Seasons of Love (3)

Part 2 – Here

THREE

It’s the eve of her fourteenth birthday and he is narrating a story to her that he has read the week before. The narration is happening while he is simultaneously trying to balance himself upon the branches of a mango tree he has climbed for her sake. There are fresh fruits, some of the exotic variety, that are lying washed and diced inside her fridge at the house. But she wants Arnav to pluck a particular mango for her from the top of the tree in her backyard. A fifteen year old Arnav isn’t about to turn down her request and is risking the safety of his limbs in the quest he has embarked upon. Within a few minutes, he has the mango in his hand and calls at her to catch it while he throws it at her from the tree top.

She can’t help but notice that he has grown taller, and his voice has changed. At fifteen, it sounds deeper, huskier, and sometimes she gets lost in it while he is narrating a story to her. His face has begun to look much more angular, and she can spot hair on his cheeks and chin. She is positive there isn’t a more handsome fellow in her class at school. He would have surely been every girl’s crush in the batch. The thought disturbs her and she is pleased that she’ll never have to witness her class fellows pining after him.

His movements are lithe, and soon he has made his way between the branches and lands on his feet with a thud next to her. He claps his hands together to clear them of the dust and lifts an eyebrow at her questioningly. “What? Is it still raw?”

She shakes her head and is unaware of the pinch of color that has marked her cheeks. “No, it’s good.” She pours some water on the fruit from the bottle she has been carrying, then tears a hole in the peel with her teeth and takes a bite. It’s the way he has taught her, and she cannot practice it anywhere else but with him. It would not be wise to replicate the technique inside the house. “So, what you’re saying is that the name of the actual Mrs. de Winter is never mentioned at all in the book? And this when the book is written in first-person narration?”

He nods. “It’s done consciously, to show that she isn’t the leading lady even in her own life. Rebecca overshadows her entire existence, even in death.”

Their books have changed too, and so has their interpretation of stories. After Khushi made an accidental discovery that Arnav has been tweaking sad endings for her, she has asked him to strictly stick to the actual storylines. At fourteen, she says she’s now “almost an adult” and can handle the harsh realities of life. The no-romance rule has also been breached. Arnav hasn’t been very willing, but Khushi insists that well-rounded knowledge is of utmost importance. So for every five books from other genres, they have settled on reading one romance. Given that her books are all sourced through her parents, they have no choice but to stick to classics and very subtle and tasteful romances. She has seen her classmates giggle conspiringly upon the back-benches holding books titled ‘Taken by the Ruthless Rake’ and ‘Married to the CEO Billionaire’, but there’s no way she can ask her father to get her these books. She also has a feeling that these are more private reads and perhaps Arnav reading them out to her wouldn’t be the best idea. At fourteen, she has learned to be ‘private’ about a few things.

However, there is nothing quite like early teenage curiosity. She is aware that while narrating books to her, Arnav hesitates a little at some parts and clears his throat a little too forcefully. There’s fleeting mention of kisses, and then he quickly moves on with the storyline. She has begun to carefully make note of these pauses, and once she gets the books back from him, she turns the pages swiftly under the dim light of her bedside lamp at night and searches for the parts that he did not elaborate upon. Then with a furious blush and a head full of questions, she shuts the book and draws the covers right up to her head.

What Khushi hasn’t noticed however, is the gross injustice that is habitually done by Arnav towards some of literature’s most celebrated heroes. Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy, he insists, is highly over-rated. There is nothing special about a brooding, rich-fellow who can’t bring himself to behave politely in company. He’s not even that good-looking, he is sure of it. Similarly, Gilbert Blythe and John Thornton have been written-off as simply passable, forgettable characters. She blindly trusts his verdict, and hopes that there are better, worthier men in the real world out there. He assures her that there definitely are some if not many.

“But you must read Rebecca for yourself, Khushi,” he is saying as they amble their way back towards the house. “It’s very atmospheric. I can’t replicate it in narration.”

