Someone Like You
Authors: Nikita Singh,Durjoy Datta
Durjoy Datta
Chapter Two: Gosh, I Need a Boyfriend
Chapter Three: The Transformation
Chapter Four: All It Takes Is Three Short Minutes
Chapter Five: Yes, No and Maybe …
Chapter Seven: ‘I Didn’t Want To Lose You.’
Chapter Nine: The Guy with the Dark Eyes
Chapter Ten: Love at First Sight
Chapter Eleven: The Wild Chants
Chapter Fourteen: Football Stud
Chapter Fifteen: The Drunk Confession
Chapter Sixteen: The Morning After
Chapter Seventeen: How Life Changes
Chapter Eighteen: None of Your Business
Chapter Twenty-one: The Last Resort
Chapter Twenty-three: Darkness
Chapter Twenty-four: Don’t Make the Same Mistake
Chapter Twenty-five: ‘She’s such a bitch!’
Chapter Twenty-six: The Acquitted
Chapter Twenty-seven: Slip of the Tongue
Chapter Twenty-eight: The Broken-Down Workshop
PENGUIN METRO READS
NIKITA SINGH was born in Patna and grew up in Indore, Madhya Pradesh. After pursuing a degree in Pharmacy she decided to try her hand at writing. She is the author of the best-selling books
Love@Facebook
and
Accidentally in Love
and co-author (with Durjoy Datta) of
If It’s Not Forever…It’s Not Love
.
DURJOY DATTA was born and brought up in Delhi. He has an engineering degree from Delhi College of Engineering and a management degree from MDI, Gurgaon. He is the author of several best-selling books including
Of Course I Love You!, You Were My Crush!, She Broke Up, I Didn’t
and
If It’s Not Forever…It’s Not Love
(with Nikita Singh). Durjoy was recognized as a young achiever by the Teacher’s Achievement Awards and in 2011 he was chosen as one of two young achievers in the field of Media and Communications by Whistling Woods International.
For Mini, the best sister any girl can ever have. You will
always be missed.
(Neha Singh—4 July 1992 to 23 April 2011)
Panic
‘All right. It isn’t going to be
that
bad. You’re just getting paranoid,’ I tell myself for the zillionth time and take a deep breath in and slowly let it out. I have always been a closet drama queen, that’s what my sister says. After all, it is just a matter of one week. That’s just seven days. How likely is it that in a mere seven days’ time, someone will find out that I am the most socially ill-equipped and maybe, just maybe, the most boring person ever?
I have never managed to keep myself interested in myself, forget about anybody else. Over the years, the growing disinterest that people show towards me has turned me vengeful and I, in turn, have no interest in anybody at all. And that disinterest is etched all over my face, accompanied by the big
Fuck Off
sign pasted on my forehead.
Seven days also means one hundred and sixty-eight hours or four thousand and sixty-two minutes. Every second of which, I’m supposed to spend surrounded by girls. Girls who take pains to dress up and look pretty. Girls who actually
know
how to dress up and look pretty. Girls who have boys fawning all over them, following them around, hoping for a glimpse.
Point is, for the next one week, I am supposed to be surrounded by girls who are … well,
girls
. That is not to
say that
I
am
not
a girl. Of course I am. I mean, if we go by the physical attributes that I am blessed with. I could have been a little more
endowed
at certain parts of my body, though that’s off the topic. But just because I happen to have physical evidence, it does not make me a girl.
A guy with boobs
, a guy had called me once. It was very embarrassing, as he didn’t say it playfully; it was meant as a snide remark on my wretched looks. I would’ve happily done the honours of knocking his teeth off, but I stopped myself in time. For two reasons. First, honestly—that guy, Navroz, is the only guy who talks to me (the only
person
).
And secondly, his accusation was not completely untrue. I don’t have mannerisms that essentially say that I’m a girl. I’ve never got myself a pedicure or even a manicure—even when Simran, my elder sister, literally bit my head off to get one done for that wedding last year. I get hair-cuts only twice a year, even though the hairstylist pleads with me to come back every two months for a trim. In fact, if I were to list the number of articles I use that fall under the vanity department, it would contain only—
Body wash
Face wash
Shampoo
Conditioner
Moisturizer (Strictly during winters)
Lip balm (Vaseline, actually)
I know most of what is on my list does not fall under
vanity
, but under
hygiene
. But hygiene is the closest I have come to vanity till now. It’s not that I don’t want to be pretty or look like the girls on television. It’s just that I haven’t had the time or the drive to do something about it. And more than anything else, I think I am too late. When
I was young and no one was dolling up, I guess I was pretty too. But slowly, we grew up and people started to dress up and I got uglier by comparison. I study myself in the mirror and I am disappointed. In my dreams, where I am a grown up and take my own decisions, I live in a house with no mirrors. Mirrors remind me of things I am not, things I see other people are and things I would like to be. And also—sadly—things that I can never be.
