Stupid Love

By Kapil Sharma

She was a small-town girl living in her Barbie world, and he was a city boy raised in... nah, that sounds like song lyrics. Forget being a romantic; I can’t even pretend to be a romantic without plagiarism. But there was actually a time when I sort of believed in true love (now it's true death). This story is about that time only. But why am I telling you such a story? Come on, I am not reasonable; I will just start. 

It was 2002. The Y2K bubble had just burst. By now, people were sure that the world was not coming to an end, and different prophecies of world destruction at the start of this millennium were untrue, not delayed. Since salvation was nowhere in sight, people were condemned to their daily business, which for me meant enduring an endless loop of going to school daily and meeting with my pointless classmates and even more pointless teachers, in addition to dealing with bullies. The part I liked was fantasizing about a couple of school beauties and, of course, expensive bikes, though I could not get to the riding part with either.

I was a cynic then, too, but I somehow started to believe in love. In my defense, I believed in X-Men, too, that someday I could be like the professor, of course, without the chair, and would be able to control objects. I wanted that power so I wouldn't have to go to the kitchen to put a plate in the sink, get a glass of water, make my bed, and organize my room. But the belief in love was a result of watching too many dumb Bollywood flicks, which my elder sister used to watch. We shared the same room, and she controlled the TV. Besides Bollywood, it was the stupid pop bands like Boyzone and Westlife that made me a firm believer that I was a white, blond, rich boy–and that it was necessary to fall in love. I might blame others, but I have to admit it was mainly my lack of cognition due to my refusal to eat almonds.

The question was, who to fall in love with? The most beautiful one in the senior year of our school dated some hotshot from college who would come to pick her up in an expensive car. There was another one I had a crush on, but the school ‘Dada’ was also after her, so it was not worth the risk of getting my punky ass kicked. There were a  few others I was interested in, but they were either dating guys from the school band or the flashy players of the school cricket team. I was not a part of any of those groups. I once joined a debate club, but the melodramatic girl with a shrill voice that I was debating with gave me the creeps. Since when did women's empowerment require clumsily moving your head at odd angles and misusing your face to horrify your opponent?. So I left the debate club, too.   In academics, I did pass with little effort, but I was not exactly the class topper, and girls, especially the pretty ones, had no reason to talk to me.

Despite the challenges, I didn't choose to be gay—though looking back, I should have at least pretended to be gay to get close to a girls' group and later proclaimed I was bisexual. There was a girl in my class named Tanya; we were classmates, and a few dudes did propose to her, but for reasons best known to her, she rejected them. No, no, she wasn’t gay either. She used to sit two seats in front of me. Sometimes I made a wisecrack at a teacher or a smartass classmate's unnecessary question. She would chuckle. Her chuckle earned her my respect, but we never talked extensively. 

Once, I was coming out of the loo, and she was standing with a bunch of her friends. (For some reason, girls in our school went to the loo in groups. Perhaps they synced their water intake.) She said, "Jimmy, can I say something?" I said yes; she said, "Your fly is undone." The whole group started cackling like a bunch of swans.  I zipped it up and left hurriedly. 

If once was not insulting enough, after a month, it happened again. She made the same comment and elicited the same reaction from her friends, but this time I replied, "Why do you keep looking there?" This made her group laugh even more loudly. I left again.

The next morning at the assembly, she looked at me in a strange manner. I smiled; she stared at me and then finally smiled back. She was standing parallel to me in the girls' line. The prayer started, and I used to purposely say it wrong to look cool. I began the prayer with my usual "Our Father, who darts at seven." She heard it, but so did our PTI, and he made the whole kingdom come crashing down upon me.’

When I got back to class, I passed by her seat. She gave me that mocking pity face; I ignored it and went back to my seat. During recess, when I opened the tiffin, it was bitter gourd. I thought, "What a fucking day." I closed the tiffin and sat on the seat, as I didn't feel like going out; the class monitor was a friend, so he didn't object to my staying back. 

Meanwhile, Tanya came back to eat the chocolate she had intentionally left in her bag so she wouldn't have to share it with anyone. She saw me sitting at my desk all alone and said, “Kya hua? Maar kha ke hi pet bhar gaya?” (What happened? Have you lost your appetite after the beating? I replied, "No, it's more complicated than that, but I would love to eat the chocolate you are eating." I thought she would say something witty to tease me, but she offered whatever was left of her chocolate. 

I said, “But this is ‘juhta’ (already half eaten by you). She replied, "Bhikari ko beekh, jitni mile theek" (beggars are not choosers).

I  had no good comeback after that, and I was also hungry, so I ate it. She said, “Aren’t you forgetting something?” I paused, thought for a few seconds, and finally said, “Thank you.”

 She replied, “Thought you would never say it.” We both started laughing, and that's how it started.

