by Nikita Singh
When I say decent, I mean decent. Some of these tops have these huge symmetrical cuts at the back, some don’t even have a back, some are made of material so thin it’s practically transparent and some are off shoulder, some are cropped. The dresses are way too tight, the skirts way too short and I don’t seem to have anything . . . regular in my wardrobe. Like a pair of jeans, or a shirt that covers more than it exposes. You won’t believe the kind of bottoms I have—leopard print leggings, jeggings cut out at extremely odd places, and like really, really tiny hot pants.
Oh, look at this! Leather pants. They don’t seem cut anywhere, and are my best bet if I want to cover my body from waist to ankle and not camouflage myself as a jungle animal all at the same time, but the thing is—it’s the middle of summer and we’re in Delhi and I’ll get fried if I step out wearing these.
Hmm.
I grab a towel and head to the bathroom. I’ll just take a shower first and deal with the clothes when it comes to it, which buys me fifteen minutes. I quickly step out of my clothes and into the shower. The cold water hits me and I cool down instantly. There’s something about washing your hair on a hot summer day . . . well, what do I know? This feels like the first summer of my life, but it does feel pretty darn good.
Also, I’ve noticed I use the term pretty darn very often (even when I’m just thinking). I make a mental note to ask Ada if it used to be my catchphrase. Maybe it is. Maybe my memory is coming back after all, in tiny pieces.
I get all excited as I rub a sweet smelling aqua effect, refreshing face wash on my face. The tube also says FOR OILY TO NORMAL SKIN and under that SENSATIONAL FRESHNESS AND MOISTURE BALANCE. I turn it around to read the application and ingredients on the back. Maybe that’s something I do. Maybe I read stuff printed on bottles of stuff.
As I towel myself dry, I feel very positive about my memory coming back. The doctors were right; if I get back to my normal routine, it’ll start coming back to me. I’ll just go right back to my regular life seamlessly and—
Is that? It isn’t. Oh, dear God, it is. It most definitely is.
Shit, shit, shit.
‘MUM! MUM! MUMMY!’ I wrap myself in the towel and step out of the washroom. I yell ‘MUM’ a few more times before she comes running to my room.
‘What is it? What’s wrong?’ she asks.
‘Mum—’
‘Are you okay? Does it hurt somewhere? Where?’ she shoots a flurry of questions towards me.
‘Yes, I’m okay,’ I try to calm her down. ‘Everything’s fine.’
She pauses, observes my face, looks around the room, and then back at me. ‘Then why on earth were you screaming?’
‘I was screaming because . . . wait, let me show you and then you will scream too,’ I turn my back towards her and pull down my towel. When there’s no screaming after seven seconds, I ask, ‘See?’
‘Yes,’ Mum says like nothing’s wrong with the world.
‘Yes? What do you—’ Now I’m completely baffled.
‘The angel tattoo on your lower back. Sure, I see it.’
‘You knew about this? Are you serious!?!’ I adjust my towel and spin around to face her. ‘You’re telling me you knew I have a black and red angel inked on my body, and you are okay with it?’
‘I never said I was okay with it. But I know about it. You got this almost a year ago; we had a huge fight about it.’
‘And? Your teenage daughter goes ahead and gets a tattoo, like a real tattoo and you do nothing?’
‘I yelled, you yelled back, I put you under house arrest, you escaped in the middle of the night, I took away your cell phone for a week, you didn’t talk to me the whole time. But what can be done? The tattoo is permanent, after all,’ she shrugs.
‘Oh God. You really need a lesson in keeping-your-teenagedaughter-under-control,’ I shake my head in disbelief.
‘Maybe I did. But not anymore; you hit your head and now you’re not troublesome anymore.’
‘Stop winking! This is not funny, Mum. Tattoos are dangerous. Do you even know what place I got this from? For all we know, I might have AIDS.’
‘Oh, you don’t,’ Mum sits next to me on my bed where I have slumped down and puts her arm around me. ‘We got you tested for all sorts of infections when I first got to know about the tattoo. You used to push us around a lot, but I did have some power over you. I dragged you to the hospital and we did the tests and thankfully, you were clean.’
