Chapter 17
I Can’t Fucking Do This
Prabalmachi, Saturday
We’re about fifteen minutes from Prabalmachi, and the bus has descended into a peaceful hush. Varun, Digha, Priti, and Charu
are fast asleep, and so are a couple of the college boys. Jalaj is deep in conversation with Padam about something fitness-related.
I tried to sleep earlier, but the chai will probably keep me up for the next few hours, so I resign myself to staring out
the window, listening to my audiobook, until I see something move in the corner of my vision.
I turn and find Rudra getting to his feet, lumbering to the front of the bus. I frown, wondering if he’s going to ask the
driver to stop the bus so he can attend nature’s call or something, but he flops onto the metal steps that lower toward the
entrance instead, disappearing from view.
For a few minutes, I stay put, but I can’t help myself. I get to my feet, sneak past a snoring Charu, and tiptoe down the aisle between the seats.
Rudra is sitting on the second step from the top, staring at the view outside, his elbows resting on his thighs. His headphones
curl around his neck instead of his ears, playing muffled music. I hesitate for a second, reminded of what I told myself back
in the dhaba. I need to keep my feelings in check.
But what could the harm in just sitting beside him be? I need to talk to him about the Priti situation anyway. I doubt I’m
going to get another moment alone with him without her shooting me wary stares.
Giving in, I clear my throat to alert him of my presence, making him turn back. As he looks up at me, the breath is snatched
out of my body, because he looks so . . . sad. His eyes are brimming with emotion. He probably didn’t expect me to come up here, and for a moment, everything about him
is unguarded and vulnerable, walls down.
But then he blinks, and whatever I saw there momentarily is gone. Replacing it is that neutral expression again, the one he’s
clearly mastered. I wonder if it’s because he now knows who Priti’s ex is and why she’s going to Goa. I wonder if the possibility
of Priti getting back together with Soumyaroop is breaking his heart.
“Can I join you?” I ask softly.
“Sure,” he says, shifting so I can sit next to him. I step down and instantly regret it, because the space is so narrow and
the step so steep, I nearly trip. I reach a hand out to steady myself against the railing bar, but Rudra takes it. I carefully
sit next to him, and he immediately withdraws. We’re touching all along our sides, my right shoulder resting against his left.
Even though it’s summer, a chilly draft blows in through the entrance, and I instinctively seek the warmth oozing from Rudra’s body. Goose bumps sprout along my bare arms and legs, and I rub them absent-mindedly.
The ends of my loose hair tickle my cheeks. I pucker my lips, blowing them away, realizing I should’ve probably tied my hair
into a ponytail.
Rudra is smiling at me when I finally look at him, making those dimples appear in his chin again, along the lower corners
of his lips. I want to press my fingers to them, as if to smooth them out.
I raise my eyebrows, struggling to look at him through my hair. “What?”
He shakes his head, turning away. “Nothing.”
“You’re smiling again.”
“I have a hair tie, if you want,” he says, pointing to his (stupidly hot) man bun.
“Don’t you need it?”
“I have a clip. I’ll manage. My hair is wavy, unlike yours, so it’ll stay.”
I consider refusing it—but what could be so wrong in borrowing a hair tie from him? Nothing romantic about it.
“Thanks,” I say.
Rudra grabs the band and tugs it off, making his silky waves tumble from the bun. He hands the black hair tie to me, running
his fingers through his hair to get the knots out. The wind gives him an assist, and when he places his clip between his teeth
so he can gather his hair in his hands again, it’s impossible not to stare. I watch, fascinated, as he tugs the clip from his mouth, securing his hair expertly, not a strand brushing his
face.
Most guys I’ve known have had short hair, so hair-related actions have been exclusively attractive in girls for me.
Like that one time I watched my crush in high school amass her amber locs and pineapple them, exposing the nape of her neck.
But there’s something so relentlessly attractive about watching a guy do that to his hair too.
