Chapter 6: How We Fell

In the second semester of our first year, we became classmates because we both chose the humanities stream.

Everyone said humanities was for 'weak students,' but for us, it was a world of poetry, debates, and endless chai breaks. I still remember the day the new section list was pinned up. Our names, side by side, felt like a promise.

Class 25 for humanities had just been formed, and in the first unit test, Ananya came in first, immediately drawing the attention of all the teachers.

Mrs. Mehra, our English teacher, all but adopted her that day. The staffroom buzzed with talk of the new 'star student.'

The English teacher once said she reminded her of her own daughter. Over time, she even began to treat her as if she were her own child.

She'd call Ananya 'beta' in front of everyone, sometimes slipping her extra biscuits from her tiffin. The rest of us watched, a little envious, but no one dared complain.

The English teacher, Mrs. Mehra, had been divorced for years. Her only daughter had moved to the UK with her ex-husband, and she hadn’t seen her in years. Once, while analysing an essay in class, she was moved to tears and told us about her daughter. At that moment, I realised Mrs. Mehra was a very lonely person.

Her loneliness clung to her like the faint scent of Pond's talcum powder. Sometimes she'd stare out the window during class, lost in memories, her eyes shining with unshed tears.

Ananya was an extremely quiet girl, always speaking softly, her smile like a jasmine bud about to bloom, never showing her teeth. The funniest thing was, whenever someone looked at her too closely, she would blush instantly, like a ripe guava.

I used to tease her, saying, 'Aree, tu toh traffic signal ki tarah ho gayi—ekdum laal!' She'd swat my arm, but her cheeks would only get redder.

She wasn’t shy, just naturally that way. I often teased her about her "changing face."

It became an inside joke—sometimes I'd mime checking my watch, as if waiting for her to turn red.

Coincidentally, these were the exact traits Mrs. Mehra’s daughter had.

Mrs. Mehra would often sigh and say, 'You remind me so much of my Tina.' The affection in her eyes was unmistakable.

So, she was always especially favoured by Mrs. Mehra.

She gave Ananya extra credit, special recommendations for competitions, and once even gifted her a silk scarf on Teacher's Day. The rest of us just rolled our eyes and moved on.

At first, we had little interaction. Even after being classmates for over half a semester, we had barely exchanged a few words face-to-face.

We sat at opposite ends of the classroom, separated by a sea of noisy students and scribbled desks.

I had only added her on WhatsApp through the class group, occasionally liking her posts on Instagram.

Her Instagram was full of pictures of books, the sky, her pet cat Mitthu, and sometimes her mehendi designs. I'd double-tap every photo, hoping she'd notice.

Once, I saw a video of her roller skating and left a casual comment: 'I want to learn, please teach me.'

I typed it almost as a joke, but my heart pounded as I pressed send. Her reply came an hour later: 'Sure! When do you want to go?'

Who would have thought, those four words would entwine our previously unrelated lives together.

That night, I could hardly sleep, replaying the conversation in my head. Maybe destiny had a sense of humour after all.

Soon after, she took the initiative to ask if I wanted to go skating.

I pretended to be cool—'Accha, let’s see this weekend?'—though inside, I was jumping with excitement.

Curious, I followed her to the skating rink near the colony. I thought it would be easy, but I overestimated myself. My stubborn pride made me fall dozens of times that day.

The rink was crowded with little kids zipping past in their Bata school shoes, some still in uniform, their mothers calling from the gate: 'Arre, ab bas karo, homework bhi karna hai!' My jeans got scuffed, and even the rink attendant grinned at my hopeless attempts.

Later, while resting, I watched her skate for a while.

She glided across the smooth floor, hair flowing like a river behind her. A few kids watched in awe, whispering, 'Didi kitni acchi hai!'

She wore a long white kurti, gliding effortlessly across the floor, her long hair floating behind her—she looked like a fairy dancing under the monsoon sky.

Under the pale lights, she sparkled. I couldn't take my eyes off her. Her dupatta trailed behind, almost touching the floor.

Suddenly, a line came to mind: "Still as a lotus in the pond, moving like a gulmohar swaying in the wind."

I scribbled it on my phone, knowing I'd want to remember it forever.

It seemed to describe her perfectly.

