Chapter 1

"Wake up, Abhilashhhhaaa!"

All my sleep-deprived head can perceive is a faint voice and a blurred figure desperately shaking me up.

"Abhilashhhhaaa!"

Another pounding on my head, and I felt numb. All my senses immediately fell alive by the cold, ice-cold water! All over me! I woke up with all my sensations running haywire due to the biting cold of the ice water.

"What's wrong with you? Are you out of your mind?" I was dead angry and would have cursed with my heart had the person standing before me not been my mother.The pesky lady was throwing her weight around, ready to lunge at me for crossing all lines of sleeping so late into the morning. I was prepared for the tirade of unnecessary Mother Indianisms (every Indian mother has her own set of rules and advice, especially for the beautiful young girl at home, the next bahu or daughter-in-law in the making). I have tolerated her for twenty-one years; I can survive her for one more week. As soon as I land my first internship letter, I am running away from the mini hell my mother creates for me daily.

Mini Hell = Mother Indianisms

1 Waking up early is a sign of a good upbringing. Your mother-in-law won't tolerate such nonsense, unlike me. (Seriously, you are tolerating me? I thought it was the other way around)

2. Big girls like you need to be helping your mother in doing household chores. (In short, get ready for marriage because that's the sole purpose of your life.)

3. Books are not your best friends always. Get out of your fantasy world. (Hell yeah...Definitely! Internet is my newest happening best friend, and Google is my fantasy world.)

4. No boyfriends, and keep away from all your BOY friends. (No sex before marriage, not even touching.)

5. A girl's virtue is her family's pride. (Scratching my head over this)

The list is quite long, but these five take pride in honour. To my utmost relief, I was saved by the ringing of her cell phone. She walked away hurriedly, and so did I. I took a shower in a hurry to avoid getting caught again. I dressed quickly. I pulled over a basic white t-shirt and rugged jeans to make me look presentable. I hurried to the dining table and grabbed a spoonful or two of cereal and an apple to be out with my dad. We walked to the metro station together every day. Dad was a saviour, not only from the mindless ranting my mother subjected me to but also from the numerous chores I would have been handed over had I stayed any longer. He was far more chilled out than she was but twice as conservative as my mother. Opposites, and yet they fitted well together.

My mother was a petite figure of five feet one inch, while my dad stood tall at six. She was a pretty sight to behold, an almond-shaped face with small eyes and a long nose. I have heard numerous tales of her being chased by many young men in her prime days. Well, I don't relate to her much being her daughter. Not that I don't believe her stories, but as her daughter, I have never been hounded by boys vying for my attention. So, we are wired differently in every sense.My father, at sixty, is jaw-dropping handsome. With dimpled cheeks, a bearded face, and a pointed nose, I am definite he must be hitting only on the beautiful girls of his neighbourhood. But, on the other hand, I am pretty sure of his Casanova ways, and I have heard a story or two from my mother to vouch for its authenticity. How they landed together is worth writing an account and then showing it on the 70mm screen!

As their daughter, I have no resemblance in looks. I stand on my feet and barely make it to five-two. My face is round with tiny eyes that make me look like a Chinese doll. I better not describe my nose because a round fat nose like Pinocchio's is not even worth explaining. I have full kissable lips, but what is their purpose without a pretty face? I have spots on my face that do nothing to add to my beauty. I have cascades of long silky hair, which I never intend to show off, hiding in a plait. What I have missed on my face has been added to my misery on the body. With heavy bosoms that spill out a cleavage even in loose-fitting clothes, I have to handle the male gaze everywhere I go unnecessarily. I have been endowed with buttocks that would put any heroine to shame for want of a perfect figure with that pretty face. I have no love handles but a waistline that makes me the envy of most of my girlfriends. Though I fail to place the reason for their jealousy, they fail to understand my non-complacency with my looks. I try very hard to pay heed to their compliments. Still, over the years, primarily since my teenage years, I have understood that the species called women, even the finest specimen, seems to harbour a sense of insecurity about their friends and near ones' beauty. Perhaps I am no exception because I find my younger sister lovely, unlike myself. However, I am still determining her opinions regarding her own or my so-called beauty.I can contemplate such crass topics as beauty for hours, but I have much important work.

I am heading off to Park Street to meet my Jigdi Yaar, Jigar Bhansali. I took the 10:06 and would be on time at Barista- our favourite hang-out place. Metro was the city's lifeline and mine too. Cheap and on time (an exception to the rule; when people commit suicide). It was always lovely to get jostled while boarding with a mouthful or two of "uff ki maramari" and "darun" escaping the mouths of those Bong ladies.

