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Harsh

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The sweat has stopped. Water that did have a taste, of Dhanbad's coal-dust, helped. I walk back to the stink lab fearful of the notoriety of my two friends. The girls have settled along one corner, the boys on the other. We are preparing for engineering, after all. “Ahem, ahem, silence!” The teacher Shamsher Khan, famous for beating the shit out students, is waiting for us with his morose black face complementing the stench. Some creative senior observed how he resembled a bulldog and named him Dogaji, ji out of respect. But since he could never pronounce the alphabet j and always uttered a z instead of it, it was soon transformed into a Dogazee. Both Sameer and Anuj call Shamsher sir as Dogazee, but I still refer to him as Shamsher sir. I am old-school. Disrespecting teachers is blasphemy. As is lip-syncing the morning pledge: “India is my country. All Indians are my brothers and sisters (except one).” It will take me a year to shed this belief and a few weeks to realize that I should rather mutter "except many". Bring the noob that I am, little do I know that crushes can change. Chapter 2. Chemistry Lab. Episode 3. Click #Amoeba to read in continuation. #Nanowrimo

The sweat has stopped. Water that did have a taste, of Dhanbad's coal-dust, helped. I walk back to the stink lab fearful of the notoriety of my two friends. The girls have settled along one corner, the boys on the other. We are preparing for engineering, after all. “Ahem, ahem, silence!” The teacher Shamsher Khan, famous for beating the shit out students, is waiting for us with his morose black face complementing the stench. Some creative senior observed how he resembled a bulldog and named him Dogaji, ji out of respect. But since he could never pronounce the alphabet j and always uttered a z instead of it, it was soon transformed into a Dogazee. Both Sameer and Anuj call Shamsher sir as Dogazee, but I still refer to him as Shamsher sir. I am old-school. Disrespecting teachers is blasphemy. As is lip-syncing the morning pledge: “India is my country. All Indians are my brothers and sisters (except one).” It will take me a year to shed this belief and a few weeks to realize that I should rather mutter "except many". Bring the noob that I am, little do I know that crushes can change. Chapter 2. Chemistry Lab. Episode 3. Click #Amoeba to read in continuation. #Nanowrimo

Harsh

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Sameer and Anuj, unsure of making it to the IITs, ignore my innocuous question. We enter the lab following the herd of Carmelites with impeccably white skirts and shiny shoes. Sameer, to catch their attention, mutters, “I like the sex….” And when a few of the heads with ponies turn, adds, “ratio of our class. Don’t you think so, Harsh?” I turn into a zombie out of mortification. What would the girls think? That I, roll number 8, Harsh Snehanshu whom the boys refer to as Baba is a lecher? The thought makes my shaky self-image shiver and I start sweating from all corners of my head. I want to break Sameer’s teeth for putting me into spotlight. But I am lanky and Sameer is quite well-built. Plus he is a friend. Plus I am thirsty. Thirsty, yes. Water. Water. Where the duck is water? (Using the F word is blasphemous for me!) I escape to the water cooler. The tasteless water has never tasted better before. Chapter 2. Chemistry Lab. Episode 2. Click #Amoeba to read in continuation. #Nanowrimo

Sameer and Anuj, unsure of making it to the IITs, ignore my innocuous question. We enter the lab following the herd of Carmelites with impeccably white skirts and shiny shoes. Sameer, to catch their attention, mutters, “I like the sex….” And when a few of the heads with ponies turn, adds, “ratio of our class. Don’t you think so, Harsh?” I turn into a zombie out of mortification. What would the girls think? That I, roll number 8, Harsh Snehanshu whom the boys refer to as Baba is a lecher? The thought makes my shaky self-image shiver and I start sweating from all corners of my head. I want to break Sameer’s teeth for putting me into spotlight. But I am lanky and Sameer is quite well-built. Plus he is a friend. Plus I am thirsty. Thirsty, yes. Water. Water. Where the duck is water? (Using the F word is blasphemous for me!) I escape to the water cooler. The tasteless water has never tasted better before. Chapter 2. Chemistry Lab. Episode 2. Click #Amoeba to read in continuation. #Nanowrimo

