29. Aisha Paul

  Right then, my brain was like Stephen Hawking's, doing a million little calculations, trying to figure out the innumerable reasons why Danish said what he did. The words he had said made me float outside my body, look at him say those words to a girl in a sparkly, silver dress and go, Such a lucky girl. I knew it wasn't student counsellor advice from a training book. Could he possibly like me? God. But why would he? He's like . . . well, I never thought about him that way, and then I did.

  It was like the Neville Longbottom centrefold that broke the Internet. One moment, he's the cute dork you take for granted, the next he's stripping in your dreams and gyrating to a dirty song, eliciting emotions you didn't know you could have. Megha and the rest of the college were right—he was cute in an older boy sort of a way. Like if Brad Pitt constantly winked and chewed on gum.

  I had taken that silver dress and walked out with him maintaining a circle of sanity around me. I didn't look at him or even breath the same air as him. He was my counsellor and I should not have been thinking about him; there are rules against that kind of thing, I believe.

  'I will see you tonight then?' I had asked as he waved down a rickshaw for me.

  'Sure. Is something wrong? You seem a little unhappy,' he said.

  There he was again with his supersensitive antennae working overtime.

  'No, not really. See you tonight, Danish?'

  'Sure.'

  'Sir.'

  'What?'

  'No, I called you Danish. I missed adding sir. So, sir.'

  He had chuckled.

  'Bye, Aisha.'

  As the auto drove away, I waited uselessly for him to suffix 'the woman of my dreams' after taking my name.

  *

  My phone rang. 'Hey!' I said brightly, pushing Danish out of my head, which was easier said than done. Every time I looked at that dress, his words knocked the breath out of me.

  'Are you ready yet?' asked Vibhor.

  'I was just getting into the shower.'

  'Take me with you,' he said.

  I giggled awkwardly for he didn't know there was no shower in my washroom. There was a tap and there was a bucket and that's how you rolled in the Paul household.

  'I'm serious! Send me a picture!' he said.

  Wow. Why?

  'I'm looking really bad right now. There's oil in my hair.'

  'Oh! C'mon! You always look great.'

  'I don't want to right now. Let me get ready and then I will send you one? I got this really nice silver dress.'

  'Okay, fine, let's cut a deal. Send me one without your face in it? That you can do, right?'

  'I seriously can't right now,' I said. I didn't want to send it. I don't know why I didn't say that. I should have just said I don't want to rather than I can't. This is, I realized, where all the problems start.

  'Fine. Send whenever you like. Bye.'

  He cut the call. I sat and stared at the phone. Maybe it wasn't passive aggression and he meant it genuinely. Without my face? I started considering it. But how good would that picture be without my eyes, lips, face? Clearly, Vibhor wasn't interested in the same things as Danish.

  It took me fifteen attempts to click the picture. The mirror in my house was stained, and no matter what angle I used, the room behind me looked like a disaster. I edited the photo as best as I could and sent it to him. I switched off the phone in embarrassment. The more my phone stayed off, the more I thought he would be laughing at the picture.

  Twenty minutes and a hurried bath later, I switched it on to a surprise. There were twenty-three messages from an excited Vibhor, all asking for more pictures (HOTTTTT! SEXY!!! FUCK!! FUCKING SEXY!!!! Etc.), and sixteen missed call alerts.

  I'm all dressed up, I texted him. He sent a single smiley and my phone remained barren.

  I dressed up, put on my make-up, clicked a picture and sent it to Namrata who told me she was reconsidering her sexuality seeing me in the dress that supposedly fitted me like dream. I told her how Danish had helped me pick it.

  'He's a man,' she said. 'He knows things.'

  She told me Norbu and she might try out a few things after the party and were staying the night with me and the rest of the guest list. I talked to her mother and pleaded to let her come over and help me understand calculus.

  'You're the best, I am blowing a thousand kisses at you,' she said.

  'So are you going to return his favour?'

  'What favour? Oh? That! Actually, I want to go all the way today. I feel like it.'

  'Are you ready?' I asked, nervous as if it was me. But with best friends I guess sex does become a group activity in a totally non-perverse way.

  'Yes, I am. I'm going to lose my virginity today to Norbu! He will be the guy to get it. At least, the date is going to be easy to remember, right?'

  She said she had to go and that she will see me tonight and cut the call.

  I kind of hated how Namrata used that word—lose; I had been guilty of using it as well. What's there to be lose? Sex should be an experience, and experiences are gained. And why lose? There's nothing to be lost here. Nonsense! I decided to not use 'lose' from then on.

  That's when my brother walked in, just in time to not see me click myself in a provocative pose. He smiled. He smiled?

  'Happy Birthday, again,' he said.

  'Thanks.'

  What I really wanted to do was cry, and lunge at him, and spend the rest of the evening hugging him and talking to him and catching up on all the years we had lost. Instead, I walked out of the room to show my dress to my mother.

  'How do I look?'

  'Isn't it too short?' said my mother. I frowned and she hugged me. 'I was joking, baba. You look great, so beautiful.' Her voice quivered. 'Happy birthday, Aisha.' She was about to cry now. 'You're so beautiful.'

  Mothers. No matter how broken or fucked up, we are beautiful enough to make them cry.

  'Come with me, Maa,' I said and kissed her on the forehead.

  'Shut up, Aisha. It's a young people's party. What would I do? You and your brother have fun. He has been planning it for so many days now. Please go. And call me from whichever friend's house you will put up at, okay? And make sure you take Namrata along, okay?'

  'I don't want to go,' I said and didn't leave my mother who tried prying herself out of my death-claw hug. 'I want to be with you.'

  'Be with your brother. He's acting strange these days. Don't you think?'

  'When does he not?' Maa frowned at me. 'Okay, I will.'

  'And call me every half an hour.'

  'Okay, Maa.'

  My brother walked in wearing a white shirt, blue jeans, nicely shined shoes, and he had even bothered to shave. He must be attractive to girls his age. I wondered if it's a family curse. Not being able to find someone to date. I made a mental note to try and set him up tonight with someone.

  This note was amongst the other notes I made in my head: Have my first kiss. Yes, today was the day I was going to lose(?) my kissing-virginity, if that's a thing. That didn't sound right, so I decided to use the word share. I was going to be the kind of woman who shares things like kissing and virginity. We should all share our virginities with guys, not lose it to them. Losing means it's coveted, like it's valuable, and can be wrested away for some kind of good. Share felt more right—like we are being benevolent with our virginities and allowing ourselves to experience some of our awesomeness.

  I already felt better about my birthday.