12
Six months later
After my break-up, or half-break-up, with Riya, my personality
changed. People in college started to call me SSS, or the Silent Saint of
Stephen’s. I attended every class and sat in the front row. I took notes
like a court stenographer. I never asked the professor any questions. I
would sit with my friends in the residences but not contribute to the
conversation. Initially, they tried to cheer me up. They gave me copies
of Playboy and arranged booze parties to help me get over Riya.
However, just like their earlier advice, their break-up cures were
useless too. The only thing that helped somewhat was basketball.
Every time I thought of her, I hit the court. Three hours of dribbling
and shooting temporarily cured my heartache, if only because it left me
physically exhausted. Frankly, I went to the courts in the hope she
would come to practice. She never did. Perhaps her father had built
her a court in the backyard of 100, Aurangzeb Road.
Sometimes I lurked in the college corridors, waiting for her class to
end. I stood far away and avoided eye contact. I would watch her
come out of class, only to disappear into a crowd of friends. Once she
did see me. She didn’t smile or turn away. She didn’t even look angry.
She didn’t react at all. It killed me. If she had come forward and
slapped me or yelled, I would have been okay. However, she looked
right through me, as if I didn’t exist.
Nights hit me the hardest. I couldn’t sleep. I lay on the same bed
where I had messed it up with her.The same place where I had spoken
like a Bhojpuri movie villain. I wished I had a time machine to undo
my actions. I didn’t want a time machine to predict the stock market or
buy property cheap. I only wanted it to un-say that sentence. I had said
it in a combined state of horniness, bravado and stupidity. Well, it is
also the state in which men are most of the time.
I tossed and turned. I couldn’t sleep. I bounced my basketball on