Look Away by Manish Bhanushali
Aditya is about to leave Bangalore, but not before he bumps into a forgotten acquaintance at his new flatmate's housewarming party.
I am waiting at the balcony for the guests to arrive when I see a guy in beige enter our apartment complex. He looks in my direction as he comes inside the gate. He reminds me of someone, so I wave at him. He looks away. It crosses my mind that he might not be a guest of ours.
Shortly after, I hear the doorbell ring. I open the door to find, sure enough, the guy in beige. Standing on our welcome mat, turning towards me, as if he'd been busy scoping the area.
"Nish," the guy in beige says, his eyes downcast, posture stooped, and manner resigned.
"Adi," I say, returning his handshake. "Pleased to meet you," I add. He gives the smallest of nods and runs his hands through his artfully tousled hair.
"Ravi is just finishing up his work. Please make yourself comfortable," I say.
Ravi is hosting a housewarming party. He has just moved in, replacing my previous flatmate. I have been here seven months now, and I am, in fact, about to leave the flat - and Bangalore - for Mumbai tomorrow, so the whole housewarming thing feels like something of a joke. Say hello to Adi, say goodbye to Adi.
Nish settles on the couch and is soon rolling a joint. I ask if he wants a beer or something. He looks up and says, "Just some water, thanks."
There's a raw undercurrent to his soft voice. It's apparent he's going through something. I try to recall if I've seen his face somewhere. There's something familiar about him, but I can't put my finger on it.
"Will you be having?" Nish asks.
"What?" I say.
"Beer."
"I don't drink."
"How come?"
"Never got around to it." I say, and realize that's a stupid thing to say.
"Um-hmm," Nish says.
As I go to the kitchen, I replay our conversation to try and recall where I've seen Nish before. Still, nothing comes to mind, there's just a growing sense of déjà vu.
When I return to the hall, I find Ravi seated with him. They're having a lively conversation and I see Nish looking up at Ravi and smiling. He happens to turn his gaze to me while smiling, then immediately moves his attention back to the joint he's rolling.
"I guess you've already met Nishant," Ravi says to me. That's when it all comes together in my head. Nish. Nishant. Nishant Borkar. Tenth grade. Sixteen years ago. An image comes back to my mind - the look he gave me as his father dragged him out of school.
"Yeah, we've met," I say to Ravi. "Just," I add, pointing to the entrance door foolishly.
I try to recall more about Nish from school, but I have a terrible memory so all I get are flashes of images and feelings, nothing concrete. I hope the single image I have will branch out, lead me to the rest of the tree eventually.
"What do you do?" I ask Nish.
"I work in advertising," he says, still meticulously applying himself to his joint.
"That's nice. I've always wondered what it was like to work in a creative industry."
"It's a job that pays the bills, that's all."
Hmph.
"What do you do?" he asks.
"Software engineer," I say, "Like the rest."
"Being humble, are we?" Ravi says, "He's an IITian."
"Impressive," Nish says and looks at me. I wonder if he's being sarcastic. For some reason, it is important to me that he approves of what I do.
Advertising, he said. Hmm. Sketches.
Nishant would sketch. That's all he would do back in school. He was terrible at Science and Maths and would have failed his board exams if it weren't for me.
He'd joined our school in tenth standard. The memories are slowly coming back to me now. I can recall the day he joined. The murmurs when we were told there was going to be a new student.
"This late in the year. How?" one student said.
"Well, his father is a big shot apparently," another said.
The way I was then, I'd probably have said, "Why does it concern any of us." Or thought it, at least.
When he entered the class, it was in the middle of a lecture, and he had his top button unbuttoned. No tie. He had the same medium-length wavy hair back then, only slightly longer and more unruly, the ends curling over his nape. He also had the same "done with this shit" look.
He walked to the second-last bench. I turned back to look at him as he sat down. Meeting his eyes, I was subjected to a cold glare.
"Who else is coming?" Nish asks, bringing me back.
"Prachi," Ravi says.
"That chatterbox! God help us," Nish scowls, "All girls named Prachi are exhausting."
"Come on, you two get on well. Don't you like it when she flirts with you?"
Nish rolls his eyes.
"That reminds me, Adi is supposed to be a great flirt," Ravi says. He turns the music louder, messes with bottles and glasses, plays the host.
Nish looks at me and narrows his eyes. I try to suppress the flush of heat over my face, unsuccessfully.
The joint Nish was rolling is ready. He lights it and passes it on to me. As I take my second tentative puff I feel, rather than hear, a soft breath in my ear.
"Do we have whiskey?"
Nish's voice. I realize his face is very close to mine, so I don't turn while answering.
"I think Ravi has a bottle of Johnny Walker."
"Should do," Nish says, almost a whisper.
"Aren't you smoking up?" I say as he gets up.
His smiles wanly.
"I'm drinking tonight."
"I need that Johnny Walker, man," Nish shouts to Ravi over the music.
"I don't think that's a good idea," Ravi says.
"Just this once," Nish pleads. Ravi sighs and points to the cabinet beside the TV; Nish walks to the cabinet to fetch the bottle.
"He's a terrible drunk," Ravi says to me, by way of explanation, "He shouts, and cries, and gets super paranoid, but he's going through a tough phase so it doesn't feel right to say no to him. Broke up with his girlfriend recently."
