Right Here Right Now

by Nikita Singh

  He just doesn’t get that, for me, it’s not years of real, honest, true love, like Ada told me. I’ve only actually known him for about fourteen days. And his attention flattered me in the beginning, but he can’t expect me to pick up where we were before I got into the accident. Now, we don’t have anything in common and it’s like the beginning of a relationship for me, and I’m not comfortable flirting with him like that.

  Anyway, boyfriend troubles aside, I need to concentrate on the mountain of problems ahead of me: making it through a whole day of school without embarrassing myself enough to never go back again.

  Today, I woke up at 6.30 a.m., after an uncomfortable, panicky night that left me all tired and puffy under my eyes. I showered and got dressed in my school uniform, which meant a white shirt tucked into a too-short dark green checked skirt, which Mum said isn’t too short for me—it’s the length I always wear to school.

  Mum insists I have breakfast, but my tummy feels really funny, and I’m not sure I can trust myself to keep food down. Throwing up in the school bus or assembly won’t be the best start to my last year at school. But Mum doesn’t listen, so I quickly gulp down the milk and grab a large chocolate chip cookie.

  As I pick up my bag and walk to the front door, nibbling on the cookie (which doesn’t taste as delicious as it did yesterday morning), Mum says, ‘What about the sandwich?’

  ‘Mum, I can’t! I’m not kidding, I’ll puke.’

  ‘Your recess is at 11.30. You’ll starve!’

  ‘I’m not kidding, I’ll puke,’ I repeat, desperately trying to make her understand.

  ‘Okay, okay. But just for today. From tomorrow—’

  ‘You’re the best! I promise I’ll finish my breakfast every morning.’

  ‘Yeah, you will. You won’t have a choice,’ Mum smiles and helps me secure my sling bag on my left shoulder (I’d been holding it and my cookie in my left hand, my right hand is still in a cast) and opens the front door for me.

  ‘Can’t you come with me? Just to the bus stop?’ I plead.

  ‘Trust me, you don’t want that!’

  ‘I do. I really—’

  ‘You don’t. And don’t worry, you’ll be just fine,’ she assures me.

  I’m not particularly reassured, but I do know her enough to know that she’s not going to come with me, no matter how much I beg and plead. She does all this saying she’s protecting me. I don’t see how, but I don’t have time to argue.

  I get into the elevator and mutter ‘see you’ to Mum, who’s standing by the door.

  ‘Bye,’ she smiles.

  I walk to the bus stop, which is just two minutes away, and stand with the other kids, waiting for the bus. The first thing I notice is: PEOPLE STARE. Even as I turn to the girl next to me and smile, she just stares at my cast and turns away to whisper something in the ears of the boy standing next to her. I look away from her and notice everybody else is staring too.

  I quickly finish the rest of my big cookie, pray for the bus to come soon and look at my shoes for 167 seconds. That’s when a bus stops in front of us. It is yellow and EICHER and has THE PRESIDENCY CONVENT written on the side, but it’s not S-21. It’s J-04 and I see all the little kids board it and the bigger kids stay back.

  ‘This one’s for juniors. Hence the J,’ a voice says from behind me and I turn around to find Harsh Raj Sisodiya standing there.

  ‘Oh, hi,’ I say. I am genuinely pleased to see him. It’s like I’ve been alone in a battle for a painfully long time, and have finally found a comrade.

  ‘Hello to you too.’

  ‘What’s up?’ I ask, mimicking how Sameer always starts a conversation with me.

  ‘Nothing much, just waiting for my school bus,’ Harsh says, leaning against a metal pole nonchalantly.

  I blush and mutter, ‘Of course.’

  ‘How’s it going with you?’

  ‘All’s well, you know, just waiting for my school bus,’ I copy his tone.

  He mutters, ‘Of course,’ and looks down at his feet.

  ‘Haw! Are you making fun of me?’

  He laughs, ‘Sorry, you’re just so easy, I couldn’t help it!’

  ‘You’re mean,’ I make a fake-mad face and he laughs harder.

  People are staring even harder now. What is with them?

  ‘Do I look funny? Is it my hair?’ I lean towards Harsh and whisper.

  ‘Your hair looks fine to me.’

