Chapter 16
Gujju Boys Will Kill You If You Interrupt Their Bhai Fest—Unless You’re Pretty (Or Priti. See What I Did There?)
Pune, Saturday
I’m just about to doze off when Jalaj starts clapping his hands together. Charu nudges me gently, and I sit up in my seat,
my eyelids so heavy it’s a struggle to keep them open. We’re on our way again, off to Prabalmachi.
“What’s happening?” I mumble, glancing around through my lashes.
“Group bonding sessions,” Charu says, grinning with excitement. “This is always my favorite part of the trip.”
“I’m too sleepy.” I yawn, leaning back against the seat. “Can I skip it?”
“No way, he’ll flip out.”
That makes me sit up again. “I didn’t think he was the sort of person to flip out.”
“Oh, he does. Rarely, but it’s possible. And trust me, you don’t want to see it.” Charu pats my arm. “C’mon, it’ll be fun. We’re playing antakshari.”
Normally, I wouldn’t be one to turn down a good game of antakshari, but in case we forgot, I spent most of last night stalking
Rudra on Instagram and making (or at least, attempting to make) a pros and cons list. And in case we also forgot, I get extremely crabby when I’m sleepy. Jalaj might be one to watch out for, but I’m no less, thank you very much.
“Since we’re all going to be heading on an adventure together,” Jalaj starts, “it’s important for us to get to know one another.”
“And you think antakshari is the way to do that?” Varun says, snorting.
“Yeah, you got a problem with that?” Jalaj says, cocking his eyebrows. His face is a terrifying mix of cool composure and
challenge. All my thoughts of battling him for sleep go right out the window.
“No,” Varun mutters, his grin faltering. “Sorry, boss.”
Charu shrugs, whispering to me, “I told you.”
“Anyway, I’m sure all of you know how antakshari works,” Jalaj continues. “We’ll divide the twelve of you into two teams,
and one team will begin the game by singing a song starting with the letter assigned to them. Once the first team has stopped
singing, the second team will make note of the last letter and start a song with that. I won’t play, as I’ll be the neutral
entity and judge. That, and I’m a terrible singer.”
“I can vouch for that,” Varun says, his grin back up and splitting his face. “Trust me, you don’t want to hear him sing.”
“Did he already forget Jalaj checked him in front of everybody?” I whisper to Charu, thoroughly amused.
“Don’t even start. He’s like a Daruma doll. Bounces right back up.”
“Can we sing in Gujarati?” one of the six college boys who joined our group asks.
“You can sing in any language,” Jalaj says.
“Cool.”
“You guys are Gujjus?” Rudra asks, and it’s startling to hear him initiate a conversation with someone. But I guess when it
comes to your ilk, you’ll always find yourself feeling more comfortable.
“Three of us are,” the boy says, pointing to himself and the two boys seated opposite him.
“I’m Gujju too,” Rudra says, smirking. “??? ???”*
“??????!”* the boy replies enthusiastically.
“????? ??? ??? ???”*
“??? ????.”*
I’ve heard enough Gujarati spoken in Bollywood movies to know what they’re saying until Padam Patel, but whatever follows sounds like gibberish to me.
“Okay, boys, much as this little Gujju bhai gathering is endearing as hell, can we begin the game?” Priti says, clearing her
throat.
Frowning, the three boys snap toward Priti, but the moment they see her, they all go quiet. One of them—not Padam—even gawks
shamelessly at her, jaw hanging open.
Predictable. The perks of pretty privilege, I think, sighing. Priti really has no clue.
“No, that’s fine,” Jalaj says, shrugging. “I mean, it is bonding.”
“Exclusive bonding, sure,” Priti says.
Rudra sighs, but he doesn’t say anything. The things people do for love . . .
(Okay fine, I’m not exactly the best example here because I’m literally on a road trip to kiss Amrit and I’m not even in love with him,
but still.)
“Let’s divide the teams. Who here can sing?” Jalaj asks.
Digha raises her hand. So does Charu. Padam raises his hand as well. I glance at Rudra, waiting for him to do the same so
I can follow suit, but when he doesn’t, I think the better of it. What’s the point of letting everyone know I sing, anyway?
What if I say I do and end up sounding awful? I haven’t sung in ages.
“?? ?????!”* Priti says, grabbing Rudra’s hand and raising it for him. “There’s no need to be modest.” Rudra groans, but Priti keeps his
hand up in the air, pointing an accusatory finger at him. “This guy has a hundred and forty thousand followers and is going to Juilliard. So yeah, he can bloody well sing.”
“Priti—” Rudra starts, turning red.
“Shut up.” Priti turns to me, squinting. “Do you want me to come up there and make you put your hand up as well?”