Nish walks back, already pouring himself a drink. I get up and move to the balcony. What I always do when I can't think of anything else. That, or go for a walk. Although the closer I've come to leaving this city, the less inclined I feel to go out. Counter-intuitive I know, but that's how it is.
I'm struck by the cool breeze outside. There was a similar chilly wind blowing on a December morning in Mumbai sixteen years ago, as I walked to school to give my mid-terms.
Nishant sat behind me. We'd barely interacted since he had joined the school, so I was a bit surprised to hear him call my name.
"Psst. Aditya. Psst."
The physics test was midway, and the teacher had just passed us, moving to the front benches.
"Move a little to your left, will you?"
No please, no prior conversation, just an order. I ignored him.
"I can be of great help to you, mate."
I recalled someone mentioning his father was a big shot. I moved a little to my left, hesitantly, to give him a better view of my sheet. He didn't say anything after that, but I continued to sit that way for the rest of the test. I knew he was copying my entire paper.
"Perhaps a thank you is in order," I said quietly, as we got up to leave. I knew he could hear me, despite the flurry of people around us.
"Sure," he said, and walked past me.
"Hi, guys! I hope you haven't started yet," says a cheerful voice from behind me. I turn to find a young woman at the door. Must be Prachi, I think.
"Get a beer from the fridge," Ravi commands.
"Aye aye, captain," Prachi says, and salutes. She gives Nish a hug from behind.
"Fuck off," Nish grumbles.
I go back to my seat and shortly everybody has settled down with a drink, except for me.
"You've got beautiful hair," Prachi says to me.
I've been growing out my naturally curly hair for a while, and people tend to mention it.
"Yours isn't half bad either," I say, smiling.
She pouts, but preens slightly, swinging her glossy sheet of hair.
"I hate my hair man. It's got no character."
"I'm sure you've got enough character to more than make up for it," I say.
"That's probably true," she replies, and laughs grudgingly, "If I do say so myself."
Prachi and I talk for an hour non-stop after that; it's as if we've known each other for years, when, in fact, I've never met her before. The music grows mellow as the evening progresses. I'm starting to get into the flow of things, when I turn to look at Nish and find him looking right back. He takes a sip from his glass. I wonder if he has recognized me yet. If he ever will.
"Your jhumkas go well with your top," I say to Prachi. Her eyes widen.
"This is the first time a guy has ever complimented me on them, even though I've been wearing jhumkas forever, and I always put special thought into choosing them," she squeals.
"I know this street market back in Mumbai where you get the best jhumkas. Affordable, and incredible variety. I always get jhumkas from there to give my female friends. If you do me the honour of accepting my friendship, the next time we meet, you'll be gifted the most beautiful jhumkas you've ever seen."
"A bit over the top, aren't we?" she laughed, "But thoughtful all the same... wait, what do you mean, back in Mumbai?"
"I'm from Mumbai. Returning tomorrow, in fact."
"There goes our friendship."
"You don't know me at all, in that case," I say.
I sense movement to my right. Nish has stood up and is coming over. He bends down to me, and says, "Ravi wasn't kidding, you are a great flirt alright." Then he straightens up and walks to the washroom.
"Don't mind him," Prachi says, "He's not usually like this. He's nice, really... just going through a phase."
When he comes back, I ask him to join us.
"So I can listen to this woman blabber on? No thanks."
Rude then, rude now.
He never thanked me for helping him out during the physics exam, but we began to speak to each other. Occasionally, at first. Once, he remarked he was going to fail his board exams if he didn't get his act together in Science and Maths.
"You're not going to be there for the board exams," he said to me. I offered to help him out with his studies. He shrugged, which now that I'd come to know him, I understood was a "yes".
We started meeting at his apartment for study sessions. His parents were rarely there. I met his mom only twice - she was as cold as her son - but apart from her, the only person I ever saw at there was the maid who came to do the housework at 4pm every day.
I don't think he really got much out of those sessions, but he seemed to like my company. He never said so, of course. There would be little things, though, that made me realize it. Like I'd say it was getting late and needed to get going, and he would ignore me. Then we would keep going on for another hour or two.
What did we do during those sessions? Sometimes I explained syllabus concepts to him that he found difficult to understand, sometimes we watched WWE, or cricket, and sometimes we played video games. There was almost always his sketching, of course. He never showed his sketches to me.
"What do you sketch?" I'd say.
"Things," he'd reply.
I started looking forward to my study sessions with him. And it went that way for a while. He soon started copying my assignments as well.
I didn't mind, but someone else did.
One morning in school our physics teacher called me aside after her lecture.
"Do you think I can't see what's going on?" she said, "I've been tolerating it because you're a bright student, but this can't continue. Put an end to it, or I will."
"Yes, Ma'am," I said and walked off.
"Were you trying to flirt with me earlier on?" Prachi says, arching a shapely brow.
"I wasn't doing a very good job of it if you have to ask."
"Well, I'm flattered."
How strange, that I'd lived here for seven months and only succeeded in making a friend on my last night in this city.
"Hey, don't do anything stupid," I hear Ravi shout just then. I look up to see Nish rushing to the bedroom. I look at Prachi. She shrugs.