Jigar and I met at a workshop organized by our schools. A year senior me, he always struggled with his studies. While I went on to join college and pursue my dreams, he dropped out to take over the reins of the production house his grandfather left to his mother. The story of how we clicked is indeed funny. It was customary for schools to come together for workshops, fests, and sports to allow intermingling, exchanging of new thoughts and ideas, and learning new things while competing. Our school seniors did the opposite and used these sessions to meet potential dating partners. Sister schools were invited with all the sisterly feelings, but the students harboured none. It was a mating session, and the one who found a partner was rated high in the eyes of the schoolmates. I was a sore loser in that category, and until college, I had no clue how to play this game and win it. Jigar was no stud, and no one was talking about my beauty too. The geeky me was content with learning something new at these workshops, indulging myself in nothing but academia. Jigar, on the other hand, wanted to improve his already languishing image of a good-for-nothing loser. His friends had dared him to find a girlfriend by the end of the day. Task huge at hand, Jigar was about to lose his bet until he met me.

Jigar and I had a lot of mutual connections. While we knew each other, we had barely interacted at any social dos we frequented with our families. I never had a boyfriend in school or college. However, the sly twist to this story is that I harboured a secret crush on Jigar from the day I was introduced to him by his sister at a party. Jigar, those days looked cute to me. He wasn't tall and well-built and did not fit into the girls' fair and handsome category. He wasn't drop-dead gorgeous, nor did he possess a drool-worthy personality. He must have been ticking off all the girls with his male chauvinistic attitude.The piano workshop was the most boring at the fest I had ever encountered. I was looking for an excuse to leave and found a quick one to help a friend who had stained her clothes. Red stains still cannot be flaunted without questioning eyes. I quickly hurried to the washroom and was killing my time standing outside when I found Jigar had escaped the torturous piano session in the form of a loo break. He passed me without a glance. However, I was itching to talk to him, so I initiated the conversation the moment he came out.

"Hi!" I said.

"Hey," was the terse reply he gave me. I desperately wanted the conversation to flow, so despite the dead-end, I kept bugging him.

"So, how's the workshop going?" The most stupid question I could ever ask.

"Just as it was going when you left and continuing the same way when we were not there."

"Oh! Yeah." I am making a fool of myself in front of him. "Hmmm. So do you play the piano?" I enquired foolishly.

"Better than what he is teaching in the workshop."

"You have learned to play?

"Yes, I was taught by Sonaset."

"Oh! Glad to hear that."

Why am I glad to hear that? Our forced conversation was interrupted by the class coming out of the workshop. Jigar's friends waved to him and gestured for him to meet them. He solemnly agreed, but not without asking me for my cellphone number. I was taken aback but did not read too much into the conversation.

"I don't have a cellphone. You can call me on 222666953, my landline number." With no goodbye, he left me standing, waiting for the girl I had accompanied to the washroom.

"The next station is Park Street," the automated voice announced. I hurried out of the compartment to exit before a long queue formed. But, to my utter dismay, I was not quick enough. I still had to walk five minutes to reach Barista. Jigar, the whiner, would constantly fret about me being late for our meetings.Jigar's parents were page 3 celebs, his father- Editor of the leading English newspaper in the region, mother- a famous producer/actress with a family lineage to boast of. Moneyed, he was, but the miser never spent a penny on anyone, yet his so-called friends stuck to him in the hopes of a change in heart. Sadly, it never happened.I walked as fast as my legs could, but I soon gave up. It was okay to be late; Jigar would whine, not sentence me to death. Finally, I reached Barista at five minutes past ten-thirty.

He was sitting at our usual spot, toying with his new cellphone. Yet another showoff session. I dreaded them the most. He would talk about his new possessions, characteristics, features, and the worst price tag. Without creating any fuss, I took the seat next to him.

"Hi!" I chirped with as much enthusiasm as I could.

"Hello, miss. You finally made it on time." But, unfortunately, the sweet-laden voice filled with venomous anger was yet to appear."

Can you ever come on time? I am waiting for you. I am yet to have breakfast. I have been delaying the order for too long."

"Can you shut up and please order?" I shouted at the top of my voice to cut short his ranting.

"Excuse me! Two chicken calzones, one hazelnut frappe, please." He took no time in ordering our usual affair with food at Barista.

"No, make it two frappes, please, and one chicken quiche. I am hungry." I gave him a guilty look. You better pay off for what you have ordered. I am broke."

"Dude! I will pay you my first salary. You better keep the bargain till I drive off to Mumbai."Kameenz." pat came the reply. "Why am I putting up with you and your nonsense? It's been seven years, and I have yet to get rid of you."

"To answer your first question, you are putting up with me because I did too seven years back. Second, why don't you attempt to get rid of me? You will lose the only genuine friend you have."

I am sure I had hit a sore spot, but he didn't seem hurt, amusingly. He sat precisely in silence for two seconds and then added sloppily with a genuine smile, "You are my jigad ka tukda." I could not help but burst out laughing at the melodramatic words he uttered.

"Do you remember the first time I called you on your landline? I was shit scared. And to make it worse, your mother picked it up."

