What do you call a devilishly handsome veteran racer with a half-desi-partly-Russian Tinder date in one arm and the keys to a manipulative bitch's apartment in the other?

A man with exotic tastes, and an extra-ordinary revenge plan.

In my quest to erase the mishap of a recent past, Daria Bhupati plays out her insane fantasies on me. No, not Hot Wheels stuff, man—do me a favor and scrape that image right out of your mind. Daria's more of a gothic chic with tattoos and a sum total of zero interest in my past or profession.

Which is fine, because unlike the misconstrued misconception you seem to have of me being this guy who's so hung up on his stellar racing career that he can't seem to leave it in the past, I actually find it refreshing when someone who doesn't know me, doesn't really care about where I came from.

You do, clearly. But Daria doesn't. She definitely has a kink for slobbering ears, though. Had she put that tongue action where it actually needed to be, maybe you and I wouldn't be having this heart-to-heart right now.

"Shh," a long purple nail drags over my lips when I clear my throat. "Who's my good boy?"

Don't know about the good, but this boy could certainly play out his mommy issues if it meant being rewarded. She's got a tongue piercing and that's all I can actually anticipate right now.

Her lips return to my jaw, tarantula nails dancing down the front, bumping over the buttons. Raising a filled-in brow, she looks at me testily. Her eyes kinda remind me of a raccoon—darkly shadowed and heavily lined—so I try to shake that image off because I do wanna get laid.

But Daria withdraws from me completely before I can take the reins. She walks backward with a light sway in her hips, taking the place in with pursed lips to accompany her curiosity. "You said you knew a place we could crash and thrash."

Under promise, over deliver. Totally my thing. "Treat it like a rage room, baby."

Goth chic's brows shoot up to suspicious heights as she observes the pictures on the wall with a peculiar interest. "No one's home, huh?"

"Unless you'd like some spectators..."

Smirking, she graces parts of the room that doesn't receive her touch, with an uber-observant gaze. "Quite the opposite, actually."

I indulge her in a lazy strip show, one that doesn't hinder her subtle inspection of supposedly hidden cameras in the nooks of the furniture. She plays along, shedding each layer with growing faith as each corner turns out empty. Until something on the side table piques her interest so much that the mood switches with a single press of a button.

"Whoa," is her squeal of... astonishment? "Gosh, what is that?"

That is the song that made every 90s kid a disco dancer, but I guess my half-Russian nightly lover doesn't share the same childhood as mine. She hauls the box up, pinioning different dials as if she has never seen an old stereo before. "Damn, this thing looks vintage."

"Kinda is." And it's making me weird all over again because I need her hands off it. But she probably doesn't get the signal because all she does is keep switching songs. "Why don't we just leave it to itself?"

"Just trynna set the mood..."

Her attempts only suffocate what remains of the mood, so before Daria can test her techie skills on a stereo that's probably a decade older than both our ages added together, I turn it off myself and set it back down.

Of course, it layers over my mommy issues because it pisses her off. "I thought we could crash and thrash?"

"Let's just exclude this one from the deal, yeah? Might be someone's prized possession."

"Ooh, touchy huh?" Her talons scrape down my arm again, voice disdainful. "Did someone special give it to you?"

I don't don grand mommy issues, what the fuck? "It's not mine."

"Then why care?"

Because the name's stuck in my throat, and it's definitely her prized possession. She's right though, I shouldn't care. Just like I didn't all those years ago when I didn't even know that she existed because Arnav fucking Deewan always made shit up.

We were all gathered inside this tent Dad had got me the week before. We were at our Noida farmhouse, a weekend retreat my friends had been invited to for my birthday.

Honestly, I'd have been satisfied with just Ritwik being around. Vansh was okay too, I guess. Flashed a dazzling smile, charmed everyone. Most sought out for filling slam books, friends with everybody, but best chum with one of the class toppers.

I didn't care much for Arnav—he was the quiet kid with good grades and God, did every teacher need to point out my flaws like that? I didn't hate him—I was content with him just existing. Give it to my Mom for inviting him specifically with the hopes that the kid who doesn't even talk unless spoken to would be a strong influence on the kid who can't stop laughing when being scolded.

Anyways, back to the tent we pitched in the living room and the bullshit that came out of Arnav's mouth. "Maine na, ek baar sacchi mein bhooth dekha tha," he began. Lights out, torch glow, ghost stories. You know the drill.

We were eight, Ritwik was still a dork. "Sach mein? Kahaan?"

"Amavas ki raat thi," he continued and we nodded like we understood what Amavas meant. "Baara baje thhe aur sab sone gaye thhe. Sirf mai jaga hua thha."

Vansh observed his best friend, eager to correct him. "Baara baje raat nahi hoti, AM means morning."

It was this new fuckall concept we were learning in school. AM, PM, time, hours. Arnav didn't blink at the interruption though. "Hoti hai. India mein woh system nahi chalta."

"Tu woh chhod na, aage bol," I spoke because, look, I did not want to wet my bed thinking about math. "Fir kya hua?"

"Mujhe bohot tez pyaas lag rahi thhi. Room me koi bottle bhi nahi thha. Toh na, mujhe utthke kitchen jaana pada."

"–tu Mummy-Papa ke sath nahi sota kya? Mummy ko kyu nahi bola pyaas lagi hai?"

Arnav pondered over Ritwik's question for no more than five seconds, improvising instantly, "Mai apne Nani ke ghar thha na, Bombay mein. Summer vacation ke liye. Tab Mumma aur Papa nahi aaye thhe waha."