I nod. ‘Are there any other surprises I should watch out for? Body piercings? Am I a part of an underground cult or something?’
‘None that I know of,’ Mum pulls me closer to her and I rest my head on her shoulder.
‘Hmm. I didn’t find any piercings. Didn’t find the tattoo sooner, the mirror in the hospital washroom was barely six inches big.’ I sit with my head on Mum’s shoulder and she pats my back softly. ‘Do my friends know about the tattoo?’ ‘Oh, yes. You were very big on showing it off. Always low cut pants and short tops.’
‘That’s another thing—my clothes.’ I make a face.
Mum laughs and messes up my hair with her fingers. ‘I’ll pick something out for you today. Tomorrow, we can go shopping.’
‘That would be nice.’
She gets up and opens my cupboard, while I move with the cupboard door as it opens. The door has a full length mirror on it, and I try to put my hair back in place. Mum pulls out a yellow tank top and a pair of dark blue shorts and hands them to me.
‘Thanks,’ I murmur. ‘I’ll go put these on.’
As I reach the bathroom door, Mum says, ‘It’s going to be okay.’
I turn around to face her.
‘I know it’s difficult. It feels new and it must be scary, but let’s just take it one day at a time.’
‘Hmm. I just don’t get how you can be so . . . so okay with all this? Aren’t you even a little bit worried anymore?’
‘In your language: are you kidding me? Do you think I’m not scared?’ She looks serious, loving, strong and strangely vulnerable, all at the same time.
‘Then how come you’re so cool with it?’
‘Because happy or sad, we do have to go through this, whatever’s going on. So why not make lemonade?’
I nod. ‘Wait, what? That didn’t make any sense!’
‘Oh, you know what they say! When life gives you lemons, make lemonade and all that?’
‘Actually, I don’t.’
‘Ohh, right. The memory loss. I forget,’ Mum laughs at my expense and I try to act mad at her, but fail, so I join her in laughing at me instead.
We’re laughing at my serious medical condition. We’re awfully weird people.
I still cannot see him. It’s almost 3 p.m. and only I know how difficult the last five hours have been for me. After Dad left for work, I’ve watched three shows on TV, which were all unrealistic, with women cooking in the kitchen loaded with heavy jewellery and expensive clothes, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. I’ve also tried reading a book Mum fished out from an old carton for me, when I told her Tisha was very upset about me not knowing Cinderella’s story. So I read that book, which was just about twenty pages long with a huge font and big pictures all over it. So it hardly took me ten minutes to go through it. Tisha will be so proud.
Then I helped Mum in the kitchen, which wasn’t much of a task because a) she said cooking for two people is a piece of cake and she had already done half of the job and b) she didn’t trust me with the knife, potato peeler or the gas stove. So I just sprinkled salt on the salad and applied ghee to the chapattis.
Then we had lunch, watching a cookery show on the TV. Mum went to lie down for a while after lunch and when I got bored in my room and went to hers, I found that she had fallen asleep, so I tiptoed back to my room, lay down on the bed and stared at the Linkin Park posters for half an hour. Overall, I’ve almost reached the point where I could actually die out of boredom.
And I still cannot freaking see him.
I’ve
left one of the windows overlooking the balcony open and have been peeking outside every five minutes, to see if Harsh Raj Sisodiya is in his balcony, but there’s no sign of him. The tent hasn’t moved even the slightest in the last umm, seventy-three minutes since I opened the window and first peeped out.
But of course.
He must be there. Last time I saw him, he was completely hidden under the tent and I had no clue there was a person under it until he spoke to me. There’s a good chance he might be there right now. I get up from the bed and open the balcony door. Stepping out, I call, apparently to a green canvas tent, ‘Hello?’ and wait for five seconds before saying, ‘Are you there? Harsh Raj Sisodiya?’
There is silence for a few seconds, after which there is a ruffle and a head pops out. It’s clearly not Harsh Raj Sisodiya’s. And that’s a little creepy.