She was poetry in motion, even when she stumbled.

A strange feeling began to bloom in my heart.

My heart thudded, as if I had just run up three flights of stairs. Was this what falling in love felt like?

Just then, she came over, held out her hand, inviting me to skate a lap with her.

Her palm was warm and steady. She looked at me, her eyes crinkling at the corners. 'Chale?' she asked, grinning.

I hesitated, shaking my head. She smiled gently and teased, "Don’t be afraid, I’ll protect you."

She winked, tugging my arm lightly. Her confidence made me feel braver, if only for a moment.

Who knew this quiet girl had such a playful spirit?

She poked fun at my clumsy moves, laughing freely. It was the first time I saw this side of her.

I couldn’t refuse, so I reached out and slowly stood up.

My legs trembled, but her grip was firm. For a second, everything else faded away.

Maybe it was just my wishful thinking, but it was the first time I’d ever held a girl’s hand.

Her fingers curled around mine, sending a shiver up my spine. I silently promised myself I wouldn't let go.

While skating, I was especially cautious, afraid that if I fell, I’d drag her down with me.

I kept glancing at her feet, trying to mimic her steps. She laughed, whispering, 'Relax! If you fall, I'll fall too.'

But what you fear most always happens. Someone skated backwards towards us at high speed. I panicked, lost my balance, and my skate crashed into hers.

There was a blur of limbs, a gasp, and suddenly we were both sprawled on the floor. I heard a couple of kids giggling nearby, but all I could see was her face above mine.

In a dramatic, almost unbelievable moment, she happened to fall right on top of me.

Our noses almost touched, her hair tickling my cheek. I froze, barely breathing.

I don’t know if people always fall like that at the rink, but at that moment, my adolescent heart was already racing.

My pulse was so loud, I was sure she could hear it. My cheeks burned hotter than a summer afternoon.

Seeing her face so close, smelling the fragrance of her hair—even her breath seemed sweet.

She smelled faintly of Parachute coconut oil and rose talc. The world narrowed to just the two of us.

Arrey yaar, the heart of a teenage boy!

I almost wanted to laugh at myself. Filmy scenes really do happen in real life, I thought.

Her expression changed ever so slightly, but she didn’t seem to mind at all.

She brushed her hair out of her eyes, grinning. 'Well, that was dramatic.'

After skating, it was dinner time. I casually asked if she wanted to eat together.

She agreed, and we walked to the corner dhaba, the smell of paneer tikka and tandoori roti making my stomach rumble.

She agreed without hesitation.

She even called the waiter and asked for two chai, with extra adrak. I was surprised at her boldness.

At our first dinner together, we were both silent, but it felt so natural and comfortable—never awkward or forced.

We watched the cook flip rotis on the tandoor, the radio playing old Kishore Kumar songs in the background. Sometimes, the best silences say everything.

She didn’t eat egg yolks and asked if I wanted hers.

She broke the yolk, scooped it up, and held it out. 'Yeh lo, tumhara favourite,' she whispered, her bangles jingling softly.

I nodded, sure.

I grinned, feeling oddly special.

She scooped it up and held it to my mouth.

I hesitated, then leaned in, laughing as she fed me. The dhaba uncle winked at us from behind the counter.

I couldn’t help but laugh: "Are you feeding me?"

My laughter was shaky, nervous, but hers was bright and unselfconscious.

She laughed too, her smile like a blooming champa flower.

Her laughter rang out, soft and musical, drawing a few glances from other tables.

"If you think so, then yes."

Her confidence was infectious. For the first time, I felt hope blossom inside me.

From that moment, I was completely smitten.

I barely tasted my food, lost in the glow of her presence.

After dinner, I suggested a walk in the park to help digest. She agreed easily.

We strolled under the gulmohar trees, fireflies dancing around us. I wanted to reach out and hold her hand, but kept my hands stuffed in my pockets instead.

The park at night was peaceful, the breeze gentle. Under the pale yellow streetlights, our two long shadows naturally held hands.

Without a word, she slipped her fingers into mine. My heart soared as we walked in sync, our shadows stretching ahead of us.

The park wasn’t large, so we circled it again and again, as if trying to steal more time from fate.

I wished that night would never end, that we could walk circles forever, away from the rest of the world.