Harsh

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“It smells of farts,” Sameer says as soon as we enter the chemistry lab. We have never been there, and nobody even meandered around because of the perpetual reek of H2S. “The worst part of being a science student,” Anuj adds. The two of them are my dear friends, good students with a funny bone and a penchant for sleazy jokes. “Will IITs also have such stinky labs?” I ask. Yes, I’m preparing for the JEE. I have been doing so since grade 9th. If you come to my home, you’ll find a big poster on the wall saying AIR 1, IIT-JEE 2007. It has been there since 2004. I'm driven unlike my pals Sameer and Anuj, who spend most of their time scrapping girls on Orkut. To me, they both are barbaad. For them, I am a baba—a respectable nickname given to nerds who are born to crack JEE. For the sleepy Dhanbad, IITs are the temples and IITians are the Gods. You find their photos adorning every nook, endorsing a coaching institute by flaunting their AIRs in 2 & 3 digits. My life goal is to be the first one in town to crack a 1-digit AIR and have my own little fandom in the city. Why so? No, not for prestige anymore, but to ask Smriti to marry me and have kids that ride bicycle better than me. Chapter 2. Chemistry Lab. Episode 1. Click #Amoeba to read in continuation. #Nanowrimo

“It smells of farts,” Sameer says as soon as we enter the chemistry lab. We have never been there, and nobody even meandered around because of the perpetual reek of H2S. “The worst part of being a science student,” Anuj adds. The two of them are my dear friends, good students with a funny bone and a penchant for sleazy jokes. “Will IITs also have such stinky labs?” I ask. Yes, I’m preparing for the JEE. I have been doing so since grade 9th. If you come to my home, you’ll find a big poster on the wall saying AIR 1, IIT-JEE 2007. It has been there since 2004. I'm driven unlike my pals Sameer and Anuj, who spend most of their time scrapping girls on Orkut. To me, they both are barbaad. For them, I am a baba—a respectable nickname given to nerds who are born to crack JEE. For the sleepy Dhanbad, IITs are the temples and IITians are the Gods. You find their photos adorning every nook, endorsing a coaching institute by flaunting their AIRs in 2 & 3 digits. My life goal is to be the first one in town to crack a 1-digit AIR and have my own little fandom in the city. Why so? No, not for prestige anymore, but to ask Smriti to marry me and have kids that ride bicycle better than me. Chapter 2. Chemistry Lab. Episode 1. Click #Amoeba to read in continuation. #Nanowrimo

Harsh

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Enough of Smriti and me and our adventures. Rather my misadventures. She's my crush, not yours, Shambhavi. I should stop. Allow me to tell one little thing however. Why do I sit where I sit? Today, Smriti is seated in the front bench of girls row. I am on the second of boys row. I intentionally sit here so that I can watch her, while she can’t spot me looking at her. Even when the seats rotate every day, Smriti is going to be one bench ahead all the time and I can keep up with my innocuous gaze. I see that Dinesh has stealthily grabbed the desk alongside yours. Don’t you worry! He’s not after you, but Radhika. As the seats rotate and you approach the backbenches, notice how the distance between Dinesh's desk and Radhika's will shrink. Know that they have started exchanging non-veg jokes over SMSes at night. Barbaad log. Anyway, now that the class has started, I suggest we talk later. Welcome to my school and I hope this monologue that continues to go on in my mind will turn into a real conversation someday, where I talk without being awkward and fidgety. Until that day arrives, you can call me what every other girl in the class calls me (I'd only know it years later): a champu. Chapter 1. Episode 9. Clock #Amoeba to read in continuation. #NaNoWriMo

