’ he warned in conclusion and then mounted his bike.
Tamanna joined him angrily. She threw a glance at Rishabh and bobbed her head. It was an ambiguous nod. Rishabh couldn’t tell if she was being apologetic, annoyed or envious. The bike vroomed to life.
‘A fifteen-year-old with a license? Very believable!’ Rishabh screamed after them.
Eklavya held up his middle finger, which was promptly swatted by Tamanna.
Good riddance, thought Rishabh.
‘Are you sure about this?’ asked Puro.
It annoyed Rishabh that he had been asked this question for the twentieth time. The first ten times he had put down to caution and the next nine to friendly concern, but this last instance was just insulting his intelligence.
‘Just say it, Puro. You don’t like her?’ said Rishabh.
Puro’s shoulders bounced, his mouth opened and shut and opened again. ‘It’s . . . Barkha. And it’s you! All I am saying is . . . are you sure about this?’
‘I am very sure about this. She’s a lovely girl. She’s smart, she’s cute, she’s got great taste in pencil boxes. Have you seen hers? I like that shade of green. Elegant design too.’
‘Pencil boxes? You know nothing about her, bey!’
‘We’ve talked.’
‘Three times. For three minutes each.’
‘You just don’t like her because she writes your name on the board,’ said Rishabh.
This was true. Ninety per cent of the trouble Purohit had got into that year had begun because Barkha had done her job as class monitor too diligently. She had told on him for every possible offence, ranging from the mundane (talking in class, not submitting homework) to the memorable (throwing the duster out of the window, pelting Pinto Miss with a paper plane).
‘Yeah,’ admitted Puro, ‘but I’m also worried that you’re jumping into this too soon. Just two months ago you were about to cut your wrists over Tamanna and now you’re thinking of dancing in the fields with this Barkha girl! It’s a little too fast, no?’
‘Firstly, I was never going to cut my wrists over Tamanna. She doesn’t deserve that kind of sacrifice. And secondly, it takes only one second to fall in love.’
‘Love! You’re seriously in L-O-V-E with Barkha? It’s not like? Or lust? Or having-a-crush-on-her-because-she’s-literally-the-only-girl-who-has-smiled-at-you-since-Tamanna-said-no?’
Whether he’d intended it or not, Purohit had raised a reservation that Rishabh had indeed been wrestling with. There had been a definite uptick in the fondness he felt for Barkha but, worryingly, it had coincided with Tamanna giving him the thumbs down. However, he’d reminded himself of the epiphany he had experienced. Towards the end of his scuffle with Eklavya, he’d had a searing vision of Barkha. Her bright, pleasant face had popped up in front of his eyes. He had felt a warm, tingly shudder. She was everything that Tamanna wasn’t. While Tamanna was callous, she was caring. While Tamanna was impulsive, she was measured. While Tamanna liked Eklavya, Barkha liked him. She was the one.
‘I do love her.’
‘But you said
Tamanna was your one true love.’
‘Yeah, I know I did,’ snapped Rishabh. ‘But do you know what it means when your true love doesn’t work out?’
Puro shook his head.
‘It isn’t true love after all.’
The bell rang and the short break ended. The kids began racing back to their classrooms. Rishabh left his friend looking out over the bridge. He turned around when he’d reached the other end. ‘I’m going to ask her out. In the lunch break. I hope you’ll wish me luck.’
‘All the best!’ yelled Puro.
‘Not now, bey. In the lunch break.’
‘Oh, sorry,’ said Puro. He raced to join his friend. ‘Tell me something,’ he began. ‘How do you know she likes you?’
Rishabh smiled. ‘She gave me her notes,’ he said warmly.
Puro rubbed the back of his head. For all his new badassery, he thought, deep down the fucker is still a nerd.
