by Nikita Singh
‘Aww, you’re so worried about me, that’s so sweet,’ I try copying her condescending, fake-concerned tone. ‘But I’ll be okay, honey. Mum said I lost six kg while I was in coma. It’ll take a lot more than just one sandwich to get my buttfat.’
‘Well, suit yourself.’
‘You should watch out, though. I hear that even though diet Coke doesn’t have actual calories, it does expand bones. So, you know,’ I motion with both my arms, ‘really wide bone structure and . . . naah, don’t worry, sweetie. I’m sure you’ll be fine.’
Tisha’s face has suddenly gone pale, as if she’s seen a ghost. ‘I . . . umm.’
‘She’s just kidding. Relax!’ Sameer laughs.
‘Yeah, I’m sure it’ll be just okay. It’s just one can of soda. No biggie. Right?’ I try hard to control my laughter.
Tisha looks confused now. Maybe she’ll figure out I was just fooling with her eventually. But right now, she looks like she’s not willing to take any risks.
‘25!’ Kishan calls from the counter and I get up to get my sandwich. Sameer follows me.
‘Was that really necessary?’ he asks.
‘No, but it was fun!’
‘Look at her; she looks like she wants to puke every drop of what she drank.’
‘Fine, I’ll tell her I was joking,’ I say.
We both pick our plates of sandwiches from the counter and I ask the vendor, ‘Can I also have a bar of chocolate, please?’ I turn to Sameer and say, ‘I’m thinking something with a lot of calories. Just to freak her out.’
‘You’re just evil, aren’t you?’ he laughs.
‘I’m learning from her, and experimenting on her,’ I wink at him.
As we take our seats at the table and dig into our sandwiches (yummy, by the way), Sameer tries to wave away Tisha’s fears and I try to tell her I was kidding, but she doesn’t look convinced, though. Now that she’s not being bitchy for a moment, I realize it’s actually not too bad being around these people. Sameer is sitting and chatting generally, and not being creepy in the least, and for once, I don’t feel like I walked into a fancy sitcom setting.
The feeling doesn’t last. As soon as Tisha decides to drop the matter till she confirms with the nutrition guide at her gym, they’re back to gossiping, eyes lit with all kinds of scandals that reached their ears recently. I really can’t shake the feeling that Sameer is a girl inside.
During PE (Physical Education) class, I feel a little left out. With my right arm in a cast, I can’t do much except sit on a bench and read. For optional subjects, all sections of XII grade have class at the same periods. Ada, Tisha and Sameer have computers as their optional, and I’m with Bharat and Kapil in PE. They sit with me on the bench and open their books on their laps.
‘Go, play! I don’t mind,’ I say, after I see them ruffle the pages of their books and look longingly at the cricket ground in front of us for five minutes.
‘Really, you don’t mind?’ Bharat asks.
‘Oh, stop feeling guilty. Just go, I’m perfectly fine here. I’ll watch you guys play,’ I smile encouragingly.
‘Swell!’
They jump off the bench and run to get their cricket gear on. A bunch of boys divide themselves in two teams and the PE teacher tosses a coin, before putting on a cap and assuming the role of an umpire. Bharat and Kapil are in opposite teams, so I am faced with the task of choosing a team to support. Maybe I’ll watch the match for ten minutes before deciding.
Ten minutes later, I decide two things. One, I quite like cricket. And two, Bharat might be the oldest friend I have, but from what I deduce, his team is no match for Kapil’s. I support Kapil’s team. The match lasts 90 minutes—two periods in a row—and ends with Kapil’s team losing (sigh). Turns out, they were only good at batting. I forgive myself for supporting the bad team. It wasn’t my fault; I didn’t have enough information before I picked a team and I had nowhere to gather information from since my friends ditched me to go play a stupid game of cricket.
I get up and dust off the back of my skirt before picking up my book and the boys’ books. They are still getting out of their gear and, when I catch his eye, Bharat says, ‘Go on ahead. We’ll need to freshen up after this and you don’t wanna be here for that!’ I roll my eyes at him and decide to walk back to class by myself.
On my way, I see Harsh with Sarabjeet and Michael, holding a thick book titled ‘Something Something C++’.