“N-no,” I say sheepishly, raising my hand.
“So that’s five singers,” Jalaj says. “Charu, Digha, and you”—he points to Padam—“can be on one team. Rudra and Krishna, you
can be in the other. Seems only fair because Rudra’s such a prodigy.” He divides the rest of us, which leaves Priti, Rudra,
me, and three of the college boys in our team. Charu, Digha, Varun, and the other three form the second team. “Shuffle around
so you’re sitting next to your team members.”
Obviously, that means Charu and I have to swap seats. I’m trying to quell my delight at the thought of Rudra being on my team
again, but I can’t help it. It puts us at a huge advantage. And I’m not one to shy away from bagging another win, however
small it may be.
My heart starts pounding faster in my chest as I sit next to Rudra, my thigh brushing his. My toes curl inside my shoes. Rudra throws me a glance, worrying at his lower lip with his teeth.
Jalaj does the antakshari anthem to assign the starting letter, “???? ???? ???? ????, ???? ?? ??? ???? ???? ??? ?????????, ???? ????? ?? ???? ???? ??? ??? ???, ???? ????? ????? ??????”* The final word lands on Charu’s team, kicking off the game with the letter M.
Antakshari is one of those overplayed games that somehow never gets boring. We quickly exhaust the usual Hindi songs, the
ones that always crop up: “Barso Re,” “Gulabi Aankhen Jo Teri Dekhi,” “Aaja Aaja Main Hoon Pyar Tera,” “Ek Do Teen Char,”
“Lakdi Ki Kathi,” “Yeh Shaam Mastani,” “Give Me Some Sunshine,” “Sunny Sunny,” and so on.
What’s funny is no matter who’s playing, we always end up singing older songs from our parents’ generation. It’s probably
because our introduction to the game was during sangeets or family functions, where a majority of the crowd was much older.
There are a few Gujarati, Marathi, and Punjabi songs here and there, and even an Odia number, but we barely sing any English
songs. With Rudra on our team, we’re clearly leading in terms of melody, but our teams are neck and neck with song suggestions.
I’m smiling and laughing the whole time I sing, straining to hold my pitch while everyone around me strays. But it doesn’t
matter. All my sleep is forgotten, and I can’t remember the last time I had so much fun.
What I love about games like antakshari and pugata is how none of us is really taught how to play these online or through some rulebook.
Every single Indian kid will know these games because it’s passed by word of mouth through generations.
It just makes my heart so warm to know there’s this small part of me that connects to everyone here, that connects me to home.
Because isn’t home supposed to be the place you can come back to even if you leave it, as it’s always going to be yours, no
matter how much you change or how far away from it you move?
At some point, Varun pulls out his LED speaker and Jalaj turns off the lights of the bus entirely, breaking me out of my thoughts.
The technicolor projection splashes over all our faces as we sing until our throats are hoarse. The windows are thrown wide
open, and the wind whirlpools its way in, whipping at our hair. It’s my team’s turn, and I notice Rudra and Priti getting
stuck on the syllable Sh.
The song choice for me is obvious, what with all the thoughts that have been running through my mind.
“Sham.”
It’s a campfire song by Amit Trivedi from the movie Aisha. It’s popular, so everyone joins me when I sing the opening verse. I close my eyes, trying to lose myself in the song, imagining
sitting by a warm, crackling fire under a night sky full to the brim with stars. Everyone else’s voice is drowned out by the
roaring of the wind.
Then, through it all, one voice breaks through. It’s a male voice, in a gentle, lower register than mine, joining me in my
singing. I keep my eyes closed, brow furrowing as I wonder what it could be about this voice that broke through into my little
fireside reverie.
It takes me a moment to realize the voice belongs to Rudra.
My eyes open slowly, lashes sticking to the bottom lid because I have them shut so tight, and I’m surprised to find that he and I are the only ones singing.
Everyone’s watching us, some humming along but not singing, others with their eyes shut as they listen, and Priti .
. . staring. Her expression reflects her realization of what us—this—looks like.
I ignore it for once, not letting it faze me.
Instead, I turn toward Rudra, who turns to look right back at me, and the fervor with which our gazes hook together makes
a tingle shoot through my body. We sing the last verse of the song while looking at each other, voices harmonizing in near
perfection.
I inhale sharply when I finish singing the last word, and my heart is beating so hard my pulse is in my throat. My hands are
clutching the fabric of my borrowed shorts, and my palms are sweaty. I finally tear my gaze away from Rudra’s, turning to
look at the others. Everyone starts clapping, and Digha says something about how Rudra and I shouldn’t be put in a team together
again for anything because we keep winning.