The head rises up and soon I can see her neck and then all of her down to her knees. Her thick long hair reminds me of . . . I’ve seen her . . . oh! She’s that tomboyish, nerd girl Tisha was bitching about. Something Siddhu. What is she doing here?
‘Hi,’ I say.
‘Hey.’
‘I . . . know you. You came to my place yesterday.’
‘Yeah, I’m Sarabjeet Siddhu.’
Sarabjeet Siddhu. Right. ‘Yes, I know.’
‘You do? Who . . . ?’
‘Tisha. And Sameer. They told me about you after you left.’
‘That can’t be good,’ she mutters.
For a moment, I don’t know what to say. Then I figure I should be covering for my friends and I smile brightly (I hope she doesn’t see through it) and say, ‘No, no. You’ve got nothing to worry about. It was all good.’
Sarabjeet gives me a really funny look.
‘How are you?’ she asks.
‘I’m fine,’ I nod.
‘Good.’
‘Good.’
We get silent for a few seconds. ‘Umm, is Harsh in there?’ I point to the canvas tent.
‘Yup.’
‘Okay . . .’ I wait for her to ask him to come out, but she doesn’t. She just stands there. I shift on my feet. ‘What is he doing?’
‘Watching a movie.’
Oh, so that’s why he hasn’t come out; he must have earphones on and can’t hear the conversation (or whatever it is) I’m having with Sarabjeet.
When she doesn’t say anything, I ask, ‘Which movie?’
‘The Karate Kid,’ Sarabjeet says. ‘The newer one, the one with Will Smith’s kid in it.’
‘Great,’ I nod, as if I understand which movie she’s referring to.
‘Though, I’ve seen it plenty of times. So I’m just reading my book.’
‘Which book?’ I ask again, as if I’d know if she tells me. Except maybe if she’s reading Cinderella.
She pulls out an electronic device the size of a paperback, only thinner, from under the tent and shows it to me. From where I’m standing, I can see just about nothing on it.
‘It’s just something I like reading. You wouldn’t be interested,’ she shrugs.
I’d have thought she meant I’m stupid and she’s reading something intelligent, but she got slightly red in the face, which makes me think what she’s reading is a touchy topic.
‘Hmm, okay,’ I try to act normal and decide not to probe, so that she doesn’t turn redder.
She pulls out a printed handkerchief from a pocket of her denim jumpsuit and wipes her face, muttering, ‘Hot.’
‘Yeah, I was wondering, don’t you guys get uncomfortable in this tent?’
‘We have a tiny table fan. And it’s just the beginning of April, you’ll see what summer in Delhi actually means. We’ve become almost resistant to moderately high temperatures like 40 degrees.’
‘Do you guys hang out in there every day?’ I ask. I don’t know if 40 degrees is actually high, or if she’s being sarcastic, so I think it’s best to not indulge into that further and make a fool of myself.
‘What, no! Just when Harsh is grounded,’ Sarabjeet laughs, her face lights up, as if remembering something hilarious. Which in this case, I guess, is her friend getting grounded.
‘Why is Harsh grounded?’ I ask curiously, her smile making me smile.
‘He . . . well, actually, it’s a long story,’ she says and looks at everything but me.
My face drops suddenly and I try to control it. Of course. I’m an outsider. Why would they let me in on their secrets and personal jokes? Talking to her for twenty minutes over balcony railings doesn’t exactly make us the best of friends. I nod and take a step back. ‘I should get back in . . . My mom . . . I’ve got stuff to do . . .’
‘Oh . . .’
Embarrassing tears well up in my eyes without warning and I wonder why this hurt so much. Tisha says mean things to me all the time and that never hurts me, and that’s when she’s my friend. I don’t even know Sarabjeet Siddhu, except that she’s Harsh’s friend and my friends aren’t her biggest fans. It shouldn’t matter.
I get back in my room and turn around to close the door. ‘See you,’ Sarabjeet says to me when my face is turned towards her.
‘Bye,’ I mutter and stretch my lips in the semblance of a smile.
‘Get well soon,’ she calls, but I’ve already shut the door and put the latch on.