He glances down at his hair tie, still clutched in my hand, then back up at me. “Aren’t you going to tie your hair?”
“Oh. Um—yeah. One sec.” I fumble with my hair, which is flying all over the place at this point. I tie it up, hoping it stays,
but the strands just keep breaking free. “Damn it,” I say, pulling the hair tie out and thrusting it back into his palm. “My
hair is too straight for this.”
“Turn around. Let me do it for you.”
“Do what?”
“Just turn.”
I hesitantly turn, my back facing him, staring at the view rushing past outside. Rudra shifts closer to me, until I can feel
his warm breath on my neck.
“Can I—?” he asks. I nod.
Rudra brings his hands up and collects the hair from the front of my scalp to the back, accumulating it at the base of my
neck. His fingertips are feather soft as they brush against my temples, then the space between the tip of my eyebrows and
hairline, and loop over my ears. I shut my eyes tight, the sensation of being touched so gingerly—in spots I never thought
could elicit any reaction in me—nearly bowling me over.
It’s warm and comforting, the way he gathers my hair, combing it with his fingers, grasping strands as they slip loose and tucking them back in place.
I’ve only ever had a few people touch my hair like this before: Mummy whenever she used to comb it for school, Papa when he used to give me coconut oil massages every Sunday, Nani when she used to stroke my hair back so she could properly feed me dahi shakkar before my exams. And Priti .
. . when we used to watch all those hairstyle tutorials together on YouTube and experiment on each other’s hair.
The memories send a wave of nostalgia through me.
I shiver as Rudra’s fingers accidentally touch the sensitive skin at the nape of my neck. He separates my hair into three
partitions, then braids it expertly, tying the end of the plait with the hair tie.
“Done.”
I am clutching my hands together so tight the blood has drained from my palms. I can still feel the ghost of his fingers in
my hair, his tender touch on my ears. What would it be like . . . to be kissed there?
“Thanks,” I croak, repositioning myself so we’re side by side again.
“No problem. You should braid your hair when it gets into your face. Especially because it’s straight now.” His eyes are like
cups of hot chocolate. “It used to be wavy before, right?”
“Yes, like yours. I got it done at the beginning of the summer. My hair was always too frizzy to manage.”
“When the treatment wears off, you should try wavy hair creams. They work for me.”
My next words are unexpected, but they spill out anyway, because there seems to be little connection between my brain and
mouth these days. “Why? You don’t like the straight hair?”
Rudra looks surprised by my question. “No. It looks good either way.”
“Sorry,” I say, kicking myself inwardly. “Didn’t mean to put you on the spot. I was just curious; I’m not sure if I’m going
to keep it this way.”
Rudra’s eyes scroll across my face, glazing over.
“You have a heart-shaped face, and the wavy hair complemented that. Especially when you used to part it at the center. But the straight hair brings out the brown in your irises. It makes the crinkles in the corner of your eyes stand out and . . .” His voice suddenly trails off, as if he’s just realized what he’s saying.
He coughs, breaking his gaze, flicking his eyes to the dark trees outside.
I stare at him, speechless. A million thoughts are careening through my mind all at once, and I can’t seem to grasp a single
one, can’t seem to maintain a hold on my emotions.
“Rudra—” I start, but a ping cuts me off. I glance down at my phone on my lap, screen turned upward and lighting up our dark
little corner in warm blue. It’s a message from Amrit.
@amrit_ka_achar
Well, what do you know, I’m still thinking about you.
Discomfort lodges in my throat. For the first time, I don’t feel anything when I read the message from him. I lock the screen, looking up at Rudra, collecting my thoughts again—
When I see it.
The look on Rudra’s face. His features have hardened, and the skin around his jaw tautens.
He saw it. He saw the message.
I open my mouth to offer an explanation, not knowing why, because we’re all here only because of Amrit, aren’t we? But the bus comes to a halt, and Jalaj calls out to let us know we’ve arrived.
Just like that, the moment’s gone.