Nidhi tried a different tack. ‘Vikram and I have to wake up very early for work.’
Bhimsen’s face fell and Nidhi tried to salvage his mood. ‘But we can play some other—’
‘She’s just scared she’ll lose, Bhimsen,’ Vikram interjected, a smug smile on his face. ‘I’m ready to play.’
‘You’re joking!’ Nidhi groaned.
‘I never joke about cricket.’ He shrugged.
Mangal Singh came running from inside the house, balancing two bats and a ball in his giant hands. ‘Khelein?’
‘Do you want to change?’ Vikram asked Nidhi, conducting a deliberate perusal of her appearance, from her blow-dried hair to her short black dress and her knee-high boots.
‘Worried you’ll be distracted?’ she challenged.
‘You wish.’ Vikram smirked.
They followed the standard rules of gully cricket: one-tip-one-hand, outside out, etc., and it didn’t take Vikram long to realize that even though he had joked about it, playing against Nidhi in her current outfit wasn’t the wisest of decisions.
He couldn’t concentrate on batting because he couldn’t take his eyes off her gorgeous legs.
He couldn’t concentrate on bowling because her batting stance accentuated every one of her perfect curves.
And he clearly couldn’t concentrate on fielding, he realized when he dropped an easy catch, because he was enthralled simply by watching her run barefoot in the driveway.
Vikram and Bhimsen lost the match by twenty-five runs—probably, Vikram thought with disgust, the largest margin by which a professional cricketer had ever lost a five-over gully cricket match.
Nidhi gave Mangal Singh a celebratory high five, then ran up to Vikram and elbowed him in the ribs. ‘Try not to cry yourself to sleep, loser!’
Vikram put her in a chokehold and rubbed his knuckles on her hair. ‘Don’t get too cocky, Billi.’
Nidhi gasped and he let her go immediately.
‘What did you just call me?’ she asked, her mouth agape.
‘Nothing,’ he said firmly. ‘I’m going home. Will you wake me up in the morning?’
‘Absolutely not. Wake up yourself,’ she scoffed.
‘Okay, but don’t blame me if we’re late.’ He shrugged.
‘Use an alarm!’ she snapped.
Years of waking up early for net practice had helped Vikram develop such a strong internal body clock that he almost never used an alarm. But Nidhi didn’t know that, so he fibbed, ‘I always sleep through it.’
‘Fine,’ Nidhi grumbled. ‘I’ll wake you up.’
She stormed into the house, muttering to herself. And even though Vikram only caught snatches of her rant—‘supremely annoying’ and ‘spoilt child’—inexplicably, they made him smile.
August 2001
Diary of Nidhi Marwah
Age 13
Today was the worst day of my life!!!
That jerk Gaurav Sinha painted a dirty cartoon of me in the boys’ toilet and all the boys made fun of me all day long! Vikram whacked me on the head with his science book (it’s the thickest one) and yelled at me for not listening to him. When he realized I was trying not to cry, he apologized for shouting. I asked him what the painting looked like but he told me not to bother about it. ‘Don’t worry, Nidhi. I’ll fix it.’
Then he took three bottles of black shoe polish and painted over the cartoon. By the time he came out of the boys’ toilet, his hands were completely black and there were traces of shoe polish all over his face and his clothes. After that, he got sent to the principal’s office for damaging school property and now he needs to write a 300-word essay on ‘The Effects of Vandalism in the Community’.
March 2014
The next day, Nidhi knocked on Vikram’s door promptly at 6 a.m.
‘Come in.’
She was expecting to find him in the same position as last time—sprawled lazily on a bed two inches too short for him. Which is why her eyes popped wide open at the sight that greeted her.
Vikram was standing in front of his closet, hair slightly damp from a shower, wearing jeans.
Just jeans.
He glanced at her. ‘Good morning.’
Nidhi gaped at his bare chest.
One corner of Vikram’s mouth tilted up and he said, louder this time, ‘Good morning.’
‘Uh, hey. Good morning,’ Nidhi said, turning away from him and walking towards the window to collect herself.
‘Wanna help me pick a shirt?’ he asked, his voice dripping with amusement.
