13. Aisha Paul

OH.MY.GOD. That man-child in that counselling room was cute!

  I would have shared this important piece of information with Megha had she bothered to breathe in between her hour-long-minute-by-minute report of her boring but safe date with the boy.

  'He drove at 120 mph! Imagine! It was the best thing ever!' she exclaimed.

  'That he can drive fast? That's the best thing ever? Does he wear a bracelet as well? Middle-parted long hair?' I asked, a little pissed off.

  I wanted to tell her about the awkward, super funny conversation I had had with my cutely fidgety counsellor, tell her how he went so red in the face when I intentionally embarrassed him, but the moment was gone now and I didn't want to say it any more.

  'How did your counselling go? Was he cute?'

  'Why would it matter whether he was cute or not?'

  I just wanted to be angry at her for ignoring me for so long. How was her date more important than my therapy session? 'Of course it does. So tell me, was he cute?' She rested her chin on her knuckles and leaned forward.

  'I don't know.'

  'But the entire school is saying he's cute!'

  'I don't know, Megha.'

  'Stop being such a spoilsport.'

  'I am not!'

  'Kritika was telling me that he has the most amazing hair, and a light stubble like the one that actor keeps? What's his name? Arjun Kapoor! Yes. So does he look like him? I bet he's cute. You're just not telling me.'

  'Why would I not tell you if he was cute?'

  'I don't know, you tell me.'

  'Megha, I don't know if he was cute or not.'

  'How can you not know if he was cute or not, Aisha? It's the first thing you notice!'

  'I didn't notice it, okay?'

  'How can you not notice it?' she grumbled.

  'Because he's a lot many other things than just being cute!'

  'Like what? Like what did you notice that was so important that you didn't care about his looks?'

  'I can't tell you that right now,' I snapped.

  I hadn't bothered to find out. I had straightaway, like everyone else in school, had put him in a little box—cute—and nothing else mattered. He would now be cute forever. Not necessarily a bad thing, but that's what kids in my school feel about my big breasts. She's the girl with the big boobs and an active sex life. Not necessarily a bad thing, but you might just lose a brother because of it.

  'You will not call him cute.'

  'Why?' protested Megha.

  'Because you don't know him.'

  'So what?' she said.

  'The first thing you know about a person can't be his cuteness! That's just wrong. Who defines what cute is anyway? What if he doesn't want to be cute? What if he wants to be something else? What if he wants smaller breasts?'

  'What?'

  'Sorry. But don't call him cute. You can't judge people on the most basic thing about them—how they look! You can't do that. It can hurt them.'

  'How can calling someone cute hurt them?'

  'It can! And it can also hurt people who aren't called cute! Have you thought about people who are not cute?'

  'What about them?' she shrugged. 'They already kno 

w they are not cute.'

  'Whatever.'

  'What whatever, Aisha. You always judge people by how they look. If you can tell me one other aspect that you would rather notice, I will agree to what you're saying,' said Megha.

  'Ummm . . . what if like, like . . . like a person walks by and he has a halo over his head?'

  'Good luck with that, Aisha!'

  We didn't talk for the rest of the day. I decided I wouldn't be the kind of woman who puts people into boxes like cute or big breasts or thick legs. But what about those whom I had already judged, and put into little boxes with no holes? Were they still breathing? Over the years, I had been on the receiving end of many vicious rumours. But I would be lying if I didn't tell you that I had done the same to many others as well. But none worse than Namrata, that nice, intelligent girl in my class.

  I needed to talk to Danish about this.

  This counsellor was already working for me. He was good for me—yes, that's the first thing I would tell people about him, not that he was cute, but that he was good for me.

  My mother served paneer and rice that night. I told her about the counselling session.

  'What do you need counselling for?' she asked.

  'Nothing major. Just like that.'

  She was too busy making little rice balls and feeding me to pursue that line of questioning and asked, 'Is he good?'

  'Yes, he's very good. He's nice. I think it's his first time as a counsellor. But he's good. I'm seeing him again tomorrow.'

  'Don't trouble him.'

  'What makes you think I will trouble my counsellor?'

  It was at times like these that I felt my mother knew everything. How did she know that I had enquired about his motivation to wank?

  'Eat.'

  'Where's Sarthak?' I asked.

  'He's eating in the room. He has some assignments to complete.'

  'Mom?'

  'Yes, bachha?'

  'Do you remember Namrata?'

  'Yes, of course I do,' she said, stuffing my mouth with another oddly shaped rice ball.

  'You do?'

  'Wasn't she the new girl who'd joined a few years back? Scored more than you in SST and science? God! How many tantrums you threw in those days!' My mother laughed, reminding me of how I tore up my answer sheets and my science textbook because she had edged me out by five marks. My mother had spent the entire night putting the torn pages in order and then stapling them together. She asked, 'What happened to her?'

  'I might have troubled her a little in the past.'

  'What did you do?'

  'More paneer?'

  My mother left to get the paneer. I couldn't stomach what my mother would think of me if I told her what I did to Namrata all those years back.