Look at my wardrobe for instance. No chiffon. No satin. No silk. No skirts either. You won’t find anything that has frills or embroidery on it. I don’t own a single article of clothing that can be worn to a party, let alone a date. I don’t have a single pair of footwear that has heels higher than one inch. I still end up wearing my sneakers everywhere. I don’t have a boyfriend. The only guy I have ever dated was Piyush Mehra. Bastard of the highest order.
I’ve always been pretty good at academics and I, somehow, always felt at home being surrounded by books. It was the tenth standard and I was engrossed in my dreams of scoring the maximum in the board examinations. Then Piyush happened. Piyush, the wide-eyed rich boy in school noticed me. He was charming, had a way with words, and was the most coveted company in school. The way he held my hand on the last bench of the class, and told me how I had the prettiest eyes in the whole world melted my teenage heart. I was too naïve and loved him to bits. I have to admit, he made me feel like a girl!
Three months later, I realized my responsibilities as a girlfriend, which ranged from completing all
his
assignments to forging
his
attendance in classes. No ice creams, no small bits of love notes exchanged during the class, no loving glances shot across the school campus, and surely no dates.
A month later, he was holding someone else’s hand and saying the same things to her.
I was crushed. I thought I would never forgive him, but he had made me feel like I had never felt before, so now I think I have. He was my first experience with love, and though it ended on a bad note, I don’t hold it very much against him. After we broke up, I spent days locked up in my room, crying and watching sad movies and cursing everyone. Eventually, I did badly in the board exams. My parents had been expecting a lot from me and I hated letting them down.
My father was a government employee for the first fifteen years of his career. My grandfather, a lawyer with the local government, had died a premature death—a heart attack—when he was forty-three. Dad was only eighteen then and the eldest in a family of three sisters and two brothers. By government rules, he was offered a clerical job at the office and he took it up. He spent the next fifteen years working three jobs—the clerical job, tuitions, and as a part-time accountant for small businesses—and bringing up his siblings.
Just before I was born, he joined a local university as a professor, having done the rest of his studies through correspondence and evening college. Things have been better since and he wants a better future for both Simran, my older sister, and me. Simran is already on her way. She was always interested in English literature and went off to Delhi to study. We have no doubts that she will be doing her Master’s from Oxford on a full scholarship next year.
Meanwhile, my future was in shambles when Piyush left me. The tenth standard board results were more disappointing for my father than they were for me, not that he ever let it show. I remember him coming into room, holding my hand and saying, ‘I know this is not your best but I have full faith in you, Niharika. You’re meant for bigger things.’
‘I have let you down, Dad. I don’t know what to do. I will never be as good as Simran Di. I am sorry. I am…’
‘Come here,’ he said and hugged me.
I don’t know how much he meant it, but I was moved to tears. When the other kids were beaten up and disparaged for their less than satisfactory performance in their board exams, I—the expected topper—was just greeted with a warm hug. And an ice cream thereafter.
The very next day, I found myself neck-deep in my books again. I cracked the Bansal’s admission test and left for Kota to prepare for IIT-JEE and to complete my +2 from a dummy school there. Once there, I immersed myself in complex numbers, differential calculus and organic chemistry.
My mother never wanted me to go, unlike my father—who harboured a simmering ambition to see me succeed. She was more like the quintessential mother from the movies. She just wanted her daughters to grow up as the prettiest, most cultured girls in the neighbourhood. I don’t remember her ever raising her voice at either of us. She is such a sweet soul. To think that she has to handle such messed up daughters like Simran Di and me seems unfair.
Eventually, after a lot of pleading and cajoling, she let me go to Kota. There, I was too busy with my coaching classes and late-night studies to have time for
love
. So after Piyush, there was no one. I sometimes do wish that someone had been there for me. Like when I watch a romantic movie where everything is perfect in the end. Or listen to a Bryan Adams song. That’s when I think I need someone to wrap me in his arms, say the sweetest things, and make me feel like a girl again. But otherwise, I don’t think I
need
a guy to
complete
me.
But then, who would want to take
me
out? I am that skinny girl from school, who sat on the first bench, wearing her thick glasses, always immersed in her books, religiously noting down everything taught in the class. The kind that you never hear speak, unless it is to answer a teacher’s question, or when she is on stage, presenting a debate or an extempore speech.
That’s
me
. Niharika Singh—the girl that doesn’t exist.
