Too Good To Be True

Avani

So, I met this guy.

It’s been an interesting Monday.

At 7.30 a.m., when I shuddered awake to the doorbell and sleep-walked to the door, I should have known that Raghu Kaka, our milkman, would have forgotten to leave the milk packet in the basket I’d suspended from the top of the door and left it on the floor instead. Again. And that our neighbour Mhatre Kaka’s cat would have torn into the packet and licked the milk sloppily off the floor. AGAIN.

Clearly Shanta Tai was running late, or it was usually her shrill ‘ Didi, uth jaoooo ’ sharp at 7.20 a.m. that worked as my morning alarm.

I slammed the door shut and headed into the shower. Slightly refreshed, I made chai (black, just like I hate it), decided to have breakfast at work, snatched up my book from the bedside table and tote off the wardrobe knob, and dashed out the door.

Traffic was crazier than usual as I flagged down a reluctant taxi.

An unexpected off-season shower the night before had turned the city to mush and citizens were now left to deal with it.

I loved how surprised and underprepared Mumbai always was for the rains.

It was like, every year when the first rain clouds threw their dark shadows over the terrain, the government responded with, ‘Waterlogging? Oh, but that never happens here.

Let’s decide on MAP (Monsoon Action Plan) 10000.0.’ This was followed by lousy attempts to remedy the situation by digging the city inside out and hastily filling it back, only so that the rainwater could find new ways to clog it up good and proper the next time around.

Every year the city struggled with floods, potholes and waterlogging, and yet we romanticized the first rains the following year like nothing better ever existed.

I don’t know if you can tell, but I’ve never been a fan of the rains.

Especially untimely ones, the ones I don’t have the chance to mentally prepare for—or have my gumboots ready for.

Deep breaths, Avani .

Everything gets better when you get to your favourite place in the whole world.

The bookstore.

I paid the taxi driver and stepped out.

I remember Rhea laughing in my face when, a little over a year ago, I’d offered to work at the billing counter at her family’s age-old bookstore, gloriously named Bombay Bound, in the heart of south Mumbai.

Part-time, I’d told her, before my classes began at uni in the afternoons.

‘You’re studying to be a lawyer, Ani.

You already don’t have a life.

Why would you want to spend five hours every day selling books and counting cash when you could do literally anything else in that time? Or anyone else.

Go have a life.

Be free,’ she’d said, waving her hands around in front of my face in her usual animated self.

But I’d fallen in love with the bookstore and the building that housed it from the day I walked in for the first time.

It was like walking into 1903 (that’s when it was constructed, as its founding stone claimed).

Rhea’s family had bought it right after Independence, but had not changed much about it since.

It wasn’t very big or very vintage-y in the fancy south Bombay way of things.

If you ask me, it was humble and had a beautiful personality—which is more than I can say about a lot of people I know.

The bookstore was my safe space.

I loved every bit of it.

It had a rattly metal gate that opened on to a small veranda facing the street.

One could leave a drenched umbrella there or wait for a cab if it was too sunny outside.

A wooden twin door served as the entrance to the store.

The wall on the left served as a gift shop of sorts.

It had everything you’d get in a gift shop but hung on the wall on tiny pinheads—keychains, pens, stickers and other knick-knacks.

My workstation was on the right, at the billing counter, directly opposite the gift-shop wall, and could be accessed through a swinging wooden door.

I loved how perfectly placed the counter was. It had a view of almost every aisle in the store, it was right next to a window that opened out to the street outside and was just four steps away from the store’s café, where Martin made the world’s best cappuccinos.

I got to the bookstore just in time to greet a regular customer, Meera Aunty, who’d been bingeing on romance novels ever since I had nagged her into picking up her first one about a year ago.

Twenty-three books later, Meera Aunty was the perfect companion to discuss all my favourite romance-novel tropes with.

As she saw me, she told me in her sing-song voice how she hadn’t thought she’d like the alpha-male billionaire in the book we were both reading, but in the end had succumbed to his charms, and there was no going back now.

We chatted for a few minutes while I printed out the bill for her, and then packed the sequel neatly in a paper bag and handed it to her.

Most Mondays at the store were slow, which suited me fine.

I caught up on my e-mails and assignments, worked out a schedule for the rest of the week and made my way to the café to grab a coffee and a croissant.

Martin was surprisingly chirpy that day about the freshly baked eclairs (not a morning person, he’s not), but I stuck to my demand for a croissant, just to piss him off.

Martin had moved to the city from Goa a couple of years ago and landed a job at the bookstore when Rhea had put out an inquiry on the store’s Instagram page about wanting to start a small café there.

