FAN [Part1]

It was 7:50 in the morning. The chilly December cold managed its best to live up to the expectations. I ran like a deer trying to protect its ass from a chasing angry bull. School begun at 8 o’ clock, and being even a minute late could cost me another phone call at home, not mentioning the latecomers’ punishment of cleaning the entire playground, with a circumference of 400 meters, filled not only with dry, shed leaves, and discarded plastic bags that once housed chips, but also with rusty iron nails and broken glass pieces.

I felt my heart thumping in my chest as I traversed two steps at a time, saddened by the fact that my fastest sprint ever wasn’t intentional, but out of fear. As I reached the doorway to school, I stood there for a moment; a sense of accomplishment taking me over, as I looked at my watch, which said it was 7:57. “Seven minutes!” I announced, as I looked back to watch the road, the trees, the buildings; everything that I’d defeated in my race against time, and that is when I saw her.

There she was, in a clean white shirt, which sparkled in the sunlight that somehow made its way through the dense branches of the trees, which stood tall sideways, and a grey light skirt that ended at her knees. Her hair were pulled back in a plump ponytail that dangled, as her head cocked at one side to have a better look at the main gate, and then through the main gate. She bit her lower lip as she checked her watch. I was still standing at the doorway to school, watching her as she smiled at me.

I froze. I didn’t know what to do. She waved at me, still smiling, and all I could think of was whether or not I should pinch myself, to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. A moment later, I realized I shouldn’t, thanks to two reasons: 1. Pinching yourself to make sure you aren’t dreaming is so clichéd, and I don’t even know for sure if it really works, and 2. If it really was a dream, it was so beautiful that I wouldn’t have minded even if it went on forever.

“Hey!” she called out. I turned around and looked everywhere. There was no one to be seen. Confused, I looked at her and mouthed a “Me?” She nodded, and I froze. Nikita Tripathi, the most popular girl in my school, was calling me by my name. ‘Can I get any happier?’ I thought.

“Are you dreaming?” she yelled, as she signalled for me to walk up to her.

Cute girls don’t need to walk up to you, even if it’s them who need to talk to you. As soon as I reached the gate, she joined her hands, intertwining her fingers and said “Can you do me a favour please? Please?” she begged. Her please was more like a ‘Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeease’ which was way too cute to be denied. Maybe that’s how cute girls get their work done: by being cute.

“What favour?” I asked. In my mind, I had already said yes for all the favours she would ever ask in her entire lifetime. But agreeing straight away would give her the idea that I’m one of those crazy morons who are always ever-so-desperate to do anything for her—although I was one of them.

“Since we’re already late for school—”

“Late?” I interrupted. I checked my wristwatch which informed me that it was eleven past eight. ‘Surely late,’ I concluded. I looked at her. She was busy staring at me as if I had asked who had scored the most goals to a bunch of people watching a Cricket match.

“So,” she continued, after a long pause spent entirely in staring at me with that mean look. “As I was saying, since we’re already late for school, how about a chance to skip the punishment altogether?”

This was the point, I thought where I was supposed to ask ‘how,’ but considering the reaction to my previous interruption, I decided to stay mum, which proved to be a right decision later on.

“I say, we take your bike to my place, get my Acrylic colours, have some breakfast on the way, and return to take classes at 10 o clock? My place is just fifteen minutes away from here.”

“Acrylic colours?” I asked, bemused.

“Oh god, we have the craft class today. We were supposed to get the acrylic colours today, remember? You too forgot yours at home?” she asked, her eyes big and round and her face filled with excitement. It’s a fundamental school life philosophy: you’re screwed when you forget something you were supposed to bring along, but you’re living the best day of your life if and when you realize that you aren’t the only one.

“I do have mine,” I said, a sense of accomplishment taking over my voice. “Although, you could totally share mine with me. I won’t mind,” I added, smirking.

“Oh, right. Only for Miss Zubeida to realize that I’ve forgotten my box and totally sharing yours, when it’s completely not allowed in her class, so that she throws both of us out of the classroom!” she yelled.

“Right!” I said, remembering this stupid rule Miss Zubeida, our Craft teacher, had formulated.

“Should we leave?” she asked.

“Absolutely, but for two things: 1. I don’t have a bike, and 2. Why go home when we can buy colours in that little stationery store I can see sitting innocently, waiting for needy students like yourself to visit and buy anything,” I reasoned. She rolled her eyes. “Okay, not anything, but Acrylic colours? Definitely!” I corrected.

“Dude, two things: 1. by bike, I meant your bicycle, and 2. you can buy anything from a stationery only when you have money!” she responded.

“Oh,” I said grasping the information. “But I have money. I can lend you some.”

“Thanks, but no, thanks,” she said, shrugging. “You see, once some of my friends were playing Cricket on that road after school. They ended up breaking two of the glass panels outside that shop. When he ran outside to get hold of them, everyone had run away, leaving me there with their bags. And though I wasn’t part of the game, out of his inability to get hold of the culprits, he held me culprit. Long story short, we can’t go in there,” she explained.

“You can’t go in there,” I corrected. “I can.”

“No, you can’t,” she corrected me back. “In your enthusiastic attempt to find a solution, you pointed at the shop showing it to me, and didn’t notice the owner staring at us with his face filled with fury, rage and anger.”

“Oops,” I sighed. “Wait, there’s one thing we can do,” I added. “Well, not we; there’s one thing I can do.”

“And what is that?” she asked, cocking her right eyebrow.

“Trust me, Senorita,” I said smiling coyly, and left.

“How did you pull that off?” asked Nikita, her voice beaming with an amazed voice, as I handed over the box of colours to her. This was the umpteenth time she had asked me the very question, and she wasn’t weary of it yet. We had sneaked inside the school at ten o’ clock, matching our break-in with the onset short recess, after I’d bought her those colours from the same tiny stationary shop.

“I told you I am awesome,” I said, grinning. Moments later, Shreyas entered the classroom. He was in Nikita’s gang, and her closest friend. She waved at him, and he just raised his eyebrows in return. He started off for the last benches, but halted suddenly and mouthed an ‘Are you coming?’ She shook her head, and he left.

I let the current scenario sink in. the most popular girl of my class had ditched her best friend to sit beside me. ‘This day just can’t get any better,’ I thought. “Are you telling or not?” she asked me again.

“Okay. I have seen DDLJ a hell lot of times, and I love the scene where Raj fools the storeowner, who is also co-incidentally Simran’s father, to get beer for him and his friends. So even though we didn’t want beer, I did a Raj there,” I said, my chest having swollen with pride.

“Oh, that’s why the Senorita word, eh? And no need to describe the entire scene,” she said coldly. “I too have seen DDLJ.”

“You like it?”

“Dude, who doesn’t?” she answered. ‘Fellow fan,’ I concluded, merrily. “Well, everyone but Shreyas. He finds it overdramatic. Idiot!” she announced. I grinned, triumphantly.

“By the way, how much, exactly, is a hell lot of times?” she asked.

“Sixteen times, to be precise,” I answered.

“Forty-nine already,” she said, piercing the balloon of my pride with the spikey needle of reality. “That reminds me, I’m celebrating my silver jubilee today, in the afternoon. Care to join?” she said, nonchalantly.

“Huh?” I uttered, puzzled.

“The fiftieth time I will be watching DDLJ: a momentous occasion; the silver jubilee. Do you want to be a part of it?” she said in a monotonous voice, like a computer’s text to speech output.

I nodded. ‘This day just got even better,’ I concluded.