  ‘Then what is it? Why is everybody staring at me like this?’

  ‘I told you! People like you don’t socialize with people like me. And when they do, other people stare,’ Harsh says.

  ‘It’s not that. They were staring from even before you got here,’ I explain. ‘Is it the cast?’

  ‘It can’t be. Casts are cool around here. Everybody who plays sports gets them at least once in a couple of months. Or at least a crepe bandage every once in a while. It shows that you’re hardworking or really strong and can endure pain. Also, people pay attention and ask you what’s up.’

  ‘What kind of stupid logic is that?’ I make a face.

  ‘Hey, it’s not my logic. It’s just how it works around here.’

  ‘Hmm. So then what? Why the staring?’

  ‘Might have to do with the complete memory loss. Also, the personality change rumours flying around.’

  ‘How do they all know? Do they think I’m a freak? And what rumours?’

  ‘One, you’re quite famous. Two, I’d love to say they don’t, but there is a good chance they do. And three, the rumours about how you’re a changed person after the accident. Maybe people are just curious to see if it’s true.’

  ‘This is nuts,’ I shake my head in disbelief. ‘And it’s none of their business.’

  ‘No gossip is anyone’s business, but that doesn’t stop people from gossiping.’

  ‘Why do you talk like that?’

  ‘Like what?’ Harsh asks, looking genuinely curious.

  ‘Like you’re some hundred years old and really wise and know everything?’

  ‘Do I? Hmmm. Interesting.’

  ‘Also like that!’ I exclaim. ‘Like you’re observing the world in third person.’

  ‘What can I say? I’m a student of this exciting journey called life.’

  ‘And I’m like this close to hitting you.’

  He laughs.

  Just then, a bus stops in front of us. This time, it’s the right one. Instead of moving forward, Harsh takes a step back and watches as everyone around us board the bus.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I ask.

  ‘My friends save a seat for me. No rush.’

  Which reminds me, Bharat and Kapil are on the same bus too; the rest of my friends have different routes. Ada told me Bharat would save a seat for me.

  After the eight or so other people from the bus stop board, we move forward and Harsh sweeps his arm to the side and proclaims, ‘Ladies first.’

  I climb in and look around for Bharat. ‘Here!’ he calls from the second last row. As I walk towards him, I hear Sarabjeet, who has what I assume to be her bag on the seat right next to her, say ‘hey’ to Harsh.

  Harsh whispers, ‘See you around,’ to me and takes the seat, while I nod and walk on towards Bharat.

  ‘Hey,’ I greet Bharat.

  ‘Morning!’ he says cheerfully and shifts to make place for me. ‘This is Kapil,’ he points to the boy sitting on his other side.

  ‘Oh. Hey Kapil,’ I smile. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you.’

  ‘Great, and I’ve met you a zillion times,’ he says and winks.

  The half-hour journey to the school is basically uneventful. We just chat with each other and I realize I like them both. Bharat is really funny and although Kapil gets a little uncomfortable now and then, we don’t have too many awkward situations.

  As the bus parks inside the school, I start feeling funny in my tummy again.

  ‘Everything okay?’ Bharat asks. Ada must’ve told him I’ve been freaking out.
>
  I nod.

  ‘You sure?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘Ah, relax! We’re all here, it’s all gonna be just fine!’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘What are you so worried about?’ Kapil asks.

  ‘First day at school,’ I say.

  ‘Oh, right. It’s so weird, all of this.’

  ‘Shut up, dude,’ Bharat interjects. ‘You’re gonna make her puke faster. At least let’s all get out of the bus. I don’t fancy getting thrown up over!’

  I punch his arm and get up. As we climb out of the bus, I say, more to myself, ‘I’m not going to throw up.’

  ‘That’s the spirit!’ Bharat cheers me up and Kapil winks at me.

  We see Ada standing with Tisha and Sameer a little ahead and as we walk towards them, Kapil mutters, ‘See you around,’ and walks away from us.

  Not fair. I like him! Why is he not allowed to hang out with us just because he and Tisha broke up? I’d trade him for Tisha any day.