‘No, thanks,’ she said, pretending to stare outside the window. ‘In fact,’ she said, turning around, ‘I’m going to wait downstairs.’
Halfway to the door, Vikram caught her wrist and spun her around.
Nidhi’s breath froze as she crashed into his hard chest, her face disturbingly close to his. It took every ounce of restraint in her body not to glance down at the abs that Cosmopolitan India had described as ‘sinfully delicious’.
‘Come on, Nidhi. I want to make a good impression on the kids.’
She yanked her wrist free and walked to his closet, then grabbed the first shirt she saw and handed it to him.
‘If only you had put half the thought in choosing that shirt as you did in choosing your dress,’ Vikram said, giving her formal navy blue dress a thorough once-over.
‘How do you . . .’ Nidhi’s voice trailed off and her expression became accusing. She walked to his window and saw that he had a clear view of her room. She tried to recall if she had left her window open while getting dressed that morning, but Vikram’s wolfish smile made it clear that she had.
‘You are such a perv!’ she snapped, giving him a mutinous glare before making a haughty exit from his room.
A few minutes later, they sped down Delhi’s roads with Rao Uncle in the driver’s seat, Monty in the passenger seat and Nidhi and Vikram in the back. And even though Vikram didn’t think much of Delhi, he couldn’t help but be charmed by the sights that ran past his window. Buildings alternating between Victorian and Mughal architecture, wide roads fringed by lush green trees and the elevated metro winding through the city. And, of course, there was one other thing Delhi had to offer that Mumbai didn’t: the woman seated next to him.
He watched from the corner of his eye as Nidhi rapidly made and answered calls. She was like a whirlwind. The event-management agency was already at the venue and they kept calling her every few minutes with problems and queries, but nothing seemed to faze her.
‘Anoop will get there soon,’ she told the event guys calmly when they complained about the photographer’s delayed arrival. ‘He rides a motorcycle and doesn’t take calls while he’s on the road.’
‘How do you know for sure?’ Vikram asked her when she hung up.
‘Because I spoke to him before he left. And even if I hadn’t, I know he’ll be there. He’s a thorough professional,’ she said.
‘As opposed to?’ Vikram asked, raising an eyebrow.
She gave him an angelic smile. ‘Why do you ask me questions you won’t like the answers to?’
He laughed at her impertinent response. ‘It seems like you really love your job.’
‘I want to do social marketing in the long run, and EducateIn is a good way to start,’ she said.
‘Yes,’ Monty muttered sleepily from his seat. ‘Facebook is the future.’
Nidhi chuckled. ‘Not social media marketing, just social marketing.’
‘Hain?’ Monty grunted. ‘What is diffrunce?’
‘The focus of social marketing is non-commercial.’
‘NGO type?’ Monty asked.
‘Kind of. To put it very simply, marketing for causes that benefit society and help people,’ Nidhi explained.
‘It suits you,’ Vikram said.
‘What makes you say that?’ she asked with a surprised smile.
‘Even as a kid, you were always trying to help people, whether or not they wanted your help,’ he said wryly.
&
nbsp; Nidhi gave him a sheepish smile. ‘I wasn’t that bad.’
Vikram gazed into her eyes. ‘You took in a stray and changed his life.’
‘On the contrary,’ she said, her expression softening, ‘Odie changed my life.’
I wasn’t talking about Odie.
‘Your hand has healed,’ Nidhi said randomly, glancing at his right hand.
The first day she’d seen him, his knuckles had been raw and swollen, probably from the shiner he had given Shaan Kapoor.
Vikram flexed his hand unconsciously and gave her a lopsided smile. ‘It’s odd that while we were growing up, you were always the one getting into fights.’
‘Only because of the rowdy company I kept.’ She grinned, tipping her head in his direction. ‘By the way, I’ve always wondered why Gaurav Sinha didn’t show up at school for the rest of week after the lewd cartoon episode.’
He gave a casual shrug. ‘Maybe he got conjunctivitis.’
‘From the black eye you gave him?’ she guessed.
‘Probably.’ He grinned.
She shot him an accusatory look. ‘I knew it!’
