Chapter 12 #2
belch.
Everyone looks up, staring at me in shock for a moment, as if unable to believe such a sound could come from me.
But no one is more shocked than I am.
Rudra is staring at me, his eyes wide, as if he’s been rendered speechless by my sudden expulsion of gas. I thought throwing
up in front of Amrit was the most embarrassing moment of my life, but can people have two most embarrassing moments of their lives? Because this is going to torment—
That’s when, to my utter, unmatched amazement, he burps.
Rudra Desai burps. Even louder, even longer than I did.
That sets off a round of burps from Varun, Jalaj, and Charu. Priti tries her best, poking her neck out like an ostrich and
even pressing her stomach to force the gas out, but all she manages is a gag.
Charu and I burst into giggles. Digha looks around at us with her face scrunched in disgust, but there’s a smile playing at
the corners of her lips, “Are you all done? Because we still have to eat, you know?”
We dive back into the food, and while I dig into the daal rice, I can’t help but feel grateful again. I smile sheepishly at
Rudra, whispering so only he can hear. “Thanks for that.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Rudra snorts, but there’s a warmth in his words that tells me he does. “And I take
it back. You can eat.”
I smile, and although I’m seconds away from bursting, I’m filled with newfound determination to see this through. “Oh, I’m not done, but I don’t see you eating, Mr. I’m Five Foot Seven. Oops, sorry, eight.”
“So that’s how it’s going to be, huh?” And if I had thought someone couldn’t look hot taking a bite of paratha, I was mistaken,
because it seems Rudra can.
I can’t believe that Rudra is flirting with me. Again. It takes everything in me to not blush like a nineteenth-century housewife.
Oh, to be that paratha.
Ten minutes later, Rudra is cramming the last spoonful of gajar ka halwa into his mouth and I’m polishing off the nimbu achaar
(we made it clear there would be nothing left on the plate). At this point, a few people from the surrounding tables have
come over to watch, and even the waiters from earlier are standing by our table, cheering us on.
And then we’re done.
Rudra leans back in his chair, clutching his stomach with both hands and groaning. I swallow the bile scraping the back of
my throat, sweating from overeating. A cheer bursts out among the crowd, causing the others to look up.
Varun sighs when he sees our empty plate. “Ah, shit.”
The crowd starts clapping, and even though I’m convinced I won’t ever be able to eat again, let alone a thali, I’m ecstatic. Rudra turns to look at me, and he’s smiling, and the moment takes me over, carrying me like a beach ball over a wave.
I scream, “We won!” and throw my arms around his neck, my hair tangling in the space between our cheeks.
Now, this would’ve been salvageable had it been a one-armed hug, or something short and quick, with maybe a few platonic pat-pats landed on his back.
But I practically fling myself onto his lap, throwing the whole weight of my body on him, common sense whisked away by the sheer force of my enthusiasm.
And Rudra, not knowing how else to stop himself from toppling backward, hugs me back, his hands circling my waist. It’s a
surprise I haven’t combusted from embarrassment. Thankfully, no one looks like they’ve made the action out to be anything
but friendly—until I catch Priti’s dumbfounded expression.
I hasten to sit back down, but Rudra isn’t letting go. Instead, he looks dazed, and just when I’m starting to think about
what that could mean, he suddenly lurches away from me and onto his feet.
“I’m sorry, I need to—” he starts to say, but his words cut off as he dashes out of the restaurant, nearly knocking over a
table on his way out.
Is he . . . is he running away from me?
At first, I stay seated, mortified at having had a boy run from me just seconds after I threw myself on him (correction: glomped him), but then the concern takes over, and I’m running after him before anyone else has the chance to raise an alarm.
“Rudra!” I call out behind him, and as I round the corner, past the JM Housefull Paratha board, my shoes squeak against the
footpath.
I run a corner by a dustbin and spy Rudra propping his hand against the (possibly paan-stained) wall, ducking and clutching
his stomach as he retches on the ground.
“Rudra, ohmygod, are you okay?”
“I’ll be fine—” Rudra groans, but he does not sound fine in the least.
I stare at him in shock, cursing softly under my breath. When I place my hand on his spine, I find his T-shirt damp from sweat.
I hold his hair back for him, reminded of how Amrit did the same for me during the house party.
I always thought I was the sort of person who wouldn’t be able to stand the sight of someone else throwing up in front of me, but at the moment, I’m only filled with worry for him.
When Rudra’s done, he pushes himself away from the wall, stumbles over to a tree nearby, and leans against the trunk. I follow,
planting myself next to him, and look up, concerned.
Rudra’s hair is pasted to his cheek, sticky with sweat. At first, I fight the desire to push it away, but seeing he’s in no
state to do it himself, I reach out and do it for him. My fingers brush his sharp cheekbone as I pluck the strands away one
by one, tucking them behind his ear. Rudra flinches at the first touch but quickly relaxes, eyes shutting. The pads of my
fingers tingle with sensation even after I’ve dropped my hand back to my side.
Rudra grimaces, not looking at me. The stricken look on his face matches the one I felt on mine from the party. He’s embarrassed, even though he has absolutely no reason to be.
What he says confirms it for me. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”
“Stop.” I can only smile at the thought that follows. “I guess we’ve sort of canceled each other out now, huh? Besides, I’m
pretty sure the intimacy of literally spilling our guts in front of each other automatically bonds us for life.”
Rudra cracks a smile at that. “I suppose. Thanks for helping me out.”
“Hey, you stepped in to help me out first earlier,” I say, giggling. “Peak chivalry, to save a girl with a truly epic burp.”
“Very manly of me, I daresay,” Rudra says, snorting.
“Oh, for sure. But I didn’t come here to boost your ego. Are you really okay?”
“Better.” He finally turns to look at me, and under the afternoon sunlight, there’s a sheen on his face that makes him glow.
Our eyes latch for a staggering second, then another. I’m not breathing, and I don’t think he is either, because his chest
no longer rises and falls rapidly. Our shoulders are touching, and neither of us moves away, my bare skin grazing the soft
fabric of his T-shirt . . .
“There you are!”
Priti rushes toward us, crossing the street and coming to a stop in front of us, bending over to catch her breath.
“I couldn’t find you both. What happened?”
“The food didn’t sit well with me,” Rudra says, pushing off the tree, away from me. “But I’m fine now.”
Priti pats his cheek, puckering her lips in concern. “See, this is why rich boys like you shouldn’t eat at roadside restaurants.”
Rudra scoffs, but he’s grinning. “And yet you’re the loser.”
Priti smacks him before pulling at his cheek. “Cutie. Such a sensitive stomach.”
It’s never been more obvious to me how in love they are with each other.
I stand there, off to the side, watching their exchange, having been forgotten. I’m taken right back to that moment seven
years ago, my first summer back in India after we moved, desperate to meet my Priti, my best friend again, after not having
spoken to her for more than a year, only for her to break my heart and tell me she had Rudra now. That she didn’t need me
anymore. That I was no one to her.
I thought I’d left my jealousy of their friendship behind after years of having the wound punctured again and again. But the
roiling in my gut tells me that I haven’t. I still envy their bond, what they have; this irreplaceable connection that no
one can match.
Especially not me.