She was smiling now. ‘I don’t remember seeing it before,’ she said, leaning forward.
She hadn’t. It was new.
Chapter 6
Four years may be a long time, but not distant enough to forget your first crush. It was a Saturday night in March 2007, and I was at one of the most happening nightspots in the city, The Colour Black.
There were two groups of students, one a bunch of 20-odd boys and three girls who had gathered for a reunion. The other was us, an all-girl group of 15 from St. Mary’s, celebrating a birthday.
It was past 11 p.m. The place was fast emptying, but DJ Ivan Roller wasn’t ready to quit. One of my friends started tapping her feet to a catchy nineties tune. Within minutes, we were all shaking our booties, moving as much to the beat as to the liquid diet we were on.
It was then, as I was shaking and two-stepping, that I first noticed Andrew. The brown eyes that carried a hint of winter chill were on me, too. My heart skipped a beat, and my feet weren’t quite as light any more. It was two years since I had passed out of Bangalore Scottish. Despite both of us living in Bengaluru, within a two-kilometre radius of each other, I hadn’t clapped eyes on him since the night of the annual ball, a little over four summers ago. I had heardof his exploits. He was blazing a trail at the National Law School and was equally active on the dating scene.
He was the first among the boys to walk up to us. Andrew tapped me on my shoulder and mouthed a hello before introducing himself.
‘Of course, I know who you are, Andrew.’ Only the weak take refuge in coyness.
He towered over my 5’9” frame, and I was instantly lost in him as we fell into step. My grip firmed against his light touch, just to make sure it was all real.
My mind went back to that starless night four years ago.
‘Hello, Captain,’ I said, happy to get back to scratch if that’s how he wanted to play it. ‘I’m Myra. You might remember me from Bangalore Scottish.’
Back in the time when you are scaling grades, it doesn’t get bigger than school captain. That changes expeditiously in college, but in some cases, auras don’t tail off.
‘Myra Rai,’ he said, smiling, before twirling me around.
Although I was salivating all over the wooden tiles in spirit, I was holding my own in appearance.
We burnt the spaces between the tables, moving like we were glued at the hip. Our eyes locked from time to time. I felt him, and he felt me. He was a superb dancer, and in his arms, I discovered I could keep pace. Our friends had lined the wall, clapping and whistling as we kept the crowd – plumped by the staff – entertained.
‘When do we meet again?’ Andrew asked as we called it a night. My heart was racing, and my head was spinning. Too much alcohol. Too much Andrew.
‘I’m sure we’ll meet soon.’ I played it cool. The question had taken me by surprise, and it was all I could do not to bounce up and down and shout, ‘Yes. YES.’
‘Nice try,’ he said. ‘I’m not so easy to get rid of.’
I knew Meena and Andrew were not in touch. He had approached her and tried to make a go of things, but Meena wasn’t interested. ‘Not worth the trouble,’ she had said.
‘It’ll be tough, Andrew,’ I parried.
‘Give me your phone number.’
I made my way to the waiting cab. Then I snuck my head through the window and shouted, ‘It ends with one.’
Andrew stood there looking delighted. Make that delicious.
Not very long ago, on a night like this, I was a mess. My heart had been shot to pieces. But as my mother had promised, the wheel had turned. She hummed a soothing track from a time when reel life was black and white,‘Malagu, malagu charulathe ningu neralide.’Sleep, sleep Charulatha, there’s some shade for you, too.
Chapter 7
That was how we got started – at the end of one day and the beginning of another. On a makeshift dance floor.
Andrew was in his final year at the National Law School, the country’s premier institution for legal studies. I was in a similar stage of my bachelor studies; I had taken up journalism.
Only, I had no plans to work in media, or for that matter, anywhere else. I was remarkably without ambition at the time.
I had won an essay writing competition in school, writing on locals adept in the art of selling ripe, almost rotten comestibles. Why fresh and tender was made to age. I had linked this slant to the city’s ‘adjust maadi’ culture. Nowhere else in the country would this kind of nonsense be tolerated. The Bangalorean, instead of charging the cashier to pay them for clearing their diligently accumulated waste, would not only look the other way but even cough up cash for it.