Enough of Smriti and me and our adventures. Rather my misadventures. She's my crush, not yours, Shambhavi. I should stop. Allow me to tell one little thing however. Why do I sit where I sit? Today, Smriti is seated in the front bench of girls row. I am on the second of boys row. I intentionally sit here so that I can watch her, while she can’t spot me looking at her. Even when the seats rotate every day, Smriti is going to be one bench ahead all the time and I can keep up with my innocuous gaze. I see that Dinesh has stealthily grabbed the desk alongside yours. Don’t you worry! He’s not after you, but Radhika. As the seats rotate and you approach the backbenches, notice how the distance between Dinesh's desk and Radhika's will shrink. Know that they have started exchanging non-veg jokes over SMSes at night. Barbaad log. Anyway, now that the class has started, I suggest we talk later. Welcome to my school and I hope this monologue that continues to go on in my mind will turn into a real conversation someday, where I talk without being awkward and fidgety. Until that day arrives, you can call me what every other girl in the class calls me (I'd only know it years later): a champu. Chapter 1. Episode 9. Clock #Amoeba to read in continuation. #NaNoWriMo

Harsh

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The arduous pilgrimage was over and I had managed to reach home alive, although completely dehydrated. My mother stood alarmed. She thought I was chased by goons. I said, loud and clear, dogs. She thought I was referring to goons as dogs. Wasseypur is next-door so mistaking dogs for goons was not completely implausible. I said dogs, kutta, kukkur. She figured I really meant dogs and as if I were one, she handed me a pack of Parle-G to nibble before I dunked water to moisten my parched throat. I hated it but mothers don't quite understand no when it comes to food. Parle G scratched and abraded my throat like a sandpaper and I kept ruminating like a cow. Once I chewed enough, a bottle of water was presented to me to bring me back to life. Before I could pick up the remote and surf through channels to catch a glimpse of nipples on Fashion TV, my mother hid it and stared hard at me. Enough of play, study now. The eyes were enough. But Maa, I pleaded. But Maa didn't take any buts and ifs. No meant no, she said. Yeah, right, I mumbled and lay down, reading simple harmonic motion in the HC Verma textbook, shaking too and fro to keep myself awake. I fell asleep before the pendulum sang 9. Chapter 1. Episode 8. Click #Amoeba to read in continuation. #NaNoWriMo

The arduous pilgrimage was over and I had managed to reach home alive, although completely dehydrated. My mother stood alarmed. She thought I was chased by goons. I said, loud and clear, dogs. She thought I was referring to goons as dogs. Wasseypur is next-door so mistaking dogs for goons was not completely implausible. I said dogs, kutta, kukkur. She figured I really meant dogs and as if I were one, she handed me a pack of Parle-G to nibble before I dunked water to moisten my parched throat. I hated it but mothers don't quite understand no when it comes to food. Parle G scratched and abraded my throat like a sandpaper and I kept ruminating like a cow. Once I chewed enough, a bottle of water was presented to me to bring me back to life. Before I could pick up the remote and surf through channels to catch a glimpse of nipples on Fashion TV, my mother hid it and stared hard at me. Enough of play, study now. The eyes were enough. But Maa, I pleaded. But Maa didn't take any buts and ifs. No meant no, she said. Yeah, right, I mumbled and lay down, reading simple harmonic motion in the HC Verma textbook, shaking too and fro to keep myself awake. I fell asleep before the pendulum sang 9. Chapter 1. Episode 8. Click #Amoeba to read in continuation. #NaNoWriMo

