Rewritten: 18 March 2024
⭒
Nyonika
The sprucely decorated corridors had clumps of students chattering as they had joyfully escaped their classes to take part in arranging lights and posters. It felt like a homecoming being thrown for Manik. Tension buckled up in my shoulders at that mere thought. Manik would never willingly have chosen to return to Mumbai, which meant there was some force involved.
"Good morning Ma'am."
Outwardly I nodded while bile pooled in my mouth as some nauseating memories of a little boy being ruthlessly whipped resurfaced from a dark vague portion of my memory, I stormed faster, startling some groups into paying me some respects.
But you hadn't said a word, hadn't raised a finger in objection, my subconscious taunted. Anything, I would do anything to wipe traces of my sheer indifference towards that scoundrel's horrifying acts.
Mindlessly bumping into one of the football-sized lanterns that were strung along either side of the walls, my insides stirred uneasily. Copies of his old annual day performance CDs circulated from the stalls around campus, along with volunteers collecting books and merchandise from those who wanted his signature on it for a nominal price. As if he was a professional musician already. Dim, yellow lantern lights were a tradition at SPACE Academy for every welcoming occasion, but in my current emotional state, those flag posts resembled an untimely warning that the worst was yet to come.
The principal's son was his nametag and the source of his popularity within the school, his biggest achievement until he left Mumbai at seventeen to live with his father. And despite hoping and praying for the day to arrive, his departure left behind loneliness in the form of a ghost in the Malhotra Mansion, one that haunted me in my solitude for months at end. After all, even parents who adopt unwillingly tend to get attached.
The loss of a fifteen-year-long connection, actually two, stirs even the most stable and indifferent people. Somewhere deep down though I never loved them the way other parents did, they had consumed a major chunk of my life. Although I never expected him to call me once he met his father, there was a tiny part of me that desperately wished he did think of me at least once: accounting for all the time we lived together – maintaining a tense relationship perhaps, but it still was one. Then, after being deprived of him for a very long time, all I wanted was to see him and hear him again.
My string of thoughts was broken when a student approached me with a pamphlet that had a scorecard on it. I supposed it was for a ballot, but before I could peer into the details, I was approached by another from behind. "Ma'am, are you looking for Manik?" I nodded with an enthusiastic smile, that was slightly genuine. Nobody else knew our equation, and Manik played his part right in it.
"Science block, 4th floor."
I blinked in my spot. It was uncanny to even picture him in the Science building. He would never step foot in that side of the campus back in the days – the Arts department, the Commerce Department and the Science department were all at each other's heads every year, swearing to be rivals until eternity. But eternity is a long time to keep a promise intact for.
A loud chattering crowd gathered in the middle of the corridor on the fourth floor, with notepads and pens in their hands, hopefully wanting some autographs from the man who was supposedly going to make it big... finally. It dispersed quick enough when I stepped into the picture and Manik casually happened to catch my eye.
The shades over his eyes, his well-trimmed stubble and the charm he caught onto from his father vibrantly personified him. He was only wearing casual brown shorts, a plain black tee and a pair of sneakers, but it showed class, something he lacked from his foster home – as he explicitly stated on multiple occasion. He lowered his glasses as I made my way towards him and shot a small smile.
His stride imitated that of ramp walk models, after all that was what he was up to back in the UK. From the side, he wrapped an arm around my shoulder – pulling me into a side hug – that left my jaw grazing the floor. I was least expecting that, from him especially, out of all gestures of welcoming.
"Done sleeping around, that you found the time to grace yourself here?" He muttered softly, only loud enough for me to hear, his smile plastered like something he'd trained himself to settle within situations like those. His choice of words hadn't changed a bit, but they didn't sink into me until later. I'd become used to taunts of that kind from him, it only reassured me that I was standing next to my son indeed, Manik Malhotra.
How could a child be so grey? How was he capable of lighting up my whole life like a beam of sunshine as if my existence finally had a purpose, yet like rain erupting brooding emotions within me that I had forgotten existed; smearing his darkness all over my subdued demeanour that had emerged over the years in his absence, while he brought with him a mirror to reflect vain. He tried his best to reject me as his mother just as much as I denied him being my son, that way it was mutual even if our similarities succeeded those egos.
Every person in his life was destined to see one of those shades, or sometimes all at once. That was why he was toxic; he could pull people into an abyss and get away as effortlessly.
I looked him in the eye, where most people were most vulnerable and then traced down every feature of his visage, trying my best to sink in every grown feature that I'd missed out on. Seven years was a long time to stay away from someone.
"It's so good to see you." I rambled with an inkling of realism hidden in it. I didn't know why, but in him, I yearned to see the features of Manish, though I knew I never could. That was why I never wanted an adopted child, but then ironically, I was blessed with two.
His eyes turned to stone. "How's your boyfriend, Harshad? Made the baby a daddy yet?" He scoffed with a bland smile.
"Manik, where's Mukti?" His expressions changed but quickly distilled back into 'the happy look' to keep up the façade and he shrugged.
"Like you care."
A distinct figure arose behind him, tapping him on the shoulder playfully. "Manik, I thought I had nearly lost you." Her long ponytail waved, and then her eyes drifted to me. "Oh, hey! I'm Pamela."
"Nyonika." came my extended hand.
"Nyonika Malhotra." He completed with a smile, trying to point to me exactly who I am, and where I belonged. I gave him a cheeky grin as well, kindling the fire within him.