Just as the bell was sounded for the long break, Puro wished him luck (rather reluctantly) and Rishabh Bala sallied forth. He had asked Barkha to meet him near the staircase at the rear of the corridor. There had been a minor hiccup in his plan when she had benignly asked him, ‘Why?’ It was not a contingency he had prepared for but, being quick on his feet, he’d improvised, ‘I have a civics doubt.’ Thankfully, she had seen the pleading look in his eyes and did not ask aloud why someone would need civics doubts answered specifically near the staircase.
With a pounding heart, Rishabh strode out of class, mentally running through his prepared lines. He rounded the corner and, as the Beatles eloquently put it, ‘saw her standing there.’ Even with arms folded across her chest, she looked as close to an angel as a person could without having the wings or the halo.
He walked up to her, putting in some effort to make sure his back didn’t give in to gravity. Standing in front of her, he cleared his throat.
‘Well,’ he began.
‘Yes?’ she said. ‘What’s your doubt?’
He was surprised by his own composure, which he put down to this being his second proposal of the year. At this rate, he thought to himself, pretty soon I’ll be a veteran proposer.
‘My doubt is,’ he said, ‘Barkha Kotwal, I really, really, really like you. Will you go out with me?’
He had rehearsed the line in front of the mirror. Each ‘really’ was accompanied by its own inflection. The first was delivered low and smooth, the second was affirmative and bold and the third was explosive with a hint of seductive thrown in.
The effect of the words on Barkha was instantaneous. However, her reaction wasn’t exactly what Rishabh had imagined. In his forecast of the situation, she’d swoon and say, ‘Yes, yes! For a handsome, dashing boy like you, always and forever YES!’
But back in the corridor on that November afternoon, Barkha’s eyes first leapt to the side of Rishabh’s head, then to the floor, and then she let out a low whimper and burst into tears. Without saying a word, she shot into the girls’ bathroom.
Rishabh couldn’t believe his luck. When girls weren’t outright rejecting his proposals, they were bursting into tears and running off into loos. Surely he had to have a long, hard think about his MO, because, in current form, it was utterly failing him. He kicked the air in frustration and made his lonely way back to class.
In class, Purohit debriefed him and grew visibly joyous as the narration went on. At last he spoke. ‘I’m so glad you have this effect on women, my boy!’
But Purohit had spoken prematurely because Barkha’s sobbing had had nothing to do with Rishabh asking her out. At least not in the way the two boys thought it had. The truth was that Barkha had been dating Dhruv Kelkar, the school captain, on the sly for the past two years. Rumours had abounded, of course, but the couple had laughed it off expertly. For all practical purposes, they were just another platonic pair that was teased in the corridors.
However, around the time Rishabh had applied for the position of boyfriend, Dhruv and Barkha’s relationship had soured. Their liaison was what the tabloids would have termed as being ‘on the rocks’. It was the usual culprits that drove a school couple apart: they had shifted to different classes, taken different optional subjects, slowly grown apart, she’d complained he didn’t spend as much time talking on the phone, he’d said she didn’t understand how much homework he had been getting.
All of it had taken a toll on the couple, leading up to the moment when Barkha stormed out of the girls’ bathroom, face flushed with tears, cornered Dhruv in the corridor and, in no uncertain terms, declared, ‘I can’t take it any more! It’s over! OVER! You understand?’ It being over came as a surprise to everyone in the corridor because no one had known it was actually going on to begin with.
Dhruv looked about sheepishly, as a boy who’s had a wailing girl tell him it was over was wont to look. Barkha then stormed right back down the corridor, turned into 10 F and came to a stop at Rishabh’s desk. ‘Yes, I like you too,’ she said.
It was under those angry, tearful and, if truth were told, wee bit scary circumstances that Rishabh Bala finally found himself single no more.
Rishabh hadn’t read those Mills & Boon romance novels that the girls in his class were glued to, but he imagined that the plots couldn’t have been better than his first week with Barkha. It was nothing short of enchanting. When he sat beside her in the mornings and caught her eye, the ache and strain of football training would disappear. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. Constantly staring to his right caused a crick to develop in his neck. He wanted to tell the world that the studious beauty who sat an aisle away from him was his girlfriend, but he couldn’t because she didn’t want anyone from school to find out.
