Someone Like You (9 page)

I rummage through my bags for clothes as I look at the wall clock from the corner of my eye. I find it hard to believe that I am late on the first day of college, when I haven’t ever been late for any of my classes till now in my whole life. I blame that voice in the mess, and the loser back in Jaipur. I couldn’t sleep well last night as conflicting thoughts of the phenomenal date with the near-perfect guy, Akshat, and the guy with the magical voice in the mess flooded my mind and kept me awake.

I drop the idea of taking a shower, dress quickly, and step out of the room. It takes me another fifteen minutes to find the building and my class amidst the maze of concrete buildings and workshops. The door is closed and I can see a lot of students through the little glass window. After wasting two more minutes standing outside, I knock at the door.

‘Excuse me, sir?’ I say softly, to the short, balding man standing in the class.

‘Yes?’

‘May I come in, sir?’

‘Oh yes. Come in, come in. Welcome to the class,’ he says. I struggle to figure if there is sarcasm in his voice. Why
does he sound so happy to see me and how come he is so comfortable with me being late to class?

I bow my head a little and silently make my way into the class.

‘Got lost in the campus? It happens to most people. I remember my own first day here, as a student … confusing corridors …’ he babbles away happily.

‘Yes, sir. I got kind of confused there,’ I say and smile at him.

‘Well, never mind. You didn’t miss much. I was just introducing myself to the class. Please take a seat.’

I look around to find a seat. The classroom looks full and the first few benches look especially overflowing. On each of these benches are new, sparkling pens and registers. No matter how old you get, the charm and excitement of a new class never fades, though it’s likely that those registers will never be scribbled upon and the pens will not be used till the first set of exams.

I, too, look for a seat in the front rows, but I can’t see one. Being studious is a part of my identity and I can’t run away from it, though I was never too much into writing notes. As per my new plan, I wouldn’t be too much into studying either. The day I got the admission letter to ICE, Nagpur and I ripped it open, I had decided that I wouldn’t study as much any more. I was angry that I couldn’t get into IIT, but more than that, I realized that I have been missing out on a lot of things.

As I look for a seat, someone waves his hand frantically from the last bench. It’s Tanmay. I flash him a smile and climb up the steps to take a seat with the other backbenchers.

‘Good morning, class. Welcome to Indian College of Engineering. I hope you find the love of your lives here, because that’s what matters more. Everything else, be it education, jobs or careers … they just come and go. Love
stays. I am Sudeep Wadhwa. I have been a teacher here for the last nineteen years. I’ll be teaching—’

‘Did he actually say that?’ Tanmay says. He looks a lot more relaxed today. No sweat, no panting and puffing. ‘He’s a professor here. And he said
that
in the introductory speech?’

‘Cool, right? I think things are pretty casual here.’

‘I hope so. Or he just might be one of the lenient teachers,’ he says and adjusts his funny spectacles. He carries them off really well. Anyone else would have looked downright crazy. He just looks immensely adorable!

Prof. Wadhwa tells us that he would be teaching us Mechanics of Solids and jumps right into some basic problems and formulas, even though people have already stopped listening to him. But it does not look like he minds that much. Two minutes into the class and I can tell he is used to talking to the walls.

‘Tanmay Srivastava,’ my new friend says. ‘Just in case you forgot my name.’

‘Niharika Singh,’ I reply. ‘Just in case
you
forgot mine.’

‘I remember.’

We stay silent for a while after that and try to listen to what Prof. Wadhwa has to say, but it’s just way too boring.

‘Are you taking notes?’ I whisper to Tanmay, who is staring intently into his notebook and scribbling something. He occasionally adjusts his spectacles and smiles stupidly at the notebook.

‘No,’ he whispers back and pushes his notebook towards me.

‘Oh my God!’ I almost exclaim as I peer into the notebook.

On his notebook is an elaborate caricature of the entire class, the professor, a few students in the front row, him and me. It’s just like those comic strips from the newspapers and magazines! I am amazed.

‘That’s me?’ I point at the girl who’s wearing the same clothes as mine. The girl has frizzy, unmanageable hair that is all over the place. ‘Is my hair that bad?’

