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Right Here Right Now

Page 6

by Nikita Singh


  ‘So?’ the lanky, skinny boy speaks again. ‘What are you thinking about?’

  ‘Your hair.’ I bite my tongue. I didn’t mean for that to escape my mouth.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I mean nothing. Who are you?’

  ‘Harsh Raj Sisodiya,’ he says.

  ‘Hi Harsh Raj Sisodiya. I am—’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘For starters: we’re in the same school, in the same class, and the same section. Not to mention that the behind of your apartment is in extremely close proximity to the behind of my apartment.’

  It might be an inappropriate joke to make, but it makes me laugh. ‘So, are we like, friends?’

  ‘Oh, no, no, no,’ Harsh Raj Sisodiya shakes his head vigorously.

  ‘Umm . . .’

  ‘Why? Because you aren’t exactly in the habit of hanging out with ugly people.’

  ‘But you’re not ugly!’ I say. Far from it. Is he kidding me right now? He’s not classically handsome or anything, but he’s okay! Definitely not ugly.

  ‘I am too tall, too thin, have too much hair and too few muscles. And I am called Harsh Raj Sisodiya. Oh yes, I’m ugly.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘You do. You just don’t know it yet,’ he says with the utmost confidence.

  I try to understand what that means but can’t make any sense of it. But I have to think of something to say, or we’ll run out of conversation and it’ll become awkward to stand here and I’ll have to go back in and then I’ll just die. ‘I think calling you Harsh instead of Harsh Raj Sisodiya will make you less ugly.’

  ‘That’s what my friends call me.’

  ‘I can be your friend.’

  ‘THE Kalindi Mishra, friends with me, Harsh Raj Sisodiya, from the uncool, nerd crowd? I now believe those who said you hit your head pretty hard!’ Harsh laughs.

  ‘Not. Funny.’ I grit my teeth, but for some reason, I don’t take offence at all.

  ‘Oops, sorry. Too soon?’

  ‘Nah, it’s cool,’ I smile.

  ‘So, what are you hiding from?’ he points to the door behind me.

  ‘A houseful of hugging, smiling and chatting strangers.’

  He nods intelligently as if he faces this every day and completely gets it.

  ‘You do know about my, uh, situation, don’t you?’ I ask.

  ‘Yup. Word travels.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  We stare at each other for a minute, smiling amicably. Then we look away and at the jungle of balconies around us. We look at each other again. And we look away. All these balconies are empty except for laundry drying on ropes and wires, even though I don’t think they receive any sunlight at all, surrounded by these tall buildings. We look at each other again. Then away. I start counting the balconies.

  It’s awkward.

  A tap on my shoulder makes me turn around. ‘Oh. Hey,’ I try to smile at Sameer.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ he asks, scanning the multiple balconies behind me.

  ‘Nothing, just talking to . . .’ when I turn back, there’s no Harsh Raj Sisodiya there anymore.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘No one. I was just, um, thinking.’

  ‘Thinking?’ Sameer looks like the concept is completely alien to him. ‘But aren’t you like, blank? What do you have to think about?’

  Did he actually just say that?

  ‘Was that inappropriate? Shit, I’m so sorry.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ I say distractedly. Where did Harsh Raj Sisodiya disappear to?

  Oh, well. I guess this was as long as I could procrastinate. I can’t think of anything that will save me from going inside and meeting people now.

  As we walk back inside, Sameer is saying, ‘It’s just all new, you know? I think I haven’t completely processed it yet.’

  I nod.

  ‘I don’t fully understand what things have changed and stuff. . .’

  ‘It’s alright. We can figure it out,’ I find myself reassuring him, although I’m pretty darn scared myself.

  We walk out and I meet and greet the gazillion people gathered to see me. That’s what it feels like, as if they aren’t here to meet me or show their support, but to see for themselves what a freak with no memory looks and walks and talks like. They act all awkward around me, and I feel like I’m a bomb about to explode, again.

  Ninety mostly-painful minutes later, I finally feel like I’m not going to die after all. Once their curiosity is satisfied, the crowd starts thinning. More and more people start leaving and I find myself breathing easy again.

  ‘Here. You love pizza.’ Mum hands me a slice on a Styrofoam plate.

  I take a bite. ‘I think I do!’