"Can you give us a moment, please?" She said to me, claiming his arm and it didn't take me more than a second to realise she was one of his pawns too.
⭒
Manik
I could not believe I signed this fucking album deal. Only day one, and what a shitshow already!
"Thanks for that saving!" I whiffed a relieving sigh. God, I hated when Cabir was right, but that woman was a handful for me to deal with. Pamela's hands clasped around my forearm again, and I was slowly beginning to take notice of it, as it started feeling uncanny.
"I knew you needed it, haha! Okay, there are heaps of people demanding autographs, and Raghav already handed an entire stack over!"
"Pass them over." I muttered curtly, to get her busy with something else rather than the adoration she had for my muscles.
"Guys, please leave whatever you want to be signed here, we'll get back to you in a few minutes!" She squeaked, and I slipped my phone out, zoning myself from the toxicity of people and their overbearing spirits. As the crowd dispersed, after giving me a few handshakes and abrupt hugs, I settled to some 'alone' space–where I felt the most comfortable and could seek the inner, more tender musician, the one who respected his follower's tastes.
As I began signing, while humming since silence was another pet-peeve I failed to acknowledge, I flipped to the front of each cover, to address them by their name and make the 'signature' a lot more personal; just a tiny thoughtful gesture that I knew my school juniors would appreciate.
Hey, Rushali! Stay happy and blessed, always!
-- Manik Malhotra
The format was the same, occasionally I added a 'lots of love', especially to juniors I knew and gave a tough time back in the days when I was infamous for my attitude! Similarly, I held onto one of the books from the stack. I heedlessly flipped through or a blank page, but there were none. Strange, it was, that a person who wanted my autograph would pitch in a notebook that had not a line to spare.
Was someone messing with me? Cabir! For sure, he didn't have enough suggesting a SPACE Academy visit that he wanted to pull a few more strings and test if I snapped. I calmed my nerves down by a few degrees; knowing that rising temper was exactly what he wanted, I refused to succumb, not so fast, little fella.
I reverted to the first page to check who it belonged to, and what I saw on the front cover took me by surprise. "What the heck?" It was a journal, possibly a diary that held her and me on the front page. I knew that girl, how could I ever forget her, the most vivid memory of my whole school life. It was a picture we took together, a selfie in fact when we stayed back after school one day for coaching.
To say I was taken aback would only be an understatement, for I was not expecting that photograph to be still cherished by her, after exposing all the truth to her. Drawing onto those distant memories, that was as clear to me as events from yesterday, my fingers settled on the glossy lamination.
"Nandini..." Her name escaped my lips like a prayer, as always, as I traced the photograph. I could still picture her innocent face, smiling at me whenever her eyes met mine. Pamela leaned over my shoulder as she stacked the rest of the books that I had already tended to in a different pile.
"Aww! She's such a cutie, she still has that picture y' all took." Passively, I was listening, but I had not a word to say to it. "Wait a minute, she has an entire book written for you!" No way, not for me! "Who is she?" She peered irrationally, putting me in the spot.
"Just a girl I knew," came my snappy remark, almost dismissing her right from questioning anything about me or my past. After all, not the people I had known for years deserved to see that side of me, who the fuck was she to interrogate me, and what really was she expecting? My eyes fixated on her until Pamela's voice filled the silence.
"It was as if she knew all along that you'd get to see this someday." Bitch, stop already.
Out of curiosity, I turned to the first page.
Nicholas Sparks says, "if you like her if she makes you happy, and if you feel like you know her---then don't let her go." But the same can apply the other way around too, right, for a guy? Wrong–but not entirely–because only until you KNOW him should you not let go. I've been proven otherwise. And I don't want this baggage. If I have this book with me, scriptures of every lie I've been told, there won't be a single day or night I'd be able to rest my eyes, or feel peace. These lies shouldn't define me, so I am letting go for lack of a better resort; because my heart stings to these memories, and maybe his will too, perhaps, someday when it's too late.
-Nandini Murthy.
10B, 2010-11
In a matter of forty seconds, she'd drawn me into the world I was running away from, all those years, putting my past behind me. The damage I'd caused, I knew, was brutal but she was strong enough–she could recover, I thought. Goddamn. She was born to write. I didn't know how many people had seen it, and how many knew who was responsible for everything. Somewhere deep down, I hated her for exposing me like that, in a school I'd earned a consistent reputation at.
I wanted to leave the book right there. She was a story of the past, not a matter of concern–never was and never will be, but I had a thing for writers. Their lives spiralled around characters they created and put in tense situations.
All those years, I was focusing on my shattered image of ideals, that devoured parts of me ferociously while not thinking even once that if she had written an entire book concerning me... what if I was the one that damaged her?
Maybe his will too, perhaps, someday when it's too late...
My heartbeat raced at twice its usual pace. The philosophical student in me aimed to sink into the depths and crevices of her point of view, or worse... what if something happened to her?
Why is the book here? Did she want me to read it? Then what did the note mean?
For anyone else, apart from those friends that defined me, I wouldn't do anything against my comfort zone. Hell, I wouldn't move a muscle even if anyone else was at gunpoint, but that feeling in me was killed, forever. Yet for her, I always had a soft corner. Nothing tarnished that yet, so I turned to the first page.
Only because it belonged to Nandini Murthy, my ex-best friend's sister.
⭒⭒⭒
I hope you liked it, it took me a while to introduce this segment, (you'll get some goooood scenes ;)) but you're going to see some twists as well.
Kya aap kuch nahi bologe iske baare main?