Choosing electives is a no-brainer task. Especially if the options are Physical Education, Economics and Psychology.

Obviously you're like, duh Karan, choose PE—you literally get to play in the ground everyday and get graded for it. Not gonna argue 'cus yes, that's partially true. But you know, when you're fifteen and have hormones and this bratty urge to be different and think out of the box and act unpredictable because that's what makes you cool?

Yeah, I think I was going through that phase. That I managed to fail the first unit test of this elective, is a completely different issue. But the fact that the school (the teacher, to be specific) emailed my Dad about it is what kinda initiated some drama at home.

Don't get me wrong, I was far from being a straight-A student my whole life. Average grades and a Pass on my finals pleased my mother enough to organize a Pooja and channel her inner philanthropist out of relief. I mean, she didn't exactly have any news about the internals until now.

So maybe that is what made my father stand against my doorframe one particular morning, observing me grimly as I got ready for school. "Email aya tumhare UT ke baremein."

I know my parents were cooler than average about studies, but listen, when confronted like that, anybody would piss their pants. I tried to school my features to act super casual in front of the mirror but almost strangled myself while knotting my tie.

"Ye wala score matter nahi karta, maine sir se baat kar lee hai. Surprise test tha na, isliye. Aur aaj retest hai, ho jayega manage"

Due to a wicked twist of faith—okay, fine, my nonchalance—the answer sheet with big red crosses lay on my table, and hence came under Dad's quick scrutiny. His eyes lingered on the score on the top margin, right next to his signature. Whoopsiedoodledoo.

"Mai aapko batane hi wala tha... Woh aapko disturb nahi karna tha aur aaj paper submit karna hai isiliye..."

I guess I had disappointed him enough for his concern to be something other than the accurate first copy of his initials. "Psychology padh rahe ho?"

He didn't know because I had forged his signature on the electives form as well. Whoopsie-double-doo?

"Mr. Samarth Kaushal tumhare teacher hai?" More of a statement than a question, it felt.

I nodded like the obedient kid I was on days when the foreboding of situations looping out of control would cloud over me. Dad left the room, graver than before and I didn't register his sudden interest in my subject teacher as unusual. Until...

"Tumhe pata thha Kaushal ka beta yaha padha raha hai?"

"Stop making a big deal out of it, please."

"I asked you a question, Neeti."

An aggravated sigh we all knew too well. "Yes. Yes, I knew."

"You're unbelievable."

"Am I now? Sure. Blame it all on me."

"All I want to know is why did you not tell me about it."

"Because it is none of your bloody business."

I decided it was none of mine either and plugged in my iPod. Grabbing a banana from the breakfast table, I drowned them out with some Led Zeppelin and hurried towards my honking bus, merry on my way to school.

The foreboding thingie came back during lunch break though, when I realized that I was the only one sitting through the retest. You know what made it whoopsie-triple-doo? Me having studied half a chapter out of three.

It was just a Unit Test, chill out.

I doodled across the page so that it at least looked like I knew something. But Samarth Sir sat a few feet away, right in front of me, and I guess faking it didn't work when you're trynna do it in front of a Psych major.

"Why did you choose this elective?"

"I heard it's a scoring subject." Jokes on me.

The irony of it made him scan me over. "Right. Well, you have five minutes more."

I took two out of them and went on to submit my paper. I had bullshitted for 25 out of 30 marks, guessing that he was kind enough to reward me with at least the passing score.

"Your request for change in electives is under process," he commented while flipping through my answer sheet.

"Change in electives?"

"Your parents emailed an hour ago. You're going to opt for Economics now?"

"No..." I said, confused. "Must be some mistake."

He pumped a shoulder uncaringly. "In any case, you should probably try that. Psychology... I don't think that's for you."

Hey, that was low key offensive, okay? Economics was tougher than Psychology, I wasn't going to put myself through more Math than necessary.

"Arey sir, I'll study na next time se!"

"I hear that Mr. Bahl's a Mystic alumni?"

It was an old fucking school that wooden-plaqued its toppers since its foundation seventy four years ago. Dad had saved us Bahls a spot. "Yeah. For the record, his elective was Psychology too."

"So you're trying to follow his footsteps?"

That was absurd. "No. I'm not like him at all," I chuckled. Dad was a teacher's favorite, walked ten miles on foot to school, studied under the driveway light, had unique business propositions since the age of ten—like keyboard cleaning services for ten paisa. You know, the normal parent's reminiscent childhood.

Done checking my paper, Mr. Kaushal signed on the top and returned the sheet to me. He was generous this time. A solid 17 that met the qualifying criteria. Whoopsie-whoop-whoop, huh.

"You're right," he said. "You're nothing like your father."

"Ekdum apne baap pe gaya hai," Daadi pats my shoulder. "Very dedicated to his work."

Today, she has latched onto the Chandwani-s because their daughter is back from the States. My grandmother is very manipulative—mind you. She emotionally blackmailed me to be her plus one to this charity event, and her hidden intentions are in full bloom at this very moment.

"My friends are race-nerds," Daadi's target, Noor Chandwani, says. "I went to watch your race with them in Monaco."

That was a year and a half ago, but before I can expound on the Monaco racing experience, my grandmother snips that thread off. "Now he heads the Northern operations of the company. Din bhar sirf work. Rarely at home these days, in fact."

You can try amending her but see, she's a true granny at heart and I, her favorite grandson. Noor's grin is laced with apprehension though. "So, a workaholic?"

"Focused, beta. Very focused." Like I said, Daadi knows how to mince words. "Why don't you two get talking? I'll see you at the table, okay?"

A vain conversation takes off, because vain is what I can do. We slow dance through the drinks, drop hints by dinner, and tour Delhi for desserts. It's all vain, since neither of us have the intent to drag out our purposes.

Hence, it's a mindfuck when it has to halt right when we're about to get the party started. Because the door to the apartment doesn't need a key this time. It opens on its own accord, as if our drunken whispers relay away our intentions.

And inside, the mellow music lowers down. An unwelcome confrontation?

We've stayed intruders long enough.  "What are you doing here, Karan?"

_____

Namoshtaii!

Started offline college last Tuesday and it feels like I have forgotten how to manage travel expenses. Every morning I wait for my Uber driver to call me then cancel on me and then wait again for another auto and by the time I reach my destination, I'm only testing my math to count my balance. Honestly, at this rate, I think I might be recreating the stories our parents narrate about how they commuted to school. 

How did you spend Holi, by the way?  I spent mine gorging on (one) Gulab Jamun and spending hours at the bookstore after we had the amazing Discord meet. That surely was the highlight of my week, chilling with the members who could make it to the meet. I had so much fun, hope it was the same for you :)

Thanks to ughhmaybeits_Titli for making the banner art. Can literally never stop raving about her art. 

Read, vote, comment, promote!

~Shubhodiya