We started talking more frequently after that. After some time, we exchanged numbers. But I could call her only at 7:30 p.m., as that was when her mom took their dog for a walk, and there was nobody home, and since I had no dog, I myself went for a walk at the same time–to the PCO. I used to ask the PCO guy to make a signal as soon as the bill crossed fifteen rupees. We would talk about studies, irritating siblings, and teachers. She would call me a sloth, which I used to take as a compliment. Once she expressed a desire to watch a movie called ‘Sathiya.’. I agreed and suggested we could go together. I said I would find out which hall was filming it and book advance tickets for Saturday. It meant losing out on Nagraj comics for a few weeks, but I thought it was worth it. 

On Saturday, we went to the movie theatre. I rushed her so that she couldn't notice anything. They checked our tickets and showed us to our seats. She put her hand on mine. I never would have thought just holding hands would feel that good. Must have been the stupid teenage hormones, but I didn't know whether to look her in the eyes or not, so I kept a straight face. 

The screen started playing a Hollywood flick starring Leonardo. I told her it must be the ads. She watched it patiently for fifteen minutes; it was then that she realised I had tricked her into watching ‘Catch Me If You Can.’ The same hand, which was holding hands with warmth, started punching in the shoulder. I started laughing, but not loudly–we were in a theatre. Though I tried holding her hand after some time, she flicked it away.

 During the intermission, I tried to calm her down. She seemed to like the movie, but she hasn't admitted it to date. We bought customary popcorn and Pepsi and went back. Once we were seated, she lifted her left hand invitingly towards me, and I eagerly placed my right hand on hers. I was happy, but it was a logistical nightmare, as I was holding the popcorn bag in the other hand. This made it impossible to either eat the popcorn or drink the Pepsi, which I had placed in the seat's coaster. (It must be so easy for octopuses on their first movie date.) 

After some time, a kiss scene came; I immediately moved my face a full ninety degrees to the east, just like a tank’s gun on a battlefield, in anticipation, but she kept watching the movie. I gave up after a minute—my neck had started to hurt. I wasn’t exactly a state-of-the-art tank. I watched the whole movie holding her and popcorn like a clueless statue. Neither of them touched my lips that day. 

Once, we went on a date at a hut-themed restaurant. Every group was given a separate thatched hut. The huts were separated from each other by a few meters. They were closed from three sides, and only a small opening was there to move in or out. The waiters appeared once to take orders and purposely delayed giving them. Tanya ordered pizza and lemonade for both of us.

 After the waiter left, I said, "Now what?" 

She frowned. "What do you mean by 'now what?'" 

“I was thinking maybe we could kiss, if you are ok with it.”

 She stared at me for a few seconds and said, "You are an idiot." 

I took that as a compliment, too. I said I am sure you haven’t kissed an idiot before.

 She smiled and kissed me on the lips. I lingered in the kiss as long as I could, but I was losing oxygen, so I had to break it. I wondered if she had brushed that morning, then I wondered whether I had brushed this morning, and then finally  I said so; it makes us boyfriend and girlfriend.

She corrected me and replied, “No girlfriend and an idiot boyfriend.” We kissed once again. I wanted to go a bit further, but there was not enough privacy, and I wasn’t sure where exactly the line was between a passionate lover and a pervert. After the pizza came, we paid the bill and left for home.

Everything was going great until one day, another guy proposed to her; he was a year older than her. They were family friends, and apparently, he was the son of her father's boss. The Boss was the part-owner of that textile company. She didn't want to say yes, but it was complicated. It was one of those rare instances when a father actually wanted his teenage daughter to date someone—though he didn’t tell her explicitly. Her father's boss had even proposed to get them married later if they both agreed. 

When she told me about it, I was like, "You do what you have to do. Promise me you will give free jackets, and we can still kiss.”

She replied, "I wish." 

I said, "I guess I can do without the jackets."

She didn’t say anything. I thought she didn't get the joke and considered repeating it, but she looked too sad. 

So I continued, "Let's not make this dramatic; it's ok. But we should not talk to each other anymore—it would be awkward, and I will keep asking you to kiss.”

I could see the tears forming in her eyes, so I patted her shoulder and left, saying, “It’s all good.”

I have to admit that even for someone as emotionally mature as me, it felt bad for a month or so. It felt like my molars were missing. Besides, it was even more awkward being in the same class and ignoring her— it wasn’t as fun as ignoring my grades. It went on for the whole session, and then she changed schools. 

Last year, I got her request on Facebook. The conversation went like this: “Hi, how are you doing?”

 I replied, “Someone finally remembered me. Where are my fucking jackets?”

 She answered, “We are not together anymore; we got divorced last year.” 

I said, “Though I didn't marry him, I’m also getting a divorce.”

 I told you guys already, I can’t be a romantic.

By Kapil Sharma