Harsh

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When blank calls didn't quite work, I devised a more audacious strategy. Riding my Avon alone to the other end of town, leaving behind the known territory of home to school & school to home, 500 m in total. I'd jostle with speeding bikers and coughing autos for space on Dhanbad's main road. Like John Abraham. On the pretext of group study, I set out on a five km pilgrimage towards Officer's Colony. Smriti's address lifted from the slam book, yet again. By the time I reached her colony, I was in bad shape. My shirt was drenched in sweat and my face, handsome according to (only) my mother, was covered in muck. Still, I fixed my hairstyle and entered the colony with poise, like a baraati. I looked at the name plates of the officers around but realized my plan was jinxed. Smriti didn't keep a surname. Helpless, I tried to show off my cycling skills by riding with both my hands in air, hoping that she might see me from the balcony while combing her hair or whatever girls do in balconies & fall for me. A studious daredevil. None of that occurred, instead I fell & was chased by stray dogs. I pedalled for my life, hoping she hadn't caught a glimpse of the damp face that screamed: BACHAO! Chapter 1. Episode 7. Click #Amoeba to read in continuation. #NaNoWriMo

When blank calls didn't quite work, I devised a more audacious strategy. Riding my Avon alone to the other end of town, leaving behind the known territory of home to school & school to home, 500 m in total. I'd jostle with speeding bikers and coughing autos for space on Dhanbad's main road. Like John Abraham. On the pretext of group study, I set out on a five km pilgrimage towards Officer's Colony. Smriti's address lifted from the slam book, yet again. By the time I reached her colony, I was in bad shape. My shirt was drenched in sweat and my face, handsome according to (only) my mother, was covered in muck. Still, I fixed my hairstyle and entered the colony with poise, like a baraati. I looked at the name plates of the officers around but realized my plan was jinxed. Smriti didn't keep a surname. Helpless, I tried to show off my cycling skills by riding with both my hands in air, hoping that she might see me from the balcony while combing her hair or whatever girls do in balconies & fall for me. A studious daredevil. None of that occurred, instead I fell & was chased by stray dogs. I pedalled for my life, hoping she hadn't caught a glimpse of the damp face that screamed: BACHAO! Chapter 1. Episode 7. Click #Amoeba to read in continuation. #NaNoWriMo

Harsh

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I turned into a hopeless romantic. I’d wait outside Smriti's bus until she’d boarded and would leave for my home only after the bus had slipped out of sight. Sometimes our eyes would cross, and less than a second later, I’d let my vision toss to the sky and feet race towards the horizon. I didn’t want her to know that I was following her. During the holidays after the boards, when I couldn’t see her, I dialed her landline number. I had picked it up from Ranjit's slam-book. She’d filled before our classes ended because Ranjit was leaving for Kota after 10th. She picked up the call. Unable to speak a word, I played the song Dil ko Tumse Pyaar Hua on the speakers and waited for her to respond. She uttered hello thrice, the third rather peeved, and just at the time Roop Singh Rathod had started singing the romantic verse Main Deewana Tera Ban Gaya Jaanejana, she disconnected. I didn’t try calling her again. I feared what if she had a caller id: after all, she was a Carmelite, good in English, hence in all probability, technologically affluent. Chapter 1. Episode 6. Click on #Amoeba to read in continuation. #NaNoWriMo

I turned into a hopeless romantic. I’d wait outside Smriti's bus until she’d boarded and would leave for my home only after the bus had slipped out of sight. Sometimes our eyes would cross, and less than a second later, I’d let my vision toss to the sky and feet race towards the horizon. I didn’t want her to know that I was following her. During the holidays after the boards, when I couldn’t see her, I dialed her landline number. I had picked it up from Ranjit's slam-book. She’d filled before our classes ended because Ranjit was leaving for Kota after 10th. She picked up the call. Unable to speak a word, I played the song Dil ko Tumse Pyaar Hua on the speakers and waited for her to respond. She uttered hello thrice, the third rather peeved, and just at the time Roop Singh Rathod had started singing the romantic verse Main Deewana Tera Ban Gaya Jaanejana, she disconnected. I didn’t try calling her again. I feared what if she had a caller id: after all, she was a Carmelite, good in English, hence in all probability, technologically affluent. Chapter 1. Episode 6. Click on #Amoeba to read in continuation. #NaNoWriMo