After all, secrecy was the norm in school romances, and for good reason. Merciless teasing inevitably followed if the class caught a whiff that a couple was in their midst. Plus a girl of Barkha’s academic stature had a reputation to maintain. One couldn’t be taken seriously as monitor of the class if they were also seen gallivanting around with disreputable elements from the football team. Not to mention the teachers. They always frowned upon the couples of the class. Rishabh didn’t care much about what Kaul Miss thought of his private life, but Barkha insisted that the less she knew the better it was, and he deferred to her judgement. She hadn’t been the teacher’s pet for so many years without knowing a thing or two about the teacher’s psyche.
Besides, the clandestine nature of their togetherness only added to its thrill. Each day of that first week, he felt like they were two spies on a mission, sharing codes that only they understood—like when they smiled ever so slightly while passing each other in the corridors or when his hand brushed lightly against hers while forming a line for the computer labs or when he put a poem in her bag.
Putting a poem in a girl’s bag was like wearing three-fourths. It would seem awfully cool at the time, but in a few years’ time one was wont to wonder what they’d been thinking. Years later, Rishabh Bala would be doing something mundane, like reading the newspaper, when he would suddenly remember the time he had slipped a poem into Barkha’s bag and it would leave him cringing with embarrassment for the rest of the day.
Even when it came to the matter of dropping sonnets into one’s beloved’s bag, there was a right way to do it and a wrong way. For instance, it was universally accepted that one must not deposit the composition in the front pocket, where the tiffin box was kept, as the chances of discovery by the partner’s mother became exponentially higher. And Rishabh had done just that. If one did stow the note in the front pocket, which contained the tiffin box, one had to at least ensure that their significant other was made aware of its presence. This Rishabh did not do.
As a result, that evening when Barkha’s mother opened her bag to extract her tiffin box for its daily cleaning, out tumbled the note. Barkha denied knowing anything about it. She said it had to be a secret admirer from class. ‘Your secret admirer calls himself David Beckham?’ her mother said with arched eyebrows. The next day
, Rishabh got a dressing-down that dissuaded him from planting furtive poems in anyone’s bag ever again.
Then, as if to equal the score, Barkha called on Rishabh’s landline a few days later. He had told her not to ring his home under any circumstances, yet here was his mother screaming, ‘For you. Barkhaaaaa!’
LIC agents had called the Bala landline more than girls had. Besides, girls didn’t ring for Rishabh Bala. He didn’t have any female friends because all his friends were on the football team. Hence he had explained to his girlfriend that if she were to call out of the blue, suspicions would arise. And he had been right.
The minute he kept the receiver down, he was held for detailed questioning. He was badgered about the identity of this mystery girl and what business she had calling him. He cooked up a flimsy, loophole-ridden story about how she was helping him with project work.
‘Rishabh, you’ll have enough time to do your “project work” once you’re done with your boards,’ said Mr Bala.
Rishabh knew he had dodged a bullet, and the next day he told Barkha, in no uncertain terms, that she should burn the sheet that bore his number and erase it from her memory too, if possible.
The beginnings of their amorous engagement led to a happy time in Rishabh’s life. For the first time in months, he found himself springing out of bed, eager to face the day, and not cowering under the blankets, bemoaning his alarm, his mother, school, life, the universe—in that order. He found pleasure in the small, mundane activities that made up most of daily living. The smell of El Paso tickled his olfactory senses once more and he sang in the shower. Music returned to his life. He would find himself jigging alone in his room to the latest MP3s that Sumit had pirated and provided on a pen drive.
One lunch break, Kaul Miss called him to her table and inquired, ‘Is everything all right, Rishabh?’
‘Yes, miss. Why?’ asked a worried Rishabh. Had she found out?
‘Nothing. It’s just that you’ve been paying attention in class. I wanted to know if something was wrong with you.’
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