‘Umm … actually, when doing caricatures, you have to magnify the good or bad features to make them resemble the person more. And yes, that’s you.’

‘No way! Are those
my
eyes? Are they really as big as footballs?’

‘Yes,’ he says and smiles shyly.

‘This is amazing,’ I say and look at it more closely.

He starts to tell me that he has been doing this for over ten years now. He tells me that a lot of people have asked him to pick it up as a career, but he has never wanted to do it for money. He shows me a few more sketches he has made, and each one is more impressive than the last.

‘So, where are you from?’ I ask as I look at the caricature again and wonder if my hair is really that bad.

‘Barwaha. It’s a small place in Madhya Pradesh. You could not have heard about it.’

‘Yes, I haven’t. Was it nice there?’ I ask.

He looks at my face for a second, as if judging if I’m making fun of him. Satisfied that I’m not, he replies, ‘Yes, it was nice. It’s a small town, but it’s beautiful. We have the Narmada river like one mile away from my home. It was fun …’ I can clearly hear the nostalgia in his tone.

‘Nice. I’m sure it’s lovely there. I am from Jaipur. I’ve lived there all my life. I spent the last two years in Kota though.’

‘I thought you were from Delhi. Or Mumbai or Bangalore,’ he says and adjusts his spectacles that drop below his nose-bridge.

‘Why would you say that?’ I ask.

‘You look like you are from there. The clothes, the way you talk … you know? The style … I don’t know,’ he says, and it looks like he regrets saying it.

We start talking about our home towns and he tells me
more about himself. He tells me his father has a small factory that makes parts for electronic calculators and his interest in electronics started from there. He looks like someone who comes from a background without a lot of money. His complexion is darkish, his looks are average, his clothes are regular and his hairstyle shouts that he belongs to a small town. And that is what I find most appealing about him. He is just a kid, from a small place, from where he must have always wanted to go out and study. But the best thing about him is that after he completes his studies, his plan is to go back to his home town and work with his father. He dreams of taking his father’s small business to heights some day. He wants to go back to where he was from, and do something there.

‘So you always wanted to be an electronics engineer?’ I ask.

‘Yes. There are a lot of things I have wanted to do with my father’s business that he can’t. So I thought I would get a Master’s degree in electronics and join my father’s business. I had started studying all our subjects in my twelfth class itself. What about you? You always wanted to be an electronics engineer too?’

The kid’s sincerity and the innocence in his voice make me feel a little ashamed and worthless.

‘Me? Not at all. I just wanted to get into IIT to make my parents proud. I didn’t mind studying and I didn’t know what else to do. I have not really thought about what I want to be,’ I say, at the risk of sounding stupid.

‘Oh, that’s okay,’ he says and there is a silence.

We listen to what the professor is saying, but he has gone off on a tangentially different topic and we are clueless. I break the silence and start telling him about Kota and what it was like there. I tell him about my classes there and my only friend—Navroz.

‘Navroz. Is he your … I mean, are you committed to him?’ he asks and I don’t blame him. I guess I was talking too much about Navroz, so I had it coming.

‘What? Navroz? Oh, no. He used to have a girlfriend there. Priya. But then they broke up—’

‘Because she thought he was going out with you too?’ he asks.

‘No. Because of other reasons.’

‘Hmm. I thought they broke up because of you.’

‘No, they didn’t,’ I say, exasperatedly.

‘Are you sure he didn’t secretly love you? Maybe he did. And his girlfriend got to know. That’s how it always happens,’ he continues, quite irritatingly.

I don’t say anything.
What just happened to the cute kid?
I don’t understand why he suddenly started acting so weird. It was getting a little awkward, so I decide to shut up.

‘I’m sorry,’ he whispers after a while. ‘I just wanted to keep the conversation going. But I didn’t know what to say. I was nervous.’

‘Why would you be so nervous? You’re so … you know … lovely …’

He looks embarrassed. And I think that’s kind of sweet too.

‘I hope you’re not mad,’ he says meekly. ‘I just thought it would sound cool if I talk about relationships and break-ups. My friend said that’s what people do in the cities,’ he explains.

‘That is the silliest thing I’ve ever heard,’ I say and we burst out laughing.