  ‘You okay?’ she asks under her breath.

  ‘Uh-huh,’ I nod and smile at her.

  ‘Just a few more minutes and then you can go to your room with your friends, okay? I’ll take care of the rest of the guests.’

  ‘You’re the best!’

  ‘I am,’ she winks playfully and walks towards the dining table, which looks like a complete disaster.

  Ada hasn’t left my side even once and the rest of my friends gather around me again.

  ‘We’ll see you in school then?’ one girl says. I don’t know her name, although I think she did tell me in the beginning. But everyone has been calling her Chip, which I think (and hope for her sake) is some kind of a nick name.

  ‘Yeah,’ I say and smile. These are good people, annoying, but good. They came to welcome me back to the world where I have spent seventeen years of my life, but I somehow feel completely new to it. They did make me uncomfortable, but I’m sure they didn’t mean to. They are just as clueless about how to act around me as I am.

  Chip smiles back and leaves with a bunch of people, some of whom wave, some who mutter ‘see ya’ or ‘bye’ and some who force their expressions to turn into half-smiles. I tell myself that they’re trying their best, just like I am. Maybe my smiles look just as forced and fake.

  We bid goodbye to a few more guests until only a few uncles and aunties are left. Mum signals to me that I’m free and I walk back to my room (the den or whatever). Ada, Bharat, Tisha and Sameer follow me.

  I climb onto my bed and sit right in the middle, releasing a long breath. Tisha sits on my pouffe and the rest of them park themselves surrounding me on the bed.

  ‘That wasn’t so much fun, was it?’ Ada says.

  We all start laughing all at once.

  ‘Totally not what we had imagined!’ Tisha exclaims.

  ‘What was the deal with all the hugging?’ Bharat shakes his head, as if still in shock or something.

  ‘Since when did that loser Michael become our friend?’ Sameer asks.

  ‘EXACTLY. And Sarabjeet Siddhu? Who invited these people?’ Tisha exclaims again. She never speaks normally. She either shrieks or exclaims or mocks, like she’s on some kind of a TV show or something, always under spotlight, all eyes on her and she can’t not be dramatic for her many, many fans.

  ‘I don’t think people from nerdsville wait for invitations; if they did, they’d have to wait their whole lives!’ Sameer engages Tisha.

  ‘And still not get invited anywhere,’ Tisha gets more and more dramatic.

  As the two talk about how pathetic this Michael and Sarabjeet Siddhu are, I turn to Ada and ask, ‘Which ones were they?’

  ‘Michael was the short, fat boy in the blue checked shirt and blue trousers.’

  ‘Oh, the one with really short, spiky hair?’

  She giggles. ‘Yeah. Hair gel overdose.’

  ‘And this Sarabjeet Siddhu?’

  ‘With the really long, black hair, in a thick braid. She’s Sikh; some Sikhs don’t cut their hair. Do you know that? I think you must know that, right? Because this is just a fact, not a person or incident and you’ve only forgotten people and incidents. Anyway. She was the thin girl wearing the lo
ose six-pocket pants with a red tee?’

  ‘Oh yeah. She was kinda weird, no?’

  ‘We aren’t even sure if it’s a she!’ Tisha exclaims, shrieks and mocks—all at the same time.

  I look puzzled and Ada leans in to whisper something in my ear when Tisha sighs loudly. ‘Really? You think the boys don’t have eyes? She has an actual moustache. More than anybody else in class! Also, everybody can see that she has no assets to prove she’s a girl! It’s so obvious!’

  While Tisha starts laughing, nobody else joins in. Ada looks at me as if to apologize for Tisha’s behaviour and the boys just try to look occupied with their cell phones.

  ‘Is there a reason why we hate these two?’ I ask.

  ‘They’re nerds. They’re awkward and uncool and all they do is top every test and all that, but they’re like, really stupid,’ Tisha says and adds, ‘Also: zero dressing sense. She dresses like a boy. And he dresses like a ratty fifty-year-old man.’

  ‘And that is our problem, because?’ I almost ask, but decide it’s best to let it go. If I keep asking questions, she’ll never shut up. Harsh Raj Sisodiya was right. We are the cool crowd of the school and we do not hang out with ugly people. It’s so awesome to know that we’re the kind of people who judge others based on what they wear and hate them with such intensity if they do not pass our strict fashion-filters.

