Right Here Right Now

by Nikita Singh

  ‘That makes sense,’ Mum says.

  ‘Yes, see? We totally get it!’ Dad nods fervently, trying to mimic my tone. Not my present tone, the tone of my voice when I am happy and don’t feel like I was run over by a truck. At least emotionally. I don’t know how much sense this makes, but it is how I feel.

  ‘I certainly don’t want my old friends back,’ I add softly.

  It’s like the inside of Mum’s head suddenly lights up. Like there’s an actual bulb that turned on once I said that last sentence. She doesn’t ask. She just looks at me, waiting for me to expand.

  ‘They lied to me. All of them. Ada, Tisha, Sameer, Kapil. Maybe even Bharat, but I don’t think so. Which is confusing, because I honestly don’t know what to think anymore. What to believe and what not to believe. I can’t trust any of them.’

  ‘What did they lie about?’ Dad asks.

  ‘I can’t . . . I’m sorry, I can’t tell you. But they just . . . they took advantage of my accident and my memory loss to hide the truth from me. What kind of a person does that?’ I shut up, when my voice starts to break.

  My parents are understanding enough not to prod. A minute later, I tell them I’m tired and they walk with me to my room, where I slump down on the bed and release a huge breath.

  ‘I do understand why one could have a problem with the décor,’ Dad looks around the room as if noticing it for the first time, and says.

  ‘You think?’ I smile.

  ‘Yeah, the bedsheet is black.’ He looks down at the grey hairy rug on the floor and adds, ‘Also, what’s this thing I’m standing on? Is it like a dead animal or something? A bear, perhaps?’

  Mum laughs and says, ‘It’s synthetic. Kalindi insisted on getting it.’

  ‘I’m just glad that at least an animal didn’t have to die so that this girl here could have a hideous rug made out of its skin in her room,’ Dad says.

  Mum and I look at each other and laugh.

  ‘Well, it is kind of dark in here, isn’t it?’ Dad continues.

  ‘I swear to God! ’ I groan. ‘We need to do something about the lighting in here. None of the many many lights give out actual light. Just sort of a dull glow.’

  ‘Noted, and will be taken care of,’ Dad bows a little at me, which makes me giggle.

  My parents are adorable. They’re joking around with me, when I know that they’re actually worried inside, just to make me laugh. I feel another tug of guilt and want to tell Mum all about what I wrote in the journal and how bad I feel about it, but I really am tired.

  As if sensing it somehow, Mum says I need to sleep now and adjusts my pillow and kisses my forehead. ‘Sweet dreams,’ she whispers.

  Dad touches my cheek and doesn’t say anything, but it makes me feel like it is all going to be okay. Once they leave, I sigh loudly and close my eyes.

  The one good thing about going to sleep after staying up all night, followed by a huge fight, a lot of crying, soul-searching, secret-confessing and joking around, is that you are completely exhausted and when you sleep, you sleep like a log. You fall into a long, dreamless sleep. And the good thing about dreamless sleep? No nightmares.

  4 MAY 2013

  I don’t go to school anymore. It’s not as if I won’t go to school ever, of course I will, but I simply feel like I can’t face it just yet. It’s the fourth day that I have missed school. Mum and Dad are totally cool with it. After my breakdown the other day, they’ve been treating me like they usually do, like nothing ever happened, and it wasn’t a big deal. But I’ve seen them steal glances at each other when they’re around me. Dad jokes to overcome the embarrassment of having to deal with expressing emotions, but he’s not fooling me. And Mum looks at me with her paranoid-mother expression when she thinks I’m not noticing.

  Other than that, all has been well. They’ve agreed to let me stay at home for as long as I like. My school is going to close for summer vacation in a week anyway, so technically, I’d only be extending my vacation by one week.

  I look at the schedule in my hand, which goes like:

  FINAL TERM EXAM (for class XI): MARCH 1 to 15

  EXAM BREAK: MARCH 16 to APRIL 14 (four weeks)

  CLASSES START (for class XII): APRIL 15

  SUMMER BREAK: MAY 13 TO JUNE 23 (six weeks)

  CLASSES RESUME (for class XII): JUNE 24 onwards

  It was really weird that I got into the accident on 15 March, the day my exams ended, and got better enough to get back to school right on time. I didn’t even miss a single day; I was there in school when it reopened on April 15. Pretty much sucks, getting sick during your vacation and getting better when it’s time for school.

