Laa





LaajVanti




Sridhar




©
Please
Don’t
Copy



ii




Acknowledgements
I’d
like
to
thank
each
and
every
girl
who
has
been
a

part
of
my
life,
for
inspiring
the
character
Laajvanti

in
some
way.
Although
I’m
sure
I’ll
miss
many,
I’d

still
like
to
mention
a
few
important
names
–

Nirmala,
Keerthi,
Yogita,
Chandrima,
Mallika,
Smita,

Kousalia,
Nilofar,
Sudha,
Munawwara,
Neelam,
Isha,

Sony,
Ritu,
Aditi,
Kirti,
Pushpanjali,
Veena,
Vijaya,

Deepthi,
Priya,
Shilpee,
Arunima
and
Pansy.
I’m
very

thankful
to
Hitesh
for
the
beautiful
cover
that
he

designed
and
for
his
valuable
inputs
that
helped
get

this
work
to
its
final
shape.
Thanks
to
Bala
for

making
it
his
personal
mission
to
motivate
me
for

writing
a
novel.
Thanks
to
Sankalp,
Rajhans,
Pankaj,

Parankush,
Dheepjoy,
Rajesh,
Manis,
Ravindra,

Sumanta,
Jeetu
and
Ravi
for
their
ideas,

encouragement
and
support.
Finally,
I’d
like
to

thank
my
parents,
brother
and
sister
for
always

being
there
for
me.

Enjoy
reading…



 LaajVanti


‐1




Laajvanti
was
the
first
crush
of
my
life.
I
had
never

before
felt
that
kind
of
attraction
for
girls,
who
for

me
at
that
time,
were
kids
in
frocks
and
with
longer

hair
tied
in
weird
ways.
Laajo
was
a
small
wonder.

From
don’t
know
where,
she
came
into
my
class
–

Class
IV
Section‐B
–
and
became
my
classmate.
Her

roll
number
was
15.
Besides
being
extremely
sweet,

cute
and
lovely,
she
was
different
in
many
ways.
She

was
much
taller
than
other
girls.
She
wore
a
long

tunic
that
covered
most
of
her
shin.
It
even
had
side‐
pockets.
Her
belt
was
not
the
usual
plain
red
colored

one
having
a
metallic
buckle
with
our
school’s
name

written
over
it.
Hers
had
a
nice
design
on
it
and
was

not
one
bought
for
Rs.20
from
the
school.
She
wore

it
for
a
few
days,
until
a
teacher
noticed
it
and
forced


1




 LaajVanti


her
to
buy
the
original
school‐belt,
which
all
had
to

wear
and
look
alike,
though
boring.


I
loved
Laajo’s
smile
and
checked
her
out
whenever

any
teacher
cracked
a
joke
or
said
something
funny.

I
felt
she
glanced
at
me
too,
at
times.
I
used
to
come

up
with
creative
ways
to
make
her
smile
without

talking
to
her.
For
example,
I
once
deliberately

slipped
from
my
seat,
which
was
on
a
corner,
and

fell
down
as
everyone
was
listening
intently
to
the

teacher
during
a
class.
Laajo
laughed.
Everybody

did.
I
was
so
happy
as
I
got
up.
I
was
later
told
that

the
teacher
yelled
at
me.
He
even
called
me
a

donkey.
I
had
not
heard
it
at
all.
It
didn’t
matter
to

me
anyway.
Strange.
I
was
changing.


I
used
to
come
1st
in
my
class.
My
notebooks
were

always
up‐to‐date.
Everyone
wanted
my
notes,
but
I

never
gave
them
to
anyone.
I
was
sure
all
my

classmates
hated
me
because
of
that.
But
I
did
not

give
a
shit.
Coz
the
teachers
liked
me.




I
was,
however,
willing
to
break
my
rule,
my
usool,

just
for
Laajo.
I
wished
and
hoped
very
desperately

that
she’d
ask
me
for
my
notes,
but
she
never
did.

2




 LaajVanti


One
day
I
saw
her
standing
alone
near
the
school

gate
after
chhutti.
She
was
waiting
for
her
mom.
My

mom
was
also
a
little
late.
I
went
near
Laajo
and

asked
her
if
she
understood
Maths.
She
said
she
did.

I
then
asked
her
if
she
knew
how
to
divide
numbers.

She
said
she
did.
As
I
was
wondering
what
to
ask
her

next,
I
saw
my
mom
coming,
and
I
ran
towards
her.

She
shouldn’t
think
I
talk
to
girls.


Those
days,
my
mom
generally
came
5
minutes
late

for
picking
me
up
after
chhutti.
And
Laajo’s
mom

never
showed
up
until
my
mom
took
me
away.
So
I

often
had
this
5‐minute
window
of
opportunity
to
do

something
and
impress
Laajo;
at
least
talk
to
her.
In

the
school
hours,
it
was
hard
to
catch
her
alone
with

nobody
watching
us.
And
I
had
no
chance
to
see

Laajo
after
school,
because
she
lived
very
very
far,

according
to
one
trustworthy
well‐informed

classmate.


The
next
time
I
got
the
chance,
I
went
and
stood

close
to
her.


Me:
HiHi.

Laajo:
HiHi.

3




 LaajVanti


Me:
Your
tiffin­box
is
so
nice.

Laajo:
HiHi.
Yes.
You
can
stick
the
spoon
like
this

below
the
dhakkan.
See.
(She
showed
me.)

Me:
Wow.
You
did
not
eat
your
tiffin?

Laajo:
No.
I
do
not
like
idli.

Me:
I
also
do
not
like
idli.
I
like
samosa.

Laajo:
I
also
like
samosa.
I
like
kaju
katli
very
much.

You?

Me:
I
don’t
like
kaju
katli.

Laajo:
(Looking
away)
Oh.


She
didn’t
look
at
me
again
that
day
despite
my

desperate
attempts
to
catch
her
attention.
I
talked

about
the
villain
in
the
latest
movie,
hummed
its

song,
expressed
my
wish
to
share
my
notes
with
her

if
she
wanted,
even
called
our
Science
teacher
an

idiot
(which
was
the
popular
opinion
in
the
class,

and
I
hoped
Laajo
shared
it),
but
she
kept
looking

away,
at
the
road,
from
where
her
mom
would

come.
As
usual
my
mom
came
before.
I
ran
and
sat

behind
her
cycle
without
looking
back.


At
home
that
evening,
I
refused
to
eat
dinner
unless

dad
brought
kaju
katli
for
me.
I
even
cried
once


4




 LaajVanti


when
I
felt
nobody
was
taking
me
seriously.
Real

tears
came
out
in
no
time.
My
mom
got
worried,

either
coz
I
hadn’t
cried
since
the
winter
of
Class
III,

when
an
injection
into
my
ass
caused
severe
pain
in

my
right
butt
for
a
week,
or
coz
she
couldn’t

understand
why
I
was
crying
for
kaju
katli,
of
all

things.
I
can’t
be
sure
why,
but
she
indeed
seemed

worried.


Mom
knew
exactly
what
to
say
to
my
dad
to
shake

him
out
of
his
laziness
and
get
him
up
and
running.

He
went
to
the
market
and
came
back
with
a
box
full

of
kaju
katli
just
for
me.
Mom
and
dad
often
told
me

that
all
good
boys
shared
their
stuff
with
their

brothers
and
sisters.
And
so,
I
had
to
prove
to
them

that
I
was
a
good
boy
by
offering
the
sweets
to
my

brother
and
sister.
They
took
one
each,
when
I
held

the
open
box
to
them.
I
don’t
know
if
they
wanted

more.
I
just
didn’t
give
them
a
chance.
Being
much

elder
to
me,
they
were
expected
to
understand.
I
ran

away
with
the
box,
to
my
little
corner
in
the
so­
called
bedroom
of
our
Railway
Quarter,
and
hid
the

box
inside
my
bag.


5




 LaajVanti


The
next
day
after
chhutti,
I
was
already
there
at
the

gate
when
Laajo
came.


Me:
HiHi.

Laajo:
Hi.

Me:
I
brought
kaju
katli
for
you.

See.
(Opened
the

box
and
offered
her
the
sweets.)

Laajo:
Wow.
All
for
me?

Me:
Yes.

Laajo:
HiHi.


Laajo
picked
the
biggest
one
of
all
in
the
box
and

took
a
gentle
bite
with
both
her
eyes
closed.
She
was

lovely.
As
I
was
enjoying
watching
her
enjoy
kaju

katli,
somebody
hit
me
hard
on
my
ass.
I
shouted
in

pain
and
turned
my
head
to
see
who
the
hell
it
was.

Mom!



Mom:
Donga
Chacchinoda!
(Hit
me
again,
this
time

from
behind
on
my
head.)

Me:
AAAaaa!!!


Laajo:
(Got
Scared)
MMMmmummmeee!!!


6




 LaajVanti


Laajo
saw
her
mom
at
a
distance
and
ran
away.
‘She

is
safe!’
–
I
told
myself
with
a
sigh
of
relief,
which

was
immediately
followed
by
one
of
fear.


Mom:
Is
this
why
you
wanted
kaju
katli?
Donga

Vedhava.
Cheppu.
Chepparaa.

Me:
Amma
sorryyyy.

Mom:
Chalo,
I’ll
tell
daddy.
He’ll
teach
you
a
lesson.

(Slapped
me.)


I
started
crying
loudly.
All
kids
standing
near
by

were
looking
at
me.
They
were
all
happy
and

smiling.
They
seemed
to
enjoy
seeing
me
getting

kicked.
A
few
parents,
who
had
come
to
pick
up

their
kids,
also
looked
at
me,
and
then
my
mom.
I

saw
pity
in
their
eyes.
I
wished
one
of
them
told
my

mom
not
to
be
so
cruel
and
harsh
with
a
sweet
kid

like
me.
But
no
one
said
anything
and
my
mom
had

her
way.


That
night,
when
dad
came
back
from
office,
mom

told
him
everything
that
I
had
done
and
beat
me

again,
this
time
right
in
front
of
him.
Dad
didn’t

seem
bothered.
He
was
too
engrossed
in
the
news

that
was
being
read
by
Salma
Sultan
on
TV.
To

7




 LaajVanti


appease
mom,
he
just
raised
his
eyebrows
and

asked
me
once
–
‘Entraaa???’
I
cried
more.
I
kept
on

crying
till
I
slept,
squeezed,
as
usual,
between
mom

and
dad.


Although
it
wasn’t
my
mistake
at
any
point,
Laajo

did
get
scared
because
of
me.
So,
the
next
day,
I

walked
straight
to
Laajo
during
the
Long
Recess
–

a.k.a.
Tiffin­time,
to
apologize.


Me:
Laajo,
I
am
sorry.

Laajo:
I
am
katti.
Don’t
bring
anything
for
me
again.

Don’t
talk
to
me
again.


And
she
ran
away.
As
she
ran,
I
kept
looking
at
her

with
the
fake,
shivering
smile
on
my
face,
which
I

had
come
to
her
with.
My
mind
was
too
busy

handling
my
emotions,
and
so
my
expressions
went

unattended
to
for
a
while.


I
could
never
talk
to
Laajo
after
that.
Whenever
I

went
near
her,
she
looked
away.
If
I
tried
to
talk
to

her,
she’d
either
start
talking
to
someone
else
or

simply
walk
away
from
me.
It
became
impossible
to

catch
her
during
chhutti
as
my
mom
started
coming

8




 LaajVanti


before
the
bell
rang
and
was
ready
to
take
me
away

as
soon
as
I
came
out
of
the
classroom.


But
I
could
not
stop
myself
from
thinking
about

Laajo.
When
I
was
in
the
classroom,
every
few

minutes,
I
would
turn
my
head
and
see
her
face.
The

sight
of
her
smiling
face
made
me
happy.
But
unlike

before,
she
never
looked
at
me
now.
She
didn’t
smile

even
when
I
slipped
myself
from
my
seat
again

during
a
class.
She
wasn’t
bothered
at
all.
Didn’t

even
look
at
me.
That
hurt
more
in
the
heart
than
in

the
ass.


Slowly,
other
guys
came
to
know
that
I
had
a
crush

on
Laajo.
Srinivas,
Shiva,
Dhokla,
Tilak,
Deepu,

Chuklu,
Billu,
Bablu
–
all
started
teasing
me.
I

couldn’t
concentrate
on
studies.
I
couldn’t

remember
answers
to
questions.
(Most
of
the
school

education
I
had
was
about
questions
and
answers.)

Earlier
I
was
so
good
at
it
–
if
I
read
a
question

aloud,
I
had
its
answer
automatically
on
my
lips.
But

now,
all
questions
left
me
blank.
My
mom
caught
me

in
the
very
first
opportunity
–
the
quarterly
exams.

She
used
to
take
my
oral
question‐answer
session


9




 LaajVanti


before
each
exam,
to
see
how
well
I
had
memorized

the
answers.
I
had
always
been
her
brilliant
kid,
who

knew
all
answers
word‐to‐word.
This
was
the
first

time
I
was
totally
clueless
in
front
of
her
at
most
of

the
questions.
Though
I
used
to
read
out
all

question‐answers
aloud
every
morning
and
evening,

I
had
none
of
them
saved
in
my
head
this
time.
I
only

had
Laajo
in
my
head.
I
hadn’t
realized
it
until
just

before
the
quarterly
exams.


I
got
scolded
many
times
by
mom
for
not
studying

properly.
I
got
scared
too,
that
I
might
not
come
1st

if
it
went
on
like
this.
Srinivas
got
better
marks
than

me
in
the
unit
tests.
Some
of
my
classmates
were

talking
about
the
possibility
that
either
Srinivas
or

Laajo
could
come
first,
because
I
wasn’t
so
good
any

more
and
everyone
was
wondering
who
could
take

my
place.
Srinivas
–
coz
all
knew
he
was
good,
and

Laajo
–
coz
nobody
knew
how
good
she
was.
Tension

Tension.


I
decided
to
concentrate
on
studies,
coz
nothing
was

more
important
than
coming
1st.
I
decided
not
to

look
at
or
think
about
Laajo
ever
again.
I
figured
that


10




 LaajVanti


girls
and
studies
don’t
go
together
with
a
guy.
So
I

crushed
my
crush
and
crushed
myself
under
my

textbooks.
I
thought
this
would
be
temporary.
But

then,
Laajo
was
gone
after
Class
IV,
to
wherever
she

came
from.
I
came
first,
not
just
in
Class
IV
but
also

in
8
Classes
after
that!
What
a
waste!



11




 LaajVanti


0




I
called
myself
a
Software
Engineer
for
a
few
years.
I

did
Development,
Maintenance
and
Enhancements

for
Clients
in
the
US.
I
was
called
a
Java/J2EE

resource.
I
could
understand
code
written
in
Java

and
could
make
minor
changes
in
it.
By
trial
and

error,
I
could
often
get
the
software
up
and
running

like
it
did
before
my
intervention.
It
was
fun

sometimes.
But
I
generally
hated
my
job
and
all
jobs

in
my
industry.


Laajvanti
and
I
joined
Satyam
together
on
the
same

day.

I
still
remember
that
day
very
well.
The

moment
I
entered
the
common
waiting
area
in

Satyam's
office
in
the
Masha­allah
building
on
the

joining
day
–
21st
November
2007,
I
saw
Laajo,
and

I
knew
she
was
the
one
I'd
love
to
spend
the
whole

of
my
bench‐life
with.
She
was
wearing
a
white

kurta
(or
kurti?),
an
orange
salwar
and
an
orange

chunni.
She
had
shiny
long
black
hair
oiled
and

plaited
gulti­style.
She
was
so
cute
that
I
instantly

12




 LaajVanti


fell
in
love
with
her.
I
went
and
sat
on
the
chair
by

her
side.
Couldn't
stop
staring
at
her.
She
was

getting
uncomfortable.
So
I
spoke
–



Me:
Hi,
I'm
Sridhar.


Laajo:
I'm
Laajvanti.


Me:
Java?


Laajo:
No,
Mainframes.
You
Java
aa?


Me:
Yeah.
But
I
know
some
JCL,
COBOL,
CICS,
DB2

also.
I
learnt
when
I
was
in
TCS.


Laajo:
So
you
are
from
TCS
aa?


Me:
No.
From
Geometric
Software,
Pune.

Laajo:
Accha.


Me:
I
was
in
TCS
before
that.


Laajo:
How
many
years
experience?


Me:
3.5
years.
You?


Laajo:
3
years.


Me:
Which
company
you
were
working
previously?


Laajo:
TCS.


Me:
Yo!
Ultimatix
and
all!


Laajo:
Yes.
How
long
you
worked
in
TCS?


Me:
6
months.


Laajo:
1st
company?


Me:
Yes.



13




 LaajVanti


Laajo:
You
broke
the
bond!


Me:
No.
I
paid
the
bond
money
and
quit.


Laajo:
Joking
aa?


Me:
Really,
I
paid.
See
I
have
the
relieving
letter
too,

from
TCS.
(Opened
my
file
to
show
her
the
letter.)


Laajo:
Arey,
it's
OK
re.
How
much
you
paid?


Me:
77k.


Laajo:
O
my
God!

Me:
Yes.
I
was
too
ethical.


Laajo:
(Smiling)
Too
much.
You
were
an
idiot.


Me:
(Embarrassed)
Ya.
I
guess
so.


Laajo:
Did
you
get
the
medical
examination
done?

Me:
Yes.


Laajo:
(Smiling)
What
all
they
checked?


Me:
What
do
you
mean?
(Wondering
why
she
asked

that.
She
couldn't
possibly
mean
that...could
she?)


Laajo:
Forget
it.
(Laughed)


Me:
OK.
(Confused)


Laajo:
I
heard
they
will
put
us
all
on
bench.


Me:
Oh
really?
I'd
love
that.


Laajo:
What?
You
are
a
strange
person.


Me:
Why?

Laajo:
Who
wants
to
be
on
bench?
Everyone
wants

a
project.


14




 LaajVanti


Me:
Why
do
you
want
to
work
if
you
can
get
paid

without
working?


Laajo:
Ayyo!
You
are
a
psycho.


Me:
Psycho?
Why?


Laajo:
Leave
it.
Where
are
you
put
up?


Me:
What
does
that
mean?


Laajo:
Put
up,
as
in,
where
do
you
stay
in

Hyderabad?


Me:
Oh!
Banjara
Hills.


Laajo:
That's
a
costly
area
I
suppose.


Me:
Yes.
But
I
am
sharing
with
a
guy,
who
has
been

staying
there
for
a
long
time.
So
the
rent
is
low
and

then
divided
by
2.


Laajo:
That's
good.


Me:
Where
do
you
put?


Laajo:
What
do
you
mean?


Me:
What
did
you
ask
me?


Laajo:
O,
'Where
are
you
put
up?'


Me:
Yes
Yes,
that
only.


Laajo:
I
am
staying
in
a
hostel
in
Ameerpet.


Me:
That's
close
to
where
I
stay.


Laajo:
So?


Me:
So...
nothing.
Just
telling.


Laajo:
(Smiling)
Where
are
you
originally
from?


15




 LaajVanti


Me:
Bilaspur,
Chhattisgarh.


Laajo:
But
your
name...


Me:
I
am
gulti,
basically.


Laajo:
Don't
you
dare
say
gulti.
I
hate
that
word.
Say

Telugu.
Dumbo.
(Smiled)


Me:
Hmm,
so
you
are
Telugu?


Laajo:
Yes.


Me:
But
your
name
is
North‐Indian.
How
come?


Laajo:
My
mother
liked
this
name.
She
put
it.


Me:
Oh.
But
why
did
she
like
this
name?


Laajo:
I
don't
know.
So,
you
are
actually
originally

from
Andhra!
Which
place
in
Andhra?


Me:
My
par­dada
was
a
cassanova
in

Visakhapatnam.
(Laughed)


Laajo:
Anta
Scene
Ledu
Meeku.


Me:
Oh.


Laajo:
What
oh?


Me:
Whatever
you
said.


Laajo:
Shut
up.


Me:
Oh.


Laajo:
Stop
it.
(Beats
me
on
my
hand,
feels
my

shoulder
and
blushes.)



16




 LaajVanti


Just
then,
the
HR
guy
called
my
name.
He
wanted
to

verify
my
documents,
and
give
me
my
ID
Card
and

Appointment
Letter.
I
went
to
him,
got
the
things

done,
and
came
back.
I
saw
in
his
list
that
Laajo
was

the
next
one
to
be
called.


Laajo:
How
come
your
name
came
so
early?


Me:
I
am
a
lucky
guy.
Since
you
are
with
me,
I
can

make
your
name
come
next.


Laajo:
Very
funny!


Me:
I'm
serious.
There
you
go.
Abra­ka­Dabra
(I

waved
my
had
in
the
air.
And
the
HR
guy
called
–

Laajo.
Life
is
Beautiful!
)


Laajo:
Elated.
You
really
are
a
psycho!
Wait,
I
will
go

and
come.


Me:
Yeah!
I
am
here.



Laajo
went
to
the
HR
guy.
He
cracked
some
jokes.

Sala,
saw
a
beautiful
girl
and
started
flirting.
I
hate

such
guys.
Laajo
came
back
in
5
minutes.



Laajo:
Hey,
I'm
done.


Me:
Yo!
Congratulations.
We
are
Satyamites
now.

Satyamites
Dynamites!


Laajo:
Yes!


17




 LaajVanti


Me:
Let's
go
out
and
celebrate.


Laajo:
Ya.
He
said
we
may
leave
for
the
day.

Tomorrow
we
have
to
report
to
some
Basil
Phillips

at
Harsha
Towers
near
Karkhana
in
Secunderabad.


Me:
Ya,
me
too,
same.

Laajo:
OK,
I
am
very
hungry.
Let's
go
and
have

lunch.


Me:
OK,
chalo.



We
went
to
Banana
Leaves
restaurant
just
outside

the
office.
Ordered
2
veg
meals.



Laajo:
So
where
do
you
eat?
You
cook?


Me:
No,
I
eat
outside.


Laajo:
What
do
you
eat?


Me:
Anything.


Laajo:
But
that
is
bad
for
health
na.
Look
how
fat

you
are.


Me:
(OOps!
Embarrassed!)
Ya,
that's
bad.
I
also
skip

meals.
Very
often.

Laajo:
Why
don't
you
cook?


Me:
I
don't
feel
like.


Laajo:
Guys
are
all
so
lazy.
When
they
are
tired
of

eating
crap,
they
marry.
But
they'll
never
cook.



18




 LaajVanti


Me:
No,
that's
not
true.


Laajo:
Then
what?


Me:
I
don't
know.


Laajo:
I
know.
You
guys
are
sick.
You
treat
girls
like

cooks.


Me:
No.
Cookers.
Pressure
Cookers.
HaHaHaHa.


Laajo:
That's
a
sick
joke.


Me:
Oh.


Laajo:
You
and
your
'Oh'!


Me:
So
do
you
cook?


Laajo:
No,
not
possible
in
the
hostel.
They
give

breakfast
and
dinner
na.
I
eat
that.
I
am
looking
for
a

house.
After
shifting,
I
will
cook.


Me:
Oh.


Laajo:
Oh.
Oh.
Oh.
(Punching
in
the
air
towards
my

nose)
I
will
break
your
nose.


Me:
That
would
be
so
sweet.


Laajo:
OK
OK.
Eat
fast.
Rassam
is
very
nice
here.


Me:
Oh.
I
don't
eat
Rassam.
I
like
sambar.
Rassam

does
not
have
anything
in
it.
It
is
water.


Laajo:
As
if
you
know!
Now
shut
up
and
finish
your

meal.
I'm
done.



19




 LaajVanti


I
finished.
I
paid
for
my
meal.
She
paid
for
her
meal.

We
came
out
of
the
restaurant.


Me:
Now
what
is
the
program?


Laajo:
I'll
go
home.


Me:
Oh.
Can
I
drop
you?


Laajo:
You
have
a
car?


Me:
No,
a
bike.


Laajo:
Hmm.
You
drive
well?


Me:
Ya
ya,
but
I
hope
you
sit
with
one
leg
each
side.

Don’t
you?
You
have
to
if
you
don’t.


Laajo:
How
can
you
ask
a
girl
to
sit
like
that?
It

should
be
her
choice
how
she
wants
to
sit.


Me:
I'm
sorry.
If
you
sit
with
both
legs
on
the
same

side,
I
will
find
it
hard
at
turnings
and
in
traffic,

when
we
have
to
go
slowly.


Laajo:
Whatever!
I
don't
want
to
go
with
you.
You

don’t
seem
very
confident
with
your
driving.

Me:
Hey,
I'm
so
sorry.
You
can
sit
the
way
you
like.


Laajo:
But
you
just
said
you
can’t
drive
properly
if
I

sit
with
both
legs
on
one
side.


Me:
Ya,
I
used
to
have
a
problem,
but
that
was
long

back,
about
4
months
back.


Laajo:
No
girl
sat
after
that?



20




 LaajVanti


Me:
Many
have,
but
all
with
one
leg
on
each
side.

They
all
wore
jeans.


Laajo:
(Smiling)
So
you
take
many
gals
around
on

your
bike?


Me:
No
No.


Laajo:
What
No
No?
You
have
many
sisters?


Me:
No
No.


Laajo:
Dumbo!


Me:
Oh.
(Smiled,
didn't
know
what
to
say)


Laajo:
OK,
I
will
sit
as
you
say.


Me:
Thanks!

I
will
get
the
bike
from
the
parking.


Laajo:
Which
bike
you
have?


Me:
Bajaj
Pulsar
150
DTSi.
Definitely
Male!


Laajo:
Wow,
I
love
it.
Now
go.



As
Laajo
waited
at
the
gate,
I
came
out
on
the
bike

and
stopped
right
in
front
of
her.
She
climbed
my

bike
from
the
left
by
stepping
on
the
side‐foot‐
support
(whatever
it
is
called)
with
her
left
hand

pressing
on
my
shoulder
and
her
right
hand
pulling

the
bottom
part
of
her
kurta
up
to
make
sure
she

didn't
sit
over
it.
The
bike
was
bent
by
45
degrees.
I

was
scared
we
might
have
fallen.
So
was
she.
Finally,

she
was
behind
me,
and
I
set
the
bike
up
and


21




 LaajVanti


straight
with
all
my
energy.
She
put
her
bag
between

us,
to
avoid
any
contact
between
her
and
me.
Then

she
adjusted
her
Chunni
–
spread
its
middle
part

over
her
head
(like
Benazir
Bhutto
did),
wound
the

rest
around
her
neck
and
brought
the
ends
in
front

of
her,
so
that
it
didn't
fly
when
the
bike
would

move.



