‘Are you scared you will lose?’ I asked.
She spat on her hand and thrust it out. ‘I am not scared. Deal.’
‘Deal. Do I have to spit on my hand?’
‘That’s the only way to do it. It’s tradition.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Absolutely,’ she said.
We shook hands and rubbed them clean on our uniforms. Our spit-written bond was struck and the time started to tick. Imagine my consternation when we both tied at 23/25. I waited for the lunch-break bell to ask her what our course of action should be but even before I could close my copy I saw her leaving the class. I wasn’t going to let up this time so I rushed after her. Her calm strides took her faster and farther away from me even as I trotted and panted, through the basement, into the abandoned part of the school building, to the exit that was supposed to be sealed. With ease she climbed over the wall and disappeared. I’m no stranger to climbing walls but bunking, yes. I knew if I thought too much I won’t do it so I too climbed the wall and jumped. She was waiting on the other side. My voice failed for a bit, struggling for an explanation, and then I said, ‘So what do we do? We cancel the bet? You left, so I followed after.’
‘Come,’ she said. We took a bus to Connaught Place, neither of us bought tickets, and all the way, I tried not to freak out, to ask what happens to our attendance, and would the teachers ask about us, would they suspend us, call our parents and embarrass us, and what happens if the conductor catches us. She, on the other hand, stared outside the window, not a care in the world. When we got down, she said, ‘You look like you have lost a litre of blood. When we get back I will tell ma’am we were arranging library books. It’s my responsibility.’
‘They just let you do that?’ I asked.
‘I have never come second in this school. They don’t doubt my integrity,’ she said.
‘So this is where you come every day?’
‘Not every day. Sometimes when I have saved enough,’ she said and pointed to the shop—Keventer’s. ‘Best milkshake in the city. So you came for the bet, what do you want?’
‘Okay. I wanted something but—’
‘But?’
‘You can choose to refuse but I want to hold your hand. That’s what I want,’ I said, rather bravely.
Without a thought, she took her hand in mine. I would be lying if I say it didn’t feel like I had lost. Her fingers in my palm felt like a calming balm.
‘Is that it?’ she asked.
I stared at her wrist and gathering courage I ran my index finger on the lightest of the ridges on it. It was haphazard and had healed years ago. ‘Explain this.’
‘Oh, it’s nothing—’
‘Don’t tell me you fell on a knife.’
‘My father’s used razor actually. Would you believe that I was scared it would be infected? It should have told me that I wasn’t serious about it. I panicked when the blood spouted from my wrists like little beetles.’
‘Why did you do it?’
‘My first heartbreak. I was thirteen, same age as Juliet. I was drowning and my Romeo was a stray log who came floating to my world. I latched on to him and he stole my stamp collection.’
‘That’s a frivolous reason to slash one’s wrist, is it not? A stamp collection?’
I realized my mistake as soon as I said it.
She laughed, then shook her head dismissively and retracted her hand. ‘Is it frivolous to get your heart broken? My reaction might have been stupid, exaggerated but not frivolous.’
‘What happened when you let go of him, the log?’
‘I learnt to breathe under water,’ she said.
‘Your turn. Is there something you want to ask? Or want me to do?’
‘I know everything about you. Your friend died, you think it’s your fault, and you have been sad ever since.’