  ‘How did your wet towel manage to get all the way here?’ Mum calls.

  ‘Where?’ I ask, getting up and walking towards the sound of her voice.

  ‘To the kitchen platform?’

  ‘I was hungry.’

  ‘You eat too much,’ Mum says as I pick up my wet towel from the kitchen, where she’s busy doing something to ladyfingers.

  ‘You must be the only mother in the whole world who would say that to her only child.’

  ‘I didn’t say I mind your eating too much. I was simply stating a fact.’

  ‘What? I like food,’ I say defensively. Also, I don’t have anything to do, so I get bored. I’m a person without a past, some painful new memories I’d rather not think about, and no friends. The days get really long when one doesn’t have anything to do. And I have a tendency to confuse boredom with hunger. So I eat. Also, my mother is an excellent cook.

  Mum laughs. ‘It’s okay! I was only joking. Having a kid who eats a lot is a definite improvement on having a kid who never ate anything.’

  ‘Ah, I had an image to maintain. And I mean that in the literal sense too,’ I wink.

  Mum laughs, and I walk back towards my room, my wet towel in my hand. I open the door to my tiny balcony and step out into the sunlight. The first three things I see are: Sarabjeet, Harsh and Michael. It’s hard to avoid conversation, when they are all standing about five feet away from me, facing me. But I try. I hang my towel on the railing and do not look up at any of them.

  ‘Hi,’ Harsh says.

  Great. Now I have to look up. ‘Hey.’

  ‘Hey,’ the other two mutter.

  ‘Hi,’ I say.

  ‘Haven’t seen you at school almost all week?’ Harsh asks.

  ‘Yeah,’ I shrug non-committally.

  ‘Umm . . . are you alright?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘So, what’s up?’ Harsh Raj Sisodiya is really trying to get me talking.

  ‘Nothing much,’ I say.

  ‘What have you been up to?’

  ‘Nothing. Just, sort of . . . existing.’ I look away from all of them and frown at the floor. This one really got me thinking. What have I been doing these last few days?

  ‘Do you want to come over?’ Sarabjeet asks.

  I look up with a jolt. What? I thought she didn’t like me. I look at them. They’re all in school uniform and look like the same people I bump into at school every day. But never once has Sarabjeet Siddhu actually started a conversation with me. ‘What?’ I ask, to make sure I heard right.

  ‘Come over? We just got back from school and came straight here. You could join us . . . if you want.’ She turns a little pink in the face, clearly embarrassed.

  ‘Oh, umm, okay,’ I agree quickly, not wanting to embarrass her more.

  ‘Great!’ Sarabjeet’s face lights up.

  ‘Do you know how to get here?’ Harsh asks.

  ‘I . . . don’t think so,’ I say, wondering for the first time, how does one get from my place to Harsh’s? I’ve never contemplated the idea of being at his place before.

  ‘You’ll have to take a right from your building, turn right at the end of the block, walk straight, and then take a right again at the first turn,’ Sarabjeet tries to explain.

  My face must’ve given away my confusion, because Harsh says, ‘Never min
d, I’ll meet you at the main gate of your building.’

  ‘Great, I’ll meet you there in five minutes,’ I say. I shut the door of the veranda and announce, ‘MUM, I’m going to a friend’s place for a while.’

  ‘Where?’ Mum is in front of me in less than a second.

  ‘A friend’s place.’

  ‘Umm . . .’

  ‘Harsh Raj Sisodiya from over there,’ I point towards the closed balcony door.

  ‘How do you . . .?’

  ‘He’s with me in school. Same class and section. Anyway, I don’t have time to explain. He’s meeting me downstairs; gotta go.’

  ‘Do you have your phone with you?’ Mum calls just as I’m about to turn the doorknob.

  ‘Yeah, yeah. Relax!’ I step out and rush to the elevator. I reach the main gate of the building in record time. It takes me a minute to catch my breath, and ready myself to look completely unaffected and nonchalant. Like I hang out with cute guys at their place and with their friends all the time and this is no big deal. I see Harsh walking towards me, and my tummy does a flip.

