by Nikita Singh
He turns so as to face me directly and leans down once again. Oh God, oh God, oh holy freaking God. His lips touch mine and I feel a shiver go down my spine. Not a good one. I don’t know if I should be doing this just because it’s his birthday and I don’t want to hurt his feelings and possibly create a scene and embarrass him and myself in front of our friends.
Sameer pulls back for a second to look at me. I look back at him, not sure what my face looks like right now, or what he’s searching for in it. Before he leans back in once again, I notice Bharat looking at me with what looks like concern, though I can’t be sure, given the unreliable blinking disco lights. Before the light blinks on again and I can be sure, my line of vision is blocked by Sameer, who is kissing me again.
It really doesn’t feel right. I am cornered and defenceless against this and a sob escapes my lips. I’m not sure he even notices.
‘Hey, dude,’ Bharat puts a hand on Sameer’s shoulder and says, ‘Give it a rest!’
‘Yeah, now who needs to get a room?’ Ada teases, though our level of making out is ten levels behind hers and Bharat’s. But I’m grateful for the interruption.
‘Seriously. There’s a party going on here and you two are busy eating each other’s faces,’ Bharat teases.
Sameer laughs and resumes dancing, at a more comfortable distance from me. I steal a glance at Bharat and hope the look in my eyes conveys my thanks to him.
Thirteen
It’s 4.46 a.m. and I am back to sitting at my spot on Sameer’s desk. Everybody else is lying in varied stages of drunkenness on the carpet on the floor. Bharat and Ada are making out again in a corner. Sameer, Kapil and Tisha are lying flat on their backs, staring at the ceiling as if it were the sky or something. Kapil gets up a little, rests himself on his elbow and takes another slug from the bottle of Sprite and vodka mixed in almost a 50:50 ratio.
After we got tired of dancing, Kapil suggested we take a break and get sloshed. Apparently, dancing isn’t fun enough without an unhealthy quantity of alcohol flowing through one’s veins. Everybody else was quick to agree. Except, surprisingly, Tisha, who looked at Kapil warningly and said, ‘No funny business, okay?’
‘What funny business?’ Kapil asked.
‘You know what I mean. I’m not going to let you get away with anything under the excuse of being drunk.’
‘Right. As if I’d even want to do anything funny with someone like you.’
‘What do you mean: someone like me?’ Tisha asked acidly. ‘I don’t remember you letting any chance of—’
‘Well, that was before I knew who you really are,’ Kapil cut her off. They fought like cats and dogs for another ten minutes, which frankly, was fun to see, mostly, since it was the first time I had seen them speak directly to each other.
After they were done arguing, they joined us on the floor, where we were mixing Sprite in vodka bottles and vice versa. After my first sip, I had pretty much decided I’d never drink a drop of alcohol again in my whole entire life. But when Tisha made fun of me for being a sissy, I tried another sip. That’s when I decided for sure that I’d really never drink a drop of alcohol again in my whole entire life.
The others went on drinking while I perched on the desk. After the initial half hour of dedicated drinking, they started mellowing down and relaxing.
‘I’m like, so drunk,’ Tisha tells the fan she’s staring at.
‘Me, too,’ Ada agrees, her face buried in Bharat’s shoulder.
‘Let’s not waste the buzz. We should dance it off a little,’ Tisha suggests.
There are hmms and yeahs from everywhere, but I don’t see anyone actually getting up to dance, not even Tisha herself. I go back to digging into my handbag and find pepper spray hidden in a secret pocket in the back. I put it back and pick up the medium sized diary instead.
I open it up. It seems to be my personal journal. The first page says PROPERTY OF KALINDI MISHRA: DO NOT DARE TOUCH, which impels me to turn to the next page in curiosity. The next few pages have all sorts of pin codes and maps of every region of India. I flip to the first page I’ve written in. I browse through the diary, last page to first, to find out that I’ve written maybe fifteen pages and the rest of the journal is blank. I count to be sure of the exact number of pages I’ve filled. Fourteen.
