Chapter 9
Asexual People Are Excellent at Doling Out Romantic Advice—or So They Claim
Pune, Saturday
When we reach Pune, it’s midnight, but the city is as alive as it would be during the day.
“Take a left, just here,” I say, glancing down at my phone.
Rudra takes the turn into a driveway leading to a massive food court occupying two floors of the five-story building. There’s
a sign saying Pure Veg Restaurant above the glass entrance, and golden lights illuminate the interior. The floors above house other restaurants, and at the
very top, perched on the roof of the building, is a red neon sign reading OYO Townhouse.
“This is the OYO?” Rudra asks. “It looks fancy.”
“What, you thought I’d book us a cheap-ass room?” Priti says. “Phoo. I might be broke now, but I have standards. Oh, and you
both owe me a thousand rupees each.” I’m already taking out my phone to send her the money. I hate owing people, especially Priti.
After Rudra finds a space to park, we get out of the car and I stretch my arms and legs, sighing in satisfaction as I hear
four distinct pops.
“Grab your bags, bitches,” Priti says, hauling out her three pieces of luggage. I tug mine out too—I packed lighter than usual,
so they’re easy to carry.
As Rudra loops his hand through the strap of his guitar case, hefting it onto his shoulder, a lock of hair unlooses from his
ponytail. I stretch my hand out to push it away, then realize what the hell I’m doing and jerk it back so hard my suitcase topples and falls smack on my toes.
Owwww.
I wince and start doing a one-legged hop while clutching my foot, and Rudra watches me, his lips twitching as he tries to
repress a smile. When the throbbing pain from my toes subsides, I set my leg down and sheepishly look up at Rudra, who witnessed
the whole Krishna-being-a-clumsy-dork-for-the-millionth-time-in-her-life debacle.
“You good?” he asks, and purses his lips.
“Yeah, erm—I’m fine. Let’s go.”
Once inside the OYO, we walk into a huge lobby that is miles better than I thought it would be. Not that I have much experience
with OYOs, but they’re the same as Airbnbs—mid-quality, affordable, and unmarried-couple-friendly rooms, which helps when
you have partner(s) to have sex with. Me? Zero partners, and definitely zero sex. I’m so anything-deprived I nearly brushed Rudra’s hair away from his face.
Priti checks us in, and we’re taken to the fifth floor, where we’re handed keys to two rooms on opposite sides of the corridor.
Rudra takes the room on the right, while Priti and I enter the one on the left.
There’s an awkward moment as I pause, unsure whether I should say good night or see you tomorrow to Rudra. But Priti doesn’t, and Rudra barely throws me a glance before he enters his room. I think the better of it, not
wanting to embarrass myself any further (I’ve already hit max on the meter for the week), and lumber in after Priti.
“This is neat,” I observe, scouring the room. Spotless sheets on the double bed, no weird marks on the wall (the last time
I stayed in an OYO was during our cousins’ trip to Daman, and there were these handprints on the wall; I didn’t dare imagine
where or whom they’d come from), and a clean-looking toilet.
Thank god. A road trip is the worst time to get a UTI.
Priti sprawls on the bed, her shoes discarded to the side and luggage tucked away into the wardrobe. “Could you turn on the
AC? I’m drowning in sweat.”
I grab the remote from the bedside table and turn it on, sighing in relief as the cool wind gusts through the room. I lie
on the bed beside Priti, both of us watching the ceiling fan spin.
“Are you going to sleep?” I ask her.
“Yes. I’m dead tired.”
I give my underarms a quick sniff and make a face. Okay, nope. I push myself off the bed, grab my suitcase from the wardrobe, and pull out my towel, bathrobe, and nightclothes.
“I’m taking a bath.”
“Hmm,” Priti mumbles, her eyes shut and body splayed out like the Vitruvian Man.
I sigh. “Priti, you haven’t even brushed your teeth.”
“Hmm-mm.”
“Priti.”
“Just wake me up when you’re done,” she says, irritation coating her voice.
Anyone who ever says Wake me up blah-blah never actually means it. When Priti gets up tomorrow with her mouth smelling like shit, the previous day’s eye makeup running down her face, and a pimple poking out of her chin, she’s going to regret having given in to slumber.
I hang my clothes on the hooks behind the bathroom door, strip, and drag my feet toward the shower, turning the knob all the
way to the left. I’ve always preferred a hot bath to a cold one. I have lazy muscles and slow circulation, so the heat tends
to get my blood flowing. Besides, it’s cooler here in Pune, so it’s not like Mumbai, where some days it gets so hot that you
absolutely can’t not take a cold shower.