  Sameer and Tisha try to uncover who invited the nerds to the party and I feel like Sameer is a girl inside. The thought just pops into my head out of nowhere. He has the drama of a teenaged girl, the interest in fashion and it’s just something in the way he’s gossiping that makes me feel like he is a girl, stuck in the body of a boy. I try to shake that image out of my head. He’s my boyfriend, after all. But the image keeps on reappearing as I see him and Tisha make fun of the nerds. I hope the silence from Ada and Bharat means at least they do not approve of this.

  ‘So, when’s your memory coming back?’ Tisha asks suddenly.

  ‘Umm, I don’t know . . .’

  ‘I ask only since we have school starting Monday and it’s the 10th already! Just about five days!’

  ‘I know that . . .’

  ‘Do you feel up to it, honey? School?’ Ada asks, looking very sympathetic.

  ‘Yeah, we were talking just yesterday and we wondered how this is gonna work,’ Bharat interjects.

  ‘How what is gonna work?’

  ‘Studies and stuff. Like, do you remember what Calculus is?’

  ‘I . . .’ I run that word over in my head. Calculus. Calculus. Calculus. ‘I don’t think I do.’

  ‘Shit man! You’re screwed big time!’ Tisha shrieks.

  ‘Whoa there. A little sensitivity,’ Bharat chides her.

  ‘No, but really,’ Sameer interjects. ‘If she doesn’t remember anything from our course, she has no base. Will she have to repeat all of her education?’

  ‘Will they even let her join XII grade with us?’ Tisha exclaims.

  I’ve never thought about these things. I’ve thought about joining school, but all I’ve thought about school was friends and Tisha taking over my basketball captain spot on the team. And I’ve always felt like my memory is going to come back any moment now. It’s been nine days since I woke up. Amnesia caused by post-traumatic stress should have subsided by now. I had my hopes pinned on coming home and being back in my room and my entire life flashing in front of my eyes like a mixture of a slideshow and collage, making me remember everything in a fraction of a second, like BOOM. Or something a tad less dramatic.

  But oh my God, I don’t remember anything. If they let me join class with everybody else, I’ll fail and be left behind while everybody else goes off to college next year and I sit and wait for my memory to come back.

  ‘Relax, guys,’ Ada tries to salvage the situation. She must’ve noticed the expression on my face. ‘Her memory will come back. We’ll help her.’

  ‘Yeah, we’ll help, but what if it doesn’t work? What if—’

  ‘Then you can be the basketball captain permanently. Good for you,’ I say before Tisha says anything else.

  She opens her mouth again, but Bharat speaks up before she has a chance to say anything. ‘We have to figure out a way to make you remember.’

  I nod.

  ‘Or else we’ll have to become your teachers and help you with your fourteen years of education. All the way from nursery to XI.’

  ‘I know how to read!’ I say. ‘We don’t have to start from nursery!’

  ‘Oh, great! Let’s find out from where we have to start your education,’ Bharat says.

  ‘Are you serious?’ Ada asks.

  ‘Yeah!’ Bharat looks pretty darn excited.

  ‘You up for it?’ she turns to me.

  ‘Yes, why not? I can take it!’ I say.

  ‘The alphabet. Go!’ Bharat orders.

  ‘ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZ.’

  ‘Animal starting with B.’

  ‘Umm,’ I think hard but can’t come up with anything. ‘Baby elephant?’

  ‘Impressive. Although bear is a more regular response,’ he jokes.

  ‘Oh, right. Bear.’

  ‘Two times two?’

  ‘Four,’ I make a face. ‘I’m not a complete moron, you know? I just lost my memory, but that doesn’t make me stupid!’

  ‘Okay then: three hundred forty-seven times six hundred four?’

  ‘Ooh. Bring it on. I’ll need a pen and a paper.’

  We go on like that for a long time and everybody joins in. Sameer asks questions from science, Bharat takes care of maths, Ada, social sciences and Tisha, English. After two hours of constant questioning, my head hurts a little, but I’m mostly relieved. I seem to know most of what has been taught to me over the years.

  ‘How is it that you know how to solve this, even though you don’t know what Calculus means?’