It’s strange that I am what I am because my sister Simran—from the same gene pool—turned out
perfect
. And now, she wants me to stay with her for a week.
I am still out of ideas of how to turn her down because going to her college—Miranda House, Delhi—is the last thing I want to do right now. Even as my mind starts coming up with all possible excuses I can make for not going, I get a sinking feeling in my heart. I know she won’t listen to anything I say. I am all set to join college—the Indian College of Engineering, Nagpur—in a few days and Simran wants to see me before I lose myself in the engineering books again. She will not take no for an answer and will give me an earful about how I never listen to her and how I never …
Is that my phone ringing?
Simran
, I say in my mind and sure enough,
Simran
is what the display says, with her picture on the screen, smiling sweetly at me. She’s pretty. I look like a frog in front of her. More like a toad, actually, because frogs are less ugly and there is a chance that they might change into beautiful people from royal families after a mythical kiss. Nothing of that sort will ever happen to me.
I contemplate whether to take the call or not. And if yes, what should I say? I let the phone ring. But as expected, the phone starts ringing again almost as soon as
Simran Missed Call
flashes on the screen. I know I can’t dodge her forever. Her next call will be on Mom’s phone, who will come bursting into my room, saying, ‘Simran wants to talk to you. Why aren’t you taking her calls?’
I take the call as I bury my head in the pillow, sadly aware of the impending argument that I am set to lose. I think I have already accepted defeat, but I will still try to put up a feeble fight.
‘Hello?’ I sigh into the phone.
‘Where the hell
were
you? Would it really kill you to pick up your phone a tiny bit earlier?’ her voice shouts at me.
‘I’m good, Simran. I hope you are doing well too.’
‘Shut up. Keep the sarcasm to yourself.’
‘Okay. Sorry,’ I say. I don’t know what it is about my sister, but I’m perpetually intimidated by her. No matter how hard I try, I just can’t stand up to her. Maybe because I love her. Maybe because she matters to me more than winning these stupid arguments. Maybe because I cherish our relationship.
Naah.
It’s because she is … her. The girl every other girl wants to be. She is tall, with flawless, glowing skin, facial features that are delicately carved, long, lustrous, waist-length, midnight-black hair and jet-black eyes which command attention. Whenever she enters a room with her confident stride, a trademark smirk on her face, and a charming
I-am-a-friend-but-don’t-you-mess-with-me
attitude, everything else ceases to exist. Whenever I am in the same room with her, I become the furniture—dull and lifeless.
‘So, are you done with the packing?’ Simran asks.
‘Hmm … almost,’ I say and look at the suitcase, lying open on my bed. Empty.
‘Good. Hurry up. At what time does your train leave? Make sure you’re not late.’
I say nothing, trying to frame the right excuse.
‘Niharika? Hello?’ Simran says. ‘When is your train?’
‘In three hours …’ I reply.
‘Okay. Cool. I’ll see you tomorrow morning then.’
‘Umm … Di …’
‘Yeah?’
‘Actually … can we meet later some time wh …?’
‘I
knew
you would say something like this. But I’m not listening.’
‘I really do think this is a bad idea,’ I say, deciding to be honest. I cannot find another feasible excuse. And she is way too smart for excuses anyway.
‘What?’ she asks. ‘I want to see my sister before she goes to some nondescript college in some corner of the country for four long years, and I can’t do that? Is it too much to ask for?’
I can tell that she is getting impatient. But this isn’t about me. This is about her.
‘Please.’
‘
What?
’ she shouts at me.
I say nothing. I don’t know what to say. She is and has always been very persuasive. Her persuasiveness was one of the major reasons why she was the champion debater in school who had never tasted defeat. Very early in life, I was pushed into debates by her but I was never as good as her. I felt like a star kid, trying desperately to live up to the predecessor’s fame and talent. I was always the ugly duckling—the lesser known sister—while she was the dazzling swan, the star.
‘What is it, Niharika? Why don’t you want to come?’
‘Honestly, if I come to stay with you … for a week, I would only ruin your reputation,’ I say. ‘I still remember my first debate at the Presidency Convent. Everyone thought I was your sister and expected me to be like
you
. But you know what happened …’
I had choked. It was a crowd of over five hundred students from twenty different schools and we—sisters, and supposedly the best debaters our town had seen—represented our school. I froze on stage in the third minute of my passionate yet restrained speech and our team finished seventeenth. She won the best individual debater and best interjector awards and I came back home with a crippling inferiority complex that would last a lifetime.
‘
Come again?
That was eight years ago and you were a little kid. And don’t let me count the number of times you have stood on your own now.’