I shiver with delight and anxiety. This is my window to my past. Fourteen pages. I wish I’d written more. But fourteen pages are better than nothing. These fourteen pages will tell me about my life pre-accident in my own words. When others tell me how things were, I never know what to believe and what not to. It never feels like they’re describing me or my life. The girl they talk about, the things she used to do doesn’t feel like me. But now I’ll know.
I’m more excited than I’ve ever (in thirty days of my life) been before. But I don’t tell anyone. I keep it my little secret for the time it takes me to read the fourteen pages. It feels like even though I’m physically present in Sameer’s room, my mind is in a completely different place.
After two pages: I’m smiling. I sound exactly like Tisha. I’ve written animatedly about how we went to pick up a dress for my last birthday and shopped around and finally found the perfect one. It took us like seven hours to find it. We skipped from one shop to another. To borrow a couple of sentences from the journal, I’d written: ‘OMG, Sameer is totally gonna freak out when he sees me in this. I just CANNOT wait till my birthday! And Tisha is such a gem, we shopped for like hours and she never once complained. She even ditched her plans with Kapil to come with me.’
After five pages: I’m still smiling. Sameer and I have spent a really romantic day, first at school, then we sneaked off to THE TIME TRAVELLERS, where the pianist played our favourite LP song at my request, then we went to Sameer’s place and fooled around while his parents weren’t home. For some reason, when I read this, the voice in my head narrating this isn’t mine. It’s Tisha’s. Maybe because the tone in which the pre-accident me wrote is extremely similar to Tisha’s. I even felt briefly that maybe this is some sort of game they are playing with me and Tisha wrote this for real. But I recognize my handwriting. This is all me.
After eight pages: I’m no longer smiling. My face turns into a frown. I’ve written about a fight with Mum. We had a fighting match when she found out about Sameer and me. I argued that everybody has a boyfriend and it’s no big deal and that I really love him and she countered that she doesn’t care if every single sixteen-year-old had a boyfriend, not her daughter. And that it is a big deal and what do I know about love? And for some reason, I felt the need to point out that I’m almost seventeen, which did not seem to make too compelling a case. I used some very bad and indecent adjectives for Mum and I feel guilty about it now.
After ten pages: I’m smiling again, but not really. I’d written this particular entry the day after I turned seventeen. I wore the special dress I found with Tisha. At one place, I’ve written, ‘Man, was it fun or what? I looked smashing hot in my dress and Tisha rocked in hers. Ada tried to make us feel guilty about leaving her out and said she felt like an outsider and that we don’t pay enough attention to her. Jeez, she’s such a whiner and attention seeker. Just like that time at school when Tisha was absent and she told me that she really loved having me to herself, just like old times, when we were kids and all that. She blames Tisha for coming into my life and between our friendship or whatever.’ I’m confused. Why did I dislike Ada so much and ignore her to be with Tisha instead, when clearly, Ada and I have been friends since kindergarten?
There are only four pages remaining, and I desperately want them to answer my doubts. I would hate it if they don’t. Stories without endings are just cruel to the reader. I read extremely slowly, not wanting it to end. What I don’t know is that reading those four pages is going to change my life. Once I’m done reading it, which takes only five minutes, I read them again. And again. My brain just can’t seem to absorb all that information.
I read again, deliberating at each word, try
ing to put everything in place. Trying to understand. Once I’m done reading it for probably the fifteenth time, I look up and towards my group of friends. Although I’m not sure friends is the word that describes what they are to me anymore.
Tisha is sitting up now, her head resting in her hands, elbows on her knees. Ada is fast asleep in Bharat’s lap. Bharat’s resting his head on Sameer’s bed and staring at the ceiling. Kapil is still drinking, talking to Sameer in drunken whispers. Sameer is looking at me. Nobody’s saying anything.
‘Why did you guys break up?’ I ask.
‘Say wha?’ Kapil looks up.
‘You and Tisha—why did you break up?’
He shrugs his shoulders.
‘Tell me,’ I ask sternly.
‘Ask her.’ Kapil points at Tisha, who has been listening in, but pretending not to.
‘What?’ Tisha mutters.
‘You know what.’
Sameer and Bharat turn to look at us too.
‘None of your business,’ Tisha says, all haughty.
