Half Girlfriend (4 page)

Riya. I loved her short little name. Or maybe when you start liking

people, you start liking everything about them—from their sweaty

eyebrows to their little names.

‘Your name?’she said. For the first time in my life a girl had asked

my name.

‘Myself Madhav Jha.’

That was my reflexive response. It was only later that I learnt that

people who construct sentences like that sound low class.You see, we

think in Hindi first and simply translate our thoughts, word for word.

‘From Bihar,’ she said and laughed. ‘Right?’

She didn’t laugh because I was a Bihari. She laughed because

Piyush had already revealed that fact about me. There was no

judgement in her voice. I liked her more and more every second.

‘Yes.You?’

‘From Delhi itself.’

I wanted to continue talking to her. I wanted to know her full name

and her native place. That is how we introduce ourselves in Dumraon.

However, I didn’t know how to ask her in English, the language one

needed to impress girls. Plus, I had a selection trial in a few minutes.

The coach blew his whistle.

‘I have my trials now, will you watch?’ I said.

‘Okay,’ she said.

I ran—rather, hopped—in excitement towards the changing room.

Soon, I was back on court and Piyush started the game.

I played well. I don’t want to brag but I played better than any

player on the college team.

‘Basket,’ I shouted as I scored my fifth shot. As the crowd dapped,

I looked around. She was sitting on one of the benches, sipping water

from a bottle. She clapped too.

I had a good game, but her presence made me play even better.

The score inched forward; I pushed myself harder and scored a

few more baskets. When I took a tough shot, the seniors patted my

back. Piyush blew the final whistle. Final score: 25-28. We had done it.

The newbies had managed to defeat die St. Stephen’s team.

My body was drenched in sweat. I felt drained and exhausted.

Players patted my back as I struggled to catch my breath. Piyush came

running up to me in the middle of the court.

‘You scored 17 out of 28. Well done, Bihari,’ he said. He ruffled my

sweaty hair. I walked out of the court deliberately towards Riya.

‘Wow, you really are good,’ she said.

‘Thanks,’ I said, still panting after the game.

‘Anyway, I have to go,’ she said and extended her hand. ‘Nice

meeting you. Bye.’

‘Bye,’ I said, my heart sinking. My head had known it would end

like this. My heart didn’t want it to end.

‘Unless we are both lucky,’ she added and grinned. ‘And the higher

powers here admit us.’

‘Who knows,’ I said.

‘Yeah. But if they do, then see you. Else, bye.’

She walked away. I realized I didn’t even know her full name. As

she became more distant with every step, I wanted nothing more than

to get admission to St. Stephen’s. '

I walked up to Piyush.

‘You cracked it. On fire on the court, huh?’ he said.

‘Sir, but the interview... My English—’

‘Sucked,’ he said.

Disappointment slammed into me. His expression suggested

‘sucked’ meant something nasty.

‘But you play bloody good basketball,’ Piyush continued. He patted

my back and walked away.

I stood alone in the middle of the basketball court. Everyone else

had left. I saw the brick-coloured buildings and the greenery around

me.

Is this place in my destiny?
I wondered. Well, it wasn’t just about my destiny. It was our destiny.

That is why, one month later, a postman came to my doorstep in

Dumraon with a letter from St. Stephen’s College. He also wanted a

big tip.

3

'Hey,’ she said. Her perky voice startled me; I had been scanning

the college noticeboard.

I turned around. I had prayed for this to happen. She and I had

both made it.

She wore black, skin-tight jeans and a black-and-white striped i

lurt. Without the sweat and grime from court, her face glowed. She

had translucent pink lip gloss on, with tiny glittery bits on her lips. Her hair, slightly wavy, came all the way down to her waist. Her long

lingers looked delicate, hiding the power they had displayed on court.

My heart was in my mouth. Ever since I had got my admission letter, I

had been waiting for the month before college opened to pass quickly

and to find out if Riya had made it too.

‘Riya,’ she said. ‘You remember, right?’