He came for his first meeting dressed in a muscle tee and harem pants, with a box full of the flakiest croissants he’d baked as his résumé, and regaled Rhea with stories about his training as a pastry chef and his dreams of becoming a bartender someday.

About ten minutes into the conversation, Rhea had decided he was it.

Just as well, since the other two applicants didn’t show up.

After lord knows how many croissants, Martin and I had become tight.

I loved walking into work and seeing his scowling face every morning.

This morning, though, along with his ‘perfectly baked eclairs’–induced effusiveness, it was clear he wanted to thrill me with details of his extravagant weekend adventures.

But the enemies in the book I was reading were just about to become lovers and, as much as I found Martin’s stories entertaining, I decided I wanted to be loyal to my book boyfriend instead.

So I picked up my coffee and walked back to my desk after minimal chatter.

Apart from Meera Aunty, who had left, the store hadn’t seen a single customer yet.

Clearly this Monday was crawling at a snail’s pace for everyone.

I picked up my book, pencil ready in my hand to highlight my favourite lines as I read.

Aaji—my grandmother—hated it when I did that in her books.

She called it vandalism.

That’s one of the reasons I needed a job in the first place, so I could buy my own books to vandalize.

What better luck than to land one at a bookstore?

I lost track of time as I followed the lives of the enemies-turned-lovers in the book, and next I looked at my watch, it was past 2 p.m.

Almost time for Rhea to arrive.

She’d been driving me to uni for my classes, and although she insisted she was doing it to practise her driving, I knew she really just wanted to meet Dhruv, my classmate—quite the cutie.

Dhruv, too, pretended to forget her name every time she left after dropping me, but that look in his eyes when he saw her—yup, I knew that one.

A full year, and he still hadn’t mustered up the courage to ask Rhea out, and I knew she was waiting for him to do just that.

But I got free rides to uni, so I had no complaints.

I was about to walk over to Martin for another coffee when the quaint bell hung at the entrance dinged.

Someone had entered the store.

Now, when I tell you to sit down for this, sit your ass down.

When I tell you that I’m about to describe to you what could literally be a page out of a book titled ‘Avani’s Wet Dreams about Hot Boys’, shut your mouth and listen.

Pay.

Attention.

He was tall, about 6’2 or 6’3.

Not sure—I’m not a ruler—but tall enough for me to know that if I hugged him, I could listen to his heartbeat.

He wore a navy blue suit.

The kind men on the covers of spicy romance novels wear.

Not a crease to be seen—crisp, clean and tailored to fit his broad shoulders and long legs.

He wore leather shoes that didn’t have a speck of dust on them.

My first thought: Did he get airdropped into the store? Because, I’m sorry, you can’t be living in Mumbai and be walking in from the street with no dust on your shoes.

But I digress …

As he walked towards the aisles and started browsing the Non-Fiction section, my eyes panned up to his face.

His hair was dark and styled neatly away from his face, and he had a slight stubble along his cheeks and chin.

He couldn’t have brown eyes, could he, because if he did, I would have to surgically cut my heart out, pack it in a red box and hand it to him.

But there it was.

Brown, like the cover of my favourite leather-bound notebook.

Brown, like the colour of that singular dusty ray of light coming in through the top window just touching his hair and shining on to the floor.

Brown, like the wooden shelves and floors of the bookstore.

Brown, like the coffee in the mug I was holding.

Brown, like the sand on Chowpatty at twilight.

Brown, like the colour of my skin.

I stared for an alarmingly long time, waiting.

What was I waiting for? I should look away before he …

Fuck.

Before I could avert my eyes, he did the one thing that I knew was going to be the death of me.

He locked eyes with me and smiled, and—you’ve got to be kidding—DIMPLES.

And then I did what every girl would when a hot guy looked at her and smiled.

I ducked.

I ducked like I had something to hide.

I ducked like I was in a water-balloon fight with him on Holi.

I ducked like if he so much as looked in my direction I would self-combust into a heap of Avani ashes.

It took me a minute to tell myself: Hello, you’re twenty-three, almost a lawyer and you WORK at the bookstore.

If there’s anyone who has a reason to be there, it’s you!

I slowly stood back up.

Thankfully he was browsing the opposite aisle, with his back to me.

I straightened my kurta, quickly rubbed on some lip balm (my lips were chapped—no other reason whatsoever), slowly settled into my seat and went back to reading my book.

From the corner of my eye, I tracked every step he took until he disappeared somewhere near the Self-Help aisle, one of the only places I couldn’t see from my seat at the billing counter.