I wrap my arms around my body, waiting for the water to get hot, intermittently dunking my toes in. But for some reason, the
water stays ice-cold. I stand there, buck naked and shivering, for nearly five minutes before giving up.
A groan tears out of me. Should I hop into the shower for a moment? I can’t risk ending up with a cold, though. How am I supposed
to kiss Amrit with a runny nose?
That horrifying thought motivates me to put on my clothes again, and when I step out, I have an idea—I could use Rudra’s bathroom.
I glance at Priti, snoring peacefully on the bed, and consider waking her up. But then I’m reminded of how she looked at Rudra
and me weirdly back at the food mall. Priti is too shrewd, and I don’t want to give her another reason to suspect I have a
thing for Rudra. Because I don’t have a thing for Rudra.
Besides, Rudra is in love with Priti. And given her twinge of jealousy earlier, I’m sure she’s in love with him too.
I replace the room key in the key card holder with a visitor card I find in my fanny pack so the electricity in our room stays
on, and shut the door closed behind me.
I knock on Rudra’s door once, then again a minute later. When he doesn’t open the door even after that, I press my ear to it, brow furrowed, straining my ears for the faintest sound within.
And of course he chooses to open the door that very second. I feel myself tip forward, balance lost, and grab the first thing I can to support
myself.
Rudra’s T-shirt.
Imagine (seriously, just imagine) you open your door, and you find a girl you barely know eavesdropping before she stumbles
into your room, her forehead smacking your chin. Not just that. She grabs a fistful of your clothing.
Bad, isn’t it?
It gets worse.
Because I don’t move. I just stay there, frozen, face smushed into Rudra’s collarbone, inhaling a new scent, a good scent,
even better than before, his freshly showered hair wet and cold.
“Um,” Rudra says, clearing his throat. “Could you—”
“Ohmygod,” I say, leaping away from him. “I’m sorry . . . I didn’t . . . I thought you . . .” And she can’t even string a coherent sentence together.
“It’s fine,” he says, brushing me off. It’s probably my bizarre imagination, but I think (I think) I see a blush redden his cheeks. “What’s up?”
“I—There’s no hot water in our bathroom, and I need a shower. I was wondering if there’s hot water in your room?”
“Oh. Yeah, I bathed. The water’s warm. Come on in.” Rudra steps back, leaving the door ajar, and I shuffle in reluctantly.
“Great. Thank you so much.”
I quickly step into the bathroom and shut the door behind me, eager to not look him in the eye and be reminded of that disastrous
moment again.
I’m such an idiot. What was I thinking, putting my ear to his door like that and stumbling right into him? And staying there? God!
The bathroom floor is still a little wet, but most of the water has been wiped to the drain. I nod in approval. I despise
it when people don’t wipe the floors after they shower. It smells like lemon soap in here, and I spot the cologne he must’ve
used perched on the windowsill. Of course Rudra owns a luxury scent. No wonder he smells so good. Maybe once I’ve taken a
bath, I’ll sneak a couple of sprays, just to experience what it’s like trying on expensive perfume.
I repeat the ritual and stand before the shower, bracing myself for the cold again, but piping hot water greets me instead.
Ten minutes later, I’m feeling so much better and cleaner. It’s a wonder what a shower can do to a person. I put on a loose
pair of shorts and an oversize T-shirt, wipe the bathroom floor, and quickly spray Rudra’s scent under my arms. Instantly
worried he might detect it, I spritz on some of my own deodorant, and once I’m convinced I’ve rid the crime scene of evidence,
I step out.
I clutch my dirty clothes and towel in one hand and comb my fingers through my hair with the other. The AC is on, and the
steam from the bathroom clashes strongly with the cold. Goose bumps erupt all over my arms as I shut the door behind me.
Rudra is perched on the edge of the bed, playing the guitar. He hums softly under his breath, intermittently mouthing something
indiscernible, his gaze fixed on his phone. Only the small golden lamps by the sides of the bed are turned on, so his face
is mostly illuminated by the blue light of the screen. I wince, praying for his poor eyes because he clearly doesn’t have
night mode turned on.
“I’m done,” I announce, shivering.
“Cool,” he replies without looking up.
There’s something annoyingly attractive about guitarists that I’ve never been able to put a finger on. And this is especially annoying because it’s Rudra Desai, the not-sunshine boy, who, by the way, is in love with my cousin. In case we all forgot that teeny tiny detail there. Especially
attractive because I can’t help but notice how slender his fingers look as they move over the strings of his guitar, and how
his Adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he hums, his voice a low vibrato, and how his loose, damp hair falls in flowy waves
around his face. It’s only when he raises his hand to push his hair behind his left ear that I realize my nipples are hard