Chapter 3: Little Shell and the Phone Calls

We really did become desk mates, and it annoyed me to no end.

But she went around telling people I was really nice, that we’d been classmates in junior high.

At first, everyone believed it.

I didn’t want to spoil my good reputation, so when others asked, I just nodded stiffly.

She still boasted.

Boasted about her mum loving her.

Boasted in class, boasted in essays, wrote so sincerely that even the Hindi teacher was moved to tears.

She said it again and again, and the classmates were dumbfounded.

I found it funny.

It’s obvious whether someone is loved or not.

Every week when we topped up our canteen cards, I never saw her do it, at least not for a month.

No matter how cheap the canteen food was, even the watery dal cost two rupees. A samosa was a luxury.

Was she planning to become a saint or what?

Sometimes I’d purposely get an extra bun or roti and say I couldn’t finish it.

She’d act all reluctant: “Okay, I’ll eat one. My mum doesn’t let me eat other people’s food.”

She had a very old phone, said her mum bought it for her from abroad, it broke down every few days, and she was always borrowing one or two rupees from classmates to top up her balance.

She’d clutch her battered Nokia, the cover held together with tape, and ask around for a missed call. Her phone was terrible, but she loved calling her mum.

Every night at nine, when her phone died, she’d borrow mine to call her mum. I never lent it.

So she’d borrow from the boys and girls sitting behind us, even the ones who weren’t nice to her, and call her mum.

When she returned the phone, she’d carefully delete the number: “No choice, my mum is very clingy, wants me to call her every day. I’ll delete the number now, my mum is busy, if you accidentally call her, it’s not good.”

But when I checked the call log, she never actually got through.

How could she have talked for so long if the call never connected?

So vain.

And a liar.

I couldn’t be bothered to expose her, in case she stopped letting me copy her notes.

One night, she used my phone again and the class beauty walked by and pressed speaker.

All that came out was a series of busy beeps.

The class beauty burst out laughing.

She winked at me: “Arrey, first time I’ve heard a busy signal that can talk. Have you ever heard that before? Always finding excuses to borrow your phone, and says she doesn’t like you?”

Her sidekick immediately started making a scene, singing an old song: “Like you.”

Half the class started chanting.

“Like you.” “Like you.”

“Heard you were desk mates in junior high.”

“Heard her family has a big flat, congrats, soon you’ll be eating her mummy’s haath ka khana, na?”

“Hehe, and a dedicated piano room, so rich.”

“Her mum loves her so much, saas loves the damaad even more… wow—”

“She never washed her own underwear until thirteen, you won’t have to wash yours either.”

Her mouth dropped open, and tears immediately welled up, but all she said was: “My mum really treats me well. She really… really does, she’s always treated me well since I was little, don’t say that. My family really has a big flat, my mum decorated the piano room herself—for two hours of practice every day, if it wasn’t enough she would teach me, these scars, she hit me out of love…”

Her hands shook, clutching the hem of her dupatta, as she repeated, “My mum really treats me well.”

She never explained anything about liking or not liking, just kept repeating her mum’s clumsy lies.

Buzz buzz buzz, buzz buzz buzz.

I felt the blood rush to my head and slammed the desk: “Even if you liked me, I wouldn’t be interested, just look at yourself.”

As soon as I said it, I regretted it.

I originally meant her personality.

But Meera suddenly went silent, looked up at me.

I didn’t dare meet her eyes, couldn’t bring myself to apologise, so I angrily shoved aside the boys making a scene and left.

The whole class went quiet, except for the ceiling fan’s rattling.