I
put
on
my
helmet.
I
had
been
wondering
whether
it

would
look
manlier
if
I
kick‐started
my
Pulsar.
But
I

had
never
tried
the
kick‐start
before
and
was
not

sure
if
it
worked
at
all.
So
I
didn't
take
the
risk.
I

started
my
bike
by
pressing
the
auto‐start
button.



There
was
a
lot
of
traffic.
And
Laajo
was
heavy.
I
had

a
hard
time
driving
slowly
through
the
traffic
with

Laajo
sitting
behind
me.
The
handle
was
shaking
all

the
time.
But
she
was
kind
enough
not
to
laugh
at

my
driving.
May
be
she
was
scared
I
would
laugh
at

her
weight.



Finally
we
arrived
at
her
hostel.
I
stopped
right
in

front
of
the
gate.
But
as
I
stopped,
I
could
not
control

the
weight.
The
bike
tilted
to
its
right,
and
as
it
was

falling,
Laajo
had
her
foot
on
the
ground.
She

22




 LaajVanti


somehow
jumped
off
the
bike
and
stood
at
a
safe

distance
as
I
fell
down
with
the
bike.



A
few
men,
who
were
standing
at
the
pan
shop
near

by,
came
running.
They
lifted
the
bike
and
held
it

upright.
Though
one
man
tried
to
lift
me,
I
resisted

and
got
up
on
my
own.
It
was
all
so
embarrassing.

Impression
ki
whaaat.


Laajo
asked
if
I
was
OK.
I
said
I
was
fine,
asked
her

to
take
care,
started
my
bike,
said
'bye'
and
quickly

escaped
from
there.
As
I
was
driving
from
Ameerpet

to
Banjara
Hills,
I
recollected
all
that
had
happened

that
day.
It
had
been
wonderful
until
I
drove
Laajo

home.
I
was
convinced
now
that
dropping
her
home

was
a
big
mistake.
I
felt
she'd
never
speak
to
me

again.
She
had
sat
on
my
bike
fully
aware
of
my

inability
to
drive
properly.
She
expressed
so
much

confidence
in
me.
And
I
disappointed
her.
How

would
I
face
her
again?
She'd
definitely
not
talk
to

me
ever
again
–
that's
what
I
thought.
But
I
was

proved
wrong
the
next
day.



23




 LaajVanti


Maher
Iqbal,
my
roommate
those
days,
used
to
come

home
at
around
9.00
PM
–
pretty
late
if
he
were
a

Satyamite.
But
he
was
not.
He
worked
in
HSBC.

Handled
software
development
processes
and

quality
and
all
that
stuff
over
there.



That
day,
he
came
back
early
–
8.00
PM.



Maher:
(As
I
opened
the
door)
Hi.


Me:
Hi.


Maher:
Kya
karr
raha
hai?

Me:
Kuch
khaas
nahi
bey.
TV
pe
kuch
dekh
ke
kuch

soch
ke
kuch
aur
soch
raha
tha.

Maher:
HaHa.
Aur
pehla
din
kaisa
tha?
Koi
mili?.

Me:
Haan
bey.
Mili
ek
gulti.

Maher:
Kya
baat
karr
raha
hai.
Mili
bhi
to
ek
gulti?.

Me:
Abey
nahi,
ye
maal
hai.

Maher:
Hmm.
Kuch
gulti
ladkiyaan
maal
bhi
hoti

hain!!!
Reddy
hogi.

Me:
Pata
nahi,
surname
nahi
poocha.

Maher:
To
kya
kiya?

Me:
Abey
usko
ghar
drop
kiya
tha.
But
saala
uske

hostel
ke
saamne
hi
bike
gir
gayi,
aur
uske
saath
mai

bhi.


24




 LaajVanti


Maher:
Wo
to
nahi
giri
na?

Me:
Shukar
hai
wo
nahi
giri.
Wo
pata
nahi
kaise
kood

ke
khadi
ho
gayee.

Maher:
Phir
kya
boli?

Me:
Mai
turant
udhar
se
bhaag
gaya.


Maher:
HaHaHa.
Saale
tera
kuch
nahi
ho
sakta...

Me:
Oh.

Maher:
Kya
Oh?
Accha
bol
khana
khane
kahan
chalte

hain?
(The
usual
question)


Me:
Pata
nahi
yaar.
Kahin
bhi
chal.
(The
usual

answer)


Maher:
Subway
chalein?.
(Another
usual
question)


Me:
Abey
nahi,
mujhe
wo
accha
nahi
lagta.
(Another

usual
answer)


Maher:
Phir
kahaan?
KFC?.
(Yet
another
usual

question)


Me:
Abey
kahin
aur
chalte
hain,
KFC
mein
mai
kya

khaunga?
(Yet
another
usual
answer)


Maher:
Needs?
(Needs
is
a
sasta
Punjabi
restaurant

in
Begumpet)


Me:
Haan
chal.


25




 LaajVanti


The
next
day
I
got
up
at
around
10
in
the
morning.

Maher
had
already
left
for
office.
Still
on
my
bed,
I

was
looking
up
at
the
fan
when
my
cell
phone

started
ringing.
The
call
was
from
a
new
number.
I

picked
it
up.



Me:
Hello?


Caller:
Can
I
talk
to
Sridhar?


Me:
Yes,
speaking.


Caller:
Hiii.
How
are
you?


Me:
I'm
fine.
Who's
this?


Caller:
I'm
Laajo.
Remember?


Me:
(A
sudden
chill
ran
through
me.)
O
ya.
How
did

you
get
my
number?


Laajo:
I
got
it
from
eSupport.


Me:
eSupport?
What
is
eSupport?


Laajo:
It
is
Satyam's
internal
site
re,
from
where
you

can
get
details
about
everyone.
Our
details
have

already
come
there.
Remember
we
filled
all
those

details
in
Virtue?


Me:
(My
head
was
spinning)
OK.
So
you
have

internet
in
your
hostel?


Laajo:
Yaa
re.
My
roommate
is
also
from
Satyam

know.
She
told
me
all
this.



26




 LaajVanti


Me:
Oh.
That's
great.
Hey,
I
am
sorry
about

yesterday.
I
lost
my
balance.


Laajo:
No
re,
it's
OK.
Happens.
Why
did
you
go
away

like
that?


Me:
I
was
upset.


Laajo:
Chumma
you
go
upset.
The
road
only
was
not

good.
Lot
of
bikes
fall
there.
With
guy
and
gal
also.
In

our
case
I
did
not
fall
na.
So
you
did
fine.


Me:
HaHa.
Thanks
for
being
so
nice.


Laajo:
Shut
up.
Mental
you
are.
OK,
when
are
you

coming
to
pick
me
up?


Me:
(Couldn't
believe
what
I
heard)
You
mean
for

office?


Laajo:
No,
for
my
wedding!
Of
course
for
office
man.

Me:
We
have
to
report
at
2.00
PM
na?


Laajo:
Yes.
So
you
come
here
by
1.00
PM.
We
will

reach
there
by
1.20.


Me:
Why
so
early?


Laajo:
Arey
stupid,
we'll
have
lunch
after
that
–
1.20

to
1.50.
And
let’s
keep
10
minutes
for
anything

unforeseen
that
may
happen.


Me:
Hmm.
Like
falling
somewhere?


Laajo:
Can't
you
think
better
things?
There
may
be
a

traffic‐jam
also.


27




 LaajVanti


Me:
I'm
sorry.
I'll
pick
you
up
at
1.00.
OK?


Laajo:
OK.
See
you
then.
Tata.


Me:
Tata.



My
heart
started
thumping
dhum
dhum
dhum.
I

could
not
think
anything
for
a
while.
I
tried
to

control
myself
by
taking
deep
breaths.
Did

kapaalbhati
for
2
minutes.
I
felt
better.
Then
I
had

some
water,
went
to
susu,
stared
absent‐mindedly
at

my
watch
for
3
minutes,
turned
off
the
fan
(don't

know
why),
refreshed
the
desktop
of
my
computer

20
times,
unlocked
and
locked
my
cell
phone
4‐5

times,
looked
at
myself
in
my
small
cracked
mirror

and
smiled.


I
quickly
brushed
my
teeth.
Then
shaved
my
face

and
put
on
the
Denim
aftershave
I
had
never
used.
(I

had
preserved
it
for
a
special
occasion
like
this.)

Then
went
for
bath.
As
I
emptied
the
first
magga
on

my
head,
I
realized
I
had
not
warmed
the
water.

Then
decided
ki
chalo
aaj
cold
water
se
naha
lete

hain.
As
I
was
applying
Pantene
on
my
takla
I
felt

glad
that
I
had
gotten
the
side
wala
hair
shaven
off


28




 LaajVanti


the
very
previous
day.
So
the
takla
was
looking
cool.

(May
be
hot!)


After
the
shower,
I
sprayed
my
Adidas
Deospray
all

over
my
body.
Then
got
dressed
and
sprayed
Adidas

again
all
over
my
clothes.
Then
suddenly
my
eyes

fell
on
my
roommate's
imported
perfume.
I
couldn't

resist
the
temptation
of
spraying
some
of
it
on
my

armpits.
I
surrendered
to
the
temptation.
Sprayed
it

at
a
lot
of
places,
which
I
thought
must
smell
good

and
then
placed
the
perfume
bottle
back
to
where
it

was,
at
exactly
the
same
spot
and
in
exactly
the

same
orientation
as
it
was,
before
I
touched
it.



I
wore
my
best
shirt
and
trousers.
Took
out
a
new

pair
of
socks
from
my
suitcase,
cleaned
my

woodland
shoes
with
a
wet
cloth,
wore
them.
Took

out
from
the
suitcase,
the
hanky
which
my
mom
had

given
me
long
back
to
use.
Cleaned
my
pulsar
with

the
wet
cloth.
Made
sure
the
bike
was
shining
all

over.
Chanted
a
Hanuman
prayer
in
my
mind.
Then
a

Ram
prayer.
Then
a
Saraswati
prayer.
Then
one

before­sleep
prayer
that
I
had
learnt
when
I
was
a

kid.
Then
2
Ganesh
prayers.
Then
ate
1
spoon


29




 LaajVanti


Himani
Sona­Chaandi
Chyavanprash.
The
time
was

12.50PM.
And
I
was
ready
to
go.



Just
as
I
started
my
bike,
my
cell
phone
rang.
It
was

Laajo.



Laajo:
Hey,
where
are
you?


Me:
Outside
my
home.
I
am
starting.
I
will
be
there

in
10
minutes.


Laajo:
OK.
Come
fast.
We
need
to
go
to
Hyderabad

Central
before
going
to
office.


Me:
Central?
Why?


Laajo:
To
get
movie
tickets.


Me:
You
can
buy
them
online.
Go
to

www.pvrcinemas.com


Laajo:
I
don't
know
all
that.
You
come,
we
will

quickly
get
the
tickets
from
the
counter
and
go
to

office.


Me:
OK.
But
which
movie?

Laajo:
You
ask
too
many
questions.
And
waste
time.

Why
don't
you
come
here
fast.
Idiot!


Me:
Hey
I
can
get
the
tickets
and
then
come
to
your

house.
Central
is
closer
to
my
house.


Laajo:
That's
a
good
idea.
You
make
sense


30




 LaajVanti


sometimes.
OK,
get
2
tickets
for
Jodha
Akbar,
Sunday

night
show.


Me:
2
tickets?
Sunday
Night?


Laajo:
Ya.


Me:
OK.
See
you.


Laajo:
Listen,
don't
take
if
you
get
1st
or
2nd
row

seats.


Me:
OK.
Fine.


Laajo:
Now
go
fast.
I
am
waiting
for
you.


Me:
Bye.


I
cut
the
call,
put
the
mobile
in
my
pocket,
started

the
bike
and
headed
towards
Central,
which
is
at

Punjagutta
Circle.
There
was
heavy
traffic
as
usual
at

Nagarjuna
Circle.
As
I
was
waiting
for
the
traffic
to

clear,
I
started
thinking
–
Who
the
hell
is
Laajo
going

to
the
movie
with?
That
too
night
show!
Does
she

have
a
boy­friend?
Saala,
who
can
that
be?
And
what

will
they
do
after
the
movie?
It
is
a
long
movie.
Will

end
around
1.00­1.30
midnight….
–
I
was
so

engrossed
in
all
those
thoughts
that
I
did
not
hear

the
honks
of
the
car
behind
me
until
the
guy
from

the
car
stepped
out
and
gave
me
a
jolt.
I
raised
my

eyebrows
at
him.
Not
sure
whether
he
could
see
that


31




 LaajVanti


as
I
had
my
helmet
on.
I
was
so
angry,
with
the
guy

and
with
Laajo.
Took
some
deep
breaths
and
tried
to

cool
down.
Then
I
started
the
bike
and
drove
to

Hyderabad
Central.
Still
very
disturbed.
I
was
not

feeling
like
buying
the
tickets.
Somehow,
I
forced

myself
to
stand
in
one
of
the
lines
at
the
Box
Office.
I

chose
the
longest
one
among
all
the
lines
in
front
of

the
3‐4
ticket‐counters
that
were
there
and
stood
at

the
end
of
it.


As
I
was
waiting,
I
decided
to
do
something
about

the
confusion
in
my
mind.
I
typed
an
sms
–
‘At

central…
in
tkt
line…
who
will
u
go
movi
wid?
i
may

not
be
free
sunday
:P’
–
thought
twice
about
whether

the
message
was
funny
enough
not
to
sound
too

weird,
and
sent
it
to
Laajo.
I
got
a
reply
in
30

seconds
–
‘I’ll
go
wid
my
finace.
u
get
lost.
hihihi
:P.’





32




 LaajVanti


1




Being
placed
alongside
Laajo
by
the
PGP
Office
was

the
most
beautiful
thing
that
ever
happened
to
me.

Thanks
to
IIML
PGP
rules,
they
freeze
right
in
the

beginning,
the
seating
arrangement
for
the
whole
of

the
1st
year.
And
that
means
you
have
to
sit
at
the

same
place
throughout
the
1st
year.
And
as
if
all
my

khandan
had
been
thriving
for
millenia
just
to
get

me
a
seat
beside
Laajo's,
our
names
were
beautifully

side‐by‐side
–
Yellapantula
Venkata
Sridhar
and

Yendkuttu
Laajvanti.
Laajo
was
the
result
of
a
Gult

doing
Punjabi...
thank
God
they
did!
And
boy,
look
at

her!
It's
as
if
the
whole
universe
had
been
conspiring

for
centuries
to
get
me
thisss
close
to
her.
Makhtub,

they
call
it.
(No,
it
doesn’t
rhyme
with
Bathtub
:P.)


I
still
remember
our
first
lecture
together.
I
was

before‐time.
I
went
straight
to
my
seat
–
the
second

last
one
at
the
corner
of
the
classroom,
took
out
my

name­tag
and
stuck
it
at
the
front
of
the
table.
Then
I

sat
on
my
seat
and
looked
around,
avoiding
eye


33




 LaajVanti


contact
with
anyone.
There
were
about
20
people
in

the
classroom.
Nobody
looked
at
me.
Is
that
good
or

bad?
I
am
gonna
be
a
manager...
what
about

networking?
Isn’t
that
what
most
MBA­turned­
successful
people
consider
the
greatest
take­away

from
a
MBA?
Or
do
they
just
try
to
justify
the
2
years

of
effort
and
money
spent,
which
did
not
add
any
real

value?
But
there
must
be
some
value
in
everything
we

do.
No?
Yes?
Yes,
perhaps.
Choices
are
all
value

adding.
Whether
we
are
choosing
the
ones
that
add

the
maximum
value
is
the
question.
But
then,
what’s

the
definition
of
‘value’?
It
can’t
always
be
the
same.

Yes.
It
depends.
On
what?
Context?
‘Context’
is
too

general.
Then?


I
sometimes
get
fed
up
of
this
endless
analysis
that

goes
on
in
my
head
all
the
time
–
questioning
every

damn
thing,
analyzing,
reaching
conclusions,

questioning
them,
thinking
more,
getting
confused

and
going
on
like
this
until
something
shakes
me

and
makes
me
think
something
else.

The
really
sad

part,
though,
is
that
not
much
registers
in
my

memory
of
all
the
thinking
that
goes
on
in
the

surrounding
areas
of
the
brain.


34




 LaajVanti


As
I
looked
around,
I
saw
7
guys
standing
around

one
girl
and
staring
at
her
with
hungry
eyes,
as
if
she

was
a
plate
full
of
ragada
patties.
Their
tongues

would
have
hung
out
in
a
similar
situation
if
they

were
another
species.
She
was
telling
them
that
the

mess
food
was
crap,
that
she
would
pursue

Marketing
as
her
specialization,
that
it
was

unbearably
hot
in
the
classroom,
that
IIMK
is
fast

catching
up
with
L,
that
Lucknow
is
such
a
boring

place
and
that
she
was
missing
Delhi.
The
guys
kept

staring
at
her.
One
guy
responded
back
in
English,

albeit
broken.
He
was
from
Delhi.
Another
guy
got

competitive
and
talked
about
himself
in
proper

English,
as
good
as
it
gets
in
India.
He
was
from

Bangalore.
Another
guy
found
something
funny
and

laughed
out
loud
scratching
his
ass.
He
was
Rajhans.

In
another
corner,
2
IITians,
from
different
IITs,

were
loudly
boasting
about
their
IITs.
Each
one
was

trying
hard
to
prove
that
his
IIT
was
more
chill.
I

hate
IITians.



35




 LaajVanti


I
felt
very
lucky
that
I
got
the
corner
seat.
I
could

sleep,
eat,
stare,
do
anything,
without
being
noticed

by
Profs
or
anybody.
Except
for
Profs
who

specifically
pick
back‐benchers,
mainly
those
in
the

corners,
and
ask
stupid
questions,
most
Profs

usually
don't
care
about
the
cornerers.
I
gathered

that
from
my
IITB
days.
The
weird
thing
at
IIML,

though,
was
that
the
Institute
decided
who'd
be

back‐benchers.
Rather,
it
was
by
the
alphabetical

order.
And
it
didn’t
take
long
for
most
of
us
to
start

showing
behavior
patterns
conventionally

associated
with
our
seating
locations.


At
IITB,
where
there
was
no
freezing
of
seats,
I
used

to
diversify
my
seating‐location
experience
and
give

my
personality
all
shades.
The
result
of
that
and
a

lot
of
other
kinds
of
dabbling,
is
a
confused
me,

always
wondering
what
I
am
and
what
I
should
be

doing
at
any
point
of
time.
Or
I
may
be
like
that
by

design.
Whatever
it
is,
it
sux.


A
few
years
back,
when
I
applied
to
ISB,
I
projected

myself
as
Mr.Diversity,
leveraging
my
knack
for

dabbling
with
all
kinds
of
stuff.
The
Institute
has
a


36




 LaajVanti


thing
for
people
with
diversity.
However,
I
wasn't

smart
enough
to
hide
the
fact
that
I
lose
interest

very
soon
in
whatever
I
poke
my
nose
into
and
give

up
before
I
learn
much
of
any
value.
The

interviewers
apparently
figured
that
out
as
soon
as

they
saw
my
face.
The
mismatch
between
my
CV
and

my
personality
was
hard
to
conceal.
Talking
to
me

and
seeing
my
shivering
hands,
legs
and
lips
just

gave
them
a
confirmation.



I
couldn't
globe
with
grace,
as
I'd
put
in
IIML
lingo.

There
are
many
who
make
their
confused
dabbling

look
like
diversity
and
manage
to
impress
the

interviewers
at
ISB.
Or
may
be
it's
just
the
stylish

globing
ability
that
the
interviewers
look
for
and

may
be
they
actually
know
who's
what
in
reality.
Or

may
be,
we
are
all
confused
dabblers
after
all;
those

who
can
justify
themselves
in
style
get
the
offers.

Anyway,
I
managed
to
get
into
IIML
the
very
next

year;
and
that
too
without
lying
or
faking
or
globing.

Just
got
lucky
once
‐
IIML
started
giving
more

weightage
to
work­ex
and
less
to
the
CAT
percentile.

There
were
very
few
freshers
in
our
batch.
Laajo

was
one
of
them.


37




 LaajVanti


The
noise
in
the
class
shook
me
out
of
my
thoughts.
I

felt
uneasy
as
I
was
not
interacting
with
anyone,
and

that
old
fear
of
being
left
behind
came
back.
I
didn't

know
what
stopped
me.
Or
may
be
I
did
know,
but

knowing
what
stops
you
does
not
make
you
capable

of
overcoming
it.



I
knew
that
some
girl
called
Y.Laajvanti
was
to
sit
on

the
seat
next
to
mine,
i.e.,
to
my
left,
the
extreme

corner
seat.
But
I
had
not
seen
her.
Her
orkut
profile

contained
the
pic
of
Doraemon,
the
cat‐like
robot
in

the
cartoon
serial
that
comes
all
the
time
on

Hungama
channel.
(What
a
weird
name
for
a
kids'

cartoon
channel,
isn't
it?)
I
did
not
know
much

about
her,
except
for
what
I
had
gathered
from
her

Orkut
profile
–
she
liked
being
called
Laajo,
she
was

22,
BTech
Civil
Engineering
from
IIT
Madras,
0

work‐ex,
hometown
Tirupati,
liked
South
Indian
and

Punjabi
Cuisine,
and
the
food
cooked
by
her
mom,

was
a
fan
of
Ritik
Roshan
and
Ravi
Teja,
Hindu,

bhakt
of
Sathya
Sai
Baba,
listened
to
Bryan
Adams

and
Pussy
Cat
Dolls,
read
girly
books
like
Sidney

Sheldon,
Mills
&
Boons,
believed
that
'love
is
a
verb,

not
a
noun'
and
had
3
teddy
bears
in
her
room.
It


38




 LaajVanti


was
almost
time
for
the
lecture
to
begin;
she
entered

–
the
beautiful,
fairy‐type,
Asin‐type,
wonder‐girl
–

Laajo.



Laajo:
Hey,
hi!


Me:
Hi.
I'm
Y.V.Sridhar.
You
are
Yendkuttu

Laajvanti?


Laajo:
Gosh!
Can't
believe
you
got
it
right
the
first

time.
(She
looked
at
my
name‐tag.)
Are
you
a

Yendkuttu
too?


Me:
Oh
no,
my
Y
is
Yellapantula.
Am
also
gult.


Laajo:
Which
Y
sounds
better?
Shit
man,
I
will

happily
marry
even
Phunsuk
Wangdoo
or
Ranchhod

Das
Chanchad
to
get
rid
of
this
fuckin
surname.
Call

me
Laajo.
Can
I
call
you
Sri?


Me:
(Slightly
taken
aback
by
the
F‐word)
Oh,
why

not!
Sri
sounds
great.
Now
sit
down,
the
Prof
is

looking
at
us.


Laajo:
(Sat
down,
whispering
continued…)
What's

this
guy's
name?


Me:
He's
called
P.K.Tripathi.
Everyone
calls
him

PKT.


Laajo:
HiHi.
PKT!!!


Me:
What's
funny?



39




 LaajVanti


Laajo:
(Surprised
at
my
question)
Nothing.
Where

are
you
from?


Me:
Bilaspur,
Chattisgarh.
You
are
from
Tirupati

right?
(I
noticed
a
big
‘GovindaaaGouuuuuvinda’

written
over
her
t‐shirt,
in
front.
Cool
Tee.)

Laajo:
Who
said
I
am
from
Tirupati?


Me:
Orkut.

Laajo:
Oh!
You
are
that
guy
‐
Horny
Stud
‐
who
visits

my
profile
everyday?
Shame
on
you.
Donga

Chacchinoda
(and
a
few
other
gult
gaalis,
which
I

didn't
understand
and
don't
remember).

Me:
Oh
no.
Ni
Vottu.
(Teri
Kasam)


Laajo:
What
do
you
mean
Vottu?
It
is
Ottu.
Don't

speak
gult
if
you
can't
speak
properly.


Me:
(Embarrassed)
OK,
that's
why
I
don't.
Let's

listen
to
the
prof.
He
is
teaching
interesting
stuff
–

Normal
Distribution
n
all.


Laajo:
Stupid,
don't
worry.
I
did
all
that
in

Engineering.
Even
there
I
didn't
listen
to
profs.


Me:
But
I
didn't.
And
I
do.


Laajo:
What
the
duck!
Your
english
sucks
as
much
as

your
gult.
Which
college
are
you
from?


Me:
What
the
duck!!!
HeHe.
That's
nice.
I
did
Civil

from
IITB.
You
from
IITM
na?
Civil
only
na?


40




 LaajVanti


Laajo:
(Smiling)
Ori
Donga
Chacchinoda!
What
else

have
you
found
out
about
me
from
Orkut,
Horny

Stud?


Me:
Shut
up.
I
am
not
that.


Laajo:
How
are
both
your
english
and
gult
so

ducked
up?
Chhattisgarh
effect
haan?
You
must
be

good
in
some
tribal
language
‐
Jhingalala
HuHu
type.

HiHi!



41




 LaajVanti


2





That
night
we
had
the
Insti
Party.
I
was
told
we
had

one
every
month
or
so,
usually
after
mid‐term

exams
and
on
important
days
like
the
New
Year
Day

and
the
Valentine's
Day.
Depending
on
who
you
ask,

the
most
important
feature
of
those
parties
was

either
unlimited
booze
or
dance
floor
or
new
solid

gossip
material
getting
created
every
moment
as

drunk
guys
and
girls
got
close…
and
indulged
in

stuff...
dance,
etc.
Getting
fully
drunk
–
talli
–
in
those

parties
was
quite
safe
since
all
the
insti
parties

happened
inside
the
insti
campus,
in
one
of
the
two

popular
venues
–
(i)
Samanjasya
–
a
big
empty
hall

(with
a
stage)
meant
for
intellectual
and
social

gangbang
MBA
ishtyle,
and
(ii)
FPM
Lawns.
In
the

worst
case,
you'd
drop
down
somewhere
in
the

campus,
and
still
be
assured
that
you'd
be
towed

back
to
your
room
by
someone.
It
applies
to
girls
as

well
as
guys.
Especially
important
for
girls,
since

they
have
izzat
and
all
that,
you
know.