"I wouldn't worry about him. And I'm sorry again, for his behaviour. He is one of my favourite people, but he gets like that sometimes. You've seen how he has behaved with you today, yet, sweetheart that he is, he'll keep me company when I see you off tomorrow."
"You're coming to see me off tomorrow?" I ask.
"For a friend who's getting me the most beautiful jhumkas I've ever seen? That's the least I could do."
"Well, you'll be the only one there," I sigh.
"What about Ravi?"
"He's not a friend, really. Just a flatmate."
"Even so," she twinkles, "Seems to me this entire housewarming party was arranged so you could find a friend to see you off!" She points at herself and mimes waving cutely, just to make it clear.
It reminds me of my wave to Nish, when I saw him entering the gate today. And I find myself wondering why he looked away.
The night wears on, and Prachi is dancing with the other guests, who seem chill, if not quite as special as her. The party looks to be a success by any standard, and it almost makes me miss the city. I excuse myself and slip away to the bedroom for a moment of quiet, and find him standing there, at the balcony. He is talking on his phone and weeping like a baby. I get the feeling he'll fling his phone down the six stories, any moment now. I'm not sure if it's my place to do anything about it, so I just stand there, captive witness.
"Hey, you," Nish calls out to me across the room, "Can you explain what this woman means?"
I'm too shocked to say anything. He tosses his phone to me, and I just about manage to catch it.
"This woman does not fucking get me. She doesn't get me at all," he says, and a fresh burst of tears wells from his eyes. He drops face-first onto the bed and continues crying. I wonder who does not get whom and put the phone to my ear.
"Nish. Where the fuck have you gone?" the woman on the phone screams into my ear, making me flinch.
"It's not Nish. I'm Aditya. Nish handed his phone to me," I say.
"Don't waste your time on him," she says, and then there's silence. I stare at the phone, and it takes me a moment to realise she's cut the call.
I place the phone on the side table carefully, walk up to Nish, put my hand on his shoulder, and ask him if he's alright. He looks at me and says, "Why doesn't she get me?"
I grab the water bottle off the side table and proffer it. "Have some water first and I'll tell you."
Nish sits up and sniffles quietly. "It's not fair. I don't deserve any of this," he whimpers, as he wipes his tears.
"You're right, you don't. Water. Please?"
"What happened to me in school wasn't fair either," he says, and looks me in the eye.
I don't answer. I motion the water bottle towards him, and when he doesn't respond, I put it into his hand and curl his fingers around it, pressing gently till he grips.
Nish gulps down the water like an obedient child. Then he gets up, arranges his hair in the mirror, mops at his face with his hands, and walks back to the hall.
Back outside, I find he's seated himself on the couch, with a fresh drink in his hand. I return to the bedroom and lie down on the crumpled sheets. I wonder what's going on in Nishant's head. Then I wonder what was going on in his head as he held me tight against the classroom door that day.
When I went to his apartment for our next study session, I told him what had happened.
He scoffed, "Who gives a fuck about what a teacher thinks?"
"I do."
"Are you scared?"
"No," I said. But the next day I told him he couldn't copy my assignments anymore. He laughed at me and snatched my notebook from my hands. I grew increasingly worried, but I couldn't say no.
There was another round of tests shortly. This was my best chance, I thought. I planted myself in my seat, covering my paper and refusing to budge despite Nishant's urgent whispers and his poking me in the back the whole time. It felt like he was leaving bruises, but I gritted my teeth.
After the test was done, Nishant asked me to wait. His expression was inscrutable. I was scared. When all the other students had left the class, and the echo of their voices has almost faded away, he walked to the door and bolted it shut. I didn't want to give him the satisfaction of getting to me, but at the very last second, my resolve broke, and I tried to get through. He got hold of my wrists and held me against the door.
"What the fuck was that?" he asked.
"I'm just trying to stay clear of trouble," I said.
He was quiet for a few seconds, then his grip on my wrists slackened. He would see me at his apartment in the evening, he said. I told him I wasn't going to be meeting him anymore. He pushed me against the door and said I would do no such thing, that I would keep meeting him as before.
"I need you," he said, his jaw tight but his eyes soft.
We turned around at the sound of the windows opening. A teacher looked at us from outside, shocked. I saw Nishant glare back at her, the softness gone.
"Adi? Hey? Are you asleep?"
I see Ravi standing in the doorway, pretending to be quiet.
"Were you asleep?" he grins, "We're going down for chai and sutta, can you look after Nishant for a while?"
"I don't need any looking after, you piece of shit," Nish screams from the hall.
"Thanks, bud," Ravi calls out, leaving before I can respond.
I curse on my way out of the bedroom.
"When you first came over, I thought you were a quiet person," I say, as I sit down on the couch beside Nish. I'm half speaking to myself. I try not to yawn. Nish looks ready to explode, then for some reason he holds back and answers, "I am."
The clock strikes twelve and I slump lower into the couch. What a day, I think.
"How's your luck been with women?" he says. I pause, deciding what to tell him, then shrug. Chances are he won't remember a thing.
"I've had two serious relationships, both 10/10. I'm still best friends with them."
"Good for you," he says and, alarmingly, bursts into tears with no warning.
"It's okay," I say feebly, and try to put an arm around him.
He snarls and moves away, "Don't you fucking dare touch me."
