Jaipur. I have always admired this city. Beneath its pink plumage hums a vibrant energy, reminiscent of the roads of Johari Bazaar, lined with columns and shops adorned with tiny jharokas that I often imagine queens once peered out of. Amidst this soothing hum, you can almost taste the sweetness and freshness of paan from its fragrance as you pass Station Road on a rickshaw or tonga. Cars won't give you that pleasure, I assure you.

I check the time and notice that there's a small crack on one of the adjustment holes of the strap, so I adjust the free loop such that the small crack on the strap is hidden behind it. My eyes wander over my school uniform, neatly pressed to a crisp. Shoes polished to perfection. Nails clipped. And hair combed back into a sleek ponytail. A satisfied smile settles on my lips.

So, where were we? Yes, the fragrance of paan. The best aroma in the world. My brain counters: what about coffee, books, and petrichor? Instinctively, I glance up at a few lazy clouds drifting across the sky. The sky is clear. Goodbye monsoon! Adios, petrichor.

I check the time again as the cycle rikshaw halts just outside the school.

'What happened, bhayya? Why did you stop just yet?' I ask, peering to take a look outside.

'Some car-wala is fighting with your school guard,' Bhayya replies, paddling the rikshaw to take a U-turn. This way, he tacitly added: Can't go any farther.

I take a deep breath, in a semblance of courage. I clutch the thirty rupees from my wallet, hand them to rikshaw-wale bhayya, shoulder my bag, and hop out of the rikshaw. The shouts are loud enough to raise the hair at the nape of my neck. I take note of my senses. Visual: I see students, parents, people. Lots of them, crowding like a herd, squirming, slinking, elbowing their way to get a better look at the scene. Divert, Maithili, I think to myself. I glance at my Head Girl badge, my crisp uniform, my ID card, my shoes, my fingers forming a sweaty fist, the yellow bus standing in the corner. Sound: Honk, Shlok shouting, people talking, whispering, my shoes on the concrete, racing heartbeat. Smell: Clean, fresh, early morning air.

'Excuse me! I am the Head Girl.' I struggle my way through. 'Excuse me.'

A black jaguar is parked obliquely at the entrance, flanked by two columns topped with statues of our school's symbol: The swan, Goddess Saraswati's Vahana.

'Guard bhayya, what happened?' I ask, eying Shlok Mittal, the rich-effing-menace.

'Maithili, I just asked him to wear his ID. I didn't say anything else. I don't know why he is accusing me of swearing at him.'

'Ha, now a joke of a girl will decide if I am telling the truth!' Shlok snorts, his wide face contorting with hostility.

Acutely aware of the copious amount of sweat settling in the hollows of my face, I blink a beat, take a second to think of the best comeback, failing at it, and panicking even more before thinking like a calm and unaffected person, and saying, 'Why are you still not wearing your ID, though?'

'I am saying, how dare this stupid guard call me 'ayyash aulad'? How dare he call me a debauched-fucking-son!' He roars, and as if propelled by rage, he lunges at the guard's collar.

I jump to the side, just in time, to get out of the way. A few girls hiss and tsk at the escalating scene, but the boys at the front seem more than comfortable with the unfolding drama. Some take out their phones, but all back away a couple of steps, giving them a ring of space. Suddenly, a breeze hits my face, and I feel as if I've been released from a claustrophobic space, and I can breathe again. I think of how a rational, authoritative figure would handle this situation. Take the ball in your court, I tell myself.

I smile, knowing the answer, and step between them, my eyes steady on Shlok's, as I try to come level with his 5-foot-8 height—just an inch taller than mine. 'I understand that you're angry, Shlok. But right now, everyone's watching you lose control, not him. Is that how you want them to see you?' And then, I lean in and whisper, 'Is that how you want your father to see you?' I'm taking a gamble, counting on the typical rich kid's daddy issues.

Shlok loses his grip on the guard's collar, and looks daggers at me. I eye-point at the raised phones, and he follows suit, backing away.

'ID?' I step back and ask.

I notice his temper fraying, but he pulls out his ID from his pocket and puts it on.

A junior mathematics teacher, Mr. Vikas Godha, parks his scooter some distance away, and comes rushing toward the scene, helmet perched loosely on his head. 'What happened, kids? What happened?' he asks in a reedy voice.

'Nothing, sir!' I step forward. 'Shlok's Jaguar here has got some huge fans.' I turn to Shlok, purposefully. 'He is moving. Aren't you, Shlok?' I cock an eyebrow at him. He gets into the driver's seat, furrowing his thick brows, a nerve twitching at his temple.

'Everybody, get inside the school!' Mr. Vikas shouts, holding his helmet in its place.

Once Shlok's car speeds away, people rush in as I stand underneath the column, calming my nerves. I am wiping the sweat off my forehead when a familiar voice whispers in my ears, 'Quite some composure you got, Maithi!'

I jump and drop my handkerchief on the floor. When I turn, it is Romil, leaning forward, smirking his famous half-grin that many weirdly deem handsome. Instinctively, I take a step back. His face is too close to mine. 'Don't call me that,' I say, attempting to sound calm, but my squeaky voice betrays me.

He straightens up, his eyes never leaving mine. 'Why not? Too personal?' He picks up my fallen handkerchief, but instead of handing it back, he twirls it around his finger. 'You didn't seem to mind Shlok's tantrum. Guess some men's rage doesn't bother you as much?'

I stiffened at the insinuation. 'That's none of your business, Romil. And you're friends with Shlok—shouldn't you be talking sense into him?'

He raises an eyebrow, his expression darkening. 'Friends? I'm not his babysitter, Maithi. Besides, I prefer watching the show rather than playing a referee between a guard and a spoilt brat.'

'This is not a joke, Romil. You need to talk to him. You know he listens to you.'

He takes a step closer, his voice dropping. 'And why would I do that? Maybe I enjoy watching you squirm, trying to keep everything under control. It's amusing.'

I clench my fists, anger bubbling inside me. 'You're unbelievable.'

'Thank you.' He lets the handkerchief drop to the ground.

The nerve of him! My ears go hot, but I hold it in. As I pick up the handkerchief, I chance a look at his face. An absurd gleam dances in his brown eyes, making his curly, brown hair even more noticeable in this light. His hands are casually nestled in his pocket as he stands tall in front of me, assessing.

'I don't know where that attitude comes from.' I try not to look back into his eyes. 'By the way, it's really juvenile of you to think I'll be perturbed by those silly nicknames.' I start to move inside, and I sense him following. 'Where is your badge?' I ask. 

'In my bag,' he answers, amused, for some weird reason. Why is he always amused, as if my very existence makes him laugh? Or maybe that's how he feels in control, the erudite voice in me thinks.

'Wear it,' I say.

'No need. Because unlike you, I don't need some head-boy badge to establish authority.' He brushes past me, sauntering away, heading towards Shlok's car now parked in the lot. I watch as he opens the passenger door and slides in, exchanging a few words with Shlok before they both look my way, their laughter muffled but evident.

Great. Just a great start of the day!

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Dear Friends,
Your comments, votes and sharing this with your friends will really cheer me up and keep me going! 😊

XOXO
Shailey