“Yes, please,” I say immediately. I can feel the beginning of adeep sleep starting to creep into my eyes, but I have a whole night of trekking awaiting me.Sleepneeds to be gotten rid of as soon as possible.
All the six college guys opt for chais. Charu and Rudra grab a Maaza and a Red Bull respectively from the refrigerator at the far end of the dhaba. A bright white light buzzes above us, and I’m grateful to have applied Odomos before we came here because there are mosquitoes under the table and flitting lazily over our heads.
Rudra and Charu take seats on either side of me, and I try my best to not look at Rudra as he pops open the can of Red Bull and starts gulping the thing down. Within seconds, he’s emptied the can. His tongue sticks out cutely to take the last few drops, and I tamp down any thoughts of having his tongue in my mouth before they can sprout up.
Rudra yawns, covering his mouth with his hand. “God, I needed that.”
“Clearly.” For some absurd reason, I feel like ending our conversation onclearlywould be unimaginative, so I blurt the first thing that comes to mind. “That duet back there.”
Rudra glances at me. “What about it?”
Fuck me.
Seriously, fuck me.
I just had to say something, didn’t I?
Got an awkward conversation or topic to tackle? Don’t worry, Krishna Kumar will dive headlong into it!
“Our voices go well together,” I say, the million Krishnas in my brain hurling curses at me left, right, and center.
Rudra sets the can on the table, dragging his finger in a circle along the rim. “You’re a beautiful singer.” He clears his throat, shifting in his seat. “Uh, I mean—you’ve got a beautiful voice.”
I smile teasingly at him. “There’s nothing wrong with accidentally calling me beautiful.” Wait,whydid I say that? What genetic mutation in the forty-six chromosomes that my parents passed onto me wentthiswrong?
Rudra fiddles with the hem of his sleeve. Wait, am I making him nervous? “I meant your voice, but if I had to call you... that, it wouldn’t really be accidental.”
I stare at him, my heart picking up pace. “What do you mean?”
Rudra scans my face, his pupils blowing. “I mean. It’s the truth. You being—beautiful. Not accidental.”
If I were a cyborg, all my parts would probably fritz at this very moment. But I’m not, and I have no wires (that I know of), so I manage to get out a mumbled “Thank you.”
Rudra may be flirting with me—again!—but this is the first time Priti isn’t even here. So if he isn’t doing this to try to make her jealous, does that mean Rudra has meant everything he’s said?
I’ve had my share of crushes, like what I had for Amrit—no, like what Ihavefor Amrit—and they’ve all been accompanied by that squishy warmth within, as if torching my insides. And butterflies, so many of them, flapping a violent rhythm in my stomach. Nothing about these feelings is out of the ordinary, special, or new. What it is, whatthisis... is unexpected.
I’ve never found Rudra attractive in the sense that I ever gave him a second glance and wentdamn. The first time I realized he even remotely fell into the attractive category was when Srishti pointed it out to me during the house party. And I need that easy humor and charisma in people to be drawn to them—the sort of ease Shah Rukh Khan oozes in all his movies.
Rudra is the opposite. He’s not like SRK from any of his movies. He’s like Sidharth Malhotra’s character, Abhimanyu, fromStudent ofthe Year, I think. My type is Shanaya. Not Rohan. And certainly not Abhimanyu.
Then why Rudra? And whynow?
A waiter gets us our chais, pulling me out of my rant. I cradle the paper cup in my palms, letting the steam waft over my face. There’s something about dhaba chai that remains unmatched when compared to the chai they sell at bigger, posher places. Every sip is full of flavor, and I can taste so many spices at once—elaichi, adrak, laung, dalchini, and even a hint of haldi.
“Uff,” I sigh. “This has to be one of the best chais I’ve ever had.”
“Really?” Rudra asks.
“Second it,” Varun says, slurping loudly as he sips. Frankly, it’s the only correct way to drink chai.
“Take a sip,” I say, holding the cup out to Rudra. He takes it from me, and his fingers brush mine briefly. His touch is cool from clutching the Red Bull can. It contrasts sharply with the heat of my hands, and the sensation makes my pulse vault.
Rudra sips the chai from the exact same spot on the rim where my lips were a second ago. The action draws my attention to his mouth. He swallows, making that damn protruding Adam’s apple bob again.
He passes the cup back to me, and I sip the rest of the chai, hyperaware of the fact that Rudra’s lips were on my cup. I wouldn’t be if it were anyone else, but it isRudra, with his pretty lips and pretty lashes. And this time, without any guilt or regret, I wonder what it would be like to kiss him.
To kiss Rudra.