So I keep to myself. Nish curls into a fetal position on the couch and cries, a tragic, open-mouthed cry.
"It's gonna be okay, Nish," I try again. I touch his arm gently. He shoves it away.
"I said, don't fucking touch me!" he says, and pushes me so hard I almost fall off the couch.
"Well, go fuck yourself," I sigh, and get up. Nish covers his face with his hands and wails like a widow.
I walk to the balcony. I stand there with my eyes closed, and let the breeze flow over me and through me. I can't wait to get out of here.
Nish murmurs something unintelligible. I ignore him.
"Can you please hold me?"
I hear him this time. "No," I say.
He says 'please' again, and the quiet feels eerie now. It seems as if he's exhausted every last tear he has. I turn around and see him looking at the ceiling, his eyes blank.
I sit down on the floor gingerly, and hold his right hand, which lies limp beside him. His hand is the softest hand I've ever held.
"I've been told I have soft hands," he says, as if reading my mind. "My cheeks are even softer."
"Here," he says and turns his face a little, offering his left cheek. I graze my fingers over it tentatively. He tightens the grip on the hand I'm holding.
"But I also have tremendous strength for a soft being," he says and continues to strengthen his grip on my hand until I feel the pressure shift my bones. I tell him it hurts and ask him to stop. He lets go of my hand and shifts his body to the back of the couch, making space. I lie down on the sofa, in the space he has made, and put my arm along the back of the sofa. He hesitates, then leans his head back against it. He yields.
"Prachi was right. You're a thoughtful man," Nish says, and then he turns in towards me, his face against my chest. I smell his hair. He nuzzles into me ever so slightly. I don't know how long we stay that way; I doze off within seconds.
"I want you to be honest. Your academic year is at stake. What's going on?" the principal asked me from across the table. Our physics teacher sat beside me, looking at me with expectant eyes.
"Nothing," I replied meekly.
"Tell the truth," the teacher said.
The principal snapped her fingers at me. I looked her in the eye.
"I will ask one last time; what happens after this is completely your responsibility." She paused and then, every word deliberate, said, "What is going on?"
Then I told her, in broken sentences and a shaking voice, that Nishant had been copying my assignments and my test papers, and when she asked about what the teacher had seen in the classroom, I confessed that he had threatened me.
The next day, his father was called in to meet the principal. Nishant was summoned to the office, pulled out mid-lecture. Some twenty minutes later, students milled about, dragging their feet as they strained to decipher the raised voices we could hear through the open classroom door. I'd packed my bag quickly, hoping to slip away unnoticed, so I was right outside in the corridor when the door opened. I pressed myself against the wall, hoping I would blend into the crowd.
The scene is etched in my mind. I'll never forget it. My heartbeat, loud and painful in my chest. The shape of my books wedged against my back. And Nishant, his eyes bloodshot but stubbornly dry, his father dragging him by the elbow. The fact that he towered over the man only seemed to add to the humiliation.
He saw me. There was no mistaking the hard, accusatory look of recognition on his face. I'll never forget it. He was close, I could have walked over, reached out and pulled him free.
I looked away. I'll never forget it. My cheeks burning, throat tight and shut. The hush of people gawking as they passed through, and the clamour of gossip once they'd left.
The classes for the year were about to end, and I never saw him again.
I was checking an assignment book not long after, and I found a sheet of paper inside with something drawn on it. I had lent it to Nish at some point.
The sketch is of two guys sitting against a window. The guy on the right has short curly hair and reads out of a notebook, while the guy on the left, with shaggy hair, looks at him, intent. Outside, ignored, shines a sky bright with stars.
"Adi. Adi."
It's Prachi. I'm alone on the couch and my arm lies flung open beside me, nobody's head resting on it.
"Sorry to wake you up. Just wanted to say bye. I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"
She leans down, briefly placing her fingertips against my cheek, then drops a tiny kiss where her fingers were a second ago.
It's twenty minutes before boarding time. If I don't get into the airport in the next five minutes, I'll miss my flight.
"Do you still hate Bangalore?" Prachi asks.
"I'm not so sure any longer," I say and look behind me, to the right. Where cabs drop off their passengers.
Prachi told me she messaged Nish that morning, about coming to see me off, but he hadn't responded. She sent him the time and terminal details anyway, just in case.
"Is it because you've found new friends?" Prachi says.
"Perhaps," I say.
"My cousin's wedding is happening in Alibaug. Mumbai isn't very far from there, is it? We can hang out, maybe?"
"That would be great," I say, and look at my watch. I look back one last time. Prachi follows my gaze. She looks back at me, says she's sorry, and squeezes my hand.
"It's time," I say to Prachi.
"Have a safe journey," she says. Her hug is warm.
"It was nice meeting you," I say, and mean it.
She waves as I look at her from behind the glass door, inside the airport. Just as I'm about to join the check-in queue, I spot a lone figure sprinting through the shops outside. I can hear his sneakers squeaking against the tile, and he flings himself to a stop against the barricade where visitors say their goodbyes. It's Nishant. Our eyes meet.
I wave. He's panting, but I'm breathless. He raises a hand at me, then lowers it and rubs his arm absently. The hardness in his face, the pride in those dry, bloodshot eyes. We've been here before.