42




 LaajVanti


It
was
a
hot
sweaty
June
evening.
I
wonder
why

Lucknow
is
so
damn
humid
in
summer.
‘It's
like
a

ducking
sea
shore.
Even
Vizag
is
not
this
humid.
Plus

it’s
10
times
hotter
here…
Pch
Pch,’
Laajo
often
said.
I

headed
for
the
FPM
Lawns,
the
party
spot,
with

Sankalp
–
my
100%iler
friend.
People
said
he
and
I

looked
alike.
Rather,
he
was
my
minimized
form.

Check
out
our
pic
and
decide
for
yourself...



As
always,
I
did
not
have
a
handkerchief.
I
was

sweating
all
over.
My
face
was
drenched.
My
hair


43




 LaajVanti


(on
the
head
of
course...
I
know
you
dirty
minds
:P)

seemed
scantier;
the
few
strands
that
were
there
got

stuck
together
and
made
me
look
more
bald.
It's
a

bald
man's
nightmare,
the
second
worst
one.
The

worst
is
being
looked
at
from
the
top
when
he's

seated.
The
third
worst
is
not
finding
his
comb
when

he
needs
it
the
most.
There
is
a
fourth
worst
too.
But

I
won't
tell
you
that
:P.



Sankalp
and
I
stood
in
one
corner
and
stared

towards
the
dance
floor.
My
mind
was
humming
the

song
'Kabse
aaye
hain
tere
dulhe
raja...
ab
der
na
kar

jaldi
aa
jaa...’
I
couldn't
get
rid
of
it
even
after

consciously
trying.
I
had
heard
it
on
TV
that

morning,
and
since
then
I
was
stuck
with
it.
The
DJ

played
the
popular
Honey
Singh
number,
you
know,

which
is
quite
popular
in
many
college
campuses
in

India.
I
love
that
song.
It's
so
touching!
Moving!

Fucking!
Finger
Lickin'
Good!
Most
girls
find
its

lyrics
funny
too,
though
they
take
some
time
initially

to
develop
taste
for
them.
It’s
like
Beer.
It’s
like

Espresso.
You
always
hate
it
the
first
few
times,
but

if
you
keep
on
trying,
there
comes
a
point
when
you


44




 LaajVanti


start
liking
it,
and
before
long
thereafter,
you
get

addicted
to
it.



Honey
Singh
was
followed
by
the
song
sister­lover­
cigarette,
another
popular
number
across
all
college

campuses.
If
you
think
you’ve
never
heard
this
song,

lemme
give
you
a
hint
–
it’s
a
Hindi
song.



In
one
corner,
2
guys
became
snakes
and
2
guys

became
snake‐charmers.
One
of
them
was
Chadda,
a

junior
of
mine
from
IITB.
Fresher.
Saalaa.



In
another
corner,
5
girls,
all
dressed
in
sexy
skirts

and
hot
tops,
stood
in
a
group.

Their
asses
were

gently
shaking
left
right
left
right
with
the
beat.


Just
a
few
feet
from
them,
4
guys
were
trying
to
get

into
the
groove,
their
moves
increasing
in
josh
with

each
song.
Occasionally
they
were
looking
at
the

girls
and
lusting
for
an
opportunity.
And
the
ladies

were
offering
it
anyways.
If
it
had
been
a
non‐IIM

guy,
he'd
have
already
had
one
in
his
arms
and
done

jhhingalala.
But
IIM
guys
are
different.
I
am
different

even
from
IIM
guys.
I
stood
and
kept
staring.

Sankalp
had
a
dancer
in
him.
(I
believe
I
do
too,
but

45




 LaajVanti


am
shy.
You've
to
get
me
drunk
to
get
me
dancing.)

He
finally
broke
out
of
my
boring
company
and
went

into
the
dancing
crowd.
Rajhans
was
already
there,

dancing
alone.
Sankalp
joined
him.
They
jumped,

rolled
hands,
punched
the
air,
shouted...
did
that
for

an
hour.
I
am
told
it's
fun.


I
had
been
wondering
where
Laajo
was.
Was
just

curious
what
she'd
wear.
I
admit
I
don't
know
much

about
women's
apparel,
but
can
tell
good
from
bad

when
worn...
broadly.
I
like
girly
looks
for
girls.
And

I
like
girls
who
are
'adequately
round
in
the
right

places'
as
a
friend
of
mine
puts
it.
Size
zero
is

bullshit.
You
need
a
great
body
to
go
with
a
great

dress,
of
course.
And
Laajo
had
one
for
sure.



As
I
was
getting
bored
of
just
standing,
and
it
started

feeling
awkward
too,
I
went
to
grab
a
drink.
The

bartender
was
a
senior
students'
council
member.
I

made
a
mental
note
–
'I
won't
stand
for
the
Council

elections.'
You'd
ask
who'd
vote
for
me
even
if
I

tried.
But
then,
to
say
I
won't
try
gives
me
the

confidence
and
satisfaction
of
having
made
a
choice.


46




 LaajVanti


I
guess
it's
a
lazy
man's
best
trick
to
fool
himself
and

justify
his
inaction.



I
picked
a
plastic
cup
from
the
carton
lying
there
and

held
it
to
the
bartender.
He
poured
Romanov
in
it,

and
asked
me
what
I'd
like
it
with.
I
said
sprite
and

he
said
–
‘There
you
go,’
and
like
a
true
bartender,

showed
me
his
thumb,
smiled
and
blinked
one
eye.
I

said
Cheers,
waved
my
daru­filled
cup
on
his
face

and
smiled
the
one‐sided
Shahrukh
Khan
smile,

which
comes
naturally
to
me
whenever
I
feel
like
I

am
a
Baazigar
like
personality.



In
the
next
15
minutes,
I
drank
4
drinks,
2
of
them

neat
without
sprite.
And
then
I
was
ready
to
dance.
I

have
some
favorite
moves,
most
of
them
from
the

late
90s
movies,
like
the
ones
in
'Tu
Cheeze
badi
hai

mast
mast'
song.
I
do
those
and
jump
alternatively
to

seem
like
a
mature
city
guy
who
has
gone
to
some

discs
and
is
not
a
total
anaadi.
I
don’t
know
what

tempts
people
to
become
snake‐charmers
in
front
of

me,
but
they
often
do,
and
expect
me
to
join
my

hands
together
to
form
a
hood
and
do
some
Naagin

dance
to
amuse
them.
It
irritates
me
big
time.
I
even


47




 LaajVanti


became
a
naagin
once
and
waved
my
hood
with
a

smile
to
make
them
happy,
but
regretted
it
when

they
jumped
on
me
making
obscene
moves
and

trying
to
touch
me
in
places
I
hadn’t
been
touched

since
I
was
a
kid.
I
never
became
a
naagin
again
in

any
other
insti
party.


I
joined
Rajhans
and
Sankalp
coz
they
didn’t
treat

me
like
a
naagin
and
they
didn't
seem
any
better

than
me
at
dancing,
though
they
liked
to
try,
had

genuine
interest
and
thought
highly
of
their
dancing

ability,
which
they
were
sure
would
materialize
into

performance
soon
if
they
kept
on
trying.
Soon
the

vodka
started
playing
its
tricks.
I
was

jumping/dancing
with
my
eyes
closed,
as
a
hand

tapped
me
from
behind
on
my
right
shoulder.
I

turned
to
find
Laajo
in
a
plain
white
choodidaar
and

hair
tied
back,
as
if
she
had
come
for
some

interview.
The
music
was
very
loud,
so
we
had
to

shout
in
each
other's
ears
to
be
heard.



Me:
(Smiling
wide)
Yendu!!!


Laajo:
Yendu
nee
abba.
Call
me
Laajo
only.
You

drank?



48




 LaajVanti


Me:
Yes.
4
D‐d‐drinks.
Vozka.


Laajo:
Ayyo.
You
are
gone
re.
Listen,
can
you
go
and

get
me
a
vodka
too?


Me:
Zure.
You
waid
ride
here.
Here,
danz
with

Sankalp.
Ding
Ding.
(In
Sankalp's
ear)
Sankalp,

Laajo.
(Back
to
Laajo's
ear)
Laajo,
Sankalp.
And

here's
Rajhans.
Head,
R&D,
IIML!!!
(Atishayokti

Alankar,
my
favorite!
Rajhans
was
an
FPM
student...

bole
to
PHD.)
(In
Rajhans’
ear)
Rajhans,
Laajo.


Sankalp
started
doing
some
dhik­chik­dhik­chik

moves
in
front
of
her,
to
get
her
involved.
And

Rajhans
started
jumping
more
vigorously,
as
if
he

was
in
some
how­long­can­you­control­susu

competition
in
a
reality
show.
I
kept
looking
at
them,

as
I
walked
to
get
the
drink.
I
was
taken
over
by
a

strong
fit
of
jealousy.
Nobody
is
more
jealous
than
a

drunk
man,
if
there's
a
woman
around,
being
wooed

by
men
and
he
has
any
stake
in
her
whatsoever.


I
got
vodka
with
apple
juice
for
Laajo.
Did
not
return

the
bartender's
smile
this
time.
But
while
coming

back
with
the
drink,
my
ass
collided
with
that
of
one

moti
as
she
tried
a
difficult
move
while
dancing.
I


49




 LaajVanti


lost
my
balance
and
fell.
A
small
patch
of
grass
was

all
vodka.
'What
can
this
lead
to
from
evolutionary

point
of
view?'
I
wondered,
like
I
always
do
when
I

am
drunk
or
sleep‐deprived.
I
had
to
go
back
to
get

another
drink.
I
was
getting
impatient.
Sankalp
and

Rajhans
were
getting
crazier
in
their
dance
moves.

Laajo
was
standing
straight
and
looking
at
them,

without
expressions.
She
seemed
to
be
in
danger,

and
I
had
to
rescue
her.



50




 LaajVanti


3





Laajo:
(Took
the
vodka
from
my
hand
and
pulled

me
out
of
the
dance‐floor
to
one
corner
of
the
lawn)

These
are
your
friends?


Me:
Yes.
Why?


Laajo:
Nothing.
Forget
it.
Chalo,
walk
karenge.
Let's

get
out
of
here.


Me:
You
don't
dance?


Laajo:
No
re.
I
don't
like
all
that.


Me:
Me
neither.


Laajo:
(Smiling)
You
are
a
hopeless
case
anyway.

Stupid.


Me:
Oh,
thazz
not
fair.
You
don't
dance
is
fine,
I
don't

dance
means
hopeless
case?
Middle
finger
to
you.
3

timez.
(That
was
supposed
to
be
a
joke.
I
try
non­veg

jokes,
bole
to
guy
humor
on
girls
at
times...
to

measure
their
NV‐Quotient...
my
theory!)


Laajo:
Chi.
You
are
sick
and
drunk.
I’m
going.
Talk
to

me
when
you
have
balls,
not
fingers.


Me:
(Embarrassed)
Hey
Laajo.
Was
kidding.
Am
zo


51




 LaajVanti


zorry.
(Got
down
on
my
knees,
held
my
ears
and

showed
her
a
puppy­face.
According
to
another
of

my
theories,
this
works
on
most
girls
if
you've

majorly
screwed
up
and
seriously
need
an
apology.

Still,
I
could
not
have
done
it
if
I
were
not
drunk.
But

ya,
at
the
same
time,
I
would
not
have
screwed
up

this
big
if
I
were
not
drunk.
Sadly
I
get
the
balls

(fingers?)
to
try
my
theories
only
when
am
drunk.)


Laajo:
OK.
Another
time
you
do
this,
I'll
stop
talking

to
you.


Me:
(
I
love
women)
OKOK.
Lez
go
for
a
walk.


Laajo:
OK,
lemme
first
have
this
drink.
(Drank
it

bottom­up)
Chalo.



We
walked
towards
the
Main
Gate.
I
was
coming

back
to
senses
now.
Laajo
smelt
great.
We
walked

silently
for
about
5
minutes.
I
looked
at
her
almost

once
every
10
seconds.
Couldn't
figure
out
what
to

say.
It's
so
much
easier
to
talk
to
beautiful
girls

when
you
are
drunk
and
it
gets
tougher
and
tougher

as
daru
loses
its
effect.
I
often
plead
with
myself
not

to
try
out
my
theories
when
drunk,
but
I
don’t
listen.


52




 LaajVanti


But
I
was
sure
Laajo
would
understand.
She
is

IIT+IIM
and
she’d
know
that
for
most
IIT+IIM
guys,

standing
in
front
of
a
girl
itself
is
a
big
deal.
And
here

I
was,
walking!
With
one!
With
a
beautiful
one!


Laajo:
Who
all
are
there
in
your
family?


Me:
Mummy,
daddy,
an
elder
sister,
an
elder
brother

and
me.


Laajo:
Oh,
so
you
are
the
youngest!


Me:
Yes.


Laajo:
Hmm,
That's
why.


Me:
What?


Laajo:
Nothing.

Me:
Tell.

Laajo:
Uff.
Your
headd
and
my
foott...
HiHi.


Me:
(Confused)
Oh.
One
of
us
is
drunk.
Dunno
who.


Laajo:
Where
were
you
working
before
coming

here?


Me:
TCS,
GSSL,
Satyam.
4
years
in
all.
I
also
worked

for
a
month
in
an
NGO,
but
I
don't
usually
mention

that
in
my
CV,
coz
I
won't
be
able
to
justify
it
in

between
the
work‐ex
in
IT
companies,
which
are

already
too
many
for
4
years.


Laajo:
Then
why
are
you
mentioning
it
now?
Stupid.



53




 LaajVanti


Me:
To
impress
you
:P


Laajo:
Ohohohoho!
Get
lost.


Me:
HeHe.
Let's
go
have
some
tea
in
the
night‐mess.


Laajo:
Arey,
the
night­mess
is
closed
today.
When

there's
insti­party,
then
no
night­mess.


Me:
Oh.
OK.


Laajo:
What
will
you
major
in?


Me:
You
mean
specialization?


Laajo:
Yes,
of
course.


Me:
Don't
know.
I
don't
like
anything
much.


Laajo:
I
will
major
in
Marketing.
It
is
such
an

exciting
area.
You
know…
to
understand
consumers

psyche,
to
create
a
brand,
to
nurture
it,
to
come
up

with
products
which
people
need,
and
then
to
make

sure
your
product
reaches
the
people
who
need
it.


Me:
You
already
seem
to
know
a
whole
lot.


Laajo:
No
re,
I
just
know
the
right
questions.
MBA

will
give
me
the
right
answers.


Me:
You
think
so?


Laajo:
Of
course.
What
are
you
here
for?


Me:
To
chill!


Laajo:
I
know
you
guys.
You
will
leverage
this
IIM

tag
and
demand
more
dowry.
No
learning,
nothing.


Me:
You
and
your
leverage
:P
:P
:P


54




 LaajVanti


Laajo:
(Blushing,
smiling)
Shut
up!
Let's
go
back.
I'm

feeling
sleepy.
(Both
did
an
about­turn
and
started

walking
back...)


Me:
Accha
listen,
have
you
formed
the
group
for

MANAC
project?
Me,
Sankalp
and
Rajhans
are
there.

We
need
2
more
members.
Aa
jao.


Laajo:
Sorry
ra.
I've
already
formed
a
group.
Me,

Lalita,
Jyoti,
Nagabhushanam
and
Nirmala.


Me:
Waah,
all
girls!


Laajo:
Yes,
and
we
have
a
CA
too
in
our
group.
A
big

middle
finger
to
all
you
guys...
HiHi


Me:
Ya,
you
don't
have
balls
anyway.


Laajo:
Uff.
Will
you
now
shut
your
big
dirty
mouth

and
walk?
You
are
impossible.
(Strangely
she
was

smiling
this
time.
Her
NV­Quotient
had
risen.
Some

girls
can
be
trained
to
raise
their
appetite
for
non­
veg.)


Me:
Tell
me
one
thing.
Why
are
you
in
formals?


Laajo:
Arey,
I
thought
it's
going
to
be
like
those

business
parties,
where
we
would
be
formally

welcomed
with
garlands
and
all
that.
(A
frustrated)

Chhaaa!.


Me:
Oh,
it's
OK
dude.
You
are
looking
cute.


Laajo:
Thanks!
You
are
a
weird
guy.


55




 LaajVanti


Me:
Why?
Nobody
called
you
cute
before?


Laajo:
(An
Irritated)
Abbaaaa!.
You
irritate
me
all

the
time.
But
when
you
are
nice,
you
are
very
nice.


Me:
OK.
(Confused)
Chalo
then,
here's
your
hostel!


Laajo:
Amma
donga
chacchinoda!
How
do
you
know

my
hostel?


Me:
HeHe.
I
have
my
sources.

Laajo:
Idiot.
You
must
have
seen
in
that
intranet

site.
What
is
it
called?
I
forgot.


Me:
Etrigan.


Laajo:
See
See.
I
caught
you.
(Held
up
both
fists
like

a
boxer.)
Now
tell.
Hoo
haa!
(Punched
twice
in
the

air.)


Me:
HeHe.
Dude,
make
sure
you
update
Etrigan
with

your
room
number
as
well.


Laajo:
Shut
up!
Why
are
you
so
interested?
And

what's
this
dude
dude?
Am
a
dudette.


Me:
Ya
Ya.
Dudette.
Lady
warrior.
Jhansi
Rani.


Laajo:
Whatever.
You
talk
all
crap.
Lemme
go
and

sleep.
Wake
me
up
at
7
AM.


Me:
OK.
Room
number?


Laajo:
(A
girly)
Ahahaha!
No
need.
Call
me,
keep

calling
me
until
I
cut
the
call.
That
will
confirm
I've

woken
up.


56




 LaajVanti


Me:
OK.
Mobile
number?


Laajo:
Uff.
Go
check
your
Etrigan.
Bye.
Good
night.

(Turned
and
walked
into
the
hostel.)


Me:
Good
Night,
Sweet
Dreams,
TaTa!


Laajo:
(Shouted
from
somewhere
inside)
OKOK,

now
go,
get
lost.


Me:
HeHe,
bbye,
see
you.



57




 LaajVanti


4





I
was
one
of
the
few
stud
guys
in
the
campus
who

had
a
bike
–
Bajaj
Pulsar
150
cc
–
Definitely
Male!
I

had
bought
it
about
year
before
joining
IIML,
after
a

lot
of
thinking
coz
no
one
in
my
family
liked
me

buying
a
bike,
as
they
were
all
worried
I'd
bang

someone
on
the
road.
I
don't
bang.
I
never
bang.
I

want
to
bang
.
Being
the
youngest
in
the
family

means
a
lot
of
red
tape
when
taking
any
decision
in

life
–
trivial,
crucial,
whatever.
Some
kids
turn
ziddi

(stubborn)
and
come
out
of
it
very
early
in
their

lives.
Some,
like
me,
wait
to
get
married
so
that
all

the
power‐centers
vanish
and
one
super
power

takes
complete
control
of
their
decisions.
But
I
do

occasionally
try
to
assert
my
own
will,
like
I
did

when
I
bought
the
bike.
Sometimes
I
jump
the
chain

of
decision
making
by
acting
first
and
informing

later,
when
it's
too
late,
and
the
damage,
if
any,
is

irreparably
done.
And
sometimes
when
the
family

goes
out
of
limits
to
impose
their
decision
on
me,
I

58




 LaajVanti


make
sure
I
make
a
mess
of
it
–
screw
it
big
time
–

although
I
would
have
chosen
exactly
what
they

wanted
me
to,
if
it
were
totally
my
decision
made

freely,
rationally
and
without
their
influence!
It's

weird,
how
human
mind
works.
I
realize
it,
but
I

can't
help
it.
Coz
the
same
mind
controls
me
too!


That
day,
I
decided
that
I
would
ask
Laajo
at
the
end

of
the
last
lecture
whether
she’d
go
out
with
me.
For

Ganjing
–
roaming
around
in
Hazratganj,
food
in

Saharaganj
Food‐Court
and
movie
at
PVR.
I
am
a

little
low
on
self‐confidence,
when
it
comes
to
asking

girls
out.
The
first
time
I
did,
the
girl
ran
away

saying
she
had
a
headache.
I
gave
her
the
benefit
of

doubt,
and
asked
her
second
time
2
days
later.
And

she
told
me
point
blank
that
she
wasn't
interested.
It

sucked.
Anyway,
a
mard
must
keep
trying.



It
was
PKT's
lecture
again.
As
usual,
I
was
looking
at

the
prof
but
not
listening.
I
wish
I
could
sleep
and

the
time
passed
away
effortlessly.
But
I
could
never

59




 LaajVanti


sleep
a
wink
in
the
class.
As
usual
Laajo
was
doing

some
timepass.
She
used
to
bring
2‐3
lays
chips

packets
every
morning
and
we
ate
them
together

during
lectures.
Classic
salted
was
her
favorite
flavor

and
she
never
brought
anything
else.
I
liked
it
too.

She
had
a
strange
habit
of
poking
her
pen
into
my

tummy
once
in
a
while,
calling
me
Motttuu
and

doing
HiHiHi.
I
don't
know
why
I
liked
it.
I'd
smile

without
looking
at
her
and
continue
staring
at
PKT.

Our
Cozy
Corner
was
like
the
most
beautiful
place
on

earth.
I
was
at
peace.
Nothing
mattered
much.


As
the
lecture
ended
and
PKT
started
with
the

attendance...



Me:
(Putting
my
stuff
back
in
my
bag)
Laajo,
what

are
you
going
to
do
now?


Laajo:
(Biting
a
potato
chip)
Don't
know
re.
How

about
going
out?


Me:
(Oops!)
OK.
Let's
go
to
Hazratganj.


Laajo:
Hey,
I
want
to
buy
some
Lucknowi
Chikan

salwar
suits.
I
heard
you
get
good
ones
in
Aminabad.


Me:
OK,
let's
go
to
Aminabad
then.
I
have
a
bike.
Will

pick
you
up
after
lunch.



60




 LaajVanti


Laajo:
No
No.
Let's
go
now
itself.
We'll
eat
outside.


Me:
What
will
be
there
for
lunch
in
the
mess
today?


Laajo:
How
does
it
matter?
Whatever
it
is,
I
don't

like.


Me:
Oh.


Laajo:
What
oh.
You
are
always
this
confused?


Me:
(Ego‐hurt!
Angry!)
I
am
not
confused.

Laajo:
HiHi.
You
look
Chho
Chhweet
when
you
are

angry.


Me:
Chup.
Let's
go
then.


PKT:
Yendku
Laajvanti


Laajo:
Present
Sir


PKT:
Yellappa
Venkat
Sirdhar


Me:
Yes
Sir


Me:
(To
Laajo)
He
always
fucks
my
name.


Laajo:
It's
OK
re.
Name
only
no.
Think
what
all
he

can
fuck!
You
will
feel
so
lucky.
HiHi.
Fuck
the
ducks!

Duck
the
fucks!
Life's
good!
(Sang
it
in
some

bollywood
song's
tune.)


Me:
Is
that
what
you
think
and
feel
lucky?


Laajo:
Shut
up.
You
don't
have
to
apply
the
same

funda
on
me.
Idiot.
Pervert.


Me:
HeHe.
Chalo
then.
My
bike
is
parked
outside
my

hostel.


61




 LaajVanti


Laajo:
Which
bike?
I
don't
sit
on
splendors
and

passions,
even
if
you
put
plus
plus
to
their
names.


Me:
I've
got
a
pulsar,
baibey.
Definitely
Male!!!


Laajo:
(Excited)
Chaloooooo!!!
Dhoooooom

Machaale!!!


Me:
I'll
pick
you
up
from
your
hostel
in
20
mins.


Laajo:
OK.
I'll
be
there
at
the
entrance.
Come

soooooooooon.
(She
gave
a
chhhweet
smile.
Laajo

was
so
puppy­provoking
right
at
that
moment!)



62




 LaajVanti


5





My
bike
was
finally
going
to
get
pavitra
again
after

so
long!
1
year
since
I
had
bought
it,
and
only
once
it

had
the
honor
of
carrying
a
lady.
And
that
too
ended

up
in
a
disaster.
It
was
sad,
very
sad.
.



I
phoonked
off
the
dust
on
the
bike's
seat.
There
was

still
a
thick
layer.
I
put
on
the
middle­stand
of
the

bike,
climbed
and
sat
on
the
seat
and
moved
my
ass

from
the
rear
end
of
the
seat
to
the
huge
petrol
tank,

slowing
down
a
little
in
the
end
so
as
to
protect
my

asset...
practical
difficulties
with
the
definitely
male

bike,
you
know...
I
guess
it's
made
that
way
so
that

you
remember
you
are
a
male
every
time
it
hits
you

right
there.
Couldn't
they
think
of
a
better
way?



It
was
time,
and
Laajo
started
giving
me
missed

calls.
I
tried
to
hurry
up,
and
quickly
rubbed
my
ass

on
the
seat
twice
more,
to
be
triply
sure
the
seat
was

clean.
Then
I
stood
up
and
spanked
myself
to
clean

the
dust
on
my
butts.
I
looked
at
the
rest
of
the
bike

63




 LaajVanti


now…
it
was
all
dust‐coated.
I
thought
about
it
for
a

quick
second.
Said
to
myself
–
What
the
heck,
am
a

man
afterall
–
as
if
I
had
some
right
to
stay
dirty
and

still
be
respected,
loved.
Perhaps
this
could
be

another
way
Bajaj
can
achieve
the
'Definitely
Male'

effect?
What
an
Idea
Generator
I
am!
Shouldn’t
I
get

into
Marketing?


I
was
humming
the
Dhoom
Machaale
tune
in
my

mind
as
I
raced
towards
Hostel‐1,
Laajo's
hostel.
I

stared
at
Nirmala
and
Nagabhushanam
on
the
way,

and
thereby
missed
the
speed‐breaker.
The
bike

jumped
and
I
struggled
to
balance
it.
Got
hit
there

once,
but
pretended
as
if
nothing
happened.
Nimmo

and
Naga
giggled
khikhi
and
whispered
into
to
each

other's
ears.
Must
be
something
about
Laajo
going

out
with
me.
These
Girls
Naa!



To
take
revenge,
I'll
tell
you
something
funny
about

Nagabhushanam.
My
friend
Sandeep
calls
her
Naag­
bhusssss,
as
if
she's
a
snake
hissing.
HeHeHe.



64




 LaajVanti


Me:
Hey,
why
are
you
thumping
your
foot
like
that?


Laajo:
I'm
imagining
you
under
my
foot.
x‐(
Where

were
you?
So
late.


Me:
Sorry.