‘If it involves you screwing my boyfriend and Kapil dumping you for it, it sure as hell is.’ My voice is calm and calculated, totally betraying how I feel inside.
‘What the . . .’ Bharat looks flabbergasted.
Ada is up too, and she looks at me with wide eyes.
‘They think I’m completely stupid. They think I don’t know. But I do. That bitch. That fucking bitch. She always tried to be like me. The clothes I wear, the way I do my hair, my shoes . . . EVERYTHING. Now she stole my boyfriend. And after all this, they pretend like nothing is going on? Did they think they could keep it up behind my back and I wouldn’t know? I know. I know and I’m going to . . .’
‘You . . . how . . .’ Tisha opens and closes her mouth like a goldfish.
‘I can explain,’ Sameer gets up and walks towards me. ‘It’s not what you—’
‘DON’T YOU DARE COME NEAR ME,’ I thunder. ‘You . . . behind my back . . .’ I feel unable to say anything, so I just get off the desk and shake my head repeatedly, trying to estimate the extent of betrayal my friends have put me through.
‘Let me explain,’ Sameer insists, but keeps his distance from me.
Tisha is standing now too. I can’t read her expression, but it’s certainly not guilt. Maybe confusion.
‘You don’t need to. I know, okay? I know,’ I yell.
‘If I could just ask one question: WHAT IN THE NAME OF FREAKING HELL IS GOING ON?’ Bharat asks.
‘Don’t act like you didn’t know. You betrayed me, all of you!’
‘It’s not like that . . .’ Ada begins weakly. She’s crying.
‘Then what is it like? How fortunate that I lost my memory, wasn’t it? Then we didn’t have to deal with all of,’ I make a triangle between where Kapil, Tisha and Sameer are, ‘this.’
‘No . . .’
‘And you have to appreciate the timing. Bang on,’ I laugh.
‘Today after the exam, I went to ask Tisha how hers went. I was just glad that tomorrow will be the last exam and we’ll be done, but when I found her, she was fighting with Kapil. Kapil looked majorly pissed off at her, so I asked her what’s going on. She didn’t tell me. So I asked Kapil. He said ask your boyfriend, like it had something to do with Sameer. I got confused. When I went to find Sameer, he was with Tisha and they were deep in conversation, like it was something really important they were talking about. At first, I was mad at Tisha because she didn’t tell me, and she was telling Sameer. But then I saw it. They were holding hands. And it all made sense.’
‘Is your . . . memory back?’ Tisha asks.
‘No.’
‘Then, how . . .?’
‘I kept a journal,’ I wave it in the air for everyone to see.
‘Where did you find it?’ Sameer asks.
‘In my handbag, which you had in your cupboard, why?’
‘You left it here. The day our exams ended. We had a party somewhere else and you knew it, but you still came here to meet me,’ Sameer explained.
‘And?’ I ask.
‘I told Ada and she said she’s totally on my side. We decided I’d let it go for now and wait till tomorrow and confront them once the exams were over.’
‘And when Mom told you I wasn’t at home, you said you need to go to my room and messed up the whole place. And then left.’
‘And?’ I ask again.
‘Then when I came back home, I saw my room was trashed. You, like, wrecked the whole place,’ Sameer said. ‘I tried to call you, but the calls wouldn’t go through. So I called Tisha to ask her where you were.’
‘And I called Ada,’ Tisha says. ‘She didn’t know where you were either.’
‘Yeah, and it was almost midnight and you’d told your parents that you were going to the party and you told me you were going to confront Tisha and Sameer but nobody knew where you were. We got worried and so we met up here and I finally told them that you knew about them . . .’ Ada explains between sobs before breaking into full-fledged crying mode again.
‘Then we got a call from your mom. She told us about the accident,’ Sameer finishes.
There’s silence, and we all look at each other. I look from Ada to Sameer to Tisha, trying to decide who I am most mad at. Bharat is looking at the scene like he’s hearing this for the first time. Kapil has passed out on the carpet.
‘And when I woke up weeks later, without my memory, you just decided you’d hide the truth from me forever,’ I mutter.