My feet have drifted away from the check-in line, and it's only when the exit doors open before me that I realise I've been walking towards him. I could keep going. I could walk across and reach out this time. But I don't.
I step back, hold my hand open at him for a brief moment, and look away. I feel like a coward, and I don't know why.
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Shortly after, I hear the doorbell ring. I open the door to find, sure enough, the guy in beige. Standing on our welcome mat, turning towards me, as if he'd been busy scoping the area.
"Nish," the guy in beige says, his eyes downcast, posture stooped, and manner resigned.
"Adi," I say, returning his handshake. "Pleased to meet you," I add. He gives the smallest of nods and runs his hands through his artfully tousled hair.
"Ravi is just finishing up his work. Please make yourself comfortable," I say.
Ravi is hosting a housewarming party. He has just moved in, replacing my previous flatmate. I have been here seven months now, and I am, in fact, about to leave the flat - and Bangalore - for Mumbai tomorrow, so the whole housewarming thing feels like something of a joke. Say hello to Adi, say goodbye to Adi.
Nish settles on the couch and is soon rolling a joint. I ask if he wants a beer or something. He looks up and says, "Just some water, thanks."
There's a raw undercurrent to his soft voice. It's apparent he's going through something. I try to recall if I've seen his face somewhere. There's something familiar about him, but I can't put my finger on it.
"Will you be having?" Nish asks.
"What?" I say.
"Beer."
"I don't drink."
"How come?"
"Never got around to it." I say, and realize that's a stupid thing to say.
"Um-hmm," Nish says.
As I go to the kitchen, I replay our conversation to try and recall where I've seen Nish before. Still, nothing comes to mind, there's just a growing sense of déjà vu.
When I return to the hall, I find Ravi seated with him. They're having a lively conversation and I see Nish looking up at Ravi and smiling. He happens to turn his gaze to me while smiling, then immediately moves his attention back to the joint he's rolling.
"I guess you've already met Nishant," Ravi says to me. That's when it all comes together in my head. Nish. Nishant. Nishant Borkar. Tenth grade. Sixteen years ago. An image comes back to my mind - the look he gave me as his father dragged him out of school.
"Yeah, we've met," I say to Ravi. "Just," I add, pointing to the entrance door foolishly.
I try to recall more about Nish from school, but I have a terrible memory so all I get are flashes of images and feelings, nothing concrete. I hope the single image I have will branch out, lead me to the rest of the tree eventually.
"What do you do?" I ask Nish.
"I work in advertising," he says, still meticulously applying himself to his joint.
"That's nice. I've always wondered what it was like to work in a creative industry."
"It's a job that pays the bills, that's all."
Hmph.
"What do you do?" he asks.
"Software engineer," I say, "Like the rest."
"Being humble, are we?" Ravi says, "He's an IITian."
"Impressive," Nish says and looks at me. I wonder if he's being sarcastic. For some reason, it is important to me that he approves of what I do.
Advertising, he said. Hmm. Sketches.
Nishant would sketch. That's all he would do back in school. He was terrible at Science and Maths and would have failed his board exams if it weren't for me.
He'd joined our school in tenth standard. The memories are slowly coming back to me now. I can recall the day he joined. The murmurs when we were told there was going to be a new student.
"This late in the year. How?" one student said.
"Well, his father is a big shot apparently," another said.
The way I was then, I'd probably have said, "Why does it concern any of us." Or thought it, at least.
When he entered the class, it was in the middle of a lecture, and he had his top button unbuttoned. No tie. He had the same medium-length wavy hair back then, only slightly longer and more unruly, the ends curling over his nape. He also had the same "done with this shit" look.
He walked to the second-last bench. I turned back to look at him as he sat down. Meeting his eyes, I was subjected to a cold glare.
"Who else is coming?" Nish asks, bringing me back.
"Prachi," Ravi says.
"That chatterbox! God help us," Nish scowls, "All girls named Prachi are exhausting."
"Come on, you two get on well. Don't you like it when she flirts with you?"
Nish rolls his eyes.
"That reminds me, Adi is supposed to be a great flirt," Ravi says. He turns the music louder, messes with bottles and glasses, plays the host.
Nish looks at me and narrows his eyes. I try to suppress the flush of heat over my face, unsuccessfully.
The joint Nish was rolling is ready. He lights it and passes it on to me. As I take my second tentative puff I feel, rather than hear, a soft breath in my ear.
"Do we have whiskey?"
Nish's voice. I realize his face is very close to mine, so I don't turn while answering.
"I think Ravi has a bottle of Johnny Walker."
"Should do," Nish says, almost a whisper.
"Aren't you smoking up?" I say as he gets up.
His smiles wanly.
"I'm drinking tonight."
"I need that Johnny Walker, man," Nish shouts to Ravi over the music.
"I don't think that's a good idea," Ravi says.
"Just this once," Nish pleads. Ravi sighs and points to the cabinet beside the TV; Nish walks to the cabinet to fetch the bottle.
"He's a terrible drunk," Ravi says to me, by way of explanation, "He shouts, and cries, and gets super paranoid, but he's going through a tough phase so it doesn't feel right to say no to him. Broke up with his girlfriend recently."
Nish walks back, already pouring himself a drink. I get up and move to the balcony. What I always do when I can't think of anything else. That, or go for a walk. Although the closer I've come to leaving this city, the less inclined I feel to go out. Counter-intuitive I know, but that's how it is.