Harsh smiles at me and asks, ‘Good first day?’
‘Umm, it could’ve been better,’ I make a face.
‘And then again: it could’ve been worse just as easily.’
‘Whatever. The team I supported lost.’
‘Victory isn’t defined by wins or losses. It is defined by effort. If you can truthfully say, “I did the best I could; I gave everything I had,” then you’re a winner,’ Harsh announces in all seriousness.
‘What the . . .’ I don’t know what to say. I look at Sarabjeet and Michael, to see if they think this boy is a little crazy too. ‘Where did you—?’
‘Read it somewhere.’
‘Oh. You.’
‘Oh. Me.’
We laugh and I shake my head at his absurdity. As I enter my class, he walks on with his friends. I wonder where they’re going but don’t feel it’s appropriate to ask. I set the boys’ books down on Bharat’s desk and slump down on my bench. Not a bad first day. It could definitely have been much worse.
As if on cue, a moment later, Tisha enters the class. With wide eyes, a piercing voice and hands on her hips, she exclaims in a demanding tone, ‘Oh. My. GOD. Was that Harsh Raj Sisodiya and his dork group I just saw you laugh with?’
I sigh.
Ten
28 APRIL 2013
Sometimes I think maybe I am not being who I am supposed to be. I’ve tried to find a place I’m comfortable in and settle down, like generally, just find my place in the world, but I can’t. I feel agitated, like I’ve been feeling since the last two weeks. After the novelty of joining school and meeting everybody and getting back to my life passed, I’ve been feeling a little unsettled. I feel like . . . like there’s something missing. Something other than the seventeen lost years, of course.
I can’t find . . . peace. Or something. I don’t know how to explain this. When Mum asked me if I was okay, tonight during dinner, I couldn’t even fake a smile and say yes. I can’t burden her with my troubles when she’s already gone through so much since my accident. And it’s becoming increasingly difficult to keep her out of this. I have nobody I can talk to about this.
‘I don’t know,’ I said.
‘What is wrong?’
‘I don’t know,’ I repeated.
We went on eating and watching TV silently. Mum and Dad kept shooting me concerned looks, but I refused to look up and pretended to not notice. I didn’t want it to be a big deal.
Now I am back in my room after dinner. I just turned on the muted bedside lamp (it’s shaped like a jelly fish, and glows like one too—it’s actually pretty cute). In the dull light, I stare at the Linkin Park posters. Who are these people? I make a mental note to ask somebody.
This doesn’t feel like my personal space. I feel like . . . I’m a visitor here. Like this is a hotel I’m temporarily staying in. I like the lamp (which we bought last week when I went shopping for decent clothes with Mum) and I’ve started to like the pouffe, but the rest of it is just . . . The black curtains, the black ceiling, the dim lights, walls bare except one with the LINKIN PARK overdose, this boring plain black bed, the rugs, the clothes in my cupboard, the ridiculously high heels I can’t even stand in, let alone walk. And the dressing table, there are more shades of lipstick than I can count, and all sorts of other things.
I feel a crushing sense of helplessness. This is not me. This is my exact opposite. None of this defines me. The worst bit is: I don’t even know what does define me.
As I lie here, staring at the white ceiling, there is a quiet knock on my door, befor
e it is pushed ajar.
‘Dad?’
‘You asleep?’ he whispers.
‘Not yet.’
He walks in and closes the door. ‘Why the darkness?’
‘It’s always dark in here,’ I say and sit up on the bed, leaning against the headrest.
Dad sits down at the foot of the bed and says, ‘Is something bothering you?’
‘Yes. But I don’t know what.’
He just sits there, and I think he’s waiting for me to talk. I don’t know what to say. I honestly have no idea what exactly I’m feeling right now and why.
‘My memory should’ve been back by now.’
For some reason, I’d thought my memory was going to come back when I went back to school and slid back into my routine life. But that hasn’t happened in the two weeks since I’ve been going to school, and it’s getting really frustrating. If my memory could just come back, everything would be normal again and all my problems would vanish in a jiffy.
‘I’m really bad at chemistry.’