“But you did,” she grins at him. “I can imagine exactly how beautiful and magnificent Manderley must be. I wish I have a house like that someday.”

“You already do,” he mutters under his breath as he watches her skip ahead and flick the mango seed into the nearest bin.

---

“Fifty!” She hears Arnav say (a tad loudly) the instant she steps into his line of sight, although she could have sworn she had heard a “Ten” right before he had spotted her in his peripheral vision. He is doing pushups. The muscles in his arm ripple as he dips and then lifts again, while a clear stream of sweat trickles down his forehead. Within seconds, he has shifted to single-arm pushups. One arm carries his weight, while the other is folded behind his back. He is a lean sixteen year old now but the constant physical work he does is doing good things for his physique. Khushi stares in awe for several long seconds, before taking seat on a log beside him. 

“Arnav,” she says and he grunts in response.

“This guy at school…Aniket, he has been staring at me a lot. He likes me.”

Arnav is about to collapse quite unflatteringly on the ground but manages to steady himself in time. He is in the tenth grade, and she is in the ninth. Boys have been staring at girls and much more.

“What?” he asks, a little harshly. He is back on his feet. “How do you know he likes you? Just because a guy stares at you doesn’t mean he likes you, Khushi. You should report him to the class teacher if he—”

“Arre.” She interrupts him. “He gave me a love letter today. That’s how I know. See, I brought it here to show you.”

All color drains from his face and there is a flash of anger in his eyes. He walks over to where she’s sitting and snatches the paper from her. Her eyes remain trained on his face as he quickly sifts through the contents of the letter that has been penned by a Shakespeare wannabe from eighth standard at Modern School who thinks that Khushi’s eyes resemble the sun, and her face glows like ocean water. There is other stuff about hair and nose as well, and one particularly touching line about the chin.

Arnav lets out a snort of derision, resisting the urge to tear the letter into tiny pieces and feed them to the goat who is ambling around the vegetable garden, doing destruction any which way it can.

“What?” Khushi asks.

“Doesn’t even know how to write in proper grammar and thinks he can propose to you. What a load of bullshit. God help me or I’ll throw up right here. Fool.”

Khushi looks at him angrily. “That’s your problem with the letter? Grammar? And you think compliments on my looks are bullshit?”

“He has called your nose like a smoothened hill slope, Khushi.”

“Well at least he finds me pretty.”

“Yeah well, big deal. Any guy with two eyes would find you pretty.”

“Not every guy, clearly.”

She flicks her hair angrily in a distinctly feminine maneuver, and turns her back on him with a huff. She is marching away in steps long enough to prove her point, but slow enough to allow him to catch up and make it up to her.

“Come on Khushi, you can’t be serious,” Arnav shouts, taking long strides behind her. “Why are you getting so upset? What, you like this guy or something?” 

She turns her head to look at him angrily. “I don’t know, I hadn’t thought about it. But now that you mention, I’ll consider it.”

And then she walks away.

---

[A/N: Thank you for the very warm welcome you’ve given this story. It was so nice to read your experiences with the books that were mentioned since they happen to be an integral part of my own childhood. In fact my sister and I were so taken with the whole idea of having a secret group along the lines of Famous-Five etc. that one fine day we decided to form our own group and call ourselves the Fantastic Two (I am honestly laughing even as I type this). We made cardboard badges for ourselves and decided to keep it a secret from all the grown-ups. Our first mission was to find out who plucks our garden flowers every morning. The first morning we both woke up too late so it wasn’t the best start you could say. The next morning we woke up early in full excitement only to discover that our neighbor had been taking them for her morning puja. We persevered, and decided that our next mission would be to find out who lived in a very desolate, very sad looking house opposite ours on the street. Not surprisingly, we never got permission to cross the streets on our own, let alone go knocking on other people’s houses. Fast forward many years, and my sister and I still sometimes ask each other “remember the Fantastic Two?” and each time we laugh about it till we’re teary eyed. There really is nothing quite as beautiful as childhood.]