I'm struck by the cool breeze outside. There was a similar chilly wind blowing on a December morning in Mumbai sixteen years ago, as I walked to school to give my mid-terms.
Nishant sat behind me. We'd barely interacted since he had joined the school, so I was a bit surprised to hear him call my name.
"Psst. Aditya. Psst."
The physics test was midway, and the teacher had just passed us, moving to the front benches.
"Move a little to your left, will you?"
No please, no prior conversation, just an order. I ignored him.
"I can be of great help to you, mate."
I recalled someone mentioning his father was a big shot. I moved a little to my left, hesitantly, to give him a better view of my sheet. He didn't say anything after that, but I continued to sit that way for the rest of the test. I knew he was copying my entire paper.
"Perhaps a thank you is in order," I said quietly, as we got up to leave. I knew he could hear me, despite the flurry of people around us.
"Sure," he said, and walked past me.
"Hi, guys! I hope you haven't started yet," says a cheerful voice from behind me. I turn to find a young woman at the door. Must be Prachi, I think.
"Get a beer from the fridge," Ravi commands.
"Aye aye, captain," Prachi says, and salutes. She gives Nish a hug from behind.
"Fuck off," Nish grumbles.
I go back to my seat and shortly everybody has settled down with a drink, except for me.
"You've got beautiful hair," Prachi says to me.
I've been growing out my naturally curly hair for a while, and people tend to mention it.
"Yours isn't half bad either," I say, smiling.
She pouts, but preens slightly, swinging her glossy sheet of hair.
"I hate my hair man. It's got no character."
"I'm sure you've got enough character to more than make up for it," I say.
"That's probably true," she replies, and laughs grudgingly, "If I do say so myself."
Prachi and I talk for an hour non-stop after that; it's as if we've known each other for years, when, in fact, I've never met her before. The music grows mellow as the evening progresses. I'm starting to get into the flow of things, when I turn to look at Nish and find him looking right back. He takes a sip from his glass. I wonder if he has recognized me yet. If he ever will.
"Your jhumkas go well with your top," I say to Prachi. Her eyes widen.
"This is the first time a guy has ever complimented me on them, even though I've been wearing jhumkas forever, and I always put special thought into choosing them," she squeals.
"I know this street market back in Mumbai where you get the best jhumkas. Affordable, and incredible variety. I always get jhumkas from there to give my female friends. If you do me the honour of accepting my friendship, the next time we meet, you'll be gifted the most beautiful jhumkas you've ever seen."
"A bit over the top, aren't we?" she laughed, "But thoughtful all the same... wait, what do you mean, back in Mumbai?"
"I'm from Mumbai. Returning tomorrow, in fact."
"There goes our friendship."
"You don't know me at all, in that case," I say.
I sense movement to my right. Nish has stood up and is coming over. He bends down to me, and says, "Ravi wasn't kidding, you are a great flirt alright." Then he straightens up and walks to the washroom.
"Don't mind him," Prachi says, "He's not usually like this. He's nice, really... just going through a phase."
When he comes back, I ask him to join us.
"So I can listen to this woman blabber on? No thanks."
Rude then, rude now.
He never thanked me for helping him out during the physics exam, but we began to speak to each other. Occasionally, at first. Once, he remarked he was going to fail his board exams if he didn't get his act together in Science and Maths.
"You're not going to be there for the board exams," he said to me. I offered to help him out with his studies. He shrugged, which now that I'd come to know him, I understood was a "yes".
We started meeting at his apartment for study sessions. His parents were rarely there. I met his mom only twice - she was as cold as her son - but apart from her, the only person I ever saw at there was the maid who came to do the housework at 4pm every day.
I don't think he really got much out of those sessions, but he seemed to like my company. He never said so, of course. There would be little things, though, that made me realize it. Like I'd say it was getting late and needed to get going, and he would ignore me. Then we would keep going on for another hour or two.
What did we do during those sessions? Sometimes I explained syllabus concepts to him that he found difficult to understand, sometimes we watched WWE, or cricket, and sometimes we played video games. There was almost always his sketching, of course. He never showed his sketches to me.
"What do you sketch?" I'd say.
"Things," he'd reply.
I started looking forward to my study sessions with him. And it went that way for a while. He soon started copying my assignments as well.
I didn't mind, but someone else did.
One morning in school our physics teacher called me aside after her lecture.
"Do you think I can't see what's going on?" she said, "I've been tolerating it because you're a bright student, but this can't continue. Put an end to it, or I will."
"Yes, Ma'am," I said and walked off.
"Were you trying to flirt with me earlier on?" Prachi says, arching a shapely brow.
"I wasn't doing a very good job of it if you have to ask."
"Well, I'm flattered."
How strange, that I'd lived here for seven months and only succeeded in making a friend on my last night in this city.
"Hey, don't do anything stupid," I hear Ravi shout just then. I look up to see Nish rushing to the bedroom. I look at Prachi. She shrugs.
"I wouldn't worry about him. And I'm sorry again, for his behaviour. He is one of my favourite people, but he gets like that sometimes. You've seen how he has behaved with you today, yet, sweetheart that he is, he'll keep me company when I see you off tomorrow."
