‘How’s that even possible?’
‘Didn’t you think that about your parents?’ she asked. ‘But fine.’
‘Fine, what?’
‘Let’s decide to like each other. I have a question though,’ she said. ‘Are we using the word “like” because love is too scary to use?’
‘I love you.’
I heard my heart stop and jerk back to life as if jolted with a thunderbolt.
‘I love you too.’
‘Can I know all your stories now?’ I said.
‘Was all this a trap to juice me out of my stories?’
I shook my head.
She laughed, and that was the most beautiful thing.
‘I can tell you about this one,’ she said pointing to a jab rather than a slit. ‘By god, how stupid was I two years ago?’
I had to concur after she told me why she had jabbed her wrist with a compass. A couple of boys had drawn a lewd picture of hers, Xeroxed it and stuck it on noticeboards as revenge for her before-time submission of an assignment. I wanted names, addresses and a handgun to hunt the boys down, paint the world red with their blood. Later we decided to say the words, I, love, and you in different combinations and wondered how if only spoken in the correct order these innocuous words turn powerful and all-consuming. We backed it up with physiological evidence when she placed her hand on my chest and felt it thump. We decided we would give each other three short missed calls in the evening just in case we missed hearing it from each other.
We bunked the last period and went to the planetarium. The universe witnessed our first date.
24 July 1999
My somewhat stellar mood of the past four days was reduced to ashes when I found Dada waiting for me outside the school. I followed Dada to the hired taxi. Zubeida was waiting in the car and smiled widely on seeing me. I could have smiled back at her since now I know the wondrous world of being in love—the missed calls, the stolen glances and the electric awareness of an accidental touch. But I didn’t because Dada’s abandonment and Maa–Baba’s misplaced anger towards me still rankled deep. I noticed Dada’s facial hair growth—an ominous small tuft was growing on his chin and fired my first salvo.
‘You’re growing your beard. What name have you chosen? Aslam?’ I asked him.
‘Raghu, let that be the last time you mock her faith,’ Dada spoke gruffly.
‘Let him,’ said Zubeida. ‘I’m sure he’s going through a lot. It’s okay for him to vent.’
‘By venting, do you mean I can tell him that he has destroyed our family and left me behind to deal with the consequences? If only you had tried harder to convince them, Dada, I wouldn’t be in this shit.’
‘How am I supposed to try when they refuse to talk to me? It’s they who need to accept that the situation is not going to change. That’s the idea behind marriage.’
‘Had you not told me I wouldn’t have known, Dada. Thank you for your limitless wisdom.’
‘Raghu, I didn’t come here to fight. Zubeida and I got something for you and I wanted to give it you. That’s all,’ said Dada.
‘I don’t want anything from you.’
Zubeida Boudi took out a slim rectangular box from a huge polybag and gave it to me.
‘Open it. Zubeida Boudi bought it for you.’
I ripped the box open. It was a brand-new PowerBook.
‘I don’t want it,’ I said, my voice betraying the import of my words. Inside the box was another little box. They were CDs of five games. Race, Arcade, Combat and two more. ‘Why are you giving me this?’
‘There’s something we need to tell you,’ said Zubeida.
‘Zubeida is pregnant,’ said Dada.