Minutes ticked by. After reading the same line eight times, I finally moved to the next one. And caught a whiff of aftershave. I looked up to see God’s favourite child looking straight at me, holding out a book.

‘Hey, how much is this one?’

‘I’m fine, thank you. How are you?’

Silence.

Wow, Avani.

Blood throbbed in my ears. I was the captain of my college moot court group. I’d won every elocution competition since I was ten. I’d toured the world and represented my school and country at international debating championships.

Hell, I was also the only student in the history of Vasant Vihar High School to have spoken back to Mistry Sir, who was the strictest, most impossible teacher any student had ever had. And this … this … was when my brain decided to glitch?

I cleared my throat and put on a brave face. ‘Sorry. I misheard you. That’ll be 599. Would you like to donate a rupee for our girl education project?’

‘Sure.’

‘Please fill in your details at our customer register so you get a Gratitude Discount Coupon for your next purchase.’

‘Sure.’

‘Interesting choice, I have to say. Do you like cars?’ I said as I looked up to give him his change, but … The doorbell dinged and he was gone. He’d left.

Without the change for the 2,000-rupee note he’d given me. I hurried to the door to see if I could catch him, but he had vanished.

I walked back to the counter, my head in a whirl.

Rude. Didn’t even say bye.

You’re not friends, Avani.

Yeah, but still. Greetings are courteous.

Why do you care?

I don’t care.

You have a crush.

Balls.

You’re thinking about him.

Yuck.

You can’t stop thinking about his eyes.

Oh, what do you know? You’re just a stupid voice in my head.

Do you think he’ll come back to take his change?

Bye.

4 April 2023

Avani

What should I wear?

I’ve been alive for over twenty-three years now. Let’s say that till I was about five, Mamma decided the clothes I wore.

Most days, after school, I stayed home with my books, so till I was sixteen I was mainly in my school uniform, or in shorts and a T-shirt. Weekends were for tennis and swimming, so I would be in tracksuits and swimming gear.

All through high school and undergrad law school, I was in the I-don’t-care-how-I-look-I-am-more-than-my-looks phase, which, in hindsight, wasn’t the greatest stand to take, because … umm … in all the group photos from college I look like a homeless child that my friends had adopted and sponsored.

The point is, I never once cared about what I wore to any place. Ever. Not once.

Why then, since the past one week, had I had just one thought: Where’s my black chikankari kurta?

There are two things you should know about my black chikankari kurta:

It’s the most expensive piece of clothing I own. I gifted it to myself when I took a trip to Lucknow with Aaji last year. Rs 3,499 for a kurta?

That’s worth at least ten books, if not more. But it was totally worth every penny because … Nobody, I repeat, NOBODY, looks hotter than Avani in her Black Chikankari Kurta.

A week had passed since Rude Hot Guy had walked into the bookstore and changed the face of every romance-novel hero I had ever imagined.

Every day of this past week I’d tried searching for my Black Chikankari Kurta and failed. Today, I’d decided, I was going to look for it one last time and then let it go. Because I wasn’t the girl who dressed up for hot strangers who might or might not walk into the bookstore I worked in.

I wasn’t the girl who spent a week hoping that said hot stranger would take time out of his obviously busy life to return for the change to their purchase.

And I definitely wasn’t the girl who spent twenty-five minutes in front of the mirror, unable to decide which shade of lipstick to wear.

I looked one last time in the customary places, hoping the Black Chikankari Kurta would magically appear in one of them, and gave up.

I reached for my oversized Guns N’ Roses tee, leggings and trusted Kolhapuri slippers, swung my tote bag over my shoulder, grabbed my water bottle and locked the door behind me as I stepped out.

Since I didn’t have classes to attend that day, I’d promised Rhea I’d stay a couple of extra hours at the bookstore while she went with Dhruv to look for which new car to buy. Lol.

I got to the bookstore just in time to get a cup of coffee with Rhea before she left for her date.

‘It’s not a date, Ani!’ she yelled over her shoulder as she walked out. ‘And don’t forget to tally the stocklist.’

I groaned.

Inventory was my least favourite part of this job.

(Yes, I know I am studying to be a lawyer.

Shut up.) I leafed lazily through the pages of the inventory register for a few minutes until the lines and numbers blurred into nothingness.

I slapped it shut and threw it inside the drawer for next-week Avani to deal with, and headed over to two giggling young girls huddled over a book in the Romance aisle.

It was H.D.

Carlton’s latest dark romance.

