My eyes take a second to adjust to the barely dawning sky. My hair is still in the braid from last night, so I just have to push a couple of strands away from my face and behind my ear. The thought takes me back to the feeling of Rudra’s fingers deftly braiding my hair, movements gentle and smooth.
I shift my glance to Priti, who has the most rotten look on her face and refuses to glance in my direction or even acknowledge me. Great. Just when I thought things were finally getting better between us, Priti’s officially giving me the cold shoulder again.
“You’re shivering,” a voice says from a few feet away, and I turn, heartbeat ratcheting. It’s Rudra. He looks just as tired as I do, purple bags hanging beneath his eyes, hair pulled into a messy ponytail. It looks like he woke up a minute before I did, because the sleep hasn’t left his eyes and most of his hair has spilled from his ponytail. A fewblades of grass stick out of his hair in a haphazard manner. Despite myself, I nearly melt at how adorable he looks.
“I’m okay,” I say, barely able to look at him. My chest twists painfully, and I’m just so tired. I can’t stop picturing the hurt expression on his face, his pitiful scoff when I asked him if he wanted to kiss me and he responded withDoes it matter, Krishna?
Of course it matters! When it shouldn’t. It shouldn’t matter because I made my choice yesterday, and he knows it. Which is why I don’t get why he’s still being so nice to me. It’s a complete contrast to Priti’s behavior right now, when he has every reason to be angry with me and she has no reason to.
I literally turned down Rudraforher.
“Here,” he says suddenly, taking off his dark-green hoodie. He holds it out to me, and I stare at it, touched by the action. Then back up at him, his eyes, his hair, his lips. The urge to kiss him is so strong I have to pinch my palm to stop myself.
“Thank you.” I take the hoodie from him and slip it on. He’s about my size, so it fits me perfectly. It’s soft, and really warm from having hugged him. It smells like him. The scent is faint, but it overpowers me with the memories it brings back from last night.
He starts walking away to join the others, and once I’ve (sort of) forced myself to forget everything that’s happened with him, I follow.
We take the same path through the trees that Rudra and I took last night, then trail along the fork to the left this time and pass the archway, now dark, with only a few stray fireflies. Nothing like the sight we saw last night.
The sky slowly lightens, a rich blue mixed with a palette of orange and yellow oozing out of the horizon. The dawn light seeps through the trees, and the forest doesn’t seem nearly as intimidating andspooky as it did last night. In fact, it looks harmless, really. Just trees, rocks, and grassy inclines. Not the sort of place you’d find a bear. The difference is jarring.
The chill is gone, and I’m sweating again by the time we take our next pit stop. I remove Rudra’s hoodie, tying the sleeves around my hips.
There’s a small wooden stall to our right, where a wrinkled man with snowy-white hair sits in front of a wooden plank, an array of items strewn before him. A pyramid of fresh green cucumbers; piles of bright yellow lemons; a couple of knives; jars of red chili powder, salt, and sugar; and a stack each of paper plates and newspapers.
Behind him, the view is glorious. A wooden railing looks out over a wide green valley radiant in the morning sun, surrounded by misty mountain peaks and rocky slopes. I walk to the railing and peer over the edge, heart beating rapidly against my chest. It’s a solid drop from here, and if I fall, I’m sure I’ll be skewered by the rocks before landing in the thick pockets of trees, body never to be found. The sunlight prisms out from behind the mountains, enveloping everything in a warm glow. The view steals my breath with its beauty, yet terrifies me all the same.
To our left, there’s a steady rocky incline, all smooth stone. A rope snakes down it, but there’s no harness or support otherwise.
“Is this the end of the trek?” I ask hopefully, staring at that single rope with mixed horror and apprehension.
Varun laughs. “Oh, no.”
“This is where the actual climb starts,” Jalaj says, pointing to the rope. “We go up that rope to a set of stone stairs, then climb a vertical wall, and finally, we’ll reach the peak, where there’s a Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj Mandir.”
Varun guffaws at my horrified expression. “?? ?? ?? ?????? ??? ?????? ??? ???? ??? ???? ??????”*That’s Shah Rukh’s dialogue from the movieOm Shanti Om, and it does nothing to calm the nerves that have spiked in me at Jalaj’s words.
I swallow thickly. “Do we—do we all have to go?”
“No,” Jalaj says. “Since this part of the trek is the most challenging, do it only if you think you can and truly want to.”
This isnotwhat I signed up for. I thought we were going to see some fireflies, sleep in tents, and light a bonfire, that’s all. This is getting too????? ?? ???????*for me to digest.
My hesitation is painted across my face in bright crimson, and the others immediately notice it. Priti shrugs. “You don’t have to come if you don’t want to, Krishna. There’s no pressure.”
Why isshespeaking to me all of a sudden? Her words instantly make my ego swell, and the pungent taste of competitiveness presses the back of my throat. And I know that like I always do, I’ll regret it and curse myself later if I stay behind. Or, more likely, when I tumble to my death down those rocks. “No. I’ll come.”
After a few minutes of taking photos posed against the gorgeous view, we order a round of nimbu panis. I also ask for a plate of spiced kheera chaat and watch with fascination as the old man bisects the cucumber lengthwise, then rubs the insides with red chili powder and salt. He places it on a paper plate and hands it to me.
I take it from him, mouth watering at the sight of the spicy kheera slices on my plate. It’s funny how I never imagined something as simple as sliced cucumbers seasoned with chili powder and salt could look so delicious.
I sit on one of the wooden planks next to Charu, closing my eyes as I bite into the fresh cucumber, the flesh cracking satisfyingly between my teeth. Maybe it’s the much-needed electrolytes in the salt and water from the vegetable, or just the simplicity of the chaat, but I love it so much I’m craving another plate when I’m done. I shouldn’t overeat, though, as has been my lifelong tendency. I can always have a plate on my way back.
We guzzle down our nimbu panis—again, incomparably delicious—and I watch as the college guys begin the ascent. The first one, Padam Patel, is hoisted up by his friend behind him, and time drags as he stretches his hand out toward the rope and grips it tight, knuckles poking out. My breath is trapped in my throat, and I set my empty glass aside, reconsidering my decision to continue.
But I know myself. I will end up having the worst FOMO if I don’t do this. And that will be much worse than potential death. It always is. At least when you’re dead you can’t feel anything.
One by one, the rest of the college guys scale upward toward the stone staircase, disappearing around the rock face. The rising sun makes the jagged surface of the mountain shimmer as if there are shards of jewels embedded in the rocks.
