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The father slapped Aranya two more
times. She was crying now. Aranya’s
father held his head and slumped in his
chair. He stared Aranya down and raised
his hand again. Aranya cowered.
‘Sir, I’m very sorry on her behalf. I
will make sure she never gives you a
chance to complain again,’ said the
father.
‘Thank you, Mr Gupta. You can go
now,’ said Prof. Mitra.
‘Sir, I have one more request if you
allow me. I know my daughter has
disgraced your institution but if you can
give her some projects to do it will be
great. We come from a humble
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background and she needs to keep her
marks up.’
‘I will see what I can do. Now I have
a few meetings to attend. Thank you for
coming, Mr Gupta. The peon will show
you out.’
Aranya and her father left Prof.
Mitra’s cabin. Aranya’s upper lip was
bleeding.
‘Call your mother and tell her what
you did,’ her father said. He dialled the
number and gave the phone to Aranya.
‘TELL HER EVERYTHING, bhenchod!’
She held the phone and broke down. Her
father snatched the phone from her and
narrated to her mother the details of
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what the professors had said about
Aranya, embellishing it with more
imagined details.
Aranya sat with her head hung low,
her lips bleeding.
‘Take me to the boy,’ her father told
Aranya.
‘Dad, I’m sorry. Nothing will ever
happen again.’
‘TAKE ME TO THE BOY.’
I Love u Rachu
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43
Aranya and her father waited in the
canteen for Dhruv to turn up. The
onslaught of slaps had ended for the time
being but Aranya waited for it to resume.
Her father had a striking memory when it
came to her misdemeanours and it
wouldn’t take him long to recognize
Dhruv as the boy from school.
By now, news had spread throughout
the campus about Aranya’s sweet and
docile father.
The canteen had started filling up and
they were all talking in whispers about
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Aranya and her father. She was eleven
years old all over again, surrounded by
kids who laughed at private jokes about
her, and jibed her needlessly. It was as if
she had walked into a time machine.
Another four years in the labyrinth of
soul-sucking sadness, of judging
students, of her maligned self. Her life
was in a fucking loop.
What did she expect? It was her fault
entirely.
She had come to this college to study,
maximize her scores, get her projects
done on time, get a high-paying job and
spend the rest of her life being a lonely
overachiever. Why did she make the
mistake of thinking that someone else
would take care of her problems? Why
did she have any hopes with Raghuvir?
What was she thinking? That a professor
in shining armour and floppy hair would
waltz into her life, they would solve
complex equations together, be the
greatest friends anyone had ever seen,
maybe even fall in love, and everything
would be hunky-dory for the rest of her
life. All those fucking Disney films! Why
didn’t she notice that only pretty damsels
deserved to be rescued? What would
have happened to Cinderella if she were
ugly? She would have been rotting at her
stepmother’s still.
What happened to all the lessons she
taught herself about being alone in every
battle of hers? How did she allow
herself to be distracted from the goal just
because Raghuvir left the college? Why
did she let Raghuvir play such a pivotal
part in her life?
So what if she thought for the first
time somebody had truly appreciated her
and looked beyond her patchy skin, her
less-than-average face and her oddly
overweight body? So what if she felt
loved for the first time, even
acknowledged? So what if for the first
time she thought there was someone
encouraging her on in her life? So what
if she felt loved? Cared for? Or even
human for that matter? She wasn’t
supposed to feel any of these things.
And Raghuvir? Did she really expect
him to stand up for her? Why would he
stand up for a girl like her? Why would
anyone stand up for her? Didn’t she
learn that from school? Of course he ran
away leaving her to rot here. Of course
he didn’t even call to see what became
of her. Of course he switched off his
cellphone.
She deserved this. She had had one
chance to fix everything. One chance and
she blew it. Her only job in the world
was to stay hidden and not embarrass
her family even further. Being born to
them was enough.
Dhruv walked in. He looked different
in his buttoned-down shirt, a regular fit
pair of jeans and clean sneakers.
‘Hello Uncle, Dhruv,’ he said and
shook her father’s hand.
‘Sit,’ her father said, still no
recollection of where he had seen the
boy before. But Aranya’s life was one
travesty after another and her good
fortune didn’t last beyond the first thirty
seconds.
‘You are Dhruv Roy? Janakpuri? Is he
the same Dhruv? You’re the same boy?
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