I suddenly remember that I didn’t put him through my Three-Minute Test. But then I didn’t need to. There are a few people who come into your life like sunshine on a gloomy, winter morning, Tanmay seems exactly like that. I have met him twice and it seems like I know him for a really long time. I don’t know if I ever talked to anyone like this in the
second meeting itself. I really like Tanmay, the shy kid with Harry Potter glasses.

The class ends and Tanmay tells me that the next class in not until two hours from now. He looks at me blankly for a while before I tell him that we should hang out in the college canteen. As we leave the class, we hear a few murmurs behind us and sense a few eyes on us. I wonder what that means.

The canteen is a good five-minute walk from our building and the sun overhead is not pleasant. There are groups of students everywhere interacting with college seniors. Ragging has reduced in the last few years, after the college authorities came down hard on it because a student killed himself after his head was dunked in a toilet and flushed in front of many of his classmates.

We reach the canteen and Tanmay fights the twenty-strong crowd in front of the counter to get us sandwiches.

‘Hey, juniors!’ A tall guy in his pyjamas comes our way and sits in front of us. A few more of his friends join him. All of them are in dirty T-shirts, faded pyjamas and stink of hostel filth—a weird smell of sweat, smoke and alcohol. Simran has often told me horror stories about how dirty guys are in the hostel and now I see a few examples in front of me.

‘Hi,’ I mumble back, and look at Tanmay from the corner of my eye to find that he has the fear of death writ across his face.

‘Which branch?’ the guy asks rudely.

‘Electronics,’ I say.

‘Names,’ another guy shouts out.

I don’t like the look of these guys—rude and very gruff. They are certainly not the kind of people I would have liked to meet on my first day in college.

‘Niharika,’ I say clearly, trying not to let my fear show.

Tanmay isn’t that good at masking his feelings. Blood rushes to his face and he shuffles his feet uncomfortably. ‘T-T-Tanmay,’ he stammers.

‘So, T-T-Tanmay,’ the senior—the one who is sitting down—points at me and asks, ‘do you like her?’

‘Huh?’

‘I asked you—
do you fucking like her
?’ he repeats, with apparent anger in his voice, which I clearly don’t like.

Tanmay just looks at him and sweats. The senior waits for an answer and asks again, ‘Open your mouth, you son of a bitch!’

‘I … I … don’t know her. N-not r-really …’

‘Then get the hell out of here,’ the senior says and the other two laugh loudly. I think they are overdoing the evil-villain-laughter, but it sounds scary nonetheless. I see Tanmay freeze, his scared eyes on the three laughing seniors. I know it’s me who is going to get into real trouble once these seniors make Tanmay leave, but I still feel sorrier for Tanmay. The poor kid, he looks lost.

‘Didn’t you get it?’ One of the two standing seniors comes close and stares down angrily at him.

‘I … I won’t go,’ Tanmay says.

‘Do you even know who you’re talking to?’ the senior who was sitting down stands up and glowers down at Tanmay.

Tanmay shakes his head and looks down.

‘GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE!’
the senior shouts and I see people from the adjoining tables look at us.

I steal a glance at Tanmay, who is looking down and away from these guys. He still doesn’t budge. But I can see that he is shivering quite badly by now. I feel bad for him. I can’t stay silent any more.

‘Excuse me—’ I say but I am cut off.

‘
CHETAN MEHTA
is the name.
I AM THE COLLEGE-FUCKING-PRESIDENT
,’ the senior thunders. He now
turns to me and continues, ‘And I don’t want this guy in the canteen. You have a problem with that?’

He looks at me with his bloodshot eyes and I have to admit, I am a little scared. Before I can get hold of my senses and say something, I see a hand creep up the college-fucking-president’s back and pat it.

‘You’re creating trouble again, aren’t you? How many times have I told you not to get drunk in the morning?’ the guy says.

Strangely enough, the voice seems familiar. It comes back in a flash—it’s the one from the college mess yesterday. The satin-smooth voice with the rough edges to it. I look up and I can finally see the face of the guy who had objectified girls—and probably me—just yesterday in the college mess. I notice that he has deep black eyes, partially hidden by a mop of wild curly hair. I know I should not be, but I am instantly attracted to him.