‘A lot of people are named Vicky.’
‘I mean . . . sure.’ Curiosity gets the better of me and I ask, ‘Do you have a picture of Vicky?’
‘Why do you want to see that?’
‘I want to see who gathered the courage to ask someone like you out.’
She stops walking. She turns towards me, the pools of her big brown eyes flickering. I try to guess if she’s angry or shocked. Then, she smiles and looks even prettier. I didn’t think that was possible.
‘You were just telling my brother you weren’t hitting on me,’ she says.
‘That’s true, and I am not hitting on you,’ I explain. The great part of talking to anyone on these trips is that whatever happens, it happens here and you don’t take it back to your normal life. So I continue. ‘I’m telling you that I have a crush on you. My crush is based on the way you look, and looks are a genetic lottery, a roll of the dice, not an achievement. You could be a horrible person, I’m not saying that you are . . . but you could be. But yes, your face looks like someone took a scale and made it perfectly proportionate. It’s weird. Don’t people tell you that?’
‘No, and you can’t have crushes on people if you’re already in love with someone,’ she says. ‘Anyway, I don’t have a picture of Vicky. I just know if I keep even one picture, my parents will find it. My luck’s super bad. I’m the unluckiest girl I know.’
‘Unluckiest? That sounds like an exaggeration.’
‘Pandits say mykundliis a bloodbath. My terrible luck will last four more years. That’s why I’m wearing this ring. My parents . . . we . . . we are a bit superstitious.’
‘Not one picture? Not even in hidden folders? Or on social media?’
She shakes her head. ‘We can’t afford to be on social media. It’s a distraction. We will make our profiles once we get to SRCC.’
‘That’s the strangest condition to make a profile. Is your guy trying to get into SRCC too? 100 per cent in all four subjects?’
She nods, her eyes glinting. ‘He wants it more than me. You have no idea how bad I was at accountancy. He taught me everything. Without him, I wouldn’t have dreamt of getting into this college.’
‘And what if you don’t? What’s your Plan B?’
Her eyes flicker. I see horror in her eyes. ‘That’s not an option. The second-best college is not good enough for us. If we want this life . . . the one you’re living, second-best won’t make the cut.’
‘But some people will argue that being rich isn’t the answer to happiness.’
‘Rich people and extremely poor people say that. We are in the middle. I will be a rich, unhappy girl, married to a rich, unhappy boy, and we will be jealous about others who have bought bungalows and worried if our imported cars will be scratched by drivers.’
‘Is that what you think rich people do?’ I ask. ‘By the way, I’m not rich. I’m upper middle class.’
‘Another rich-person thing to say.’
Just then, Gaurav comes running to us, waving the phone.
‘DIDI!’ he shouts. ‘Maa is calling!’
5.
Daksh Dey
There are no messages from Sameeksha. It’s unfair that my longing for Sameeksha is a physical pain—I can feel it in my chest. All morning I have been going back to the messages we had sent each other. The first four weeks of our relationship were a mix of pure passion and love. We couldn’t keep our hands off each other. She used to joke that I’m in a very serious relationship with her breasts, and she with my dick. It was like our relationship was on overdrive, we were skipping stages. We would look at other couples and go, like, poor them, they don’t know what a relationship looks like.
I keep my phone back in my pocket and turn to Rabbani. She’s digging into the wet sand with her toys.
‘Dig deeper, Rabbu. Who knows, maybe you will find some dino bones,’ I tell her.
A squeal cuts the through the air. ‘Mychhotababy!’
I turn to see Mumma walk towards us. Rabbani turns and sprints towards Mumma on her cute, unsteady feet. She clings to Mumma like a little chimpanzee.
I feel a pang of envy in my heart.