Eight
15 APRIL 2013
First day at school. I’m grateful that I lost my memory now, not a year later; I still have one school year left to make memories. Mum says school years are the best years of one’s life. So, just in case I don’t get my memory back, I’ll at least have this one last year of school memories. Which cheers me up, but not much.
I’m really nervous about going to school and attending classes, and everything else going to school involves. I don’t remember what’s where. Over the last four days, Mum has helped me with getting ready to get back to school. She showed me where my bus stand is, so that she wouldn’t have to go with me today. She said I’d find that embarrassing, going to the bus stop with my mum, in front of my friends. I take her word for it, but I don’t see myself being anything but deeply thankful if she comes with me.
My bus number is S-21. It’s a yellow coloured EICHER bus, with THE PRESIDENCY CONVENT written on its sides and back. Mum packed me a really thin sling bag, with just one notebook, two library cards, my school ID card, a couple of pens and my wallet with lunch money in it. She said they serve a mid-day meal at my school, but I buy food from the canteen with my friends. Also, I do have all the books from the booklist for XII grade, but apparently, we do not study from NCERT books, and just keep them as a syllabus. Mum assured me I’ll find all the thick reference books in the library.
Just yesterday, she joked, ‘You should thank me for having poked my nose in your business all these years. Or I wouldn’t have any idea how to get you prepared for school now.’
Even though I just smiled, I secretly did thank her with all of my heart. What if I’d, like, packed all my books and a pencil box in the big backpack I saw in my bed’s storage (and had assumed was my school bag) and turned up in school like that, given I boarded the right bus? And what if I’d gone to have lunch with the rest of the school in the dining room, while my friends waited for me in the canteen? It would have been so embarrassing. (Although, my friends wouldn’t wait in the canteen for me; they’d take me with them—we’re in the same class. Maybe not Tisha though; I’m sure she’d have no qualms leaving me behind.)
Ada has come over a couple of times in the last four days and told me there’s nothing to worry about and that they’ll all be there to help me settle down. Sameer said that too, over the phone. He calls me twice every day. He says we used to talk for hours on the phone every day. But I somehow can’t picture that. Every time he calls, our conversation goes something like this:
‘Hey, what’s up?’ he says.
‘Hi. Nothing much, I’m just reading a book or watching a movie or talking to Mum or having dinner or going for a shower or something equally
uninteresting.’ Let’s consider the reading-a-book scenario for now.
‘Oh, really? Which book?’
‘It’s called The Black Beauty. Have you heard of it?’
‘Of course I have. Everybody has. Do you like it?’
‘Yeah, it’s nice. I’ve only read about one third yet.’
‘Hmm. It’s just strange to see you read books.’
‘Why? I don’t read?’
‘Not really. Nobody does; who has the time?’
I do, I say in my head but keep silent otherwise. I then ask what he’s doing and he tells me either cricket practice or working out at the gym or hanging out with Bharat and Kapil (Tisha’s ex, who didn’t come to see me at the hospital and later because Tisha did and he didn’t want to bump into her) at a sheesha lounge (apparently, smoking hookah is cool) or playing billiards with his club friends.
I ask if he’s having fun playing/working out/taking drags of hookah/hitting small balls with a stick, and he says yeah. Then we make small talk for a few more minutes and hang up when it gets too awkward to handle.
We literally don’t have anything to talk about. Whenever I say I’m reading a book, he says no one reads books. When I say I’m watching a movie he asks me which, and then says I’ve seen it already. When I say I’m talking to Mum he starts laughing and says, ‘You’re so funny,’ like I’m kidding. When I say I’m having dinner, he says I don’t eat! Like for real, I just nibble at fruits like grapes and oranges, because I’m constantly on a diet. He doesn’t believe me when I say I love pasta and chocolate brownies.
And, worst of all, when I once said I was going for a shower, he made his voice all husky and asked me to show him. I was confused, but then he explained he wanted me to send pictures and started to say some dirty things I’m sure he thought were sexy but were actually, more than anything, just plain creepy. I freaked out and hung up and have never mentioned anything about showers since.