Laajo:
At
least
make
some
excuse.
Idiot


Me:
Hehe.
That
little
purse
is
cute.
(Laajo
had
a

small
shiny
red
purse
in
her
hand.)


Laajo:
Oh.
You
really
don't
know
how
to
give
a

compliment.
Try
again.


Me:
You
are
looking
hot.


Laajo:
Ayyo.
You
are
hopeless.


Me:
(Embarrassed)
OK.
Come
sit.


Laajo:
What's
all
this
dust?
Can't
you
keep
a
piece
of

cloth
and
clean
this
bike
everyday?


Me:
I
can't.
It's
against
mard
ki
shaan.


Laajo:
Now
don't
maaro
style.
You
don't
give
me
a

proper
compliment,
and
now
you’re
showing

attitude.


Me:
OK
OK.
The
seat
is
clean
na?
Look,
it's
shining.

Sit,
let's
go.


Laajo:
How
did
you
clean
just
the
seat?


Me:
Uff.
How
does
it
matter?


Laajo:
Hmm.
Next
time
you
come
with
this
dirty

bike,
I
will
break
your
nose.
HiHi.


65




 LaajVanti


Me:
HeHe.
You’re
sweet.


Laajo:
Wow.
I
want
to
break
your
nose
and
you
find

me
sweet!
Interesting!
But
at
least
you
said

something
nice,
finally.
Ab
Chalo.

Me:
Where?


Laajo:
There
is
a
place
called
Chauk.
You
know

Sanat?
He
bought
Chikan
Choodidaars
for
his
sis

from
there.


Me:
Who
is
Sanat?


Laajo:
Uff.
He
sits
in
front
of
me
na.
Do
you
know

anyone
else
in
the
class,
besides
me?


Me:
Sankalp,
Rajhans,
and...
(got
blank)


Laajo:
See!
See!
MBA
is
about
networking
dude.


Me:
Ours
is
not
an
MBA.
It's
PGDM,
a
Diploma.
IIMs

give
Diploma
only,
not
MBA
degree.
HeHeHe.


Laajo:
Nee
Abba.
(Smiling)
Who
took
you
in
IIM?


Me:
You
mean
the
profs
who
took
my
interview?

One
was
Himanshu
Rai.
I
don’t
remember
the
other

prof’s
name.


Laajo:
Idiot!
Chalo…
(After
a
while)
Himanshu
Rai
is

cute
na?


66




 LaajVanti


6




Laajo
was
wearing
a
jeans
and
a
tight
bright
white
t‐
shirt.
She
sat
behind
me
on
the
bike
and
squeezed

her
bag
between
her
and
me.
Not
again!


If
Laajo

hadn’t
put
the
bag
between
us,
I
would
have
had
a

pretty
decent
chance
at
least
at
speed‐breakers,
you

know.
But
Laajo
knew
pretty
well
what
most
guys

have
on
mind
during
a
bike
ride
with
a
girl.
I
am
not

one
of
those
guys
of
course.
She
still
brought
a
bag
to

screw
it
all
up,
just
in
case…
Women
and
their

precautions!


Laajo
was
light!
Feather‐light!
She
sat
free­style,
with

one
leg
each
side.
Both
her
hands
held
on
to
the
red‐
lights
at
the
back
of
the
bike.
She
did
not
want
to

touch
me.



67




 LaajVanti


Me:
Hey
you
can
hold
me.


Laajo:
HiHi.
You
don't
need
to
tell
me
that.
Guys

need
permission
for
holding.
Girls
don't
need.

Me:
But
many
don’t
hold.

Laajo:
Unless
they
want
to.
Not
–
unless
they
are

told.

Me:
I
know
exceptions.


Laajo:
I
am
sure
you
only
know
exceptions.


Me:
HeHe.
You
are
a
genius.


Laajo:
You
don't
need
to
be
a
genius
to
spot
a
loser

:P


Me:
(Embarrassed)
Oh.
(Made
a
sad
face
and
started

the
bike.)


Laajo:
Actually,
you
think
they
are
exceptions
coz

you
can’t
read
a
woman’s
mind.

Me:
OK.
(Still
Embarrassed)

Laajo:
Olle,
am
so
sorry.
I
was
kidding.


Me:
OK.


Laajo:
Your
bike
is
very
smooth.


Me:
Why?
Your
ass
is
slipping
out?
Pseudo
Force?


Laajo:
Shut
up.
I
know
your
fascination
with
pseudo

force.
It
works
in
your
favor
when
you
put
breaks

na?


Me:
What
an
innocent
question!


68




 LaajVanti


Laajo:
GL!


Me:
what
is
GL?


Laajo:
Get
Lost!


Me:
Ya,
we
are
pretty
much
getting
lost.
You
know

which
way
is
Chauk?
We'll
be
at
the
flyover
soon.

Let's
ask
someone.


Laajo:
Wait,
I
have
the
map.
No
need
to
ask
anyone.


Me:
Wow.
Interesting.
A
woman
who
reads
maps!

Laajo:
MCP.
Huh!

Me:
Hey,
cool
cool.
I
was
kidding.
(Managed
a
smile.)

Laajo:
Whatever.
Chalo
now.
Let’s
check
the
map.


Laajo
took
out
a
huuuuge
road
map
of
Lucknow.
We

stopped
just
before
the
Engineering
College
Flyover

to
figure
out
how
to
go
next.
It
took
us
10
minutes
to

spot
IIML
and
then
another
5
to
spot
Chauk
on
it.

Laajo
ran
her
finger
along
the
road
connecting
the

two.



Laajo:
Chalo
straight.
No
flyover.


Me:
What
about
lunch?

Laajo:
I
am
not
hungry.
You?

Me:
Me
neither.



69




 LaajVanti


Laajo:
Let’s
eat
after
shopping
then.

Me:
OK
dude.


Laajo:
Ya
dudette.


Me:
Shut
up.


Laajo:
HiHi.
Ab
aayaa
majaa?

Me:
Mazaa
your
head
and
my
foot.


Laajo:
Hey,
chor!
chor!,
that's
my
line.
I
coined
it

after
a
lot
of
thinking.
You
can't
steal
it
like
this.


Me:
HeHe.
Put
me
in
jail.


Laajo:
(Punching
hard
on
my
back)
Donga

Chacchinoda!



70




 LaajVanti


7





Chauk
is
a
very
crowded
area.
It
is
surrounded
by

some
of
the
most
popular
historical
monuments
of

Lucknow,
like
the
Imambara
and
Bhool
Bhulaiyya.
I

would
have
never
gone
to
that
place
if
there
wasn't

Laajo
I
had
to
offer
my
services
to.
If
there
weren't

women
in
this
world,
more
than
90%
of
the
known

world
would
have
been
left
unexplored
or
little

ventured
into.
With
age,
men
tend
to
lose
curiosity

while
women
tend
to
gain
it
in
degree
and
lose
it
in

quality,
as
they
graduate
from
barbie
to
teddy.
Isn’t

that
interesting?
(But
I
am
sure
you
know
how

handy
pinches
of
salt
are
at
times
:P
:P.)


We
couldn't
find
a
proper
parking
area.
So
we

parked
the
bike
on
the
road‐side,
where
we
saw
a

few
more
bikes
parked.
Laajo
didn't
seem
bothered

about
all
this.
Her
eagle‐eyes
were
vigorously

searching
for
the
right
chikan
shops
among
the

hundreds
around,
trying
to
zero‐in
on
the
easiest

71




 LaajVanti


prey
to
catch
and
healthiest
prey
to
eat,
rather
an

optimum
combination
of
both.
It's
difficult,
of

course,
but
then,
that's
how
women
go
about
when

they
go
hunting.
Spotting
arbitrage
is
built
into

them.
(Pinch
of
Salt
Alert!
:P)



Laajo:
Can
you
see
Lucknow
Chikan
Emporium

anywhere?


Me:
No.
Is
that
a
shop?


Laajo:
Stupid.
Of
course
it
is
a
shop.
Sanat
told
me

re.
He
bought
from
there.
Dirt
cheap.


Me:
Oh
cool.
Who
told
him
about
it?


Laajo:
No
one.
He
did
trial‐and‐error.


Me:
We
will
also
do
that
na.
It'll
be
fun.


Laajo:
Hmm.
Not
a
bad
idea.
Chalo.
But
where
to

start
from?


Me:
Lemme
ask
someone.



I
went
to
the
near
by
Pan
shop
and
asked
a
guy

standing
there.
He
was
lost
in
deep
thought
with

sutta
in
his
hand.
One
line
of
‘Sister
Lover
Cigarette’

song
played
in
my
mind
once.
I
had
to
shout
in
his

ear
to
bring
him
back
from
his
thoughts.
He
went

into
deep
thought
again,
as
I
asked
him
about
the


72




 LaajVanti


best
Chikan
Kari
shops
in
the
vicinity.
After
a
while,

he
spoke
to
confirm
twice
that
I
meant
Chikan
Kari,

the
famous
Lucknowi
Embroidery
and
not
some

Chicken
Curry
to
eat.
I
found
it
weird,
coz
I
thought

that
was
so
obvious
in
that
place.
But
may
be
it

wasn't
to
him,
or
he
wanted
to
be
doubly
sure
for

whatever
reason.
He
showed
me
a
gali
and
said

there
were
many
good
shops
there.
I
also
asked
him

about
the
Lucknow
Chikan
Emporium,
which
Sanat

had
mentioned
to
Laajo,
just
as
a
backup
in
case
our

trials
furstrated
us.
The
guy
stared
at
me

expressionless
for
a
minute
and
then
said
‐
'Saab,

bahut
chikan
ki
dukaanein
hain
idhar.
Sabke
naam

aise
hi
hain'
–
'Sir,
there
are
too
many
chikan
shops

here...
all
have
similar
names.'
I
smiled
looking
into

his
empathic
eyes,
thanked
him
and
went
back
to

Laajo
who
was
pulling
out
a
tissue‐paper
from
her

bag.



Laajo:
(Wiping
her
face)
So
much
dust
re.
See.
(The

tissue
paper
had
a
huge
dark
spot
of
dust.)


Me:
Yeah,
really.
Let's
go
into
that
gali.
There
are


73




 LaajVanti


many
good
shops
there.


Laajo:
OK.
You
are
sweating
so
much.
You
don't

have
a
rumaal?


Me:
HeHe.
No,
I
don't.
Real
mards
don't
keep

rumaals.


Laajo:
You
think
that's
funny?


Me:
Is
it
not?
.
OK,
I'll
buy
a
Chikanned
Hanky.


Laajo:
ChiChi.
Here,
take
this
tissue
and
clean
your

face
first.
(As
I
was
cleaning)
Offo,
you
don't
even

know
how
to
use
a
tissue.
You
are
using
it
like
a

toilet
paper.
Chi!


Me:
Is
there
a
difference?


Laajo:
No
use
explaining
it
to
you.
Hopeless
fellow!

(Smiled)



We
went
a
few
meters
into
the
gali
and
then
saw
a

row
of
shops,
all
with
similar
looking
names
and
all

claiming
to
be
the
best
shops
for
Chikan.



Laajo:
OK
listen,
here's
the
plan.


Me:
Plan?


Laajo:
We
won't
buy
more
than
1
dress
from
a
shop.

And
that
too,
we’ll
buy
only
if
we
get
it
for
less
than

500.



74




 LaajVanti


Me:
500?
Do
we
still
get
clothes
this
cheap?


Laajo:
You
only
go
to
malls
na?
You
won't
know.


Me:
Yeah



Laajo:
I
found
out,
even
the
best
Chikan
dress
comes

for
less
than
500
if
you
bargain
properly.
Since
you

are
good
in
Hindi,
you
have
to
do
the
bargaining.
I

heard
they
easily
come
down
to
half
the
price
they

initially
tell.


Me:
Bargaining?
Are
you
kidding?
I
can't
bargain.


Laajo:
Shut
up.
You
are
going
to
be
a
Manager.
You

must
know
how
to
bargain.


Me:
Oops!
I
can't.


Laajo:
At
least
try
na.
Otherwise,
I'll
take
over.


Me:
OK.
Then
it
won't
take
long
until
you'll
have
to

take
over
if
you
really
want
some
bargain
to
happen

:P
:P.


Laajo:
Uff,
chalo.
You
can
do
it!
Say
aloud
‐
I
can
do

it.


Me:
I
can
do
it!
Hehe.



Nobody
had
expressed
so
much
confidence
in
me

before.
It
felt
really
good.
For
the
first
time
in
my

life,
bargaining
seemed
like
a
doable
thing.
But
I
still

didn't
want
to
do
it.
Strange!



75




 LaajVanti


8





We
entered
the
first
shop.
The
shopkeeper
was
a
big

man
with
scary
red
eyes.
He
looked
straight
into
my

eyes.
I
got
scared.
So
I
smiled,
to
please
him.
He

faked
a
little
smile
too,
and
then
turned
to
Laajo,
and

then
faked
a
bigger
smile…
almost
genuine.
I
guess

by
now
he
had
complete
idea
of
who
needed
more

attention.



Me:
Salwar
Suit
dikhaaiye.


Shopkeeper:
Baithiye
Madam.


Laajo:
Salwar‐Suit
pieces
dikaao
na.


Shopkeeper:
Kya
range
madam?


Laajo:
Accha
dikaao,
then
we
will
decide.


Me:
Haan
bhaiyya,
acchha
wala
dikhana.



Laajo
gave
me
an
expressionless
stare
for
3
seconds.

The
shopkeeper
might
not
even
have
noticed
it,
but

for
me,
those
were
the
most
uncomfortable
3

seconds
of
my
life.
I
grew
more
reluctant
to
open
my

mouth
after
that.



76




 LaajVanti


Within
about
5
minutes,
the
shopkeeper
had

stacked,
one
by
one,
about
20
salwar‐suit
pieces
in

front
of
us.
I
just
kept
looking
at
them,
hoping
to

make
an
entry
when
we
had
to
bargain.
Otherwise,

Laajo
was
managing
pretty
well
by
using
a
mix
of

English
and
Hindi
words,
inspite
of
some
accent.



Laajo:
Accha
nai
laga.
Kaam
accha
vona.


Shopkeeper:
OK
madam.
I
show
higher
range

madam.
Excellent
work.
Oye
chhotu,
wo
kal
jo
maal

aaya
nikaal
de.



Chhotu
looked
like
a
10‐year
old
kid.
After
a
minute

of
waiting,
he
came
with
a
stack
of
about
20
dress‐
materials
with
him.
These
looked
better
even
from
a

distance.
The
shopkeeper
opened
each
pack
and

spread
the
fabric
in
front
of
us.
Each
one
was
an

exquisite
work
of
embroidery.
The
cloth
was
also
of

a
better
quality
than
the
ones
he’d
shown
before.

Clearly
a
higher
range.
As
he
spread
each
one
of

those,
he
announced
its
price
loudly
and
proudly.



Shopkeeper:
2000...
2300...
1800...
2000...


Laajo:
Sri,
how
is
this
purple
one?


Me:
It's
good.


77




 LaajVanti


Laajo:
And
this
green?


Me:
This
is
good
too.


Laajo:
How's
that
brown
one?


Me:
Sahi
hai.


Laajo:
HiHi.
No
use
asking
you
:P


Me:
But
these
are
too
costly.


Laajo:
We'll
talk
about
that
later.
Tell
me
which
is

the
best
among
these
three
–
purple
or
green
or

brown?


Me:
Green.


Laajo:
I
like
the
brown
one.
Look
at
the
work
on
it.


Me:
Yeah.
It's
cool.
Take
the
brown
then.


Laajo:
Sure
na?
(Stood
up
and
put
the
cloth
over
her

body)
Now
tell.
(She
put
all
three
one
by
one.)


Me:
Ya,
brown
sabse
accha
hai.


Shopkeeper:
Madam,
this
is
very
beautiful
piece.

We
bring
three
today
morning
and
2
sell
already.

This
remain
last.
Very
pyaara
design.


Laajo:
OK.
Tell
us
how
much.
Dene
ka
daam
bolo.


Shopkeeper:
Oh
no
madam.
No
bargain
here.
We

keep
best
quality
and
tell
correct
price.
No
telling

high
price
and
coming
down.
1800
is
final
madam.


Laajo:
Arere,
we
buying
Chikan
first
time,
come

straight
to
your
shop.
(Why
does
she
have
to
screw

78




 LaajVanti


her
english?
Is
that
necessary
to
be
understood?)


Shopkeeper:
Yes
madam.
We
also
want
new

customer
come
again
again.
That
is
why
telling

correct
price.


Laajo:
No
No.
1800
too
high.


Shopkeeper:
OK,
let
me
check.
(Does
something
on

his
calculator
for
a
minute,
and
then
smiles
as
if
he

found
a
win­win
situation...)
OK
madam,
10%

discount,
1620.
It's
the
best
I
can
do.


Laajo:
Very
costly
Saaar.
We
are
students.
Please

decrease
more
na.
We
will
recommend
your
shop
to

all
our
friends.
Lot
of
people
buy
Chikan
from
IIM.


Shopkeeper:
Oh
you
from
IIM?
Yesterday
only
2

people
come
and
buy
clothes
of
5000.


Laajo:
1600
is
too
costly
for
us.


Shopkeeper:
Madam
don't
worry
about
money

when
you
like
dress.
It
is
so
nice
dress.
Worth
the

money.
If
you
leave
it
thinking
costly,
it
is
sad
and

bad.


Laajo:
Well,
tell
us
final
price.


Shopkeeper:
You
tell
madam,
how
much
you
pay?


Laajo:
800
–
Correct
price,
I
think.


Shopkeeper:
Oh
madam,
we
don't
have
that
much

margin
madam.


79




 LaajVanti


Me:
(Feeling
an
intense
urge
and
sense
of

responsibility
to
say
something
and
contribute
to

the
bargaining
exercise)
Humare
dost
800
se
kam

mein
aise
hi
kapde
khareed
ke
gaye
–
Our
friends

bought
similar
clothes
for
less
than
800.


Shopkeeper:
Sir
they
only
look
one
type.
But
we

only
guarantee
quality.
Any
problem,
you
return,
we

take
back.

Laajo:
We
know,
but
800
is
final,
otherwise
we
are

going.



Laajo
got
up,
pretending
to
leave.
She
walked

towards
the
exit,
and
I
followed
her.
Laajo
noticed

the
reluctance
in
me.
We've
already
spent
so
much

time
and
effort
here.
She
said
–
chalo
–
loud
enough

to
be
heard.
I
started
walking
faster.
As
she
was

about
to
step
out
of
the
shop,
the
shopkeeper

shouted
from
inside...



Shopkeeper:
Madam,
chaliye
900
de
deejiye.


Laajo:
(I
couldn't
believe
what
I'd
heard,
but
there

was
more
to
come...)
800
mein
eee
lena.
Utnaaee

budget
meraa.


80




 LaajVanti


Shopkeeper:
Arey
madam.
Accha
850
final.
I
already

selling
at
loss.
Just
for
you
madam.
Customer
happy,

we
happy
(laughed
out
loud).
Chhotu,
chal
pack
kar

de.


Laajo:
800
mein
dena
to
bolo.

Shopkeeper:
(Thought
hard
for
10
seconds
looking

down)
OK
madam,
800
for
you.
You
buying
chikan

first
time,
so
keeping
your
dil.



We
turned
back.
Laajo
was
calm
and
relaxed,
as
if

nothing
unexpected
had
happened.
My
head
was

spinning.



Shopkeeper:
Anything
else
you
want
madam?

Chikan
saaris?


Laajo:
No
No.
Today
this
only.
Saari
next
time.
Here

800.


Shopkeeper:
(Took
the
money.)
Thank
you
madam.

Thank
you
sir.


Me:
(Taking
the
polythene
bag
from
Chhotu)
Thank

you.



Laajo
had
another
reason
now
to
call
me
an
idiot
–
I

could
not
help
her
at
all
in
bargaining.
As
we
came

out,
I
saw
a
look
of
frustration
on
Laajo's
face.
I
was

81




 LaajVanti


confused.
After
such
a
successful
bargain,
I
thought

she
should
feel
triumphant.



Me:
Hey,
congratulations!
1800
to
800.


Laajo:
What
re!
Pch!
Pch!


Me:
Bole
to?


Laajo:
He
agreed
for
800
too
easily.
This
would
have

come
for
500
if
we
could
bargain
better.


Me:
Hmm.
We
still
did
very
well.


Laajo:
(Looking
straight
into
my
eyes)
We?


Me:
I...
I
mean
you.
Don't
look
at
me
like
that.


Laajo:
(Smiled)
It's
OK
re.
You
still
tried.


Me:
HeHe.
Ya,
if
you
call
that
trying.


Laajo:
Pch,
we
should
have
stuck
to
our
planned

limit
of
500.
I
got
carried
away.
The
dresses
were

too
good,
better
than
the
ones
Sanat
bought.
But,

shit
man!
Remember
now,
not
a
paisa
more
than

500.
Is
that
clear?


Me:
Yes
mam.


Laajo:
HiHi.
Chalo
next
shop.



We
went
to
a
few
more
shops
and
got
better
each

time
at
bargaining.
Finally
we
did
manage
to
buy

one
suit
piece
for
500
bucks,
and
that
was
a
huge


82




 LaajVanti


success
for
us.
Of
course
it
was
always
Laajo
who

did
most
of
the
talking,
and
I
used
to
just
throw
a

line
or
two
to
support
her
once
in
a
while.
Our

success
called
for
a
celebration.



Me:
Hey
let's
celebrate.
Dominos!
Cheese­burst!

Pizza!
Sahara
Ganj!
(The
famous
mall
in
Hazratganj.)


Laajo:
Arey
I
will
become
fat.
No
cheese‐burst.


Me:
Oh
come
on.
I
don't
eat
pizza
if
it's
not
cheese‐
burst.


Laajo:
Ya.
Look
at
this.
(Poking
a
finger
into
my

tummy)
How
many
months?
HiHi...


Me:
(Embarrassed)
Listen,
we'll
get
up
early

tomorrow
morning
and
jog
2
rounds
of
the
campus.

Let's
have
cheese‐burst
now.
Don't
you
love
it?
It's

the
best
thing
ever
made.


Laajo:
Offo.
You
are
Dominos
ka
salesman
or
what?

You
eat
cheese‐burst,
I'll
eat
normal
pizza.


Me:
Arey,
you
don't
get
it.
They
do
cheese‐burst
only

on
medium‐size
pizza,
which
is
good
enough
for
2

people,
but
too
much
for
one
person.


Laajo:
(Smiling)
Man,
you
really
are
crazy
for

cheese‐burst.

Me:
Yeah,
it's
God's
very
own
food
:P


83




 LaajVanti


Laajo:
But
then,
you
are
still
not
so
crazy
as
to
order

a
full
pizza
for
yourself,
eat
whatever
you
can
and

throw
whatever
remains.

Me:
Throwing
food
is
against
my
principles.

Laajo:
See.
You
are
not
so
crazy
as
to
forget
one
of

your
principles
for
cheese‐burst
pizza.

Me:
Yes.
Happy?

Laajo:
HiHi.
Yeah!


84




 LaajVanti


9





Sahara
Ganj
is
perhaps
the
oldest
shopping
mall
in

Lucknow.
The
combination
of
PVR
Cinemas
and

Dominos
Cheese‐Burst
Pizza
make
Sahara
Ganj
my

most
favorite
hangout
in
the
City
of
Nawabs.
The

mall
has
other
attractions
too,
like
branded
clothes’

shops
and
Big
Bazaar,
but
they
never
mattered

much
to
me.
Coz
I
am
neither
married
nor
female

nor
metrosexual
nor
girly
nor
non‐single.
There
is

Pizza
Hut
too,
but
I
prefer
Dominos.
And
ya,
in
this

mall
you
see
mainly
the
family­type
cute
girls,
i.e.,
my

kind
of
girls
(although
they
come
with
parents),

while
the
other
malls
in
Lucknow
get
other
types
of

girls.


We
took
the
lift
to
the
top
floor,
straight
to
the
food‐
court.
I
glanced
at
PVR
and
thought
I'd
suggest

watching
a
movie
after
the
pizza.
However,
I
just

made
a
mental
note
and
postponed
the
execution
for

later.


85




 LaajVanti


There
were
more
girls
in
the
mall
that
day
than
I

had
seen
before.
And
many
hot
ones
too,

surprisingly.
Laajo
caught
me
staring
quite
a
few

times.
Whenever
she
did,
she
would
poke
a
finger

into
my
tummy.
Her
eyes
would
look
into
mine
and

yell
at
me
–
‘You’re
caught’.


We
looked
around
for
a
perfect
table
to
sit
at.
I
saw

one
unoccupied
table
at
a
corner,
just
by
the
glass

wall
with
a
fundoo
view
of
the
road
below
and
the

sky
above
on
one
side
and
the
whole
of
the
food‐
court
on
the
other.
‘Laajo
could
enjoy
watching
the

scenery
and
I
could
enjoy
staring
at
chiks,’
I
thought.

That
was
the
plan.
I
showed
Laajo
the
table
and
she

liked
it
too.
We
went
and
sat
there,
relaxed
and

looked
into
each
other's
eyes
and
smiled.
Laajo
was

adorable.
And
a
smile
from
her
was
always
a
lifetime

of
paradise.


Laajo:
(Blushing)
What?


Me:
(Smiling)
Nothing.
(Still
Smiling.)


Laajo:
Stupid.


Me:
Let's
go
and
order.


Laajo:
Arey,
who'll
keep
this
table?



86




 LaajVanti


Me:
OK,
then
you
sit
here;
I'll
go
and
order.
Which

pizza?


Laajo:
Do
you
think
I
carry
Dominos'
Menu
in
my

head?


Me:
Oh.
I
do,
coz
I
do.

Laajo:
Uff.
Idiot!

Me:
OK
wait,
lemme
get
their
menu
for
you
;‐).


Laajo:
(Rolling
her
eyes)
That's
better.


I
went
to
the
Dominos
counter,
picked
up
one
of
the

pamphlets
lying
there.
The
guys
and
a
girl
standing

inside
at
the
counter
thought
I
was
going
to
place
an

order.
I
escaped
eye‐contact
with
them
and
ran
back

to
our
table.
Laajo
was
looking
through
the
glass

wall
into
the
sky.



Me:
What
are
you
watching?


Laajo:
My
image
in
the
glass.
I
am
so
hot
na?


Me:
HeHe.
Is
that
a
serious
question?
Do
I
have
to

answer
it?