  ‘Tempting, but not gonna happen,’ Bharat whispers, as if reading my mind. ‘Kapil insists on staying away from her and Tisha just won’t stay away from us, so Kapil has to stay away from us in order to stay away from Tisha. That’s how it works.’

  Before I can say anything, Tisha calls, ‘Hey! Look who’s back!’ like she didn’t see me just a few days ago. I’ve been away from school exactly the same number of days she’s been away from school.

  ‘Just smile, it’s all good,’ Bharat murmurs under his breath.

  I nod. ‘Let’s do this.’

  Nine

  Our first period is maths. The teacher, Mr Prasad, walks into the classroom, doesn’t acknowledge the students, writes down an equation on the board with a marker and turns to face the class. ‘I need to make a quick phone call. I need every one of you to have solved this when I come back.’

  ‘He’s an ass,’ Ada whispers in my ear. She’s sitting with me, and behind her is Tisha.

  ‘REAL ass,’ Tisha mutters, eyes wide in drama.

  Okay, so far, it’s been quite smooth. I joined my friends near the bus stand, we walked to our classroom and, on our way, they pointed where the basketball court, cricket field, auditorium, tennis court and assembly block are. (During which, they kept staring at my face curiously, until I had to tell them NO, NO SUDDEN MEMORY FLASHBACK, upon which they acted like they weren’t expecting that to happen anyway.) They promised they’d show me the rest of the school during recess.

  We reached our classroom, XII C, and dumped our bags on what Ada told me are our usual seats. Then, we went outside, into the corridor, and just . . . hung out. Like almost literally. We came right outside the classroom, in the corridor and just stood there and talked. Tisha gave me a commentary on every passer-by. Usually stuff she tells me is information I don’t think will be of use to me in this lifetime, but I figure it’s better to know than not know.

  When the bell rang, we walked to the assembly block and formed a queue. There were lots of queues there. Bharat said the principal makes all the students line up in queues every morning for fifteen minutes, under the pretence of morning prayers, just so she can stand on the stage facing us and feel like she owns our, umm, butts.

  It didn’t really make much sense but it made me laugh, until I was shushed by the class monitor. I shut up and sang the national anthem with everyone else (yes, I remembered it), and walked back to the class in the queue. We took our seats, the class teacher took our attendance and left.

  She did walk by my seat and ask, ‘All okay?’ to which I said, ‘Yeah, all good,’ and smiled at her. She said, ‘Good, good,’ and walked away.

  Five minutes after she leaves, Mr Prasad jots down a maths problem on the board and asks us to solve it before he gets back from his short phone call. Using my left hand (Dad said it’s lucky I’m a lefty, what with my right arm being fractured and in a cast and all that), I copy what he wrote on the board on my notebook and stare at it for a minute. Then I pick up my pen and start solving the problem.

  A minute later, Bharat asks, ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Solving this thing.’

  ‘Which method are you using?’

  ‘I . . .’ I try to remember its name, but can’t, ‘. . . don’t know.’

  ‘You serious?’ Ada says and peeks in.

  I continue solving the problem. Two minutes later, when I’m all done, I look up to find all my friends assembled around me, looking at my notebook in awe.

  ‘How did you do that?’ Sameer asks.

  ‘I don’t know, I just sort of, knew.’

  ‘Oh come on! Have you been studying at home? Have you been practicing maths secretly?’ Tisha exclaims, wrongly smelling a scandal.

  ‘No. Why would I practice maths secretly?’ Now I’m a little confused.

  ‘That’s just genius!’ Bharat says. ‘Tell me how you—’

  Just then, Mr Prasad walks in and everybody rushes back to their own seats. ‘What’s the commotion there? Why isn’t everybody at their seats?’ he yells.

  Nobody says anything. We just pretend to be engrossed in our respective notebooks.

  ‘ANSWER ME.’

  ‘Sir, Kalindi solved the problem,’ a girl with thin pigtails and round body says. I don’t know her name. (But I think Aastha would suit her. Or maybe Saadhna. She looks like an Aastha or Saadhna. Though I have to agree I don’t know anyone with either name.)

  ‘So? You’re in XII standard now. Why is it a surprise that one of you was actually able to solve a problem a XII grade student should be able to solve?’