‘No! No, no, no,’ Ada shakes her head furiously.
‘We just didn’t want to hurt you,’ Sameer says.
Tisha doesn’t even pretend to feel guilty.
‘You guys . . . I’m disgusted,’ I say, with a certain air of finality. Like this is it. We’re done.
Nobody says anything. Not one person in the room has the decency to even say the word sorry.
‘I’m going home,’ I say, shoving my journal, which I’m still holding, into my handbag.
‘I’ll drop you,’ Bharat says.
I look at him angrily, like I can’t even deal with spending another second in the presence of even one of them. But he looks apologetic. I no longer know what to believe and what not to believe, but he looked equally stumped by the news and going by the words of three friends who completely betrayed me, he played no role in any of this.
I nod silently and walk out and into the rising sun.
Fourteen
As soon as Mum opens the door, I fling myself into her arms and break down. I hadn’t trusted Bharat enough to cry in front of him in the car. He even came with me till my front door. Before leaving, he just sort of shook his head and said, ‘I don’t even know what to say. Just . . . take care, okay? And I’m here if you need me.’ I nodded bravely, fighting tears that were trying to force their way out. He left, shaking his head. Once I made sure he was gone, I rang the doorbell. When I saw Mum, I sort of completely lost the last thread that was holding me together and collapsed in her arms, bursting into tears.
‘What happened? Oh God, what’s wrong?’ Mum panics instantly.
‘Mum,’ I whisper and sort of stop supporting my own weight, leaning heavily on her.
She struggles to keep me standing, and walks me to the couch and makes me sit down. ‘What is it, Kalindi? Did something bad happen? How did you get home?’ She goes into full-blown paranoid-mother mode, which makes Dad come out.
‘What’s going on? Why are you two crying?’ Dad looks alarmed.
‘It’s okay,’ I say quickly, to calm them down. ‘It’s alright. Nothing happened.’
‘Then why are you crying?’ Mum asks.
Dad kneels down on the carpeted floor in front of me and studies my face. ‘What is it?’
It takes me a couple of minutes to calm down enough to speak coherently. I take a sip from the glass of water Mum has brought for me, and my throat feels less pathetic. I clear my throat and wipe my tears, before saying, ‘I want to change everything.’
&nbs
p; ‘What do you mean, Kalindi?’ Mum asks, looking so concerned I feel guilty once more.
‘Everything, Mum. My room. I hate it. There’s way too much black in it and I feel like I’m trapped in a dungeon or something. I want to change the colour of the walls, the stupid curtains, the bedcovers, the posters on the wall and just everything.’
‘Okay . . .’ Dad says. ‘But at least tell us what prompted this idea?’
‘I just . . . I’ve been . . .’ I shake my head. ‘I don’t know how to say this.’
‘What is it, Kalindi?’ Mum prods.
‘Ever since I woke up, I’ve been trying to be this girl I used to be. I wanted to fit into her life. Her room, her clothes, her friends, her interests—everything. I knew how I used to be pre-accident, I got it from whatever you guys and everyone else has told me about me. But the thing is: I’m not the same girl. I’m not her. I don’t know that girl. I don’t know who she was and, from whatever I do know about her, I don’t like her,’ I look at my parents’ expressions, which clearly say what-the-hell-is-going-on-here. I sigh. ‘I really don’t know how to explain this.’
‘We’re with you. I get what you mean. I mean I get it as much as any person other than you could possibly get it,’ Dad assured me.
Mum nods in agreement, her wide eyes looking at me like I’m a wounded little bird and she’d physically protect me from any and every danger that threatens to strike me.
‘I don’t want to be that girl anymore. I don’t want to fit into her life. I don’t want to like the things she liked. I don’t want to stay up in bed every night forcing my brain to just freaking remember the past. I don’t want to be with people who can’t accept me as I am now and are just waiting for my memory to come back. I don’t want my old life back,’ I breathe out. I actually feel physically relieved saying it out loud. So relieved, that I go on, ‘It feels like there used to be an entirely different person, and I have been given her looks and approximate size and shape and have been asked to play dress-up. BE HER. That’s like the mission I’ve been put on.’