Chapter 2: Mint Meets Milk

During math class, Ananya and I were called up to the blackboard to solve a problem. The ceiling fans whirred lazily, fighting a losing battle against the Mumbai humidity. My palms were sticky with sweat as Ananya glided to the board, pleated skirt swishing. I trailed behind, gripping my chalk like it was my last hope.

Arithmetic progression—of all things. Sir’s voice echoed, “Let’s see who finishes first, Ananya or Sneha!” The class perked up, pencils twitching, already planning to copy the answers.

Ananya finished in just three neat steps. Her handwriting was as pretty as she was—perfect curves, every number in its place. She even dotted her i’s with tiny circles, like she had all the time in the world.

Me? I wrote more than a dozen lines and still couldn’t finish! I kept erasing, rewriting, checking the sums—numbers swimming in front of my eyes. My heart pounded as if the whole city was watching through the window.

I don’t know who laughed first—

But soon, mocking laughter rippled through the classroom. A giggle from the back, then snickering everywhere—except the teacher and Ananya. The benches vibrated with that glee only teenagers can muster.

Ananya’s hair carried a sweet, milky fragrance. When I got overwhelmed and started sneezing, the class lost it. I tried to hold in my sneeze, but failed miserably. Some boy mimicked my ah-choo, girls in the front giggled, and my ears were burning—pata nahi kaun sab dekh raha tha. Meenal, sitting two benches away, whispered, “Kya drama hai, Sneha.”

Just then, a cool, minty scent drifted down from above. Like someone had opened an Amrutanjan balm bottle. My nerves steadied for a moment, my nose tingling.

The top student, Rohan, was called up to check the answer. His walk was brisk, like he had somewhere better to be. Always looked a bit annoyed, like the world moved too slow for him.

At my most embarrassed, he took my chalk and patted my shoulder. His hand brushed my sleeve—barely a second, but my heart skipped. Maybe he noticed, maybe not. I coughed, looking away, praying nobody saw my blush.

But then—he didn’t even look before erasing most of my answer, then broke Ananya’s three steps into four, getting the same result: 51/50. His hand moved fast, chalk dust flying. I watched my work vanish, feeling invisible.

"I got the same answer as Ananya, but not as concise as hers," he said. His tone was flat, like reading the cricket scores. The others nodded, as if he’d announced something wise.

The teacher looked at him approvingly, erased more of my work, and wrote the official solution. “Good work, beta. Crisp answer.” Meanwhile, my lines disappeared like yesterday’s rain on tar road.

I stood awkwardly at the board, not sure whether to stay or go. I glanced at the floor, shuffling my feet, wishing the earth would swallow me. Someone whispered, “Bas, ho gaya, Sneha, ab utar ja.”

Sure, I got 51/50 in the end too! I tried to smile, but it felt like a grimace. A few sympathetic faces—mostly other math-strugglers—met my eye. The rest looked bored.

But to these geniuses, my method was the clumsiest, most foolish. Even the chalk seemed to judge me, bits sticking to my fingers like reminders of failure.

Just like my roll number—51—I was the extra one, the fool. Always the odd one out. Even in the list, my name came after all the toppers, like a footnote.

"Did you hear? Rohan called the class rep 'Ananya.' What's going on with those two?" The whispers started before I got to my bench. I felt the eyes on my back, the ache of being excluded.

Class buzzed with gossip. “Lagta hai kuch toh chal raha hai un dono ke beech,” someone snickered. Gossip spread faster than the rains in July.

"Don't be ridiculous, Rohan and I are just good friends!" Ananya laughed, tossing her hair back. She never seemed bothered by what people said.

"Alright, enough, focus on the problem," the teacher said, trying to look strict, but even he smiled. Ananya was his favourite.

Ananya and the teacher didn’t mind the teasing at all. Only people like me felt the sting.

Only Rohan looked at Ananya with a tenderness that couldn’t be faked. I watched, heart sinking, as he smiled at her just for a second.

Honestly, they did seem perfect—a top student and a genius beauty. Even their uniforms looked crisper.

Mint meets milk—a match made in heaven. Their names got written together on the class chart so often, even teachers joked about their partnership. I imagined their wedding invites: ‘Rohan and Ananya: Mint & Milk.’

They discussed tough math problems, watched English movies without subtitles. I’d seen them laugh at Hollywood jokes nobody else got, while I fumbled with the dictionary. My Netflix was always ‘Hindi Dubbed.’

I couldn't keep up with their quick minds. Half the time, I was still reading the question when Ananya already had the answer.

All I could do was try to please Rohan in little ways. Sharpening his pencil, leaving a note, making sure his tiffin wasn’t left behind—small things nobody noticed.

Three years of secret love—I studied day and night just to squeeze into the top science section and get close to Rohan. Gave up birthday parties, TV serials, even Sunday cricket, just for the hope of sitting behind him. “Beta, ladkiyon ko bhi apna time milna chahiye,” Amma would say.

But after half a year—his eyes were only for Ananya. He never spoke to me, the classmate behind him. I memorized the back of his head more than his face. If he dropped a pen, I’d hand it back, hoping for eye contact. Nothing.

So what if we were close in distance? In every way that mattered, I was a million miles away.

I still couldn't enter his world. Sometimes, I’d listen to how he spoke to Ananya—casual, confident, like they’d known each other forever. With me, he was all silence and indifference.

Feeling miserable, I skipped PT and lay on my desk, half asleep. Outside, kids played kho-kho and shouted. I closed my eyes, letting the noise wash over me, wishing for sleep to swallow my thoughts.

Suddenly, someone knocked on my desk a few times. The sharp rap startled me awake. My heart thudded, and I wiped drool from my cheek, embarrassed.

Looking up, I saw Rohan's proud, aloof face right in front of me—arms folded, frown on his forehead, like a hero from those old Shahrukh Khan movies, but without the romance.

For the first time ever, he took the initiative to talk to me. For a second, my mind went blank. I almost smiled. Almost.