Laajo:
Get
lost!
Hopeless
fellow.
Taklu!


Me:
Don't
call
me
Taklu.
My
hair
is
coming
back.


Laajo:
I
can
see
that.


Me:
Then?



87




 LaajVanti


Laajo:
Then
your
headdd.
Let's
order.


Me:
OK,
here's
the
menu.


Laajo:
Veg
or
non‐veg?


Me:
Veg.


Laajo:
You
are
vegetarian
aaa?


Me:
Yeah.
But
I
have
tried
stuff.


Laajo:
Good.
But
we'll
stick
to
veg,
coz
I
am
veg.


Me:
Then
why
did
you
ask
veg
or
non­veg?


Laajo:
Meraa
marji.
You
eat
Mushrooms?


Me:
Yes.
I
don't
mind.


Laajo:
I
don't.
You
like
Paneer?


Me:
No.
But
I
can
eat.


Laajo:
Then
ditch.
Let's
order
Farmhouse.


Me:
Perfect!
Plus
garlic
bread
and
coke?


Laajo:
I
don't
want
garlic
bread.


Me:
I
love
it.
I'll
eat.
You
want
chocolava­cake?

(Showed
the
pic
in
the
menu.)


Laajo:
Oh
no.
This
much
is
enough.
Go,
order.


Me:
OK
babes.


Laajo:
Shut
up,
moron.



I
was
there
at
Dominos
almost
every
alternate
day.

Their
people
knew
me
well.
Mainly
coz
of
the
25%


88




 LaajVanti


IIM
discount
(on
pizzas
only)
that
I
proudly
claimed

each
time,
and
they
had
to
reluctantly
give
me.



I
walked
to
the
counter
to
place
the
order.
A
pretty

girl
came
forward
with
a
very
sweet
smile.



Pizza­girl:
Yes
Sir.


Me:
Please
take
my
order.
1
Farmhouse
Medium

Cheese‐burst,
1
Garlic‐Bread
with
cheesy
dip
and
1

coke.
And,
IIM
wala
discount
laga
dena
(I
said,

pointing
at
the
IIM
logo
on
my
t‐shirt,
and
giving
a

biiig
smile).


Pizza­girl:
(With
an
idiot­phir­se­aa­gaya
waalaa

smile)
Your
mobile
number
sir?


Me:
9005372658


Pizza­girl:
Mr.
Shidar.


Me:
Yes.


Pizza­girl:
(After
some
analysis
of
my
records)
Sir,

you'll
get
15%
discount
on
the
Pizza.


Me:
I
always
get
25%.


Pizza­girl:
Sorry
sir,
as
we
told
you
last
time,
you

get
only
15%
when
you
eat
here.


Me:
But
you
finally
did
give
me
25%
last
time.


Pizza­girl:
We
can't
do
it
every
time
sir.
You
are
a


89




 LaajVanti


very
regular
customer,
so
we
did
it
last
time
when

you
requested
so
much.
So
15%
sir?



She
said
it
in
such
a
sweet
voice,
that
I
couldn't
say

anything
but
an
OK
with
an
embarrassed
smile.
I

paid
for
it
in
cash,
collected
the
receipt
and
read

aloud
the
order
number
written
on
it...
142.
The
LCD

above
the
counter,
slightly
to
the
left
of
it,
displayed

139.
The
Railway
Enquiry
wala
number
–
I
thought.

The
Pizza‐girl
said
my
order
would
be
ready
in

about
15
minutes.
I
walked
back
to
our
table.



90




 LaajVanti


10





I
came
back
and
sat
in
front
of
Laajo.
She
didn't

seem
to
notice
that
I
was
back.
She
was
looking
out

through
the
glass
wall,
and
seemed
lost
in
deep

thought.
If
I
were
a
kid,
I
would
have
yelled
a
loud

bhowww
on
her
face
and
scared
her.
But
grown‐ups

must
talk.
I
couldn't
think
what
to.
So
started
with

one
of
my
default
conversation‐starters
for
girls.



Me:
You
seem
so
tired.


Laajo:
(With
a
lovely
smile)
Ya
I
am
tired.


Me:
What
are
you
thinking?

Laajo:
Yaar,
this
world
is
coming
to
an
end
in
2012.

Me:
Shit!
Is
it?

Laajo:
Ya
re.

Me:
This
world
bole
to?
Uske
baad?

Laajo:
I
read
somewhere
that
something
will

happen
to
mark
the
end
of
a
yuga.
And
then,
a
kind

of
clean­up
will
take
place.
All
bad
people
will
die

and
vuske
baad
only
good
people
will
remain.
And

they’ll
together
create
a
perfect
world.
Utopia.

91




 LaajVanti


Me:
Waah.
But
there
are
only
2
really
good
people
in

the
world
right
now.

Laajo:
Who?

Me:
(Smiled
a
one‐sided
Shahrukh
smile)
You
and
I.

Laajo:
HiHi.

Me:
The
responsibility
to
propagate
the
human
race

will
be
on
our
shoulders.

Laajo:
Ahahaha.
Idiot.
I
knew
this
was
what
you

were
coming
to.
(Laughed
and
punched
in
the
air;

missed
my
nose
by
2
feet.)

Me:
Oye,
we
can
make
only
1.33
kids
per
year…
at

max…
without
having
any
slack.
That’s
very
few

yaar.
Can’t
you
do
it
faster?

Laajo:
Shut
your
mouth.
Am
I
a
kid‐making

machine?

Me:
HeHe.

Laajo:
(After
some
thinking)
And
what
about

maintenance
time?

Me:
HeHe.
No
separate
maintenance
time.
Kid‐
making
requires
constant
high
maintenance

anyway.

Laajo:
MCP.

Me:
Oh.




92




 LaajVanti


After
a
1‐minute
silence…



Me:
Seriously
yaar,
the
world
needs
that
kind
of

clean‐up.
Like
someone
runs
an
antivirus
with

‘Delete
all
Infected
Files’
turned
on.
HeHe.

Laajo:
God,
our
System
Administrator.




Laajo
took
a
half‐minute
thinking
break…



Laajo:
Do
you
believe
there
is
God,
Sri?


Me:
God?
I
don't
believe.
I
don't
not
believe
either.

Am
an
agnostic.


Laajo:
So
you
don't
want
to
take
a
side.


Me:
How
can
I,
unless
I
do
just
for
the
heck
of
it?

Nobody
can
rationally
take
a
side
here,
coz
nobody

knows
anything
for
sure.


Laajo:
Exactly.
There
are
basically
two
things.
One
–

Our
ability
to
logically
prove
or
disprove
the

existence
of
God
is
limited
by
our
knowledge,
the

assumptions
we
make
and
the
kind
of
reasoning
we

use.
This
basically
defines
how
our
imagination

connects
the
dots
we
can
see
or
perceive
and
then

makes
the
big
leap
to
draw
inferences
about
those

we
don't,
but
yet
want
to
talk
about.
And
with
our

93




 LaajVanti


small
level
of
knowledge
of
everything,
the

sweeping
assumptions
which
encompass
all
our

sciences
and
the
limits
these
and
we
ourselves
place

on
our
sense
of
logic
and
rationality,
governed

largely
by
our
senses,
which
by
no
means
give
us
the

capability
to
experience
or
perceive
everything,
we

cannot
right
now
conclude
that
there
is
no
way
to

rationally
figure
out
whether
God
exists
or
not.


Me:
(Shaken)
Whoo!
You
are
one
Amartya
Sen.

Couldn’t
you
say
it
in
a
simpler
way?
Anyway,
I
think

I
agree
with
you.
And
two?


Laajo:
Two
–
belief
is
different
from
knowledge.
The

fact
that
you
choose
to
believe
something
is
true

means
that
you
don't
know
whether
that
is
really

true.
When
you
know
it,
you
don't
need
to
believe
it.

Belief
means
that
there
is
an
element
of
uncertainty,

but
you
take
a
side.


Me:
Yeah,
I
guess.
So
one
can
be
an
agnostic
and
a

theist
or
an
atheist
at
the
same
time.
Acknowledging

the
ignorance
yet
choosing
to
believe
or
not
believe.


Laajo:
Yes.


Me:
I
am
an
agnostic
and
an
atheist.


Laajo:
I
am
an
agnostic
and
a
theist.


Me:
Wow!


94




 LaajVanti


Laajo:
So
if
we
draw
a
venn
diagram
of
you
and
I,

our
intersection
will
be
agnostic.
That's
so
funny.

HiHi.


Me:
Hmm.
So,
what
should
we
do
now?


Laajo:
HiHi.
Nothing.
I
have
been
thinking
about
all

that
lately.
Go
get
the
pizza.
Our
number
has
come.

142
na?


Me:
(All
confused)
Yes.
(Looked
at
the
receipt)
Hey,

that
girl
who
took
the
order,
her
name
is
Sunita!
See,

it's
written
here.


Laajo:
Cool.
Go
get
her
phone
number.
I
will
sponsor

pani
puri
if
you
can.


Me:
Wow.
OK
then.
Keep
watching.
And
hey,
the

Pizza
is
dutch


Laajo:
Get
lost!



I
went
and
smiled
at
Sunita.
She
was
least
bothered.

I
said
–
'142...
Sunita,
right?'
loudly.
She
was
forced

to
smile
back.
She
had
the
pizza
ready
beside
her

computer.
She
grabbed
a
bottle
of
coke
from
the

fridge,
2
plastic
cups
from
somewhere
above,
a
few

paper
napkins
from
somewhere
below
and
gave

those
to
me
along
with
the
pizza
and
the
garlic

bread.
I
inquired
about
the
cheesy
dip.
She
told
me
it


95




 LaajVanti


was
inside.
The
chilly
and
pepper
seasoning
sachets

were
tucked
along
the
sides
of
the
pizza
box,
I

checked.
I
thought
whether
I
should
ask
for
a
few

extra
of
those,
but
then
dropped
the
idea.
'What

about
the
phone
number,'
I
thought.
Sunita

pretended
to
be
extra‐busy.
I
guess
I
had
given
her

too
much
importance
by
smiling
at
her.
Give
bhaav

and
you
don't
get
bhaav
.
I
took
the
pizza
and
stuff,

and
went
back
to
Laajo
with
a
smile
on
my
face,
the

one
you
use
to
hide
embarrassment
and
sound
cool

when
you
have
failed.



Me:
Here
it
is
mam!


Laajo:
And
her
number?


Me:
Didn't
take
it.
She
was
not
so
pretty
from
close

range.
I
zoomed
into
her
face.
There
were
pimples,

moles
and
holes.


Laajo:
Loser!
HiHi.


Me:
Ha
Ha.
I
am
not.
I
wouldn't
bring
down
my

standard
just
to
win
a
lousy
bet.


Laajo:
Oho!
You
and
your
standard!


Me:
You
have
no
idea!


Laajo:
Jao
ji.
Go
to
restroom
and
see
your
face
in
the

mirror.
Monkey‐face!
:P
:P



96




 LaajVanti


Me:
Oye,
saali
racist!


Laajo:
It's
a
compliment
re.
You
are
so
lucky,
you

look
like
Hanuman.


Me:
Oh
(wondering
what
to
say).


Laajo:
But
there's
no
brahmachaari
in
you.
You
are

a
horny
stud.
Pch
Pch.
Waste
fellow.


Me:
I
am
not.
But
ya,
I
loooove
girls.
HeHe.


Laajo:
OK
OK.
Phitte
Moo!


Me:
Punjabi!


Laajo:
Yeah.
I
know
a
bit.
Not
much.
Just
these

gaalis.


Me:
HeHe.
Hey,
tell
me
how
come
you
are
so
very

Gult
and
without
much
of
Punjab
in
you,
except

perhaps
your
face?


Laajo:
My
mom
was
a
punjabi,
but
born
and
brought

up
in
Tirupati.
She
grew
up
with
Gults
and
I
did
too.

So
over
generations,
we,
I
mean
people
on
my

mother's
side,
have
transformed
into
a
Gult
family.

We
speak
Gult,
live
like
Gults,
celebrate
Gult
festivals,

all
our
friends
are
Gults.


Me:
That's
interesting.
Just
like
our
family
is

transforming
into
non­Gult
over
generations.
Will

you
marry
a
Gult
or
a
Punjabi?


Laajo:
Gult!
My
marriage
was
fixed
years
back
by

97




 LaajVanti


my
dad.
His
sister's
son
re.
He
is
my
baavaa,
you

know.
Our
wedding
is
next
Summer
at
Tirupati.
Will

you
come?


Me:
(Flabbergasted)
WHAT???
Are
you
serious?


Laajo:
Yes.
HiHi.


Me:
(Very
serious)
What
does
he
do?


Laajo:
He
is
in
Google.
Hyderabad.


Me:
(Frustrated)
What's
his
name?


Laajo:
Pullupotti
Balakrishna.


Me:
Bala!


Laajo:
What?
You
know
him?


Me:
(Furious)
Oh
no.
Just
simplified
his
name.


Laajo:
OK
OK.
Why
are
you
shouting?
Last
piece
of

garlic
bread
remaining.
Do
you
want?


Me:
You
said
you
didn't
want
garlic
bread!


Laajo:
My
wish,
I
ate.
It's
nice.


Me:
Hmm.


Laajo:
Where
did
you
eat
when
you
were
working?

Cooked
at
home?
Or
ate
out?


Me:
(Serious)
Out.
I
can't
cook.


Laajo:
Come
on.
Men
are
just
lazy.
Otherwise,
what's

there
in
cooking?
Anybody
can
cook.


Me:
OK.



98




 LaajVanti


We
didn't
talk
much
for
the
rest
of
the
evening.
Just

whatever
was
absolutely
necessary,
that's
it.
A
lot

was
going
on
in
my
mind.
Laajo,
I
am
sure,
must

have
sensed
the
change
in
my
behavior.
It's
so
hard

to
fake
in
front
of
girls
like
Laajo.
They
see
through

you.
I
needed
time
to
digest
the
new
information

about
Laajo.
I'd
had
too
much
in
life
of
being
a
just­a­
good­friend
of
girls.
It
sucks
being
a
touchy­feely­
helping­listening
guy
and
ending
up
being
a
good

friend,
with
whom
girls
–
pretty,
ugly,
all
kinds
–
can

talk
any
shit
that
comes
to
their
mind,
even
sex
and

literal
shit,
and
you
smile
as
if
you
are
a
girl
minus

bitch
in
a
guy's
body.
This
is
the
first
of
the
two

kinds
of
guys
in
this
world.
The
second
get
laid.


99




 LaajVanti


11





Whenever
I
am
upset
about
something,
I
sleep.
Sleep

cools
down
my
brain
and
when
I
get
up,
I
usually

have
some
idea
in
my
mind.
But
it
was
different
this

time.
Something
was
really
not
right
with
me.

Though
I
slept
till
very
late,
almost
till
lunch,
I

couldn't
really
get
up
on
any
positive
note.

Surprisingly,
that
morning,
I
skipped
certain
calls
of

nature,
which
I
never
had
since
I
figured
them
out.

Was
I
in
love?



It
was
Sunday,
so
no
classes
to
worry
about.
But
as

usual,
we
had
PKT's
submission
by
mid‐night.
Sadist

PKT...
Screws
up
every
Sunday.
Sankalp
and
Rajhans

stood
outside
my
room
at
1.30PM
and
started

banging
on
my
door.
I
decided
not
to
open
it.
They'd

surely
ask
me
what
happened
the
previous
evening.

I
had
no
mood
to
take
such
supposedly
funny

questions
and
answer
them
in
forcefully
funny
ways.

100




 LaajVanti


Nor
did
I
feel
like
going
to
the
mess,
though
it
was

Sunday
and
I
knew
there
were
going
to
be
Alu

Parathas
for
lunch.
I'm
on
diet...
I
told
myself.



I
called
up
Gossip&Bite
and
ordered
1
Paneer
Grilled

Sandwich,
1
Alu
Grilled
Sanwich,
1
Alu
Paratha
and

1
Pulpy
Orange.
Events
of
the
previous
night
kept

flashing
in
my
mind.
Laajo
telling
me
she
was
going

to
marry
her
baavaa
–
I
got
sick
of
the
same
scene

running
in
my
mind
every
few
seconds.
Why
is
she

marrying
her
baavaa?
Is
she
not
aware
of
the
genetic

defects
it
might
cause
in
her
babies?
May
be
she

doesn't
know.
I
must
tell
her.



I
opened
google.com
and
typed
in
"marrying

cousins"
into
the
search
box.
The
very
first
result

was
a
wikipedia
article
on
that
topic
‐

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cousin_marriage.
It

talked
at
length
about
the
risk
of
genetic
problems

in
kids
born
out
of
consanguineous
marriages.
People

trust
wikipedia!
–
I
told
myself,
and
smiled.
Why
am
I

smiling?
What's
making
me
happy?
I
was
scared
of

whatever
was
happening
to
me.



101




 LaajVanti


I
checked
if
Laajo
was
online
on
gtalk.
She
was,
and

what
a
status
message
she
had
–
Love
is
a
verb,
not
a

noun...
the
familiar
line
from
her
orkut
profile.

Stephen
Covey,
I
thought.
I
pinged
her.



Me:
u
thr?


Laajo:
whr?
:P


Me:
:)


Me:
got
to
talk


Laajo:
tell


Me:
coffee?


Laajo:
now?
just
had
lunch...
stomach
full
;‐)


Me:
mess
at
4?


Laajo:
OK...
i
have
project
team
meet
at
4.30...
what

u
wanna
tk?


Me:
important,
urgent


Laajo:
idiot
:P


Me:
OK,
see
u
at
4


Laajo:
k


Me:
bye


Laajo:
bbyeee,
tc



4.30‐6.00
PM
was
the
evening
Snacks
time.
So
I

thought
we'd
have
some
time
alone
in
the
mess
if
we


102




 LaajVanti


met
at
4.00,
before
the
crowds
came
in
to
hog...

Sunday
evening
–
Pakodas!.
Meanwhile,
the
boy
from

Gossip&Bite
delivered
the
stuff
I
had
ordered.
I

enjoyed
the
sandwiches
and
paratha,
and
then
the

Pulpy
Orange
in
the
end
made
it
all
very
special.
I

was
charged
up.
All
set
to
go
and
deliver.
There
was

time,
so
I
did
some
planning.



At
3.30,
I
felt
like
taking
a
small
power
nap.
So
I
set

the
alarm
for
3.50PM
and
3.55PM
in
the
mp3
alarm

clock
software
in
my
laptop,
and
for
3.57PM
in
my

mobile
phone.
There
was
no
way
I
could
have
slept,

though.



103




 LaajVanti


12





Laajo
was
looking
sexy.
She
had
the
glow
of
a
girl

just
out
of
bed.
With
her
beautiful
skirt,
sleeveless

top
and
rumpled
hair,
she
instantly
had
me
blank

and
gaping.



Laajo:
Hey,
kya
hua?


Me:
Nothing.
What
were
you
doing?


Laajo:
Dancing.
What's
the
matter
with
you?


Me:
Oh,
ya,
I
wanted
to
talk
to
you.


Laajo:
Ya.
What?


Me:
Yesterday,
you
said
you
are
going
to
marry
your

baavaa.


Laajo:
Hmm,
Ya.


Me:
It's
about
that.


Laajo:
What?


Me:
There
is
a
problem.
I
thought
you
should
be

fully
aware
of
it.


Laajo:
And
what
is
that?


Me:
May
be
you
already
know.
But
I
think
it's
my

responsibility
as
a
friend
to
discuss
it
with
you.
(And

104




 LaajVanti


then
a
loooooong
pause.)


Laajo:
(As
she
sat
beside
me)
When
are
you
going
to

really
tell
me?
You
are
doing
bla
bla
like
in
those

saas­bahu
wala
TV
serials,
mainly
in
the
last
10

minutes
of
every
episode,
where
they
keep
talking

gol
gol
and
as
you
slip
to
the
edge
of
your
seat

praying
that
something
happens,
they
ask
you
to

wait
for
the
next
episode.
HiHiHi.

Me:
Arrey!
Accha
listen.
Are
you
aware
that
kids

from
cousin
marriages
run
a
very
high
risk
of

genetic
defects?
Such
marriages
are
called

consanguineous
marriages
and
are
highly

discouraged.


Laajo:
Oh,
thattaaaa.
Ya,
I
have
some
idea.
But
never

went
deeper
into
it.
Such
marriages
are
very

common
in
our
community
yaar.
For
the
past
many

generations.
There
has
never
been
a
problem.
All

healthy
kids,
like
me.
See.
(Shows
her
biceps.)
HiHi.


Me:
Hey,
I'm
not
joking.
And
you
know
what,
the

risk
multiplies
many
times
if
there
is
a
history
of

such
marriages
in
the
family.
Which
seems
to
be
the

case
with
you.
How
about
your
grandparents?


Laajo:
They
were
cousins.
We
look
outside
only

when
there
is
no
one
of
comparable
age
and

105




 LaajVanti


marriageable
relation
within
the
family.


Me:
Hey,
you
shouldn't
take
this
so
lightly.


Laajo:
It's
OK
re.
Our
families
are
very
close.
My

father
promised
them
when
we
were
kids.
Everyone

is
soooo
happy
about
it.


Me:
That's
crazy.
Do
you
love
the
guy?


Laajo:
I
don't
know.
Actually,
I
don't.
pch!
pch!


Me:
Hey,
that's
crazy.
You
have
no
right
to
screw
the

lives
of
your
kids
by
being
so
careless.
They've
not

even
come
into
this
world,
and
you
are
playing
with

their
lives!
It's
probability
yaar.
The
fact
that
it
has

not
happened
so
far
doesn't
mean
it
won't
happen
in

future.
And
with
more
such
marriages
in
the
family

over
generations,
the
probability
of
genetic
defects

rises.
Bola
na.
And
as
far
as
love
is
concerned,
all
I

can
say
is
–
you
are
a
modern
educated
girl...

education
is
supposed
to
empower
you
to
make

choices,
to
do
what
you
think
is
good
for
you
and

everyone
you
care
about,
rather
than
conforming
to

cultural
and
social
norms
you
don't
believe
in.


Laajo:
But,
if
I
say
no
now,
my
dad
will
be
very
upset

re.
He's
been
planning
our
wedding
and
stuff
for

months
now.
Preparations
have
already
begun.

Everyone
is
so
excited.
How
can
I
ruin
everything

106




 LaajVanti


now?
I
can't
hurt
them
like
that.
Especially,
my
Dad.


Me:
Come
on...
It
won't
be
so
bad.
Think
how
bad
it

can
get
–
you
might
ruin
lives.
Think
of
your
little

kids.
How
will
they
feel
like
if
they
are
born

defective?


Laajo:
Shut
up!


Me:
See.
And
there
is
always
a
way
to
put
your
point

forward.
Plan
properly
and
talk
to
your
dad,
aaraam

se.
He's
your
dad,
not
your
enemy.
He
loves
you,
and

wants
the
best
for
you.
I
am
sure
he
will
understand

if
you
explain
it
properly
to
him.


Laajo:
Hmm.
Let
me
think
about
it.
Thanks
re,
you

thought
so
much.
True
friend
you
are.
(Pinched
my

cheek.)


Me:
(Smiled
in
embarrassment)
Any
time.


Laajo:
Can
you
do
one
thing?
Can
you
prepare
a
3‐4

page
report
on
the
risks
of
consanguineous

marriages?
With
proper
links
and
trustable

references?
I
will
send
it
to
my
dad
along
with
a

senti
email.
It's
easier
to
write
everything
than
talk

on
phone.
Email
mein
he
will
have
to
read
my
stuff

first.
On
phone,
he
will
start
arguing.


Me:
OK.
I'll
do
that.
And
don't
worry,
dear.


Laajo:
(Smiled)
You're
so
nice
re.


107




 LaajVanti


Me:
Am
always
there
for
my
best
friends.


Laajo:
Aha!
Best
friend!
Thanks
thanks!
Can
you
do

one
more
thing?
Send
me
whatever
links
you
have

right
now.
I'll
go
through
them
tonight.
Let
me
be

sure
about
it
first.


Me:
Sure.
I
found
many.
Even
wikipedia
has
a
lot
of

info
on
that.
You
can
start
from
the
page
on

Cousin_marriage
in
wikipedia.
Then
go
to
links
on

consanguinity.
And
then...


Laajo:
Hey,
hold
on.
You
have
to
send
me
those
links,

remember?
Aise
to
mai
bool
jaavungi.
HiHi.
Idiot.


Me:
HeHe.
OK.
Pakodas?


Laajo:
Chaloooo.



I
reached
my
room
at
5.00,
and
immediately
started

working
on
the
assignment
Laajo
had
given
me.
Ye

shaadi
nahi
ho
sakti.
I
first
had
to
mail
some
good

URLs
to
Laajo.
I
started
googling
and
reading
stuff

on
consanguineous
marriages.
Damn
them.
Couldn't

stop
the
thought
from
flashing
in
my
mind
quite
a

few
times
–
do
I
have
a
sexy
cousin
whom
I
can

marry?
And
each
time
it
did,
my
brain
scanned
over


108




 LaajVanti


all
my
near
and
distant
relatives.
Then
once
it
had

the
list
of
cousins
ready,
it
analyzed
them
one
by
one

on
whether
I
could
marry
them.
The
result
was

always
no,
with
regret.



I
tried
to
focus
on
my
task.
Found
similar

information
everywhere.
The
main
differentiator

was
the
strength
of
the
content
and
trustworthiness

of
the
source.
In
2
hours,
I
had
about
20
links,
which

I
sent
to
Laajo
in
one
go
on
gtalk.
I
also
immediately

mailed
them
to
her
insti
id
and
gmail
id.
I
got
a
reply

within
a
minute
from
her
on
gtalk
–
Thanks,
now

work
on
PKT
assignment
stupid.
I
just
sent
a
smiley

to
her
and
logged
off.
Am
I
OK?


PKT
ate
all
my
time
till
mid‐night.
Though
Sankalp

and
Rajhans
did
most
of
the
work,
I
still
had
to
sit

with
them
and
give
moral
support.
Once
every
5‐10

minutes
Rajhans
would
read
a
Santa­Banta
joke

from
his
mobile
phone
and
laugh
his
ass
out.

Sankalp
and
I
would
laugh
once
he
stopped

laughing.
Rajhans
would
then
delete
the
SMS,
calling

it
bekaar
joke.
Sankalp
and
I
would
laugh
again,

louder
this
time.
And
then,
back
to
work.