  ‘Hi Kalindi Mishra,’ he does a little bow thingy, his goofy smile in place.

  ‘Hello Harsh Raj Sisodiya,’ I giggle.

  ‘Shall we?’

  ‘We shall.’

  We start retracing his steps from a minute ago. ‘So, how’s it really going?’ he asks.

  ‘Not so good, actually,’ I have no idea why I admit that to him.

  ‘May I ask why?’

  ‘You may.’

  ‘Well, why?’ he looks at me in a way that makes me a little self-conscious, in a good way. I’m aware that he’s looking at me, and we are in broad daylight, and one simply does not look appealing under direct sunlight, what with all the numerous tiny imperfections open and well lit for display.

  ‘Long story,’ I shrug. I really do not want to get into all that now and depress myself again.

  ‘Some other time,’ he agrees. His eyes are gorgeous. Like very dark grey, almost black but not quite, with eyelashes uncharacteristically long for a boy. His brows crinkle in an extremely adorable fashion when he smiles his goofy smile or studies my face. He’s doing the latter now.

  ‘What?’ I ask.

  ‘You’re really pretty up close.’ Just like that. Like it wasn’t the best compliment of my (admittedly unusually short) life or anything. Like it was insignificant. Like it wouldn’t make butterflies attack my stomach.

  ‘Thank you,’ I mutter, suddenly quite shy.

  We reach Harsh’s apartment, and just as we’re about to enter, we see Sarabjeet and Michael coming out.

  ‘We have to go,’ Sarabjeet announces.

  ‘Why?’ Harsh asks.

  ‘I promised Mom I’d look after Geet, she’s my little sister,’ she adds, looking at me, ‘and I completely forgot. Now Mom has to go to the market and I’m not home to babysit Geet.’

  ‘That sounds like you,’ Harsh says and asks Michael, ‘Why do you have to go?’

  ‘Because he doesn’t want to have to ride the Metro alone later,’ Sarabjeet says.

  ‘More like she doesn’t want to have to ride the Metro alone now and is dragging me with her to keep her company, even though we have different routes after three stations,’ Michael says.

  ‘Wow.’

  ‘What?’ Three sets of eyes turn to me and I realize I’d said the wow aloud.

  ‘That was the longest sentence I’ve heard come out of Michael’s mouth,’ I explain.

  Harsh laughs, ‘He’s the shy kind, that one.’

  ‘Wait till you get to know him better. Then he doesn’t shut up even if you pay him to,’ Sarabjeet adds.

  ‘Do you want me to come with you or not?’ Michael threatens Sarabjeet, whereupon she fake-apologizes to him and he fake-forgives her and they say their goodbyes and leave, but not before promising to come over tomorrow and inviting me to hang out with them once again.

  Once they leave, Harsh turns to me, ‘So?’

  ‘So?’

  ‘What do we do now?’

  ‘We walk me back home and meet up tomorrow at your place,’ I say.

  ‘Sounds like a plan.’

  And then, we retrace Harsh’s steps from a while ago, leading to my apartment. When we get back to my building’s gate, we wave goodbye, and I find that I’m really looking forward to meeting him tomorrow.

  ‘That was quick!’ Mum observes, as I get in through the door she has held open.

  ‘That was awesome,’ I declare.

  She looks at me maybe to check for signs of craziness or something. She really must think I’m retarded.

  Fifteen

  5 MAY 2013

  I wake up feeling a mixture of anticipation and anxiety. Or anxiety in anticipation of making new friends. I feel hope and despair at the same time. I don’t want to mess this up. Also, I really like Harsh and I want him to like me back. I don’t know what a girl has to do to make a boy like her.

  I shower quickly and join Dad at the dining table for breakfast. My Mum fasts every Sunday for some reason. I butter my toast slowly and spray some pepper on it before placing my omelette between two slices. Halfway through eating it, I feel nauseous.

  ‘Everything okay?’ Dad asks, looking up from his newspaper.

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘Not hungry?’ he points to my half-eaten breakfast.

  ‘I don’t feel so good.’