Harsh

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Now, before I take the story forward, let me tell you that I had never spoken personally with Smriti till then. For two reasons. One, there was never a reason. Second, I was a champu, a wimp, and would never go beyond my taciturn vocabulary of a yes and a no. But that time, I had to formulate one complete sentence. “Smriti,” I said with my hand raised. “Yes,” she said, looking into my eyes, in her cuckoo voice. “Please erase my name. I will be quiet from now on.” “No, this is the first time your name has come here. It’s going to stay,” she said with an unseen playfulness. “Please!” I could hear my heart pounding. Having a follow up conversation with a girl was not a part of my usual routine. “No, enjoy the stardom, honey.” That was it. She had called me honey! Honey: the word that Ted Lawson of the TV series Small Wonder would always refer to his wife Joan as. And they kissed often. Did she like me? Would she kiss me? I didn’t know about her but I started to like her. I wouldn't mind us kissing. Chapter 1. Episode 5. #NaNoWriMo #Amoeba

Now, before I take the story forward, let me tell you that I had never spoken personally with Smriti till then. For two reasons. One, there was never a reason. Second, I was a champu, a wimp, and would never go beyond my taciturn vocabulary of a yes and a no. But that time, I had to formulate one complete sentence. “Smriti,” I said with my hand raised. “Yes,” she said, looking into my eyes, in her cuckoo voice. “Please erase my name. I will be quiet from now on.” “No, this is the first time your name has come here. It’s going to stay,” she said with an unseen playfulness. “Please!” I could hear my heart pounding. Having a follow up conversation with a girl was not a part of my usual routine. “No, enjoy the stardom, honey.” That was it. She had called me honey! Honey: the word that Ted Lawson of the TV series Small Wonder would always refer to his wife Joan as. And they kissed often. Did she like me? Would she kiss me? I didn’t know about her but I started to like her. I wouldn't mind us kissing. Chapter 1. Episode 5. #NaNoWriMo #Amoeba

Harsh

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The roll call has just finished and I am done watching you. You seem nice, but you still are roll number 7, not 1. So I let my eyes hover between the blackboard and roll 1. Smriti wasn’t my crush till six months ago. There were no crushes then. I just gazed at the girls’ row once in a while, between the two periods, looking at some of the pretty faces. And that was when I started observing their peculiarities and habits. How Sonal loved to silently curse under her breath, how Natasha had a nail paint inside her desk that she would use in the soporific Sanskrit classes, how Sharada would nibble on her lunch in between the two periods, and how Smriti – as nice as you seem to be – remained the stern monitor who'd roll her eyes everytime someone tried to flirt with her. It was while she was monitoring the class that I giggled loudly to a non-vegetarian joke that Ayan had whispered, and she wrote my name on the blackboard. It was the first time my name was there. It wasn’t that it would have led me to a punishment, but I wanted it to be erased because I, one of the quietest students in the class - a self-conscious teacher's favourite wimp, was mortified beyond measure. Chapter 1. Episode 4. #NaNoWriMo #Amoeba

The roll call has just finished and I am done watching you. You seem nice, but you still are roll number 7, not 1. So I let my eyes hover between the blackboard and roll 1. Smriti wasn’t my crush till six months ago. There were no crushes then. I just gazed at the girls’ row once in a while, between the two periods, looking at some of the pretty faces. And that was when I started observing their peculiarities and habits. How Sonal loved to silently curse under her breath, how Natasha had a nail paint inside her desk that she would use in the soporific Sanskrit classes, how Sharada would nibble on her lunch in between the two periods, and how Smriti – as nice as you seem to be – remained the stern monitor who'd roll her eyes everytime someone tried to flirt with her. It was while she was monitoring the class that I giggled loudly to a non-vegetarian joke that Ayan had whispered, and she wrote my name on the blackboard. It was the first time my name was there. It wasn’t that it would have led me to a punishment, but I wanted it to be erased because I, one of the quietest students in the class - a self-conscious teacher's favourite wimp, was mortified beyond measure. Chapter 1. Episode 4. #NaNoWriMo #Amoeba