109




 LaajVanti


Immediately
after
submission
of
the
assignment,
I

told
them
I
was
sleepy
and
came
back
to
my
room.

It's
now
going
to
be
a
night­out!
I
signed
out
of
all

messengers
and
emails,
and
closed
my
Outlook
and

DC++.
I
called
up
Gossip&Bite
and
ordered
5
packets

of
Uncle
Chips,
4
paneer‐grilled
sandwiches
and
a

coke.
Focus
Sridhar
–
I
told
myself.
And
after
6
hours

of
intense
literature
survey,
I
wrote
the
best
report

of
my
life,
complete
with
a
cover
page
and

references
in
the
APA
format!
The
report
was
ready

at
9
AM
as
I
emptied
the
last
packet
of
Uncle
Chips.

The
grub
was
all
in
my
stomach
now,
doing
gur
gur.



I
converted
the
word
doc
to
pdf
and
emailed
it
to

Laajo.
Then
went
to
pee.
The
early
morning
gentle

breeze
felt
wonderful,
as
I
walked
towards
the
toilet

through
the
corridor.
I
came
back
and
threw
myself

on
my
bed
the
very
next
moment,
stretching
with
a

loud
long
deep
sign
of
relief.
Lectures?
I
asked

myself.
Bhaad
mein
gaye
lectures...
I
answered,
and

went
to
deep
sleep.
When
I
got
up,
it
was
evening

snacks
time
again!



110




 LaajVanti


13





For
the
whole
week
thereafter,
I
did
not
bring
up
the

topic
of
Laajo's
marriage
while
talking
to
her.
I

always
wanted
to,
but
the
way
she
pretended
as
if

nothing
had
happened
made
it
very
difficult
for
me

to
bring
it
up.
After
all,
it
was
her
personal
matter.

Although
I
had
helped
her,
I
had
no
right
to
keep

poking
my
nose
into
her
personal
life.
I
have
a
wise

side
in
me
which
thinks
stuff
like
this.
I
have
another

side,
which
keeps
saying
things
like
–
what
the
heck!

Go
do
it!.
Generally,
the
former
determines
what
I

do.
Mostly
coz
it
involves
inaction.
It's
so
easy
not
to

act
and
tag
your
inaction
as
wisdom.
Wisdom
and

maturity
are
the
two
most
abused
and

misunderstood
qualities
girls
look
for
in
guys.
There

are
always
easy
ways
to
fake
both
of
them,
and

make
girls
fall
for
you,
at
least
for
short
term.
For

example,
in
most
cases,
you
can
seem
mature
by

being
serious
and
wise
by
not
doing
anything.





111




 LaajVanti


Laajo
called
me
stupid,
idiot,
paagal,
mad
fellow

more
often
now.
She
laughed
at
all
my
jokes;
even

the
ones
that
I
knew
were
outright
PJs
without

doubt.
Occasionally
she
would
slap
me
on
my
bicep

while
laughing.
The
way
she
used
to
hold
me
at
my

shoulder
when
she
stood
on
one
leg
and
tied
her

sandal
–
I
can't
tell
you
how
enchanted
I
used
to
get

from
inside
in
that
moment.
From
outside,
I
used
to

be
expressionless,
pretending
as
if
nothing
unusual

happened.
She
has
started
liking
me!
–
I
used
to
think

–
Or
am
I
again
becoming
a
just­a­good­friend?.



Her
mood
was
good
all
through
the
week.
Only
on

Saturday
she
seemed
slightly
cranky.
She
came
in
a

Salwar
Kameez
that
day.
During
lectures,
I
kept

turning
once
in
a
while
to
look
at
her.
After
two

lectures
she
couldn't
take
it
any
longer.
She
gave
me

an
angry
stare
with
her
biiig
eyes
after
which
I

couldn't
dare
to
look
at
her
the
whole
day.



It
was
Monday
again.
In
the
morning,
at
around

7.30AM,
I
was
alone
in
the
mess,
having
my

breakfast
and
watching
the
LCD
TV
newly
installed

112




 LaajVanti


in
the
mess.
Laajo
came
and
sat
by
my
side.
For

anyone
else
at
IIML,
7.30AM
was
like
mid‐night.
But

getting
up
so
early
was
a
habit
Laajo
and
I
somehow

shared.
She
had
just
taken
bath
and
her
hair
was

wet.
Her
smell
was
intoxicating.
Her
smiling
face

was
so
cute,
I
wanted
to
kiss
her.



Me:
Hey,
what's
up?
Night‐out?


Laajo:
No
re.
Slept
early,
woke
up
early.
You?


Me:
I
got
up
at
6,
went
for
a
jog.


Laajo:
How
many
rounds?


Me:
3.


Laajo:
Wow!
I
also
think
of
running.
But,
you
know,

am
so
lazy.
Pch
Pch



Me:
Come
along
na...
kal
se?.


Laajo:
OK!


Me:
You'll
come
in
shorts?


Laajo:
No,
skirt,
mini‐skirt,
micro‐mini...
Abba!
Guys!


Me:
HeHe.
Sorry,
was
just
curious.


Laajo:
I
know.
Typical
frustoo
IIM
guy.


Me:
(Didn't
know
what
to
say)
HeHe.


Laajo:
Listen,
I
wanted
to
thank
you.
You
saved
my

life.


Me:
(Confused,
I
hoped
it
was
about
her
marriage)


113




 LaajVanti


Oh.
You
are
welcome.


Laajo:
Stupid!
When
did
you
save
my
life?
Won't

you
ask?


Me:
Oh
ya.
When?
What
do
you
mean?


Laajo:
Uff.
Why
are
you
so
absent‐minded?
Anyway,

my
marriage
with
my
baavaa
–
it's
not
happening.
I

read
the
report
you
submitted,
went
through
all
the

links
and
references.
I
also
did
some
research
of
my

own.
And
you
are
absolutely
right,
it's
very
risky
re,

and
after
so
many
generations
of
cousin‐marriage
in

my
family,
my
kids
will
certainly
have
problems
if
I

marry
baavaa.


Me:
You
mean,
high
probability,
right?


Laajo:
Offo,
of
course.
I
sent
an
email
to
my
dad
with

all
proofs.
I
don't
think
he
went
through
all
that

evidence
at
first.
He
just
shot
an
angry
reply
to
me

immediately.
He
did
not
believe
a
word
of
what
I

was
saying.
Besides,
there
haven't
been
any
such

problems
within
our
family
over
the
past
few

generations.


Me:
Then?


Laajo:
I
called
him
up,
cried,
but
refused
to
listen
to

him.
Then
he
cooled
down,
and
started
listening

properly
to
my
arguments.
I
made
him
read
your

114




 LaajVanti


report,
its
references
and
a
lot
of
material
on
the

internet.
He
got
somewhat
convinced
that
there
was

a
real
risk.
But
since
it
was
also
a
prestige
issue
for

him,
he
was
hesitant.
Are
you
listening
or
watching

TV?


Me:
Listening
yaar.
Then
what
did
you
do?


Laajo:
I
told
him
I'll
stay
single
all
my
life
but
never

marry
any
relative.
Bass,
he
was
in
tears,
I
was
in

tears.
I
cried
very
audibly.


Me:
That's
it?


Laajo:
Yaaa!
Lot
of
kuchi­kuchi
after
that,
and
he

agreed.
My
mom
is
still
not
convinced.
But
dad
said

he'll
take
care.


Me:
Oh!
Cool!


Laajo:
Am
available
now.
HiHi.


Me:
HeHe.
Will
you
marry
me?


Laajo:
Get
lost!
Always
joking.


Me:
Oh.
You
get
lost.
Lemme
watch
TV.


Laajo:
Your
head!
I
take
back
my
thanks.
Stupid.

Idiot.
Donkey.
Monkey.
(Started
punching
on
my

back.)


Me:
I
guess
none
of
these
words
have
feminine

forms...
(Do
they?)
HeHe


Laajo:
Ya.
That's
because
only
men
are
all
these

115




 LaajVanti


things.
:P
:P


Me:
And
women?


Laajo:
We
are
angels


Me:
HaHa.
Do
you
have
wings
which
you
hide
under

your
dress?

Laajo:
Shut
up!
See
you
in
the
class.


Me:
HeHe.
Bye!


Laajo:
Bye!
(Punched
me
hard
on
my
shoulder
one

last
time
before
turning
and
walking
off
towards
her

hostel
shaking
her
ass
gently
as
she
walked.
She
was

beautiful...
everywhere
;‐).)



116




 LaajVanti


14





Laajo:
Your
wife
will
be
verrry
happy
re.


Me:
Why?


Laajo:
You'll
take
her
for
pani
puri
everyday,
stand

with
her
and
eat.
Hard
to
find
guys
like
you.
How
did

you
become
such
a
pani
puri
addict?


Me:
(I
blushed)
HeHe.
I
was
born
with
that

addiction.


Laajo:
Quite
a
girly
addiction
I
must
say.
HiHi.


Me:
(Embarrassed)
OK
OK.


Laajo:
You
eat
chaat
also?


Me:
Yes,
lots.
I
love
it.


Laajo:
HiHiHi.
All
chatora
things
you
like.
(Gobbled

one
biiig
batasha
–
that's
what
pani
puri,
a.k.a.
gol­
gappa,
a.k.a.
gupchup
is
called
in
Lucknow.)


Me:
You
know,
pani
puri
is
like
daaroo.
If
you
have
a

good
pani‐puri‐partner,
you
enjoy
eating
these
even

more.


Laajo:
Bewda!


Me:
Yaar,
you
are
my
best
pani‐puri‐partner.
You

don't
have
those
stupid
feminine
concerns
about

117




 LaajVanti


hygiene.
Otherwise,
it's
impossible
to
convince
a
girl

that
when
it
comes
to
pani
puri
–
the
dirtier
are

tastier.
Pani
puris
and
Men
–
most
females
pick
the

wrong
ones.

Laajo:
Shut
up.
Nee
Netti.
That’s
not
true
–
neither
of

what
you
said
–
about
me
and
about
females.
Idiot.

You
don’t
know
anything.

Me:
Oh.
Wait.
(To
the
pani
puri
wala)
Bhayya,
pyaaz

bhi
dalna.


Laajo:
(To
the
pani
puri
wala)
Merko
pyaaz
nai
hona.


Me:
Pani
puris
are
best
in
Bombay.
Chaat
is
best
in

Bilaspur.


Laajo:
I
like
them
everywhere.
I
ate
pani
puri
in

Chennai
also,
on
road‐side.
But
I
like
Tirupati
ka

pani
puri
most...
on
the
road
around
Pushkarini...
in

front
of
hotel
Sindhuri
Park...
you
know?


Me:
No.
Never
went
to
Tirupati.


Laajo:
What
kind
of
a
gult
are
you?
Total
fraud
you

are.
Ganda
Gulti.
GG.
HiHi.


Me:
Kya
bakwaas!
But
it's
strange,
you
eat
road‐side

pani
puri.
Most
girls
don’t
eat
stuff
on
the
road‐side.


Laajo:
Ya,
those
loser
girls!
Street‐food
tastes
best

on
the
street.


Me:
Cool.
I
must
say,
your
hubby
will
be
a
very

happy
guy.
HaHa.


118




 LaajVanti


Laajo:
Copy‐cat,
eh?
(Gobbled
the
last
pani
puri.)

Want
another
plate?


Me:
You
want?


Laajo:
Yes.


Me:
OK.
(To
the
pani
puri
wala)
Bhayya,
do
plate
aur.


Laajo:
(To
the
pani
puri
wala)
Merko
pyaaz
nai
hona.


Me:
HeHe.


Laajo:
What?


Me:
Nothing.


Laajo:
Your
headd.
You
make
fun
of
me
na?


Me:
Oh
no,
never.
You
are
my
sweet
pani
puri
buddy.

The
best
time
of
my
day
is
when
I
am
eating
pani

puri
with
you.


Laajo:
Thanks
re.
I
also
enjoy
coming
out
and
eating

pani
puri
with
you.
You
are
a
unique
piece,
really
–
a

guy
who
is
a
pani
puri
lover
and
has
a
bike.


Me:
Aah,
I'm
flattered.


Laajo:
HiHi.
OK
OK.
You
know,
I
once
ate
vodka
pani

puri.
It
was
yukkk
(said
with
an
expression
on
her

face
as
if
she
tasted
shit).


Me:
I
guess
beer
would
go
better
with
pani
puri
than

vodka.


Laajo:
That
will
be
called
Beer
puri...
Chhiiii.
I
don't

know
how
and
why
people
drink
beer.
I
don't

119




 LaajVanti


understand
why
beer
exists.
It's
totally
useless.

Chadta
nai,
taste
ganda,
makes
you
motu
(poking
her

finger
into
my
tummy).
HiHi.


Me:
Don't
do
that.


Laajo:
Ya,
hurts
your
baby.
HiHi.


Me:
(Irritated)
Shut
up.


Laajo:
Does
it
kick
when
you
say
aal
is
well?


Me:
(Rudely)
Yes,
it
just
did.
Eat
pani
puri,
not
my

head.


Laajo:
OK
OK.
Sorry.
(Both
ate
our
last
pani
puris

together.)


Me:
(To
the
pani
puri
wala)
Bhayya,
ek
sookha
puri

dena,
masala
pyaaz
namak
daal
ke.


Laajo:
(To
the
pani
puri
wala)
Merko
bi
hona.
(She

looked
into
my
eyes
and
we
both
smiled)



120




 LaajVanti


15





Laajo:
I
hate
waiting.
Why
are
they
not
opening
the

door?
The
show
time
was
7.30,
and
it's
7.35
already.

Pch
Pch!
Why
are
you
laughing?
Do
you
want
me
to

break
your
teeth?
You
have
too
many.


Me:
HaHaHa.


Laajo:
You
are
impossible.
You
want
one
now?

(Pulled
my
ear
haaaaard.)


Me:
AAaaaa!!!
Sorry
Sorry.
Leave
my
ear.
Genie.

Angel.
Jaanu.


Laajo:
(Left
the
ear
and
smiled)
Wow.
Genie,
angel...

so
sweet.
But
am
not
jaanu
vaanu,
OK?
OK?


Me:
OK
mam.


Laajo:
Pch
Pch.
When
will
they
open?
Do
something,

or
I
will
kick
you.


Me:
HeHe.
It's
funny
how
you
get
restless
and
do

this
little
nautanki
of
yours
before
every
movie,

although
you
know
they
always
open
a
few
minutes

late.


Laajo:
I
am
like
that
only.


121




 LaajVanti


Me:
I
can
see
that.
Hey,
look
at
that
couple
in
that

corner.
The
guy
just
kissed
her.
Bugger.
She's
hot.

See
what
she's
wearing.
And
his
hands...


Laajo:
Abbaaaaa,
don't
stare
like
that.


Me:
Who
cares.


Laajo:
Hey,
you
are
wearing
an
IIML
t‐shirt.
You

represent
the
brand
IIML
yaar.
Behave
properly.


Me:
(What
could
I
say?)
Hmm.



Laajo:
HiHi.
Caught
you!


Me:
(Forced
a
smile
on
my
face)
Oh
no,
you
didn't.


Laajo:
Your
headd.
Hey,
when
will
you
change
your

dress
again?
I
am
tired
of
seeing
this
same
t‐shirt

and
jeans.


Me:
Arey,
they
are
so
clean.
I
guess
I
can
wear
these

for
another
week.


Laajo:
(Covering
her
open
mouth
with
her
right

palm)
Hawwww,
now
I
understood
why
you
wear

dark
colors
all
the
time.
Chii.
Stand
far
from
me.

(Held
her
nose
with
her
thumb
and
index
finger
of

her
right
hand.)
How
often
do
you
take
bath?


Me:
Daily.
Hey,
come
on.
Leave
that
nose.
You
smell

anywhere,
it's
all
masculine
fragrance!
You
can't

resist
it.
See
(showed
her
my
right
armpit).


Laajo:
Abbaaaa.
Stop
it.
Now
listen,
from
next
time,

122




 LaajVanti


before
you
come
out
with
me,
you
must
take
bath,

wear
freshly
washed
and
ironed
clothes
and
put
lots

of
good
deo.
And
ya,
apply
some
oil
on
your
head.

Preserve
whatever
little
hair
is
left.
Otherwise

nobody
will
marry
you.


Me:
I
don't
care.
I
am
cool!


Laajo:
Huh.


Me:
(After
a
minute
of
looking
here
and
there
to

avoid
eye
contact)
Hey,
we
are
watching
too
many

movies
outside
aren't
we?
We're
coming
here
2‐3

times
every
week.


Laajo:
SBI
zindabaad!.


Me:
I
took
loan
from
PNB.
Very
poor
service.

Chasing
them
for
money
is
a
biiig
pain.
Nor
do
I
have

any
savings.
Spent
all
that
I
earned
in
job.


Laajo:
HiHi.
Consistently
hopeless
case
you
are.

HiHi.
Chill
yaar.
Maiii
oon
na.
Chalo,
let's
buy

popcorn.


Me:
OK.
And
coke
and
samosas
–
our
usual
order.

Why
don't
you
try
samosas
today.
You
never
even

take
a
bite.


Laajo:
I
don't
want
samosas.


Me:
They
are
nice
here.
That's
why
I
come
to
PVR.


Laajo:
You
come
to
PVR
for
samosas?


123




 LaajVanti


Me:
Ya,
I
mean
besides
the
movie,
of
course.
The

whole
package
is
the
best
here.
PVR
is
in
Sahara

Gunj,
where
there's
Dominos
as
well.
So
you
can
eat

a
cheese‐burst
pizza,
then
enjoy
the
movie
with
coke

and
samosas.


Laajo:
Huh!


Me:
Only
one
problem
‐
the
crowd
is
too
family
type

here.
Go
to
Fun,
and
you'll
find
all
young
hot
babes.

That's
one
compromise
I
make.
(Laajo
was
not

listening
to
me.
She
went
to
the
counter
and
ordered

all
that
we
had
decided,
and
made
the
payment.)


Laajo:
Sorry,
come
again.


Me:
Nothing.
I'll
just
go
to
the
restroom
and
come.


Laajo:
Offo,
go
fast.


Me:
(I
ran,
peed
and
was
back
in
a
minute!)
Am

here.


Laajo:
OK,
here
are
your
samosas
and
coke.
Pakad.

(I
took
them
from
her.
She
carried
the
popcorn
and

her
coke.)


Me:
Ya.
Chalo,
it's
open.
Fast.


Laajo:
(Very
excited)
Chaloooooo...



124




 LaajVanti


16





It
felt
like
just
a
couple
of
days
since
I
came
to
IIML,

and
here
were
the
mid‐term
exams
already.
5
weeks

have
passed.
I
had
no
clue
what
was
taught
in
any
of

the
5
full‐credit
and
one
half‐credit
courses
that
I

had
to
study
for
the
mid‐terms.
I
was
surprised
to

find
myself
totally
blank
when
I
tried
to
recall

anything
taught
in
the
15
hours
per
course
of

lectures
that
went
by.
All
I
could
remember
were
my

bak­baks
with
Laajo.
Of
the
time
when
I
was
not

doing
bak­bak,
there
was
nothing
in
my
memory,
as

if
I
had
been
out
with
10
Patiyala
pegs
of
Smirnoff.

By
the
way,
I
indeed
was
drunk
in
one
of
the

lectures.
That
was
for
COM
–
Communication
–

presentation.
I
drank
2
shots
of
neat
vodka
to
drive

away
the
nervousness
while
presenting.
It
worked

brilliantly.
I
was
charming,
funny,
witty,
fluent
and

sensible,
rather
than
the
usual
nervous,
shivering,

stammering,
blabbering,
lost
and
boring
speaker.

Whoever
has
problems
speaking
in
public
please


125




 LaajVanti


note
–
a
little
bit
of
daaru
is
the
solution.
It
works

brilliantly.
I
am
sure
Obama
does
it.
Go
ask
him.


I
happened
to
visit
the
library
–
Gyanodaya
–
about
a

week
before
the
exams
to
meet
my
project‐group

mates
for
the
LAM
project.
LAM
is
Legal
Aspects
of

Management,
a
half
credit
course.
I
was
surprised
to

see
the
library
fully
packed,
with
people
mugging

intently
like
kids.
'There
is
still
a
week!'
I
wondered.
I

tried
to
ignore
them,
sit
through
the
meeting
looking

at
the
ceiling
and
run
away
from
the
library
ASAP.
I

wish
I
hadn't
gone
there
at
all.
I
always
said
library
is

a
bad
venue
for
project
meetings.
Of
course
there

were
many
other
groups
there
in
the
library

working
on
various
projects,
coz
lots
of
submissions

were
lined
up
just
before
the
exams.
But
the
mind

sees
clearer
and
sooner
what
it
doesn’t
like
to,
and

in
my
case,
it
was
the
sight
of
muggus
savoring

pages
over
pages.
And
hereon
for
the
whole
week,
I

had
exams
at
the
back
of
my
mind
all
the
time.
I

wasn't
like
this

–
I
thought.
But
then
I
realized
that

I
had
never
had
so
many
muggus
around
me.

Strangely,
IIT
had
fewer
muggus
and
more
cool

types.



126




 LaajVanti


Exam
fever
is
always
contagious.
But
still,
I
didn't

study.
Jaan
jaaye
par
shaan
na
jaaye.
On
the
eve
of

the
first
paper
I
pinged
Laajo
on
gTalk.
It
was

Sunday.



Me:
hi...
u
there?


Laajo:
tell


Me:
started
manac?


Laajo:
no.
will
start.


Me:
where
to
study
from?


Laajo:
reddy's
notes,
handouts,
and
lil
bit
from
book


Me:
who?
raama
reddy?
or
sathish
reddy?



Laajo:
raama,
of
course.
he
wrote
every
word
that

the
prof
spoke
in
the
class

Me:
hehe...
loser
:P
:P


Laajo:
your
headdd.
they're
nice
notes
re.
without

them,
it'll
be
very
difficult.
everyone
is
xeroxing

them


Me:
i'll
read
the
book...
i
can’t
understand
other

people’s
notes

Laajo:
book
is
crap


Me:
why?
how
many
chapters?


Laajo:
15
to
cover
all
the
topics
taught.
but
the
prof

didn't
teach
from
there.
so
no
use
reading
book.


127




 LaajVanti


notes
r
damn
good


Me:
u
have
them?


Laajo:
ya,
xeroxed.


Me:
didn't
xerox
for
me?


Laajo:
hello!
reddy
stays
in
your
hostel
only.
u
shud

have
xeroxed
for
both
of
us.


Me:
u
came
here
to
get
the
notes?


Laajo:
no.
rajhans
xeroxed
it
for
me
and
nirmala


Me:
oh...
bugger


Laajo:
shut
up.
he's
a
nice
and
sincere
guy.
did
it

without
my
asking.

Me:
i
am
coming
to
your
room


Laajo:
why?
me
and
naga
r
studying


Me:
naagbhussss
:P


Laajo:
shut
up


Me:
will
xerox
the
xerox
and
give
it
back
to
u


Laajo:
why
don't
u
take
from
reddy
directly?


Me:
i
don't
talk
to
him.
he
is
very
RG


Laajo:
uff
u
guys!
OK
come,
but
not
now.
dinner

time,
come
and
take
the
notes
at
7.30
and
return

them
by
8.30.
OK?


Me:
OK
mam...
chalo
I'm
going
to
sleep...
wake
me
up

at
7.30...
gn



128




 LaajVanti


She
did
not
reply
to
my
gn.
I
waited
for
5
minutes.

She's
turning
muggu,
I
thought.
I
love
muggu
girls.
I

set
the
alarm
for
7.15PM
and
went
to
sleep.
15

minute
power
nap!



129




 LaajVanti


17





I
was
laughing,
jumping,
running
beside
a
stream
of

calm
and
serene
water.
There
were
snow‐covered

mountains
on
all
sides.
I
guess
I
was
in
the

Himalayas.
It
was
the
most
beautiful
dream
I
ever

had.
I
was
so
happy.
I
was
throwing
stones
into
the

stream.
Suddenly
I
started
peeing
into
it.
And
my

phone
rang.


I
got
up
in
shock
–
How
long
have
I
been
sleeping?
I

glanced
at
my
laptop’s
digital­clock
screensaver
to

check
the
time
as
I
picked
up
my
cell
phone
ringing

on
the
table
beside
my
bed.
7.15AM?
I
slept
for
12

hours!
I
checked
the
mp3
alarm
on
my
laptop.
I
was

supposed
to
wake
up
in
15
minutes.
The
alarm
was

nicely
turned
off.
Damn.
The
irritating
ring‐tone
of

my
mobile
phone
attracted
my
attention
again.
Why

is
Laajo
calling?
I
had
to
collect
the
xerox!



Me:
Hello.


Laajo:
Heiii.
What
are
you
doing?
Studied?
You

130




 LaajVanti


didn't
come
for
the
notes...


Me:
Oye,
why
didn't
you
wake
me
up?
I
got
up
now.


Laajo:
Wow!


Me:
What
wow?
I
am
dead.
(I
had
to
pee...
urgently.)


Laajo:
I
never
said
I'd
wake
you
up,
OK?


Me:
Oh.
(Wore
my
slippers
and
walked
to
the
toilet)


Laajo:
OK,
don't
worry.
There's
still
lot
of
time.
The

exam
is
in
the
afternoon
na.
It's
at
2.
You
have
6

hours
to
study.


Me:
(Peeing,
yawning)
I
don't
even
have
the
stuff
to

study
from.


Laajo:
What's
this
echo?
And
the
tuk
tuk
sound?

What
are
you
doing?
Where
are
you?


Me:
Nothing.


Laajo:
Are
you
in
the
bathroom?


Me:
HeHe.
Yes.


Laajo:
Chi


Me:
(Coming
out)
OK
am
out.


Laajo:
Dirty
fellow.
Shameless
fellow.
Mannerless

fellow.


Me:
Hey,
I'll
come
to
your
room
at
9.
You
have
to

teach
me
now.


Laajo:
Hey,
I
have
to
study.


Me:
Aren't
you
done
yet?


131




 LaajVanti


Laajo:
I
am,
but
if
I
don't
revise,
I
won't
remember

anything
in
the
exam.


Me:
(Irritated)
What
the...
I
am
coming
at
9.
You
be

ready.
4
hours
enough
na?
Let's
keep
1
hour
for

lunch
and
getting
ready.


Laajo:
(Worried)
When
will
I
study?


Me:
You
study
from
now
till
9.