"You're coming to see me off tomorrow?" I ask.
"For a friend who's getting me the most beautiful jhumkas I've ever seen? That's the least I could do."
"Well, you'll be the only one there," I sigh.
"What about Ravi?"
"He's not a friend, really. Just a flatmate."
"Even so," she twinkles, "Seems to me this entire housewarming party was arranged so you could find a friend to see you off!" She points at herself and mimes waving cutely, just to make it clear.
It reminds me of my wave to Nish, when I saw him entering the gate today. And I find myself wondering why he looked away.
The night wears on, and Prachi is dancing with the other guests, who seem chill, if not quite as special as her. The party looks to be a success by any standard, and it almost makes me miss the city. I excuse myself and slip away to the bedroom for a moment of quiet, and find him standing there, at the balcony. He is talking on his phone and weeping like a baby. I get the feeling he'll fling his phone down the six stories, any moment now. I'm not sure if it's my place to do anything about it, so I just stand there, captive witness.
"Hey, you," Nish calls out to me across the room, "Can you explain what this woman means?"
I'm too shocked to say anything. He tosses his phone to me, and I just about manage to catch it.
"This woman does not fucking get me. She doesn't get me at all," he says, and a fresh burst of tears wells from his eyes. He drops face-first onto the bed and continues crying. I wonder who does not get whom and put the phone to my ear.
"Nish. Where the fuck have you gone?" the woman on the phone screams into my ear, making me flinch.
"It's not Nish. I'm Aditya. Nish handed his phone to me," I say.
"Don't waste your time on him," she says, and then there's silence. I stare at the phone, and it takes me a moment to realise she's cut the call.
I place the phone on the side table carefully, walk up to Nish, put my hand on his shoulder, and ask him if he's alright. He looks at me and says, "Why doesn't she get me?"
I grab the water bottle off the side table and proffer it. "Have some water first and I'll tell you."
Nish sits up and sniffles quietly. "It's not fair. I don't deserve any of this," he whimpers, as he wipes his tears.
"You're right, you don't. Water. Please?"
"What happened to me in school wasn't fair either," he says, and looks me in the eye.
I don't answer. I motion the water bottle towards him, and when he doesn't respond, I put it into his hand and curl his fingers around it, pressing gently till he grips.
Nish gulps down the water like an obedient child. Then he gets up, arranges his hair in the mirror, mops at his face with his hands, and walks back to the hall.
Back outside, I find he's seated himself on the couch, with a fresh drink in his hand. I return to the bedroom and lie down on the crumpled sheets. I wonder what's going on in Nishant's head. Then I wonder what was going on in his head as he held me tight against the classroom door that day.
When I went to his apartment for our next study session, I told him what had happened.
He scoffed, "Who gives a fuck about what a teacher thinks?"
"I do."
"Are you scared?"
"No," I said. But the next day I told him he couldn't copy my assignments anymore. He laughed at me and snatched my notebook from my hands. I grew increasingly worried, but I couldn't say no.
There was another round of tests shortly. This was my best chance, I thought. I planted myself in my seat, covering my paper and refusing to budge despite Nishant's urgent whispers and his poking me in the back the whole time. It felt like he was leaving bruises, but I gritted my teeth.
After the test was done, Nishant asked me to wait. His expression was inscrutable. I was scared. When all the other students had left the class, and the echo of their voices has almost faded away, he walked to the door and bolted it shut. I didn't want to give him the satisfaction of getting to me, but at the very last second, my resolve broke, and I tried to get through. He got hold of my wrists and held me against the door.
"What the fuck was that?" he asked.
"I'm just trying to stay clear of trouble," I said.
He was quiet for a few seconds, then his grip on my wrists slackened. He would see me at his apartment in the evening, he said. I told him I wasn't going to be meeting him anymore. He pushed me against the door and said I would do no such thing, that I would keep meeting him as before.
"I need you," he said, his jaw tight but his eyes soft.
We turned around at the sound of the windows opening. A teacher looked at us from outside, shocked. I saw Nishant glare back at her, the softness gone.
"Adi? Hey? Are you asleep?"
I see Ravi standing in the doorway, pretending to be quiet.
"Were you asleep?" he grins, "We're going down for chai and sutta, can you look after Nishant for a while?"
"I don't need any looking after, you piece of shit," Nish screams from the hall.
"Thanks, bud," Ravi calls out, leaving before I can respond.
I curse on my way out of the bedroom.
"When you first came over, I thought you were a quiet person," I say, as I sit down on the couch beside Nish. I'm half speaking to myself. I try not to yawn. Nish looks ready to explode, then for some reason he holds back and answers, "I am."
The clock strikes twelve and I slump lower into the couch. What a day, I think.
"How's your luck been with women?" he says. I pause, deciding what to tell him, then shrug. Chances are he won't remember a thing.
"I've had two serious relationships, both 10/10. I'm still best friends with them."
"Good for you," he says and, alarmingly, bursts into tears with no warning.
"It's okay," I say feebly, and try to put an arm around him.
He snarls and moves away, "Don't you fucking dare touch me."
So I keep to myself. Nish curls into a fetal position on the couch and cries, a tragic, open-mouthed cry.
"It's gonna be okay, Nish," I try again. I touch his arm gently. He shoves it away.