As I say this, my throat feels raw. I want to scream and tell God or science or whatever it is that’s playing games with me that THIS. IS. NOT. FUNNY. You can’t take away a girl’s entire lifetime of memories and expect her to join XII grade and do well. Except for the magic I seem to create when presented with a maths problem, I suck at pretty much everything. Tisha was right, I am screwed. I have no basics. And I don’t even like Tisha.
‘Tisha is mean. She’s SO mean.’
It’s been getting more and more difficult for me to be around her. It’s like she has a personal agenda against me. Nowadays, her meanness isn’t even laced with honey and sweetie and she doesn’t even feel the need to twist her words around to insult me indirectly. She now bullies me right to my face. I don’t let her overpower me, but I have to stoop to her level to get back at her.
‘And Ada is . . . she’s spineless. She just does whatever Tisha says and never stands up for herself. It’s like she’s afraid of Tisha.’
Ada has been mute all this time, while Tisha has spent her time openly bashing me and others. I can see that she doesn’t like the cruel things Tisha says about everybody and how smug and rude she is, but she chooses to ignore it all and agrees to be her BFF-cum-punching bag.
‘And Dad, Sameer! He’s a girl. Like literally. The drama, the gossiping and fashion magazines and haircuts and chick-flicks and everything: the complete package.’
And he’s my boyfriend! I sometimes want to puke when I realize that. He’s always around, looking good and being Tisha’s other BFF and giggling with her. And then he puts his arm around me like we’ve known each other for years, which we might have, but it is not the same with me anymore. I don’t like him. I think I would’ve thought he was okay if he weren’t my boyfriend. But picturing him as my boyfriend and knowing he’s a girl inside . . . I want to puke. I almost hate him.
He did this thing a few days ago where he picked me up from my place after school and took me to this place—it was a dimly lit studio called THE TIME TRAVELLERS, which had a small stage where a long-haired and bearded young man played the piano. Opposite the stage was a small bar in a corner, and the other corner was set with a number of tables. We sat at one. Then he looked at me expectantly, like I was magically supposed to remember everything. He looked disappointed, almost hurt when I didn’t. He then explained to me how we used to come here for dates all the time, and this was our secret hangout place and none of our friends know about it because it is our place.
While he sat there looking into my eyes and being all forced-romantic, I, frankly, was uncomfortable. Apparently, the pianist was one of the best in the country and played tunes of exclusively LINKIN PARK songs. And LINKIN PARK is supposed to hold a very deep meaning to me. It was one of the many things Sameer and I had in common. But although I did enjoy the music, being alone with Sameer made me feel queasy.
‘I have no one to talk to. I have no friends.’
The only people I do like and who don’t kiss Tisha’s tushie are the two people who’re the busiest. Kapil can’t hang out with our circle, since Tisha is always there, and the rest of the time, he’s busy with cricket practice and some other things I don’t know about because I’m not close to him. And Bharat, being the Head Boy, is always caught up in something or the other the few times that Tisha and her two BFFs are always around.
‘Sarabjeet gives me weird looks and I can’t even talk to Harsh.’
Whenever I’ve seen Harsh these past two weeks, Sarabjeet has always been in the vicinity. And when she’s not, it’s my own friends giving me weird looks for speaking to the King of the Dorks. Sometimes I feel like Sarabjeet wants to say something to me, but when I look at her directly, she looks away and ignores my presence.
‘And the . . . the . . .’
Nightmares. I don’t tell Dad, who’s studying my face intently, worry etched all over his. I’ve been having scary dreams the past few nights. I lie in bed for hours in the darkness, trying to fall asleep, and when I do, I wake up in a cold sweat. Every time, there’s a fall. I fall down something and wake up before I hit the ground.
‘I’m trying. I’m trying so hard . . . but I don’t think I can . . .’ I go silent. Dad is looking at me, and softly holding my foot in his hand and patting it, as if to soothe me and make it all go away. I don’t think it’s working. My eyes fill with tears.
‘I don’t know what to do . . .’
A sob escapes, and my shoulders start to shake. As I begin to cry, Dad gets up from the foot of the bed and comes to sit by me and hold me tight. I bury my head in his shoulder and cry. Huge sobs rack my body as tears soak Dad’s shirt.