Laajo:
Whaaaat
re...
pch
pch...
OK
you
come.
I
am

also
not
very
confident
in
manac...
will
tell
you
what

I
know.
Then
we’ll
revise
together.
There
are
3

problem
sheets
also.
We
have
to
solve
them.
And

then
last
year's
mid‐term
paper.
So
much!
Shit!


Me:
Don't
worry…
we'll
do
it
all.
Chalo
see
you.
Bye.


Laajo:
Bye.
And
ya,
don't
you
ever
do
su
su
while

talking
to
me.
I
will
kill
you.


Me:
OK,
we'll
see.


Laajo:
Huh!
Get
Lost.
Bye.


Me:
Hey
one
quick
question.
Where
do
guys
do
su
su

when
they
are
in
the
girls'
hostel?
I
mean
all
those

guys
who
stay
there
all
the
time.
Keeps.


Laajo:
Huh?
I
don't
know.
May
be
in
the
loo.


Me:
Why
don't
you
find
out?


Laajo:
You
come
here
and
find
out
yourself.
I
have


132




 LaajVanti


better
things
to
do.
Idiot.


Me:
HeHe...
Bye



133




 LaajVanti


18





This
was
my
first
proper
entry
into
the
girls'
hostel.
I

had
entered
H‐1
once
in
a
drunken
state
after
an

insti
party,
thinking
it
was
my
own
hostel.
(H‐1,2,3

are
girls'
hostels.)
I
went
to
the
room
which
should

have
been
my
room,
relative
position
wise,
if
it
were

my
hostel.
Luckily
found
it
locked.
Though
it
left
me

wondering
for
a
while
as
to
why
the
heck
my
room

was
locked,
I
was
safely
out
before
long
and
figured

it
all
out
without
getting
beaten.
The
watchman

outside
the
hostel
watched
me
closely,
as
I
dragged

my
unstable
body
into
and
out
of
H‐1.
Whenever
I

saw
him
after
that
night,
he
gave
me
the
smile
which

he
would
if
he
had
my
naked
photographs,
which
he

could
expose
but
was
open
to
negotiate.



I
had
memorized
Laajo's
room
number
the
day
she

updated
etrigan
with
it.
Sharp
at
9,
I
was
standing
at

her
door.
Bathed,
fresh
as
a
lemon,
neatly
dressed,

doubly
perfumed,
with
hair
strands
nicely
combed
‐


134




 LaajVanti


1
strand
per
square
inch
–
I
looked
like
the
family

guy,
though
much
taller.
Laajo
opened
the
door.



Me:
(Noticing
the
desert
cooler
at
the
window)
Hey,

you
have
a
cooler?

Laajo:
Ya,
why?
You
don’t?

Me:
No.

Laajo:
So
much
heat
re,
how
do
you
bear?

Me:
Mausam
ke
thhapede
sehna
mard
ka
farz
hota

hai.

Laajo:
What
what
what?

Me:
Nothing.
I
don’t
need
a
cooler.

Laajo:
(Confused)
OK.
Come.
Sit.
(Pointed
at
the

chair
with
her
hand.)

Me:
Hey,
your
neighbor
is
hottt!
What's
her
name?

(Something
moved
in
her
neighbor's
room.
Perhaps

she
heard.)


Laajo:
Shut
up.
Come
on
in,
fast.
(She
shut
the
door

as
I
went
in.)
Mad
or
what?
She'll
kill
me
if
she

heard.


Me:
What
did
you
do?


Laajo:
Nothing.
But
I
told
her
yesterday
that
you
are

my
very
good
friend.
And
now
this
is
how
you

impress
her.



135




 LaajVanti


Me:
Arey,
she
must
be
feeling
happy.
I
called
her
hot.

Yaar,
what's
that
thing
which
she's
wearing
called?

Laajo:
I
didn't
see.
And
don't
ask
me
such
stupid

questions.
Ayyoooo
(beat
her
head
thrice
with
her

right
palm).
(Whispering...)
You
know,
she's
had
4

affairs
and
4
breakups
since
we
came
here.


Me:
Whoa!
Name?


Laajo:
Sheila
Yadav.
Bihari.
You
know,
there
is

always
some
guy
in
her
room.


Me:
Really?
And
do
you
hear
any
noises?


Laajo:
What
noises?


Me:
You
know...
ooh
aah
ooh
aah...
love
making
;‐)


Laajo:
Ufff,
your
dirty
mind!
I
don't
hear
anything.

You
are
here
to
study
or
to
peek
into
girls'
rooms?


Me:
Both.
Hey,
do
you
know
any
lesbian
here?
I

want
a
lesbian
friend.
It
must
be
cool
having
one.


Laajo:
What
the
duck?
How
would
I
know?


Me:
Why?
You
are
so
sexy.
I
guess
a
lesbian
would

find
you
sexy
too.
No?


Laajo:
I
don't
know
about
lesbians.
I
am
straight.


Me:
(Scratching
my
chin)
How
can
you
be
so
sure?

Have
you
tried
this
that
these
those?


Laajo:
(Really
angry)
What
kind
of
picchi
vedhava

are
you?
Your
head
is
full
of
shit.
I
won't
teach
you

136




 LaajVanti


anything.
Go.


Me:
Sorry
Sorry.


Laajo:
I
am
angry
(looked
away
from
me).


Me:
Sorry.
My
Laajo.
My
genie.
My
angel.
Genius

Laajo.
Stud
Laajo.


Laajo:
(As
I
was
about
to
pinch
her
cheek,
she

jumped
back.)
Sit
there
chup
chaap.
Shall
we
study

now?


Me:
(Suddenly
tense)
Haan,
study
study.


Laajo:
(Smiling)
Idiot.


Me:
Chalo,
can
I
sit
on
your
bed?
Why
do
you
have
3

teddies?


Laajo:
HiHi.
They
are
cute
na?
Ikki,
Chikki,
Mikki!


Me:
Wow,
they
have
names!
Are
they
guy‐teddies
or

girl‐teddies?


Laajo:
Guys,
of
course.
Teddies
are
never
girls.

That's
why
guys
don't
keep
teddies.


Me:
That's
not
true.
I
once
saw
a
teddy
wearing
a

frock.


Laajo:
A
cross‐dresser
teddy.
HiHi.


Me:
Oh,
may
be.
I
did
not
check
whether
guy
or
girl.


Laajo:
Idiot.
You
and
your
crap
thoughts!
Sit
on
that

chair.
(I
sat.
She
sat
on
the
bed
cross‐legged
and
held

one
teddy
in
her
lap.)


137




 LaajVanti


Me:
OK,
let's
start.


Laajo:
OK.
Here,
look
at
the
notes.
Let's
start
from

Lecture
1.


Me:
OK
mam...



At
11
PM,
we
were
done
with
theory.
I
thought
it

was
over.
But
then...



Laajo:
We
have
to
do
last
year's
mid‐term
paper.

And
the
3
problem
sheets
also.
Chalo,
we'll
go
to

Nimmo's
room.
We’ll
revise
everything
after
coming

back
from
there.

Me:
Why
Nimmo?
You
do
it
na.
I
mean,
we'll
do
it
na.


Laajo:
She's
a
CA
yaar.
We'll
quickly
understand

from
her
how
to
solve
and
come
back.
Let's
go.


Me:
No
need.
We
know
concepts.
Now
we'll
solve

problems
in
the
exam.
Why
care
what
was
asked
last

year?
It's
a
waste
of
time.
And
ditch
the
problem

sheets.

Laajo:
I
heard
that
the
prof
repeats
a
lot
of

questions.

Me:
What's
the
fun
writing
down
memorized

solutions
to
problems
in
the
exam?

138




 LaajVanti


Laajo:
We
can
easily
score
marks
re.


Me:
I
don't
care,
it's
against
my
principles
to
score

marks
like
that.


Laajo:
Your
headdd!
I
am
going…
you
do
what
you

want.


Me:
What
will
I
do.
Chalo
I
will
come.
Will
say
hi
to

Nirmala.
She's
a
cutie.


Laajo:
HiHi.
Nautanki!


Me:
Is
she
seeing
someone?


Laajo:
No.


Me:
Oh!
So
I
have
a
chance!


Laajo:
You
have
no
chance
with
her.
You
have
no

chance
with
anybody
here.


Me:
Why
do
you
say
so?


Laajo:
Look
at
you.
You
are
not
boy‐friend
material.


Me:
You
have
no
idea.
There
are
many
girls
who
lust

for
me.


Laajo:
May
be.
But
not
here.
Your
standard
is
way

too
low.


Me:
(Irritated)
Where
is
Nimmo's
room?


Laajo:
HiHi.
Chalo.
Follow
me.



Nirmala's
room
was
4
rooms
from
Laajo's.
Nimmo,

the
CA.
CA's
have
an
unfair
advantage
in
subjects


139




 LaajVanti


like
MANAC,
i.e.,
Management
Accounting,
the
most

dreaded
course
in
the
1st
term,
and
the
very
first

course
in
Finance.
I
hated
those
accounting

problems.
I
could
never
balance
a
balance
sheet,
and

there
were
many
like
me.
And
those
CA's
did
it
like

magic.



My
struggle
with
Finance
started
that
day
with

MANAC
and
has
grown
ever
since.
As
a
Finance

professional
now,
I
always
feel
like
I
used
to
when
I

was
a
Software
professional
a
few
years
back
–

blank,
confused,
clueless
and
majorly
screwed
up.


Nirmala's
room
was
fully
packed
with
guys,
about

15
inside
–
some
sitting
some
standing
–
fully

engrossed
looking
at
something
at
one
corner
of
the

room,
and
3
outside,
standing
and
listening
with
full

concentration
while
trying
to
get
a
peek.
People
are

such
fighters
here.
Why
am
I
not?
One
of
the
guys

standing
outside,
Atul,
was
our
section‐mate.
Laajo

tapped
on
his
shoulder,
asking
him
what
was
going

on.
He
shouted
–
'MANAC
remedial.
Sunne
do
yaar,'

and
we
lost
him.



140




 LaajVanti


Laajo
looked
at
me
with
a
puppy
face,
as
if
someone

just
stole
her
cutest
teddy
and
she
felt
helpless.
I

smiled,
to
cheer
her
up.
'Chalo,
we'll
do
it
ourselves.

Who
needs
a
CA
to
do
these
stupid
problems?'
I
didn't

really
mean
it.
But
Laajo
got
excited.
She
clapped

once
like
a
chhakka,
holding
her
notebook
at
her

armpit,
and
loudly
said
'Chalo,
we'll
do
it!'
looking
at

Atul
with
the
biggest
eyes
she
could
manage.



We
came
back
to
Laajo's
room.
She
now
was
in
full

enthu
for
working
on
the
last
year's
mid‐term
paper.

She
had
in
her
laptop
a
scanned
copy
of
it
she
had

grabbed
from
someone
through
DC++.
Her
approach

was
simple
–
read
aloud
a
problem,
think
for
a

while,
then
tell
me
how
to
solve
it
and
then
do
a

'Yeyyy!'.
Amazing!
I
was
hardly
listening,
though.
I

kept
looking
at
her
and
smiled
each
time
she
did

'Yeyyy!'



It
was
12
PM
and
we
were
done.
Laajo
was
brilliant.

Such
clear
fundas!
And
she
explained
it
all
so
well!

Kaash
we
had
profs
like
her.



141




 LaajVanti


She
wanted
to
revise
now,
but
I
lost
enthu.



Me:
I'll
take
a
nap,
you
come
and
sit
on
the
chair.


Laajo:
Aaahaa!
No
need.
You
are
always
so
dirty.

You
sit
like
that
and
do
what
you
want.


Me:
Oye,
I
took
bath
in
the
morning.
I
changed
all

clothes
today!
Put
perfume
also.
See.
(Lifted
my

hand
to
show
her
my
armpits.)


Laajo:
Uff.
You
are
too
much.
Sit
there.
Let's
revise.

Only
2
hours
remaining.


Me:
Forget
it.
Chalo
let's
see
some
movie.
(Hit
the

spacebar
of
her
laptop
kept
on
the
table,
and
it

awoke)


Laajo:
(Looking
at
the
notes,
pretending
to
be

studying...)
What
are
you
doing?


Me:
Where
do
you
keep
movies?


Laajo:
I
don't
know.
Don't
talk
to
me.


Me:
I
got
it.
In
E.
You
have
all
boring
movies.


Laajo:
OK.



I
went
into
folders
at
random,
just
to
see
what
kind

of
stuff
Laajo
kept.
She
was
strangely
confident
I

wouldn't
find
anything
interesting.
I
saw
two
folders

by
the
name
Academics,
one
in
D:\
and
one
in
F:\,


142




 LaajVanti


which
was
an
external
hard‐drive.
I
got
curious
and

decided
to
look
into
them.
D:\
was
'academics'

indeed.
It
had
3
folders
‐
IIML,
IITM,
CFA.
Hmmm,

she's
doing
CFA!
Didn't
tell
me.
I
gave
her
an
angry

look.
But
as
I
clicked
F:\Academics,
I
lost
my
breath

for
10
seconds,
and
then
burst
with
a
cough
and

sneeze
hitting
me
together.
WHAT
is
THIS?



143




 LaajVanti


19





Those
days,
anybody
in
IIM
could
watch
plenty
of

porn
if
he/she
wanted
to,
without
anyone
coming
to

know,
given
the
astronomical
volume
of
the

repository
collectively
available
on
DC++,
a
peer‐to‐
peer
software,
where
everyone
bindaas
shared

his/her
collection
given
the
reasonable
level
of

anonymity
DC++
assured.
Beware
the
ethical
and

unethical
hackers,
though,
who
have
ways
of

figuring
out
who’s
looking
for
what.
But
Laajo's

pondy
collection
was
better
than
those
of
the

horniest
of
the
horny­studs
of
the
campus.



She
had
3
folders
inside
Academics
‐
Ikki,
Chikki,

Mikki
–
her
teddies!
Ikki
seemed
to
contain
firangi

porn.
Chikki
was
a
collection
of
hot
scenes
from

movies.
Mikki
was
totally
mallu
porn
folder.
I
had

never
seen
such
a
huge
mallu
porn
collection.

Amazing.
Then
there
were
hundreds
of
files
inside

Academics
which
probably
did
not
fall
into
these


144




 LaajVanti


three
categories
and
were
hence
placed
directly
in

the
parent
folder.



My
immediate
impulse
was
to
make
fun
of
Laajo
for

having
a
porn
collection,
and
such
huge
one
on
top

of
that.
But
then
my
conscience
stopped
me.
What
if

Laajo
was
a
guy?
I
would
have
seen
him
in
awe
and

complimented
his
beautiful
collection.
But
my

temptations
to
frown
and
mock
are
only
because
the

fundoo
pondy
collection
belonged
to
a
girl?
That’s
so

MCPish,
I
thought.
'I
am
a
strong
believer
in
equal

rights
for
men
and
women,'
I
told
myself.
So
I

decided
I
wouldn't
embarrass
Laajo,
and
simply

complement
her.



Me:
Fantastic
porn
collection.
Can
I
copy
all
this?


Laajo:
Oiii.
Shit!
That's
not
mine.


Me:
Hey,
it's
OK.
Nothing
wrong
in
watching
porn.


Laajo:
I
know,
idiot.
But
it's
still
not
mine.
It's

Sheila's.
Can't
you
see?
It's
in
the
external
hard‐disk.

That's
hers.
I
borrowed
it
to
copy
songs.
She
has
a

huuuuge
songs
collection
too.
(I
verified
that.)


Me:
AAyein?
Why
would
she
name
her
pondy
folders

after
your
teddies?
Tell
Tell.



145




 LaajVanti


Laajo:
Cute
names
na.
Everybody
likes.


Me:
So?
She
also
liked.
But
why
did
she
name
her

folders
like
that?


Laajo:
She
likes
naming
folders
like
that.
Check

other
folders
in
the
disk.


Me:
(Checked.
All
subfolders
in
it
had
such
weird

names.)
Strange
woman
she
is.
(Smiled)
She
watches

all
that
porn?
(Couldn't
help
it...
am
a
guy
after
all
:P)


Laajo:
I
don't
know.
I
never
asked
her.


Me:
Where
is
your
collection?
(I
still
haven't
bought

your
crap
story
:P.)


Laajo:
Abbaaa!,
where
have
you
come
from?
I
don't

watch
all
that.
Why
don't
you
study
and
let
me
study

too.


Me:
Hmm.
(I
should
have
done
some
more
jaasoosi…

may
be
the
external
hard‐disk
was
Laajo's,
may
be

she
had
this
habit
of
naming
folders
in
that
weird

fashion.
But
only
in
the
external
HD?
Anyway,
I
had

lost
interest
very
soon,
like
I
always
do.)


Laajo:
What?


Me:
Let's
go
to
Hrishikesh
after
mid‐terms.
It's

famous
for
white­water
rafting.


Laajo:
Wow!
I've
only
seen
it
on
TV.
I
want
to
do
it.


Me:
OK.
Hrishikesh
pakka?


146




 LaajVanti


Laajo:
Pakka!


Me:
You
and
I?


Laajo:
(After
a
loooong
pause,
and
then
a
smile)
Yes,

I
and
you
and
you
and
I.
HiHi.
Now
study.



147




 LaajVanti


20





Leader:
(Shouts)
Paddle
Forwardsssss.

Leader:
(Shouts
again)
What
you
doing?
I
said

Paddle
Forwards.


Leader:
Paddle
Backwardssss.

Leader:
You!
Backwards
I
say.

Leader:
Stop.

Leader:
Arey
baba,
stop
I
said.
Why
you
paddling?

Leader:
Where
you
come
from?

Me:
(Angrily)
Lucknow.

Leader:
Oh.
Never
seen
man
like
you.
Not

understand
anything.
Girl
do
better
than
you.


The
last
time
I
felt
this
much
embarrassed,
dumb

and
low
was
when
I
was
learning
car
driving.
Is

there
a
gene
or
something
in
the
blood
or
some

screw
in
the
brain
which
makes
one
absent‐minded?

If
insaaniyat
says
be
kind
to
the
retarded,
why
not
to

us
absent‐minded
people
as
well?
Of
course
we
can

be
shaken
so
as
to
deliver
better
performance,
but

the
act
of
shaking
should
involve
some
empathy,

148




 LaajVanti


right?
Otherwise,
our
emotions
might
take
over
the

space
in
the
working‐brain
just
emptied
by
the

shake‐up,
and
make
us
absent‐minded
on
another

level.



And
these
trainers…
I
don’t
know
why
all
of
them

have
to
be
like
this.
They
think
insulting
you
will

make
you
try
harder.
It
totally
shatters
my

confidence,
makes
me
want
to
quit,
and
if
I
can,
I

usually
do
quit.
I
still
can’t
drive
a
car
in
spite
of

having
undergone
training
twice
under

professionals
and
having
a
proppper
license.


But
on
the
whole,
at
least
theoretically,
rafting
is

easy.
You
sit
on
a
buoyant
rubber
boat
with
a
bunch

of
guys
with
paddles
or
chappus
in
hands
and
move

the
raft
along
the
river
by
following
the
directions
of

the
leader
on
how
to
paddle
and
stuff.


We
all
ran
our
chappus
into
water
back‐to‐front
or

front‐to‐back
as
per
the
instruction
and
the
way
we

understood
it.
I
pretended
a
couple
of
times
to

compete
with
Laajo
on
who­does­the­chappu­better.

My
focus
used
to
be
on
Laajo
and
so
I
used
to
miss

most
instructions
from
the
Leader.
Laajo
used
to

149




 LaajVanti


laugh
each
time
the
guy
scolded
me
when
I
goofed

up.
I
felt
like
a
loser.
It
sucks
failing
in
front
of

another
IITian,
who
laughs
at
your
failure
on
top
of

that,
and
who
is
a
girl,
on
top
of
everything.
IITians

get
competitive
with
each
other
in
everything!
I
hate

IITians.
They
(rather
we)
are
a
bunch
of
idiots.



The
guy
who
called
himself
Leader
of
the
group

worked
for
one
of
the
hundreds
of
groups
which

offered
white
water
rafting
expeditions
to
tourists
at

Hrishikesh.
It's
a
huge
business
out
there.
We
went

for
the
'500
rupees
per
head'
wala
package,
which

comprised
an
18
km
stretch
with
9
rapids
–
5
easy

ones,
4
difficult
ones.


I
couldn't
believe
I
was
out
on
a
trip
with
Laajo.
The

previous
evening,
we
had
chosen
one
of
the
shops
at

random,
where
we
could
make
the
booking
for
a

rafting
expedition,
and
Laajo
did
her
negotiating.

She
couldn't
get
the
price
down,
but
she
got
us

clubbed
with
a
group
of
5
Germans
–
1
girl
and
4

guys.
Laajo
and
I
looked
into
each
other’s
eyes
and

said
‘Yo
Mannnn!’
There
was
another
group
of
3

150




 LaajVanti


non‐female
bongs.
Laajo
read
their
names
aloud.
'All

geeks,'
she
said,
and
went
ahead
and
made
the

booking.
I
paid.
She
kept
the
receipt.
'We'll
settle

later,
abhi
you
pay,'
I
recalled
was
Laajo's
order
at

IIM
main‐gate
while
we
were
leaving.


Our
reporting
time
was
9AM
next
morning.
Laajo

asked
if
we
needed
to
wear
shorts.
The
guy
at
the

shop
started
explaining
that
it
was
desirable,
but
not

necessary.
He
told
us
that
he
came
across
a
woman

who
did
rafting
in
saari.
Laajo
was
convinced
that

she
had
to
wear
shorts.
Women
are
competitive
in

strange
ways!
I
did
not
bring
shorts
because
of
my

always­carry­bare­minimum­luggage
principle.
I

decided
to
go
in
jeans.


Laajo
was
very
excited.
She
wanted
swimming

goggles
while
rafting.
'I
want
a
perfect
experience!'

she
kept
on
saying
and
took
me
around
the
roads
of

Hrishikesh
searching
for
a
sports'
goods
shop.
We

finally
found
one
after
2
hours
of
searching.
And

Laajo
had
her
swimming
goggles.
She
wore
them
on

her
head
for
the
rest
of
the
evening.
I
tried
to
pull

them
off,
but
she
wouldn't
let
me
do
it,
as
if
it
was


151




 LaajVanti


her
Miss
Universe
crown
and
she
wouldn’t
let

anybody
touch
it.



Early
morning,
at
around
9AM,
we
reached
the
shop

and
saw
that
the
raft,
made
of
thick
rubber
or
PVC

or
whatever,
inflated
with
air,
was
placed
above
a

Qualis
and
the
rest
of
the
team
sat
inside.
The
5

Germans
sat
at
the
back
and
the
3
bongs
sat
in
the

middle
seat.
Laajo
and
I
smirked
at
each
other
for

getting
late.
'What
were
you
doing
in
the
bathroom
so

long?'
–
she
had
been
saying
all
along
the
way,
now

she
said
it
with
her
eyes.
I
had
no
answer.
It
just

takes
longer
sometimes.



We
were
driven
to
the
starting
point.
It
was
the

most
picturesque
place
I
had
ever
been
to.
It
was

like
one
of
those
NatGeo
scenes
of
the
Amazon
rain

forests
–
dense
green
mountains
all
around
and
the

river
flowing
between
them,
and
we
were
on
a

mission
to
spot
the
longest
anaconda.
The
Ganga

water
was
crystal
clear,
and
cold.
Laajo
sat
on
a
rock

by
the
riverside
and
ran
her
right
hand
through

water
in
a
girly
way.
I
was
taking
her
pics.
I
could
do

152




 LaajVanti


that
all
my
life.
Of
course
only
if
Laajo
played
like

that
with
water
all
her
life.



Suddenly,
a
short
thin
guy
in
shorts
and
a
dirty
t‐
shirt
came
forward
and
loudly
proclaimed
himself
to

be
the
leader
of
the
group.
'Hallo
everyone,
I
am

leader
of
group.
Listen
me.'
We
were
astonished.
The

Germans
looked
at
him
in
amazement.
The
bongs

were
expressionless.



Leader:
Each
one
take
one
life
jacket
from
the
car.

Then
I
tell
how
to
put
it.



I
looked
at
Laajo
and
smiled.
'Great
English,'
I

whispered.
She
poked
her
finger
twice
into
my

tummy
and
then
pinched
as
she
got
hold
of
a
flab.

'Yours
is
not
any
better,'
she
phusphussed
into
my

ear.
It
hurt
–
the
tummy,
not
the
ear.



Leader:
Put
it
this
way,
this
way,
this
way,
pull
it

and
put
it
tight...
(as
he
wore
the
life
jacket,
first

pulling
it
along
his
right
hand,
then
left
and
then

fastning
the
belts
in
front.)


Me:
(Into
Laajo's
ear)
Appdi
podu
podu
podu…
aah

aah
aaaaAAAAHHHhhhh...
(The
popular
tamil

153




 LaajVanti


number
which
literally
says
almost
the
same
thing
as

what
the
Leader
just
said
but
with
non­veg

connotations.)


Laajo:
(Loudly)
Shut
up!
You
and
your
dirty
mind!



Laajo
was
so
loud
that
the
German
guys
started

staring
at
her
in
amazement.
The
German
girl
gave

me
the
look
of
horror,
as
if
she
just
came
across
a

rapist
running
loose.
As
if
she
recalled
what

somebody
had
told
her
about
Indian
men.
The
bongs

smiled
without
looking
at
us,
as
if
they
always
knew

something
was
wrong
between
Laajo
and
me.

Jealous
buggers.
Laajo
soon
realized
she
attracted

attention,
and
got
me
in
a
bad
spot‐light,
and
herself

in
one
of
some
sort.
She
smiled
at
the
Germans,
and

pinched
at
my
bicep,
and
said
naughty
in
a
naughty

way.
It
doesn't
take
much
for
girls
to
flirt.
And
I
love

it
when
they
do.
And
I
loved
it
that
day
even
more.
I

was
amazed
at
the
way
it
totally
reversed
how
the

situation
looked
like.
It
was
as
if
I
just
came
out

clean
from
a
trial
in
Supreme
Court.
Baaizzat
Barii!!

I
am
sure
I
was
envied
even
by
the
bongs.