  I shrug, staring at a bunch of sheets in front of me.

  ‘Science is kind of twisted too,’ Sameer says. ‘You remember what everything is, just not who invented it. And you know what the theory means, but not what it is called. Hmm. Interesting.’

  ‘I’m okay at chemistry though,’ I say.

  ‘Yes, you are. Better than biology at least. You don’t remember any biological terms! Good thing we haven’t opted for bio.’

  ‘Then?’

  ‘PCM,’ Bharat states. ‘Physics, chemistry and maths. Plus we have English mandatory and we’ve chosen physical education as optional.’

  ‘Okay,’ I nod, trying not to be overwhelmed.

  ‘Well, she’s good at social studies. History, civics, geography—she knows her stuff,’ Ada declares proudly.

  ‘But we don’t have social studies in our course in XII standard,’ Tisha sighs (I think it’s more of a mockery). ‘How come you don’t remember even a single poem?’

  ‘I’ve no idea!’

  ‘No stories? Fairy tales? Rhymes? Anything?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I shake my head.

  ‘Do you know who Shakespeare was?’

  ‘Yes. A great poet and playwright?’

  ‘Can you name any of his poems or plays?’ Tisha looks at me as if her life depends on my response.

  ‘No,’ I say in a small voice.

  ‘Oh my God. Okay, never mind. Let’s try something else. Do you know who Cinderella is?’

  ‘I’ve heard her name.’ I’m a little unsure.

  ‘Really? That’s great, you’re doing great. Now: do you know Cinderella’s story?’

  I think hard. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Peter Pan? Pinocchio? Harry Potter?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘Do you remember any book you’ve read, like EVER?’

  ‘I can’t think of—’

  ‘Oh my God! Really? Twilight? Fifty Shades?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Gossip Girl? Please tell me you remember Gossip Girl.’

  ‘I . . . don’t.’

  ‘I give up,’ Tisha exclaims dramatically and lies d
own on the bed. She’d literally been jumping up and down on her toes, asking questions. And I failed so badly in her subject!

  ‘Come on. Chill! She has all the time in the world to read books,’ Bharat tries to console her.

  ‘Where will she even start? She has a long journey from Cinderella to Fifty Shades.’ Tisha shuts her eyes and looks so dejected that I actually start feeling guilty for letting her down. Under all that drama and attitude, I think she’s actually very sweet and cares about me.

  ‘Well, it’s not absolutely necessary for every girl to read that series . . .’ Bharat starts, but Ada silences him with a look. (Maybe Fifty Shades is another of the topics you don’t engage Tisha in, for fear of her never shutting up about it.)

  ‘She needs to work extra hard on English and physics. But overall, she’s in a fairly decent position,’ Ada says. ‘She’ll be okay.’

  ‘She doesn’t remember Christian Grey. There’s nothing okay about that,’ Tisha announces with an air of finality. I have no clue what she’s talking about.

  Seven

  11 APRIL 2013

  It’s been nine days since I came out of my coma, and my memory is still not back. Call me a hopeless optimist, but I really thought that if I slept in my own bed for a night, I’d magically remember everything when I woke up the next morning. Well, it’s the next morning right now and I don’t remember a thing from my past. Also, I feel a bit dizzy, but I don’t think it has anything to do with my medical condition.

  After my friends left yesterday, Mum showed me around the house and I strained my head really very hard to remember the lost years. I stopped and stared at every piece of furniture, forcing my brain to recall something, anything—any piece of memory I have of the dressing table, chair or washbasin in question. It did not work, but I’m positive it will; I just have to stare at each object for longer, something I couldn’t do with Mum following me around and looking at me all funny.

  Right now, I have more pressing issues on my mind. Like choosing what to wear. So far Mum has been bringing cotton shorts and T-shirts to the hospital for me to wear. Now, for the first time, I have to choose what to wear by myself. And the thing is—it’s not as easy as one would think it’d be. The cotton shorts and T-shirts Mum brought to the hospital were basically stuff to sleep in, which was okay, since I was a patient admitted in a hospital and my friends weren’t dropping in to meet me and looking good wasn’t high on my list of priorities. But now I need to get my life back on track. And how am I supposed to do that if I can’t even find something half decent to wear!

 

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