‘By the way, I’ve always wondered, why did you punch Raghav Reddy in the fifth standard?’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said, avoiding his eyes.
‘So tell me,’ he said evenly.
A shadow crossed her face and she hesitated.
‘Come on, Nidhi. Spill.’
‘He called you a “stupid orphan”.’
Vikram blinked.
‘And let me make it very clear that “stupid” is not the word I had an issue with,’ she teased.
Vikram opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. He was astonished by her confession. Not because he thought she was lying, but because if she was speaking the truth, something was terribly amiss.
His thoughts instantly went back to that fateful night and to the moments that had led to their big confrontation.
Nidhi is only friends with you because she feels sorry for you, Balraj Marwah had said.
Why would she feel sorry for me? Vikram had asked defiantly.
The pity on Balraj’s face had been unmistakable when he answered Vikram’s question. Because you’re an orphan.
A strange uneasiness settled inside Vikram and every instinct in his body told him something did not add up.
The car jerked to a stop in the parking lot of the NGO-run primary school that was their destination. Vikram turned towards Nidhi but she was already stepping out of the car.
Nidhi watched with a twinge of pride as Vikram interacted with the students.
‘Who is the president of the country?’ their teacher asked.
‘Pranab Mukherjee!’ the students sing-songed.
‘Wow, even I didn’t know that!’ Vikram joked.
The kids giggled, suspecting that he was being facetious, but not completely certain. He spent a few minutes talking to them about the importance of education and sports. When the time came for Q&A, there was a nervous silence in the room. His audience was evidently worried about asking a question that wasn’t ‘smart’ enough.
‘Don’t ask me anything too difficult,’ Vikram teased, raising both palms in a defensive gesture.
A few kids giggled nervously.
‘Does anyone have a question about cricket?’ he hinted.
A dozen hands shot up and he laughed, taking their questions one by one. They started with ‘Which international cricketer do you admire the most?’ and ‘How much does your bat weigh?’ and gradually progressed to ‘Who is your favourite Bollywood actress?’
And Vikram humoured each query with a patient, friendly smile.
Anoop nudged Nidhi’s shoulder. ‘Someone has a crush on Walia.’
Nidhi gave him a sharp look. ‘I do not!’
‘Really? Then how about picking your jaw up off the floor?’ Anoop suggested dryly.
Nidhi blushed.
Okay, so Vikram was kind of adorable with the kids. And kind of adorable in general. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t a spoilt, self-important brat. Nor did it change the fact that he was dating the most glamorous woman in the country. And, of course, there was the tiny little issue of him trampling over Nidhi’s heart when she was fourteen.
An hour later, Vikram finished umpiring a friendly match between the students and then proceeded to show some of the eager ones a few batting techniques.
As they finally walked out of the school gate, Nidhi was mentally congratulating herself on the smooth completion of the event, but the kudos were premature. Because as soon as she stepped out of the premises, Nidhi was engulfed by a large mob of excited villagers gathered at the entrance of the school. Someone pushed her and she felt herself being swallowed up by the restless swarm of eager fans.
‘Vikram sir, Vikram sir!’ someone shouted.
‘Please sir, just one photo, sir!’ screamed another fan.
‘I love you, Vikram!’ pleaded a shrill female voice.
Nidhi shot a worried look at Vikram but he was shielded by three beefy bouncers as they manoeuvred their way through the crowd, towards the car. A sharp elbow jabbed into her ribs, nearly knocking the wind out of her. Attempting to regain her balance, Nidhi tried to see past the scores of screaming devotees as they chanted Vikram’s name, imploring him with their words and their eyes for one photograph, one autograph, one look. Nidhi’s lungs felt constricted as she found herself being swept by the sea of faceless faces, frantic cries of the fans ringing in her ears—loud, desperate, incessant. Bile rose up in her throat as a hand reached out and clasped her wrist. A moment later, she felt herself being pulled firmly against Vikram, protected by the hard wall of his chest.
Nidhi looked at him blankly, but she saw neither her protector nor her saviour. She saw instead the handsome, glamorous celebrity that inspired obsessive devotion among millions. She saw a complete stranger.