  ‘What doesn’t feel good? The arm okay?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah.’ My cast was removed three days ago, after six weeks in plaster. After the cast was cut off, the X-ray scans showed that my fracture had completely healed and I had regained almost complete use of the arm. The doctor said it’ll be back to normal in a couple of weeks, as it gets used to movement again. ‘I guess I’m just nervous.’

  ‘Oh, yes. I heard you’re making new friends,’ Dad says. It’s half a question, half a statement.

  ‘I’ve been friends with Harsh ever since I came home from the hospital. I mean, sort of.’

  Dad nods.

  ‘It’s the first time I’m going over to his place and actually hanging out with his friends and stuff, though.’

  ‘You’re worried about nothing,’ Dad assures me.

  I nod. I hope he’s right.

  After breakfast (Dad finished mine and promised to not tell Mum, she really insists on finishing everything on your plate and not throwing anything away) I go back to my room. It’s 10.13 a.m. and I don’t know what time I’m supposed to go over to Harsh’s place. I open a window to peek into his balcony. No signs of human existence. Although there is a bird sitting on the railing. I close the window and sit down on my bed.

  I open this book I’ve been reading, but I find it impossible to concentrate. The book is one Dad gave me, and said he thought I’d enjoy it. And I do. It is a book by John Grisham called Theodore Boone: YOUNG LAWYER where Theodore Boone is a thirteen-year-old boy, who likes to think of himself as a lawyer. He rides his bicycle around the small (also, fictional) city of Strattenburg. Both his parents are really busy lawyers and he has picked up a lot of things from them over the years. Grisham writes that Theo was undecided about his future, but his dreams oscillated between being a famous trial lawyer and a great judge. Both of which seem to me like exceptionally well-decided paths. He just has to choose between two extremely awesome career options. He couldn’t go wrong either way.

  Theo has a friend, April Finnemore, who he has known since pre-kindergarten and they are each other’s best friends but there is nothing romantic between them. Theo says there is not one boy in his class who’d admit having a girlfriend. They were too young for all that, and even though Theo had been warned that things would change drastically, he felt it was unlikely to happen to him. I laughed when I read about that. Right now he doesn’t want anything to do with girls. Just wait a year or two and see how things change! I made a note to ask Dad if this book has sequels. I’d love to find out what happens next.

  Anyway, so April’s parents
are getting a divorce, which is hard on her and Theo finds himself in the middle of a rather sensational murder trial. As I read about Theo sitting in his geometry class, trying to stay awake, when there is an announcement on the intercom of his classroom, asking his teacher to check Theo out and send him downstairs, I forget feeling nervous about meeting Harsh. I’ve gotten too involved in this work of fiction by this point to care about real life.

  Theo is wondering who checked him out of school and all sorts of scenarios come to his mind, but before I can find out, I hear someone call my name. I put the book down with a groan. I was really into it, but then I have seven weeks of time with myself to look forward to and I can devote all of it to reading. Right now, Sarabjeet is calling my name.

  I pull a window open and she yells, ‘Hi!’

  Well, just because I am inside my room (which is like 1.2 feet behind where I was standing in the balcony talking to the three of them yesterday) doesn’t mean my hearing is impaired. I don’t point that out to her, though. Not the best opening for possible friendship. ‘Hey, Sarabjeet!’

  ‘Harsh just went down to get you,’ she says,

  ‘What? He didn’t need to. I know the way now!’

  ‘That’s what I told him!’ she turns to Michael, who is sitting inside in Harsh’s room, on something I cannot see and says, ‘Isn’t that exactly what I told Harsh?’

  Michael looks up from something he seems engrossed in (which I can’t see) and does something that’s between a nod and a shrug.

  ‘Anyway,’ Sarabjeet says, after she’s done frowning at Michael. ‘Hurry up and go. I mean come!’

  ‘In a minute,’ I say and close the window shut before yelling, ‘MUM! DAD! I’m going,’ and rushing out the door.

  ‘Have fun,’ Mum says.

  ‘I will,’ I yell back.

  ‘Bye!’ Dad says.

  ‘BYE!’

  When I get to the main gate, Harsh is already there, waiting for me. Also, inspecting an ancient Maruti 800. It’s maroon, but not really—its colour has faded several shades and now it’s just some sort of extremely discoloured version of maroon, with scratches and dust all over it.