Did I remember? I wanted to tell her I had not forgotten her for

one moment since I left Delhi. I wanted to tell her I had never seen a

girl more beautiful than her. I wanted to tell her that the oxygen flow

to my lungs had stopped.

‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Glad you joined.’

‘I wasn’t sure, actually,’ she said and pointed to the noticeboard.‘Is

that the first-year timetable?’

I nodded. She smiled at me again.

‘What’s your course?’ she asked, her eyes on the noticeboard.

‘Sociology,’ I said.

‘Oh, intellectual,’ she said.

I didn’t know what that meant. However, she laughed and I

guessed it was something funny, so I laughed along. The noticeboard

also had a bunch of stapled sheets with the names of all first-year

students and their new roll numbers.

‘What about you?’ I said. I adjusted my yellow T-shirt and blue

jeans while she looked at the board. I had bought new clothes from

Patna for St. Stephen’s. I didn’t look like a government office clerk

anymore. I wanted to fit into my new college.

‘English,’ she said.‘Here, see, that’s my name.' Riya Somani,

English (Hons), it said. My heart sank. A girl doing an English degree

would never befriend a country bumpkin like me.

Her phone rang. She took out the sleek Nokia instrument from her

jeans’ pocket.

‘Hi, Mom,’ she said in Hindi. ‘Yes, I reached. Yes, all good, just

finding my way.’

Her Hindi was music to my ears. So I could talk to her. She spoke

for a minute more and hung up to find me looking at her.

‘Moms, you know,’ she said.

‘Yes.You speak Hindi?’

She laughed. ‘You keep asking me that. Of course I do. Why?’

‘My English isn’t good,’ I said, and switched languages.‘Can I talk

to you in Hindi?’

‘What you say matters, not the language,’ she said and smiled.

Some say there is an exact moment when you fall in love. I didn’t

know if it was true before, but I do now. This was it. When Riya

Somani said that line, the world turned in slow motion. I noticed her

delicate eyebrows. When she spoke, they moved slightly. They had the

perfect length, thickness and width. She would win a ‘best eyebrows’

competition hands down—or as we say in basketball, it would be a

slam dunk.

Perhaps I should have waited to fall in love with her. However, I

knew it was pointless. I had little control over my feelings. So from

my first day in college, I was in love. Riya Somani, ace basketball

player, English literature student, most beautiful girl on the planet,

owner of extraordinary eyebrows and speaker of wonderful lines, had

yanked my heart out of its hiding place.

Of course, I could not show it. I didn’t have the courage, nor

would it be a smart idea.

We walked down a corridor towards our respective classrooms. I

had her with me for two more minutes.

‘You made friends here?’ she said.

‘Not really,’ I said. ‘You?’

‘I have some classmates from school in Stephen’s. Plus, I am from

Delhi, so have many friends outside.’

‘I hope I can adjust,’ I said. ‘I feel I don’t belong here.’

‘Trust me, nobody feels they do,’ she said. ‘Which residence did

they give you?’

‘Rudra,’ I said.‘How about you?’

'They don’t give one to Delhiites. I’m a day-ski, unfortunately,’ she

said, using the common term for day scholars.

We reached my classroom. I pretended not to see it and kept

walking until she reached hers.

’Oh, this is my class,’ she said.‘Where’s yours?’

'I'll find out, go ahead,’ I said.

She smiled and waved goodbye. I wanted to ask her out for coffee,

hut couldn’t. I could shoot a basket from half-court three times in a

rmv but I could not ask a girl to come to the college cafeteria with me.

‘Basketball,’ I blurted out.

‘What?’

‘Want to play sometime?’ I recovered quickly.

‘With you? You’ll kick my ass,’ she said and laughed. I didn’t

know why she felt I would kick her rear end or why she found the

phrase funny. I joined her in the laughter anyway.

‘You play well,’ I said as we stood at her classroom door.

‘Okay, maybe after a few days, once we settle into classes,’ she

said. She walked in for her first English lecture. The joy at the

possibility of meeting her again made me forget I had a class. I wanted

to dance in the garden.