Interlocking his fingers tightly with hers, Vikram said, ‘I’ve got you. Hold on.’
Nidhi managed a catatonic nod.
A few minutes later, the bouncers deposited her and Vikram into the car, and Rao Uncle immediately locked both doors to ward off the frenzied mob. In her hypnotized state, Nidhi stared at Vikram and then at the throng of crazed fans outside. Dozens of them had piled around the car, banging on his window, thumping on her window, begging for just one precious glimpse of their hero.
‘Drive!’ Vikram snapped at Rao. ‘Monty will come in another car.’
As they made their way through the narrow streets outside the school, Vikram watched Nidhi. For the first time in all the years he had known her, her body language lacked the confidence that was core to her personality. And even though at their first meeting in the conference room he had longed to shake her composure, this wasn’t what he’d hoped to achieve. At the moment, she looked utterly confused . . . and lost.
Something tugged at Vikram and he instinctively reached for her hand.
Nidhi gasped and recoiled from his touch, pressing back in her seat. She looked at him like she was seeing him for the first time. Like he was a complete stranger.
Vikram cursed under his breath. Over the years, he had gotten used to fans overstepping their boundaries, but this was probably the first time Nidhi had witnessed such madness in person.
Vikram tried to find the words to make it better, but all he could come up with was, ‘It’s just me, Nidhi.’
She nodded softly, but didn’t speak for the rest of the car ride.
WhatsApp Chat
Nidhi Marwah: This is the worst date ever.
Risha Kohli: Ku-ku-ku-ku . . .
Tanvi Bedi: Shit, I can’t get that song out of my head.
Nidhi Marwah: Stop that, Rish! I actually tried calling him Kamal but he said he prefers Kuku.
Risha Kohli: What’s he like? Send a picture.
Nidhi Marwah: Isn’t the fact that I’m texting under the table bad enough? It will look super weird if I suddenly start taking pictures of him.
; Tanvi Bedi: Please don’t.
Risha Kohli: So describe him then.
Nidhi Marwah: He’s really tall and brawny.
Risha Kohli: What’s he wearing?
Nidhi Marwah: A charcoal suit.
Risha Kohli: And what’s the problem?
Nidhi Marwah: His personality.
Tanvi Bedi: What did you expect from a guy who goes by a shitty name like ‘Kuku’?
Nidhi Marwah: He’s been talking non-stop for the last fifteen minutes—hasn’t even taken a break to eat. I can actually see the congealed layer on top of his soup.
Tanvi Bedi: What the fuck is he rambling about?
Nidhi Marwah: He asked me what I do at NT but before I could answer, started talking about how the newspaper industry is on a decline and why I should get out while I can.
Risha Kohli: Rocket scientist.
Nidhi Marwah: And then he asked me how my day was, but before I could respond . . .
Tanvi Bedi: He started talking about how spectacular his day was, filled with great achievements such as eradicating poverty and curing cancer?
Nidhi Marwah: Exactly. Or the lawyer equivalent of those achievements, anyway.
Risha Kohli: Such a charmer.
Tanvi Bedi: Sounds like a first-rate asshole.
Nidhi Marwah: And he hasn’t exactly been subtle about staring at my chest. His gaze keeps drifting to my cleavage.
Risha Kohli: Well, you do have rather nice boobs.
Nidhi Marwah: Thanks. But it’s no longer flattering when his definition of eye contact is eye-to-bust, instead of eye-to-eye.
Tanvi Bedi: Dump the soup on his crotch and get the hell out of there.
Nidhi Marwah: And he has this fake American accent. He keeps calling me ‘Niddy’.
Risha Kohli: That’s ‘shiddy’.
Nidhi Marwah: And he said he doesn’t like girls who drink.
Risha Kohli: Are you telling me you’ve been surviving this dinner without alcohol?
Nidhi Marwah: Obviously.
Tanvi Bedi: Are you fucking crazy??? Order a shot RIGHT NOW!
Risha Kohli: Or pay the waiter 100 bucks to spike your mocktail.
Nidhi Marwah: Oh. My. God.
Risha Kohli: Yeah, it’s probably not the right thing to do.
Man of Her Match Page 8