Needless to say, I’d already read it and knew exactly what the pair was giggling about.

I smiled and started talking to them about other romance books that might be a bit more suited to young reading.

The girls seemed bewildered but warmed up to my suggestions after a bit. This must have gone on for about half an hour when I heard the doorbell ding. A familiar whiff of aftershave hit me.

‘Hello …’ the voice called out.

I ducked.

Again?! WTF! He can’t even see you from where he’s standing! But the girls now staring at you sure can.

‘Is anyone at the counter?’

Stand back up. Words. Use your words.

‘Excuse me? Is anyone …’

‘She’ll be right with you, sir,’ I heard Martin’s voice. ‘Sorry, she’s a little shy and awkward. Avani! Someone is looking for youuuu …’

Fucking Martin. Remind me to buy eclairs from the neighbouring bakery tomorrow and tell him they were better than his.

Use. Legs. Walk. Now.

‘Sorry, I was at the back. Didn’t hear you. Hi!’ I said cheerily. Maybe a little too cheerily.

Why were the words coming out all squeaky?

‘Hi.’ He was smiling.

‘How can I help you?’

‘I’m looking for a present for my niece.’

‘Oh, how sweet. How old is she?’

‘She’s about to be four and already loves books. I’m worried that when she grows up, she’s going to turn into a nerd who works at a bookstore or something.’

Wow. This man is suddenly five per cent less hot.

‘I mean … not like that’s a bad thing …’ His face changed. He cleared his throat.

Was he nervous? I forced a smile and directed him to the Children’s section.

‘Lemme know if you need help.’

I walked back to the register. What an ass. Speaking of … No, I hadn’t checked him out. Broad shoulders. Sharp nose. Clean shave this time, no stubble. Whatever.

I don’t mind being The Nerd Who Works at a Bookstore. That’s going to be the title of my autobiography, where a certain hot man mysteriously trips and falls and breaks his perfect nose in chapter twelve.

It was his tone. He had said it like it was a joke. Like it wasn’t enough. Not good enough anyway, because you can’t wear expensive suits and shoes and fancy watches to go to work at a bookstore.

I took my seat at the counter, opened the drawer and took out the inventory register. Might as well ruin my mood all the way since it was already halfway there.

A few minutes later, I caught a whiff of his aftershave again.

‘Do you like rock music?’ Rude Hot Guy was making small talk as he stood at the counter with the books he’d picked up.

‘You don’t have to make small talk to cover up the opinion you’ve already formed of me. I’m a nerd who works at a bookstore. There obviously can’t be more to me than just that.

And that will be 1,499 total. You can add an extra picture book on my behalf. Happy birthday to your niece.’

‘That’s not what I meant. You’re—’

‘Is that all?’ I cut him off mid-sentence.

‘Er … I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude.’

He waited for me to respond.

I glared at him.

‘I just like your—’

‘Here’s your change. Unless you want to walk away without collecting it this time too.’

Mid-sentence again. Boom. And I didn’t stop there. I left the change on the counter and walked to the café.

Fuck inventory , I raged within. And I’m so glad I didn’t waste my Black Chikankari Kurta on this guy. He barely even deserved the Guns N’ Roses tee …

Oh … My tee … That’s what …

‘Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone.’ I jumped as Martin leaned over the coffee counter and whispered conspiratorially into my ear.

‘Tell anyone what, Martin?’ I asked sharply.

‘That you’re working very hard to make sure the store makes zero sales and people never come back.’

‘Shut up. He’s bought books both times he’s walked in.’

‘I see we’re tracking someone’s visits. Have a li’l crush on the hot suited guy, do we?’

‘Nonsense.’ I looked around the store, but Rude Hot Guy had left. I turned towards Martin and said, ‘I’m just hoping he comes back so I can apologize to him for being an ass today.’

‘My, my … Look at Avani feeling remorse for snapping. You’re mean to me all the time, bitch.’

‘Takes one to know one.’

Rarely did Martin laugh the way he did just then. The foundation of our friendship was built on uninhibitedly roasting each other—and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

I spoilt him with Shanta Tai’s famous puran polis and he spoilt me with the world’s best croissants and cappuccinos. If I was being honest, everything baked and roasted and brewed by Martin was the best in the world. And snapping—that was my love language for my people. The people I loved.

As to why I was skulking around the store wrapped in my Guns N’ Roses tee and guilt? Because I might not be the friendliest face in most rooms, but I generally wasn’t mean to people I didn’t know either. Especially to customers.

Now, how was I to find this guy and apologize to him? Was it that big a deal? Why did I even care?