"Accha. Fir?"

"Fir na, mujhe zor se pyaas lagi thi toh mujhe kitchen taq akele jaana pada. Toh mai gaya. Sab jagah andhera tha par mai nahi dara. Fir jaise hi maine fridge ka darwaza khola..."—the pause added a spooky effect, yes—"...mujhe feel hua ki mere peechhe koi khada hai."

Gasps. Ritwik, the overdramatic. Us, the tag-alongs. "Fir?!"

"Maine bottle utthaya aur dheere dheere muda. Dekha, toh mere peeche koi khadi thi. Uske baal saare samne the, chehra bhi nahi dikh raha thha. Bohot darawni lag rahi thhi. Fir na, woh boli, Mujhe pyaas lagi hai. Bottle de."

"Toh tune usey bottle de diya?"

Any sane person would have attempted to at least hit the ghost with the bottle, but smart kid Arnav didn't. "Mai nahi darta na bhoot ya bhootniyo se, toh maine de diya."

"Tune bhootni se friendship kar li?" Guess we were awaiting the Bhootnath twist to his tale. "Uska naam kya thha?"

Arnav peered at us with a slow smirk forming on his flash-lit face. "Arvika. Woh toh meri behen thhi!"

At that point, and years to come frankly, Ritwik and I had our doubts about this strange name having real roots or whether it just served a functional element to his story. Come on, we were eight—we didn't investigate the origin of bullshit.

It didn't help that I was thirsty and my bottle was empty and with my luck, it probably was an Amavas night too. But I didn't want to appear like a loser, scared of the dark and a ghost named Arvika.

"Bhoot-woot kuchh nahi hota," I convinced myself, proceeding to unzip the tent when three pairs of eyes challenged me to go alone. Performance pressure. Also more pressure in my tank.

Egged on with the adrenaline rush to prove that I was brave, I tip-toed out of the living room. Fingertips freezing, balls itching, hair in the back of my neck pointing out, alert. The bathroom was the first stop, and I remember trying to whistle while doing my business there to scare off any apparition who might enter unannounced.

It was the next destination that would decide my valour though. All I needed to do was channelize my inner Banku and befriend the ghost. Easy-peasy lemon squeezy.

The hallway that led to the kitchen also housed my parents bedroom. I maintained a close distance towards their wall as a back-up, you know, just in case a phantom decided they wanted to befriend me.

Aggravated voices floating from their suite made me stop, though. Not a very recent development, not very frequent either. Just enough for me to remember the pattern of their arguments.

"No Neeti, I don't bloody care what intentions that man has. My son won't be talking to him, and that's it."

"That's not fair to him or us, Prakash. You know it."

"Fair? You are talking about being fair? That's rich."

Silence. Deep, hurt breaths. A pause of a few seconds, and then the next throw. "I am talking about what's good for him here."

"Tumhare TV serials real life se alag hai, Neeti. This plan that you have come up with is not good for anybody, let alone Karan. Are you out of your mind?!"

"Rajveer insists on it, Prakash. He wants to have a cordial relation—"

"Bhoo."

I hadn't realized I had company until a chill ran down my spine and the first reaction I had was whipping around and launching my fist into the intruder's face.

Arnav stumbled backwards, cupping his nose. To my relief, he wasn't bleeding. That would have surely landed me in trouble. I wasn't going to apologize, though.

Pulling his arm, I led us towards the kitchen, away from the vicinity of eavesdropping on the Bahl gossip. "Tu yaha pe kya kar raha hai?"

"Mujhe bhi pyaas lagi thi. Aur tu bohot der se nahi aya toh mai dekhne aa gaya ki kahi..."

"Mujhe bhoot-wooth se darr nahi lagta, theek hai? Aur waise bhi, yaha Arvika nahi milegi."

"Mujhe pata hai, woh meri behen hai, yaar. Woh Mumbai mein hai."

I thought of pointing out that a human couldn't have a ghost sister, but like I said, we didn't cross-check bullshit. With two bottles of water, we headed back to the living room.

The voices were louder this time. I was getting a little embarrassed, not going to lie. However, all Arnav did was place a hand on my shoulder and shrugged. "Mere Mom Dad bhi aise fight karte thhe."

I wanted to ask if they still did, but I was worried about him rambling about this to everyone in school more. I wasn't aware that his parents were separated at that time, so I couldn't understand why he would act so compassionate and understanding when he could very well use this to his advantage.

He tried to tell me how my grandmother would take care of it, just like his did. But our situations were different, and unlike his parents, mine never separated.

Would have been an easier comprehension if they did.

_____

Namoshtaii!

Since morning, Lata Mangeshkar songs have been on repeat in my home. Something Aditi said today and I strongly resonate with is that she did not have a fandom—because her songs have been such a household theme in every family. In my music class today, my Sir too shared an anecdote where someone described Lata ji's voice to be water because unki awaz pyaas bujhati hai, and as we strummed a few of her hits, I couldn't help but ponder over that. Lag Jaa Gale and Luka Chuppi are two of my core favorites. What about you?

A big thank you to ughhmaybeits_Titli for the adorable graphic used in the banner. The flashlight glow OH MY GOD. Mind = blown! 

I'm thinking of binging Euphoria this week. The whole Are you auditioning for Oklahoma? got me lol. Have you seen it?

Read, vote, comment, promote!

~Shubhodiya