A small "hmmm" escaped my mouth in acknowledgment.

"And my mother asked me a hundred questions about why you called me. I just couldn't let her know what a douchebag you were." I said, reminiscing that day.

"Listen, I agree I was a douchebag, but it was unintentional. I wanted to apologize for my behaviour at the party."

"I never intended to keep you in the dark and would have come forward and let you know the entire story." He said somewhat apologetically.

"Yeah...until I had finished the part of being the prey."

Why was I getting worked up? I don't know. (Which means I know the exact reason what is hurting.) Jigar was in no mood to back off.

"Come on, Abhi, get over it. I was not seeking a girlfriend, and I had let you know this before inviting you to the party. I wanted you to come as my friend and act friendly."

"Act friendly?" I rolled my eyes in mock horror. "You almost told your friends you were going to conquer me."

"So, I did. I found my best friend for life in you.

"My heart grew warm at this declaration. Jigar is my pillar of support, my shoulder to laugh and cry on. While I often talk rubbish and nonsensical things, he loves to make sense of those gibberish words. He has been there for me countless times. He is helping me out today by talking to his father to secure an internship at FMN News.

"Snap out," and I did from my musings.

"You haven't conquered me. However, I sympathized with your situation and decided to help you."He raised his eyebrows to show his astonishment."Lady, you were crushing on me."

"There is no denial about that. But you must admit my timely intervention helped you not make a fool of yourself."

"True that. I wonder why I fell for the bait of my school friends. They always thought I was a loser because I had no girlfriend. And it was quite sweet of you to talk to me that day at the workshop. Because that made my overworked mind find a perfect ruse to stop this bullying."

"I worked out all the pros of getting you on this plan with me, but the con was way bigger than I could handle. What if? Endless possibilities of you bitching and landing me in a soup. So, I decided to take you for a ride. But, alas, my little mouth was overheard, typically bragging to my friend about my conquest."

He paused for a moment to sound more convincing.

"But you turned out to be such a nice friend. You played along throughout the party with my lie and gave me a bashing at the end of it."

"I had to, I was itching to thrash you with my own hands for gullying me, but obviously, my values did not let me go astray." I sounded comical, but I was sure I mouthed the perfect dialogue of Jigar's favourite serial so well that he would be stunned. He coughed. "Ahha, someone's watching the K serials in their free time.

"Nope." I interrupted, "hearing the dialogues while my family of 2 soppy females watches them." He laughed hard, and I could not be irked any long. The food arrived at the best time. I was famished and dug into it wholeheartedly. The quiche, chicken calzone, and frappe would do nothing to satiate my hunger pangs. I asked Jigar to order a tandoori chicken sandwich and a truffle. He looked disgusted.

"God, spare your boyfriend!" He announced.

"And obviously, it's not you." I retorted with a deadpan face."Why can't girls eat? Every man should be happy that the girl in their life is eating. Eating=Happiness & Happiness=Happy Relationship."

"Your justification for your eating disorder, isn't it?" He quipped.

"My justification for my eating disorder is the early morning coffee meeting you called on an urgent basis." So I talked while stuffing a mouthful of the lovely minced chicken cooked in the red sauce and wrapped in a pastry.

"Oh, yes, that brings me to the agenda of this meeting."

"And that is..."

"Why do you have to go to Mumbai? Why can't you intern here?"

"Oh! Come on, not again. I have been through this with you umpteen times. There is no future out there. There are a few places to work, and they offer peanuts to freshers. Plus, where are the stories and better opportunities? The Left- and Right-Wing politics in this state will never change. It is always going to remain stagnant. Plus, I only have the patience to slog for a while to attain the so-called transfer and get there. I am willing to work hard and work on my dreams. It sounds a little hypocritical coming from my mouth because I am taking your dad's help to secure an internship. But my dream to be a top reporter is not rooted in fantasy. I want to work towards its reality. I have no contacts to weave my way through except your dad and...''

Jigar cut through my declaration with the profound proclamation, "You are trying to be too big for your shoes, and you're way too ambitious."

This sounded lame. I had to defend myself from the barb.

"Aren't you? Is your dream to expand your grandfather's production house and mint crores an overtly ambitious one? It sounds fine and legitimate to me as well as you." I could have talked on and on; however, I diffused the argument.

"I don't want to argue on this. It's a meaningless discussion with our views poles apart on this."

"Thanks for letting me know." I was tired, and this had been stretched and re-stretched with no finality. We sat in silence. Jigar gestured to the waiter for the bill. As usual, he refused to tip him. According to him, they are already charging a service tax; why tip? I refused to make small talk. The sombre mood was catching on the two of us, and I didn't want our last or second last meeting before I left to be fraught with tension. Jigar refused to budge, and I refused to bow down. Finally, he got up, and before he left, he thrust an envelope into my hands and, with a curt reply, "until next time," left me staring at his back long and hard until he went into oblivion in the crowd.