The bell for the first period rang. ‘This isn’t sociology, right?’ I

asked a clueless English student as he arrived late for his own class.

♦

‘You are good. Really good,’ she said as she wiped her face with a

towel.

We had played a half-court game; I defeated her 20-9.

‘I’m hopeless,’ she said. She took a sip from her water bottle. She

wore a fitted sleeveless white top and purple shorts.

‘You’re fine. Just out of practice,’ I said.

She finished the water and shook the empty bottle. ‘I’m still

thirsty,’ she said.

‘Cafe?’ I said.

She looked at me, somewhat surprised. I kept a straight face.

‘You get good juice there,’ I said in an innocent tone.

♦

A swarm of students buzzed inside the cafeteria. Given that it was

lunch hour, it took us five minutes to get a table. They didn’t have

juice, so Riya settled for lemonade. I ordered a mince and cold coffee.

I realized both ol us had a problem initiating conversation. I couldn’t

talk because I didn’t have the confidence. She, given a choice,

preferred to be quiet. Silent Riya, I wanted to call her. I had to break

this deadlock if I wanted this to go anywhere. The waiter brought us

our food.

‘In Bihar, we have aloo chop, in which we sometimes stuff keema.

This mince is the same,’ I said.

‘What’s Bihar like? I’ve never been there,’ she said and pursed her

lips around the straw to sip her lemonade.

‘Not like Delhi. Simple. Lots of rice fields. Peaceful, apart from

cities like Patna.’

‘I like peaceful places,’ she said.

‘There are problems, too. People aren’t educated. There’s violence.

I am sure you’ve heard. Poor and backward state, as people say.’

‘You can be rich and backward, too.’

We had an awkward silence for two minutes. Silent Riya and

Scared Madhav.

Break the deadlock, I told myself.

‘So you live with your family in Delhi?’

‘Yes. A big one. Parents, uncles, cousins and a brother.’

‘What do your parents do?’ I said.

A boy should make more interesting conversation with a girl. But a

loser like me had little experience or finesse in this regard.

‘Family business. Real estate and infrastructure.’

‘You are rich, right?’ I said. Idiot Madhav. Couldn’t think of

anything better.

She laughed at my direct question. ‘Rich in money, or rich in

mind? Two different things.’

‘Huh? Rich, like wealthy?'

'Unfortunately, yes.’

'What’s unfortunate? Everyone wants to be rich.’

'Yeah, I guess. It just embarrasses me. Plus, all the obsession with

money and how it defines you, I just don’t get it.’

I realized she and I came from different worlds. Perhaps it was a

futile battle to pursue her. Logically, practically and rationally, it made no sense.

'Can I try your mince?’ she said.‘I’m hungry.’

I nodded. I asked the waiter to get another fork. However, before

he could get one she picked up mine and took a bite.

She took my fork, does it mean anything?

‘Where’s home for you?’ she said.

1 himraon. A small town, three hours from Patna.’

‘Nice,’ she said.

You will probably find it boring.’

'No, no, tell me more. As you can see, I’m not much of a talker. I

like to listen,’ she said. She seemed genuinely interested. I told her

about my life back home, revolving around my mother, her school and

basketball.There wasn’t much else. My father had passed away ten

years ago. He had left us a huge, crumbling haveli, a couple of fields

and many legal cases related to property. We had some servants, who

stayed in the haveli’s servant quarters more out of loyalty than their

paltry salaries.

My ancestors were landlords and from the royal family of I

iuinraon, the oldest princely state in British India. When India became

independent, the government took away our family estate and left us

with an annual pension that declined with every generation. My great-

grand-uncles squandered their money, especially since they all felt they

could gamble better than anyone else in the world. Several near-

bankruptcies later, the women of the house took charge as the men had

all turned into alcoholics. Somehow, the women saved the family pride

and the haveli. All of my cousins had moved abroad, and vowed never

to return. My father, the only one to remain in Bihar, held the last title of Raja Sahib of Dumraon. Ten years ago, he had succumbed to a