  ‘I’ve solved it too,’ a guy raises his hand. A few people join in, calling ‘me too, me too’.

  ‘It’s not that, sir. Actually, Kalindi lost her memory over the summer, so it’s unusual that she remembers how to do maths,’ Aastha/Saadhna announces. She then explains the whole case (or her version of it) to Mr Prasad.

  Oh, great. The one thing I wanted today was a lot of attention from everybody around.

  After she is done, Mr Prasad looks at me with interest. ‘Which formula did you use?’

  ‘I don’t . . .’ I stand up at my seat and look stupid. I have no idea which formula I used. I just knew how to solve it, and I did. And I do know how that sounds, so I don’t say it out loud.

  Mr Prasad comes over to my seat and picks up my notebook. When he’s done inspecting it, he nods and put it back down on my desk. ‘Okay. You may sit,’ he says before he walks away.

  I sit down and finally feel like all eyes are not burning a hole in my back.

  ‘So, how many of you were able to solve the problem?’ he asks.

  Half of the class raises its hands.

  ‘And the rest of you?’

  ‘But sir, what about Kalindi? How can she solve the problem and not know the formula she used?’ Aastha/Saadhna asks.

  ‘Do I look like a doctor to you?’ Mr Prasad thunders.

  ‘N-no, sir . . .’

  ‘I don’t know why Kalindi could do what she did. But I do know that mathematics is about more than just remembering the names of the theorems.’

  Aastha/Saadhna nods her head frantically.

  ‘Now, have you solved the problem?’

  ‘Yes sir,’ she says more confidently.

  ‘Very well then. Let’s begin today’s class.’ With that, he flips open a middle-sized book on his desk and starts teaching.

  By the time the class is over—I don’t admit this to Ada or Tisha—I grow a little fond of Mr Prasad. I don’t think he’s an ass at all. He does shout at students a lot, but he’s a really good teacher. It feels so great writing LHS=RHS or HENCE PROVED at the end of the solution. And amongst other things, I really enjoy learning the names of the formulas and theorems I’d successfully applied in the beginning of class.

  ‘Cheese sandwich?’ Sameer asks. I think he’s mocking me, or maybe giving me a chance to change what I said, but I just nod.

  ‘Yeah, cheese sandwich. Grilled, please,’ I repeat t
o the vendor (his badge says Kishan) at the school canteen stall and pull out the money from my wallet to pay him.

  ‘It’s okay, I got it,’ Sameer says, but I’ve already handed over the money.

  I take the token Kishan hands me and join Tisha at our table. Ada is a house captain and Bharat the Head Boy, and they had to attend a meeting with the Principal to discuss something. So it’s just Tisha, Sameer and me. I can see Kapil standing by a table, talking to some boys, but he doesn’t look our way. Tisha doesn’t look his way either. Not openly, at least; she is constantly keeping track of his location though. I’m curious, but decide not to meddle.

  Sameer joins us a moment later, carrying a plate of cucumbers and tomatoes, and a diet Coke. He puts it on the table and Tisha drags it towards herself. ‘Thanks,’ she says. ‘What did you get?’

  ‘A grilled cheese sandwich,’ Sameer announces. ‘But guess what Kalindi got!’

  ‘What?’ Tisha asks, as she takes a sip of her diet coke and picks up a slice of cucumber.

  ‘A grilled cheese sandwich.’

  ‘No. Way.’

  Her eyes are shining with uncontrollable glee, making me want to poke them out. Just because she doesn’t eat anything except salad doesn’t mean I have to starve too. Why would anyone want to do that to themselves? Following the footsteps of my old self is really getting to me now.

  ‘What’s wrong with a cheese sandwich,’ I ask, because they’re looking at me expectantly. I already know the answer. CALORIES.

  ‘Are you kidding me? Do you know how many calories that is?’ Tisha’s drama increases with every word she utters.

  ‘Yeah, I do.’

  ‘And you’re still . . . I give up! I don’t get you!’ She raises her arms in the air in a sign of surrender and flops them back down with a big sigh.

  ‘A few extra calories aren’t that bad,’ Sameer interjects.

  ‘Not bad if a girl wants her buttto be the size of . . . of Australia or something,’ Tisha shakes her head in disbelief.