I don’t know how much time passes as I keep weeping in his arms. He keeps holding me, patting my back, trying to console me without words. Slowly, my tears stop. I rest my head on Dad’s arm and just stay there. I am exhausted. There’s no energy left in me to keep going, no fire left in me to keep fighting.
And the thing is, except Tisha, they are all okay. They’re not bad people. But the thought of going back to school tomorrow and spending another day trapped in all the drama makes me want to dig a hole in the ground and bury myself in it. Maybe it’ll be better if I just . . . stay away. Being alone has got to be better than being with Tisha.
‘Giving up is not an option. It’s our obligation to try our best. Trying is all we can do, and all that matters,’ Dad says softly.
I pull back and look at him. I feel better.
‘Now, you should go to sleep. School day tomorrow.’
I nod.
‘Good night, Kalindi.’
‘Night, Dad,’ I murmur.
He gets up, ruffles my hair and smiles softly at me, before leaving the room, closing the door behind him.
After he’s gone, I flip off the bedside light and stay up for hours. I think about what he said and wonder how he felt. Maybe he thought that my high school problems are stupid. Or maybe he understands what I’m going through.
Whatever the case, what he said makes perfect sense. I can’t give up already. I haven’t even tried properly yet. Everything has been okay on the surface. Anyone watching me all this time couldn’t have guessed there was this storm building up inside me. It has all been normal and it can continue to be normal. I’ll go to sleep and forget about this breakdown.
I’m sure I’ve been overthinking this. I’ve been bugged so much by Tisha’s behaviour, it has taken over too much space in my head and slowly the pressure has kept building and now I’ve made it into something much bigger than it is. Maybe it will be okay when I go to school tomorrow. After all, it has only been fifteen days. I have to try harder.
I close my eyes and soon fall asleep.
I wake up just once, at 3.43 a.m., after falling off something in my dream. I sit up on my bed and breathe heavily. I think somebody was chasing me and I was running and running and running till there was no ground underneath my feet to run on. That’s when I fell. It felt like flying for a
second, just a second, until I hit . . . well, nothing. I woke up and my body was no longer falling. I take a gulp of water from the bottle on my bedside table and lie back. I turn to my side, put a second pillow over my head, hold it tight and go back to sleep. Or at least try to.
29 APRIL 2013
The next morning, I wake up with a sharp headache. Turning off the alarm helps for a second. I make a mental note to change the alarm tone on my phone. ‘Mum,’ I mutter, but it doesn’t come out loud enough for even me to hear it, let alone my mother, who must be in the kitchen, making Dad’s breakfast. My teeth are clenched tightly because of the pain I’m feeling and I try and fail to unclasp them.
I lie on my stomach and dig my head into the pillow and shove it in as hard as I can to get rid of the ache, and for a minute, I feel better. But as soon as I stop putting pressure on my head, the pain comes back. I open my eyes and quickly shut them again. Now I know why they call it ‘blinding pain’. I literally cannot see. ‘Mum,’ I mutter again, grinding my teeth in pain.
Ten minutes later, I hear my door pushed open and Mum say, ‘Wake up! You have school! Didn’t your alarm ring? You’re late!’
‘Aaargh.’
‘Are you okay? What’s wrong?’ she bends down and looks at whatever is visible of my face.
I slowly turn to my side so I face her, taking care not to raise my head from the pillow. I carefully open one eye.
‘What is it, Kalindi?’
‘My head . . . it hurts . . .’ I groan.
‘Let me get you something for that. Can you get up?’
‘No . . .’
Mum disappears from the room for a minute and when she comes back, even though I protest, she makes me sit up and adjusts some pillows behind my head. She pushes my head back into the pillows and places a glass against my lips. ‘Drink.’
‘What is it?’ I ask, my voice all gruff and unlike-my-voice.
‘Aspirin. You’ll feel better in no time,’ she explains as I take a sip and gulp down the sweet but odd tasting liquid. ‘I would’ve tried rubbing a balm on your forehead first, but you look like you’re in a lot of pain. And the balm never works on you anyway.’