154




 LaajVanti


The
leader
then
gave
us
nice
yellow
helmets.
I
put

them
on
and
picked
up
a
chappu
from
the
Qualis.
I

felt
great
–
for
once,
my
bald
head
got
covered
and
I

looked
like
everyone
else
around.
I
asked
Laajo
to

click
a
picture.
I
gave
a
handsome
pose,
with
one

step
on
a
rock
near
by
and
the
chappu
held
upright

on
the
ground
with
my
elbow
resting
on
its
handle.
I

looked
like
a
shikari
back
from
a
tiger
hunt,
a

successful
one.
Only
the
mooch
was
missing.
I
had

proxies
for
everything
else
in
the
shikari
gear.



The
leader
asked
me
to
put
my
camera
back
in
my

bag
coz
we
couldn't
carry
it
with
us.
Laajo
burst
out

with
anger
‐
'What
the
heck?
We
can't
take
pictures

while
rafting?'
The
leader,
strangely,
was

unperturbed.
He
shook
his
head,
but
then
thought

for
a
moment
and
held
his
plastic
bag
to
me,
and

asked
me
to
drop
the
camera
in
it.
He
said
he'd
tell

us
where
we
could
take
pics
and
that
we
were
going

to
take
a
break
at
some
point.
I
asked
him
if
the

point
at
which
we
would
take
a
break
was
the
point

where
we
would
be
allowed
to
take
pics.
Not
sure
if

it
was
a
stupid
question,
but
he
gave
me
a
look

which
meant
he
thought
so.
Laajo
was
not
bothered.


155




 LaajVanti


She
was
busy
checking
out
the
mountains
and
the

river
through
her
blue
swimming
goggles.
She
is
a

kid.
My
cute
baccha!.



The
leader
was
a
strict
guy.
He
was
treating
us
like

KG
kids
and
was
giving
us
orders
like
a
school

teacher.
I
was
getting
pissed
off.
He
decided
who

was
going
to
sit
where.
The
German
girl
sat
in
the

front
end
of
the
boat
and
the
German
guys
sat

around
her.
Then
the
3
bongs;
and
behind
them,

Laajo
and
I.
I
was
on
the
right
and
Laajo
on
the
left.

At
the
rear
end,
just
behind
me,
was
the
leader's

seat.
I
was
seething.



Me:
What
the
duck!
You
saw
that?
It's
racism!
He

put
those
goraas
in
front.


Laajo:
Come
on
yaar.
It's
called
hospitality.
Mental

fellow
:P


Me:
That's
crazy.
When
I
was
in
the
US,
there
also
I

was
made
to
sit
at
the
back.


Laajo:
Americans
are
impartial.


Me:
And
we
are
hospital?


Laajo:
What?
No!
Hospitable,
I
guess.
Chi,
what
re!

Stupid!
Villager.
Bilaspuri.



156




 LaajVanti


Me:
But
this
is
crazy.
Everywhere
we
Indians
suffer.

Even
at
the
hands
of
other
Indians.


Laajo:
Calm
down
re.


Leader:
(Loudly)
Please
hear
instruction
careful.

We
will
see
9
rapids
–
4
easy,
5
tough.
This
is
paddle.

You
paddle
forwards
or
backwards
as
I
tell...



He
went
on
and
on
for
10
minutes.
Laajo
listened
to

the
instructions
very
carefully.
I
spent
that
time

staring
at
the
German
girl
from
behind
and

imagining
her
front.
And
then
the
leader
asked
us
to

start
by
yelling
loudly
–
'Paddle
forwardssss.'
I

wanted
to
slap
him
hard.
But
as
I
looked
at
him
with

that
intent,
he
frowned
at
me,
and
repeated
his

instruction
loudly
on
my
face.
I
got
blank
for
a
while.

Intimidated.


157




 LaajVanti


21





We
halted
after
the
5
tough
rapids,
which
were
not

really
tough
coz
neither
did
the
raft
overturn
nor

did
anybody
fall
into
water.
We
chose
an
easy

package
I
guess.
Our
trip
was
just
about
3
hours

long.
I
later
came
to
know
that
there
was
a
bigger

package
that
comprised
a
2‐day
long
trip
with
a

night
stay
under
the
sky
by
the
river‐side.
It

involved
a
36
km
stretch
with
quite
a
few
very
tough

rapids,
in
which
everyone
was
thrown
into
water.

One
of
those
rapids,
aptly
named
The
Wall
is
well

known
for
its
notoriety
and
is
not
recommended
for

amateurs.


We
stopped
at
a
river‐side
where
the
water
was

very
shallow.
The
leader
shouted
that
we
were

going
to
take
a
break
there
for
15
minutes,
and
that

we
could
play
in
water,
take
pics
and
eat
something

if
we
had.



158




 LaajVanti


Laajo
immediately
jumped
into
the
shallow
water.
I

followed
her.
The
water
was
not
more
than
4
feet

deep.
Since
we
had
the
lifejackets
on,
we
were

doubly
sure
we
wouldn't
drown.
Neither
of
us
knew

swimming.
But
Laajo
had
seen
enough
on
TV.
She

showed
me
how
to
swim
free
style.
She
fluttered
her

hands
and
legs
in
water.
The
lifejacket
kept
her

afloat.
But
her
body
somehow
moved
ahead
in

water,
although
just
a
foot
or
so.
She
was
elated
that

she
could
swim,
and
stood
up
for
a
moment
with
her

feet
on
the
rocky
bed
and
threw
herself
into
water

shouting
'H1
ka
maa
ka!!!!'



She
couldn't
think
of
anything
else
to
shout?
She
tried

to
stand
again,
but
slipped.
The
water
was
a
little

deeper
at
the
point
where
she
fell,
and
she
was

struggling
to
come
back,
as
the
current
was
also

faster
there.
She
called
out
her
mom
and
then
me.
It

took
me
some
time
to
react,
as
I
came
back
from
my

daydream
and
looked
at
her
fighting
with
the
water

current.
I
jumped
ahead
and
caught
hold
of
her

hand.
I
had
my
feet
on
firm
rock
and
could
pull
her

with
all
my
energy.



159




 LaajVanti


Laajo
would
have
been
safely
out
with
half
the
force

that
I
had
applied.
But
I
had
no
clue
when
I
pulled

her.
The
result
–
we
both
fell
into
water
in
the

shallow
area,
laughing
and
shouting
–
Mummy!!!!
I

had
never
been
this
close
to
Laajo.
Or
any
other
girl,

for
that
matter.
Our
lifejackets
were
touching
each

other;
all
the
air
and
water
in
between
had
been

squeezed
out.
We
hugged
each
other
tight
for
a

moment.
And
there,
on
the
spur
of
the
moment,

before
I
could
even
think
and
decide
whether
to
do

what
I
was
going
to,
I
kissed
Laajo.
Her
lips
were

stiff
and
motionless.
And
cold.
The
cold
Ganga
water

was
all
over
our
bodies.
I
first
felt
she
didn't
like
my

kissing
her.
But
I
didn't
stop.
I
kept
kissing
her
lips

one
by
one
–
upper,
lower,
upper,
lower.
After
5

seconds,
which
seemed
like
a
lifetime
to
me
then,

she
kissed
me
back.



I
never
knew
kissing
would
be
this
much
fun.
But
we

did
only
lip‐to‐lip
like
they
do
in
Bollywood.
I
tried

twice
to
stick
my
tongue
out
hoping
hers
would

welcome
mine,
but
she
did
not
reciprocate.
It
didn't

feel
right
for
the
first
kiss
anyway.
So
I
gave
that
up,

and
continued
with
letting
our
lips
embrace
each


160




 LaajVanti


other.
She
once
kissed
me
all
over
my
face
starting

from
my
lips
and
coming
back
to
my
lips
in
a

clockwise
direction.
Meanwhile
I
ran
my
fingers

through
her
wet
hair
twice,
to
make
it
a
bit
more

romantic.
And
then,
after
about
3
minutes
of

heavenly
kissing,
Laajo
suddenly
pushed
me
back.

The
stone
I
was
standing
on
was
slippery,
and
I
fell

backwards
into
water.
As
I
was
falling,
I
saw
Laajo

standing
right
in
front
of
me
with
her
eyes
closed

and
mouth
wide
open.
What's
wrong
with
her?



My
landing
into
the
water
coincided
with
her
loud

Aaaaakchuuuuu!!!!
Wow,
what
a
dumdaar
sneeze!!!



Laajo:
Oiii.
Sorry
Sorry.


Me:
It's
OK.
Kiss
continue?


Laajo:
HiHi.
Stupid!


Me:
(Got
up
and
went
near
her)
Laajo,
I
love
you.


Laajo:
What?
Are
you
OK?


Me:
Yes.
I
love
you.



She
stared
at
me
for
about
a
minute.
I
didn't
know

what
to
do,
what
to
say.
I
looked
into
her
eyes
for

some
time,
but
then
got
nervous.
I
was
shivering.
It's

just
the
cold
water,
I
was
telling
myself.
But
I
knew
I

161




 LaajVanti


was
in
a
mess.
I
could
not
understand
what
went

wrong.
A
minute
back
I
had
the
best
experience
of

my
life.
And
now
I
was
not
sure
whether
that

experience
was
a
mistake
or
what
I
did
thereafter

was
one.
Laajo
did
kiss
me
back.
Did
she?
And
if
she

did,
wouldn’t
she
be
happier
that
the
guy
who
kissed

her
also
loves
her?
Of
course
I
did
it
all
without

thinking
or
planning.
But
I
could
never
have
done
it

if
I
had
planned
it.
The
best
things
in
life,
I
had
done

on
momentary
impulse.
But
now,
I
had
no
clue

whether
I
was
standing
in
the
best
moments
of
my

life
or
the
worst
ones.
Laajo’s
eyes
were
red.
Are

they
tears?
I
didn't
know
what
to
say.
I
kept
looking

at
her.
My
body
was
shivering,
my
heart
was

thumping,
but
my
eyes
had
forgotten
they
had
to

blink.



162




 LaajVanti


22





Laajo
did
not
talk
to
me
for
hours
after
that.
We

were
just
together
but
not
talking.
I
found
it
weird.
I

tried,
but
Laajo
wouldn't
talk.
After
dinner
in
the

evening,
I
asked
if
Laajo
would
like
a
walk.
She
came

along.
I
couldn't
figure
out
what
was
going
on
in
her

mind.
Nor
would
she
tell
me.
And
inside
my
own

mind,
I
was
all
confused
about
whatever
happened

that
day.
But
I
was
really
sure
of
3
things
‐
that
I

loved
Laajo,
that
my
kiss
was
honest,
genuine
and

backed
by
true
emotion,
and
that
when
I
told
her
I

loved
her,
I
actually
meant
it
from
the
heart,
or

wherever
the
true
feelings
come
from.



Emotions
aside,
I
couldn't
stop
thinking
about
the

kiss.
It
was
my
first
kiss
ever.
I
mean
I
did
kiss

aunties
on
their
cheeks
when
I
was
a
small
kid
and

was
kissed
back.
But
those
kisses
were
different,
of

course.
I
could
still
feel
the
touch
of
Laajo's
soft
juicy

lips
on
my
lips,
and
face,
which
I
hadn't
washed

since.
I
should
have
continued
with
the
kiss
and

163




 LaajVanti


proposed
her
later.
Don't
know
when
I
will
get
to
kiss

her
again.
Can't
believe
I
thought
this!
I
don't
deserve

her.



We
crossed
the
Lakshman
Jhoola
and
walked
on
a

narrow
lane
along
the
Ganga.
After
walking
in

silence
for
about
10
minutes,
we
came
across
a

group
of
Italian
tourists
and
a
couple
of
Indians

sitting
around
a
bonfire.
The
Italians
were
drinking

beer
and
singing
songs.
One
of
them
had
a
guitar,

which
he
was
playing
beautifully.
I
stopped
and

suggested
we
sit
there
for
some
time.
Laajo
didn't

say
anything.
Just
went
and
sat
a
little
distance
from

the
Indians.
I
sat
beside
her.



The
silence
between
Laajo
and
me
was
killing
me.

Just
then,
I
decided
I'd
say
sorry.
Although
I
wasn't

apologetic
for
what
I
did,
but
if
a
sorry
could
fix

things,
I'd
give
it
a
shot.
But
as
I
turned
to
look
at

her,
I
found
her
staring
at
me.
She
had
a
mysterious

blank
expression.
But
I
could
make
out
that
she
had

a
lot
to
speak.
And
she
spoke.



Laajo:
Sridhar,
I
want
to
say
something.
(I
nodded

and
kept
looking
into
her
eyes.)
Firstly,
thanks
for

164




 LaajVanti


saving
me
today.
And
Secondly,
I
love
you
too.

HiHiHi
(She
burst
out
laughing).


Me:
(My
head
spun
like
a
top.
I
felt
as
if
somebody

just
fired
a
bullet
at
me
and
missed
me
by
an
inch...)

Then
what
was
all
that
silence
about?


Laajo:
I
was
thinking.
Just
wanted
to
be
sure.


Me:
And
the
tears?


Laajo:
Tears?


Me:
Arey,
I
saw
your
eyes…
They
were
so
red
when

you
were
staring
at
me
after
I
said
I...


Laajo:
Ohhh,
that...
Arey
the
sneeze
and
all
that

excitement...
and
the
Ganga
water,
may
be...
It
was

all
over
my
face
na.
Whatever.
Funny!
Stupid!


Me:
Weird!


Laajo:
What
weird?


Me:
You
could
have
smiled,
at
least.


Laajo:
I
couldn't.
I
was
confused.
And
once
the

moment
was
gone,
I
didn't
know
how
to
start
the

conversation
again.
You
seemed
all
sorry
and

regretful.
I
wished
you
tried
harder.
But
then
I

thought
about
it,
and
from
what
I
know
about
you,
I

am
now
quite
convinced
that...


Me:
Okkkkayyy.
Forget
it.
So
now
you
love
me
and
I

love
u.


165




 LaajVanti


Laajo:
Yes.
Kiss?


Me:
Wow!



We
hugged
and
kissed
and
hugged
and
kissed.
Our

kisses
went
on
and
on.
The
Italians
got
excited.
They

started
clapping.
The
guy
with
the
guitar
started

singing
some
love
song
–
it
had
the
word
amore
too

many
times.
They
started
dancing
around
us.
The

Indians
just
sat
and
clapped.
We
kissed
for
some

more
time.
And
then
we
also
started
clapping
and

dancing.
It
was
the
happiest
moment
of
my
life.



Laajo
asked
me
to
sing
a
song
for
her.
Girls!
Uff!
I

looked
at
her
in
amazement.
How
does
she
know
am

a
singer?
She
knew
what
I
was
thinking...
'I
do
some

orkutting
too...
Mr.
Horny
Stud...
HiHi.'
I
gave
some

gaalis
in
my
mind
to
orkut,
and
sang
my
favorite

song...



Kyon
chhupaate
ho
mann
ki
baat?


Keh
bhi
do,
beeti
jaaye
raat,


Dooriyaan
kisliye?
De
do
haathon
mein
haath.


Dil
bhi
tumhara
hai,
hum
bhi
tumhare
hain,


Mann
mein
machalte,
armaan
hamare
hain,


Dekho
sitaare
karte
ishaare
hain,


166




 LaajVanti


Kar
lo
mohabbat,
qamsin
nazaare
hain,


Kyon
chhupaate
ho...



One
of
the
most
beautiful
songs
sung
by
Udit

Narayan.
It's
from
the
movie
Mann,
another
favorite

of
mine.
The
Italian
guy
with
the
guitar
picked
up

the
tune
very
easily
and
played
along
as
I
sang.
For

the
first
time
in
my
life,
I
sang
with
real
feelings;
I

sang
to
convey
emotion
rather
than
to
show
my

singing
ability,
which
thereby
attained
a
purpose.

Laajo
was
all
smiles,
blushes
and
flying
kisses.
At
the

end
of
the
song,
I
planted
a
looong
sweet
kiss
on
her

lips.
Everyone
clapped
and
clapped
and
then

stopped
as
their
hands
started
aching
but
we
didn't

stop.
I
realized
we'd
been
kissing
too
long,
and
with

the
people
around
staring
at
us
in
silence,
I
felt

awkward.
They
must
be
thinking
we
are
two
despos.

We
stood
up
with
our
hands
around
each
other,

looked
at
everyone,
smiled
and
bowed
gently,
as
if

we
were
on
stage
and
we
just
presented
the
best

show
of
our
lives.
Everyone
was
forced
to
clap
again.

We
laughed
and
clapped
with
them.
Life
is
beautiful!



167




 LaajVanti


23





Everyone
else
left
in
some
time.
We
sat
cuddled,

looking
at
the
fire
and
talking.
A
gentle
breeze
and
a

drizzle
fought
with
the
fire.
Laajo
and
I
were
on
an

emotional
high.


Laajo:
Don't
hold
me
so
tight.
HeHe.


Me:
Oh.
Sorry,
my
first
time.


Laajo:
I
know.
You
don't
seem
to
know
anything.


Me:
Ya.
Never
been
this
close
to
your
kind.
But
I

watch
movies
closely
and
am
strong
in
theory.


Laajo:
HiHi.
Movies
are
misleading.

Me:
HeHe.
I
have
been
told
that
by
quite
a
few
guys.

I’ve
also
heard
that
the
real
world
is
not
no
pretty.

Laajo:
Bakwaaas.
Hey
yaar,
do
you
think
PKT
took
a

surprise
quiz?.


Me:
How
would
I
know.
But
ya,
I
heard
he's
a
crazy

guy.
Last
year
he
took
a
surprise
quiz
in
the
first

class
after
mid‐terms.


Laajo:
That's
what.


Me:
Forget
it,
5%
weightage
only
yaar.
Let's
not

168




 LaajVanti


worry
about
all
that.


Laajo:
Hey,
beware.
If
you
fail,
I'll
dump
you.
:P


Me:
Oh.

Laajo:
What
oh?
Take
it
seriously.
I
am
the
best

thing
that
has
happened
to
you.
Do
you
realize?


Me:
Yes.
No.


Laajo:
So
you
must
make
sure
I
am
happy
with
you.

Customer
Satisfaction,
you
know.
Guys
have
become

a
low
involvement
product
these
days.


Me:
I
am
a
fin
guy.


Laajo:
Shut
up.
Every
MBA
must
know
basic

marketing.


Me:
OK.


Laajo:
What
are
you
thinking?
You
are
not
with
me.


Me:
Just
thinking
about
where
my
life
is
heading.


Laajo:
Hmm.
Hey,
one
minute.
Let
me
sit
properly.

Leave
me
na.
Despo!
HiHi.


Me:
Sorry.


Laajo:
Offoooo.
We'll
hug
again
before
going
na,

don't
worry.


Me:
HeHe.
It's
OK.
It's
all
new
for
me,
so
feeling
a
bit

nervous.


Laajo:
Don't
talk
like
a
gone
case.
If
you
want
to
kiss

a
girl,
do
it.
That's
how
a
man
should
be,
you
know.

169




 LaajVanti


But
make
sure
you
don't
force
it
on
her.
You
should

try
to
figure
out
first
whether
she
wants
to
be

kissed.


Me:
And
that's
impossible.


Laajo:
Not
really.
It's
an
art.
But
it
can
be
learnt.
And

moreover,
it's
not
a
puzzle
that
you
need
to
crack
or

something.
A
girl
who'd
like
a
kiss
will
herself
give

away
cues
and
signals.

Me:
Like?
What
kind
of
cues
would
you
give?

Laajo:
Oho,
very
smart!
You’ll
see
if
you
can.
Just
be

alert.
Keep
your
eyes,
ears
and
mind
open.
Not
your

zip.
(Looked
at
my
zip,
it
was
undone.
Shit!)

Me:
Oops!
(Turned
away
from
her
and
zipped
my

pants.)


Laajo:
HeHeHe.
You
are
one
joker.


Me:
I
am
sorry.
This
zip
has
some
problem.


Laajo:
OK
OK.
Don't
worry.
So,
what
were
you

saying?
Where
is
your
life
headed?


Me:
I
don't
know.
I
don't
seem
to
have
any
goal
in

life.
Is
that
weird?


Laajo:
No.
It
just
takes
longer
for
some
people
to

find
their
true
goal.


Me:
I
have
thought
a
lot
about
it.
I
now
find
it

strange
that
some
people
have
a
goal,
the
one
big

170




 LaajVanti


thing
that
they
want
to
achieve
in
life.
I
don't

understand
that.


Laajo:
Do
you
mean
to
say
having
a
goal
for
life
is

unnatural?


Me:
Yes,
that's
what
I
feel
at
times.
That
there

cannot
be
a
goal
for
life.
So
I
think
finding
one's
goal

does
not
make
sense.
People
just
fix
up
something
as

their
goal
and
work
towards
it.


Laajo:
May
be.
But
that
involves
a
process.
That

something
they
choose
based
on
what
they
are
good

at
and
what
makes
them
happy
and
what
means
a

lot
to
them…
Perhaps
a
few
more
criteria.

Me:
But
can
you
call
it
the
goal
for
life?
I
mean
how

can
there
be
something
that
you
can
do
and
thereby

find
your
life
more
meaningful?

Laajo:
Meaning
is
an
endless
pursuit
of
every

human
life.
The
right
goal
takes
us
closer
to
it.
At

least
it
creates
that
illusion.

Me:
Oh!
What
Fundae!

Laajo:
You
need
to
be
clear
about
one
thing
–
the

quest
for
meaning
and
purpose
of
life,
which
may

actually
be
unknowable,
is
different
from
working

on
the
goals
we
set
for
ourselves
based
on
what

makes
us
happy
and
helps
us
live
better
and
stay

171




 LaajVanti


motivated
and
bla
bla.
You
need
to
look
at
the
two

separately
first.
To
figure
out
ones
goal
is
a
primary

need
of
any
individual.
Life
ka
Meaning
and
all
that

stuff
are
a
higher
level
need,
rather
the
highest
of
all

needs
–
to
know
the
ultimate
truth
–
to
know
who

we
are,
why
we
are
and
what
is
that
which
is
‐
you

know,
the
truth
‐
it
is.


Me:
Wow.
That
seems
quite
interesting.
It
is.
You

know,
it
is.
HaHa.
You
are
one
hell
of
a
Maslow.
Stud!


Laajo:
Chup
bey!

Me:
(Taken
aback)
Saali!

Laajo:
Whattt?
Katti
Katti
Katti.

Me:
Sorry
genie,
angel…
jaanu.
Cancel
your
katti.

(Got
on
my
knees
and
held
my
ears.)

Laajo:
OK.
Katti
cancel.
But
last
warning.
(Smiled)

And
jaanu
is
allowed
now.

Me:
(Sitting
cross‐legged
in
front
of
Laajo)
Thanks.

Hey,
tell
me
how
I
can
figure
out
my
goal…
I’m

confused.
I
don’t
know
what
I
really
want
to
do.

Laajo:
I
think,
deep
down,
everyone
knows
what
he

or
she
actually
wants
to
do.
Those
who
are
confused

about
their
goals
are
either
just
lazy
or
are
afraid
of

failure.

Me:
Oops,
that
hurts!
But
you
may
be
right.


172




 LaajVanti


Laajo:
Forget
it.
Chill
maaro
yaaaarr!


Me:
Ya.



Laajo:
Bol
H1
ka
maa
ka...


Me:
What
the
heck?
OK,
it's
12.
You
have
some

Sardar
in
you
after
all.


Laajo:
Your
headd.


Me:
And
my
foott.
HeHe.


Laajo:
12
is
my
tea
time.
Night‐mess
is
cool
na?


Me:
Yeah.
I
love
alu
paratha
in
the
night‐mess.


Laajo:
Oh,
I
never
tried
it.
I
heard
it's
good.
But
alu

paratha
is
too
many
calories.


Me:
HeHe.


Laajo:
What?


Me:
Nothing
(Still
smiling).


Laajo:
Tell
me
about
your
family.


Me:
Parents,
brother,
sister
and
me.


Laajo:
I
know
this
already.
Something
more,
like

how
are
they,
who
are
you
close
to,
all
that
stuff.


Me:
All
are
good
and
nice.
I
am
close
to
my
mom...

Can
we
talk
something
else?
This
is
a
boring
topic.

And
girly
too.


Laajo:
(Angry)
OK,
let's
not
talk
then.


Me:
(Smelling
danger)
Hey,
Laaj,
sorry
again.


Laajo:
Kitna
baar
Sorry?
But
I
know
it's
a
boring

173




 LaajVanti


topic.
Not
so
boring,
though,
as
some
of
the
stuff
you

talk
about
to
sound
like
a
philosopher
or
thinker
or

something.
But
‘girly
topics’
wala
complaint
is
not

allowed.
I’m
a
girl.
So
you
must
learn
to
talk
on
girly

topics
too.
Otherwise
I’ll
dump
you.

Me:
HaHa.

Laajo:
You
think
it’s
funny?
I
am
serious.
Don’t
I

look
serious?

Me:
HaHaHa.

Laajo:
(Smiled)
Shut
up
now.
(I
gradually

transformed
my
laugh
into
a
smile.)
But
you'll
have

to
tell
me
what
I
asked
you
about
your
family,
may

be
in
parts,
over
the
next
few
days.
And
many
more

questions
like
those
have
to
be
answered.
Now
that

you
have
evil
plans
on
me,
I
must
know
more
about

you.
You
see,
I
am
smart
and
intelligent!
(Tapped

her
temple
twice
with
a
serious
face.)


Me:
Ya
ya.
Evil
plans...
HaHaHa.
Oye,
and
my
topics

are
all
interesting.


Laajo:
Huh.
I
think
you
should
write
a
book
–

Philosophy
for
Dummies…
Based
on
personal

experience.
Put
your
pic
on
the
cover.
Your
target‐
audience
will
immediately
relate
with
you.

Me:
HeHe.
It'll
be
a
best‐seller.


174




 LaajVanti


Laajo:
Wow,
you
like
the
idea!
You're
really
an
idiot!


Me:
Whatever
you
say
dude…
I
mean
dudette.
But

beware,
I
have
evil
plans
and
stuff.
:P


Laajo:
Ya
ya.
I
don't
know
what
made
me
fall
in
love

with
a
jerk
like
you.
(Pinched
my
cheek
with
a

smile.)

Me:
Hormones.
Am
so
sexy,
you
know.


Laajo:
Ha
Ha.
Who
told
you
that
Mr.
Horny
Stud?


Me:
I
can
feel
it.
The
way
girls
look
at
me.


Laajo:
No
girl
even
looks
at
you,
let
alone
how
she

does.
Picchi­vedhava.
HiHi.
By
the
way,
Laaj
was

sweet.


Me:
Thanks
Laaj.


175