"I said, don't fucking touch me!" he says, and pushes me so hard I almost fall off the couch.
"Well, go fuck yourself," I sigh, and get up. Nish covers his face with his hands and wails like a widow.
I walk to the balcony. I stand there with my eyes closed, and let the breeze flow over me and through me. I can't wait to get out of here.
Nish murmurs something unintelligible. I ignore him.
"Can you please hold me?"
I hear him this time. "No," I say.
He says 'please' again, and the quiet feels eerie now. It seems as if he's exhausted every last tear he has. I turn around and see him looking at the ceiling, his eyes blank.
I sit down on the floor gingerly, and hold his right hand, which lies limp beside him. His hand is the softest hand I've ever held.
"I've been told I have soft hands," he says, as if reading my mind. "My cheeks are even softer."
"Here," he says and turns his face a little, offering his left cheek. I graze my fingers over it tentatively. He tightens the grip on the hand I'm holding.
"But I also have tremendous strength for a soft being," he says and continues to strengthen his grip on my hand until I feel the pressure shift my bones. I tell him it hurts and ask him to stop. He lets go of my hand and shifts his body to the back of the couch, making space. I lie down on the sofa, in the space he has made, and put my arm along the back of the sofa. He hesitates, then leans his head back against it. He yields.
"Prachi was right. You're a thoughtful man," Nish says, and then he turns in towards me, his face against my chest. I smell his hair. He nuzzles into me ever so slightly. I don't know how long we stay that way; I doze off within seconds.
"I want you to be honest. Your academic year is at stake. What's going on?" the principal asked me from across the table. Our physics teacher sat beside me, looking at me with expectant eyes.
"Nothing," I replied meekly.
"Tell the truth," the teacher said.
The principal snapped her fingers at me. I looked her in the eye.
"I will ask one last time; what happens after this is completely your responsibility." She paused and then, every word deliberate, said, "What is going on?"
Then I told her, in broken sentences and a shaking voice, that Nishant had been copying my assignments and my test papers, and when she asked about what the teacher had seen in the classroom, I confessed that he had threatened me.
The next day, his father was called in to meet the principal. Nishant was summoned to the office, pulled out mid-lecture. Some twenty minutes later, students milled about, dragging their feet as they strained to decipher the raised voices we could hear through the open classroom door. I'd packed my bag quickly, hoping to slip away unnoticed, so I was right outside in the corridor when the door opened. I pressed myself against the wall, hoping I would blend into the crowd.
The scene is etched in my mind. I'll never forget it. My heartbeat, loud and painful in my chest. The shape of my books wedged against my back. And Nishant, his eyes bloodshot but stubbornly dry, his father dragging him by the elbow. The fact that he towered over the man only seemed to add to the humiliation.
He saw me. There was no mistaking the hard, accusatory look of recognition on his face. I'll never forget it. He was close, I could have walked over, reached out and pulled him free.
I looked away. I'll never forget it. My cheeks burning, throat tight and shut. The hush of people gawking as they passed through, and the clamour of gossip once they'd left.
The classes for the year were about to end, and I never saw him again.
I was checking an assignment book not long after, and I found a sheet of paper inside with something drawn on it. I had lent it to Nish at some point.
The sketch is of two guys sitting against a window. The guy on the right has short curly hair and reads out of a notebook, while the guy on the left, with shaggy hair, looks at him, intent. Outside, ignored, shines a sky bright with stars.
"Adi. Adi."
It's Prachi. I'm alone on the couch and my arm lies flung open beside me, nobody's head resting on it.
"Sorry to wake you up. Just wanted to say bye. I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"
She leans down, briefly placing her fingertips against my cheek, then drops a tiny kiss where her fingers were a second ago.
It's twenty minutes before boarding time. If I don't get into the airport in the next five minutes, I'll miss my flight.
"Do you still hate Bangalore?" Prachi asks.
"I'm not so sure any longer," I say and look behind me, to the right. Where cabs drop off their passengers.
Prachi told me she messaged Nish that morning, about coming to see me off, but he hadn't responded. She sent him the time and terminal details anyway, just in case.
"Is it because you've found new friends?" Prachi says.
"Perhaps," I say.
"My cousin's wedding is happening in Alibaug. Mumbai isn't very far from there, is it? We can hang out, maybe?"
"That would be great," I say, and look at my watch. I look back one last time. Prachi follows my gaze. She looks back at me, says she's sorry, and squeezes my hand.
"It's time," I say to Prachi.
"Have a safe journey," she says. Her hug is warm.
"It was nice meeting you," I say, and mean it.
She waves as I look at her from behind the glass door, inside the airport. Just as I'm about to join the check-in queue, I spot a lone figure sprinting through the shops outside. I can hear his sneakers squeaking against the tile, and he flings himself to a stop against the barricade where visitors say their goodbyes. It's Nishant. Our eyes meet.
I wave. He's panting, but I'm breathless. He raises a hand at me, then lowers it and rubs his arm absently. The hardness in his face, the pride in those dry, bloodshot eyes. We've been here before.
My feet have drifted away from the check-in line, and it's only when the exit doors open before me that I realise I've been walking towards him. I could keep going. I could walk across and reach out this time. But I don't.
I step back, hold my hand open at him for a brief moment, and look away. I feel like a coward, and I don't know why.
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