Trending in Love Read online

  And Sanam is in seventh heaven. This was the opening she needed!

  Dheeraj sir, yes, he will be her passport to success here. He will hold her hand and together they will walk into the happy sunshine and to the trophy . . . yes, the best OT trophy that comes at the end of the course!

  That’s what she tells her father during lunch hour, in an empty stretch of green that invited her to come out and call in peace.

  ‘Your beti will shine here as well,’ she promises him on the phone. ‘The course director is in my pocket,’ she goes on to chirp. ‘That will give me an edge.’

  As she hangs up and is about to go back to the Mess hall, Sanam finds to her horror that the empty expanse of green where she stood talking was not so empty after all. It contained of all things . . . Aamir—her nemesis! . So quietly this bugger existed . . . you tend not to know he is there. There he was, lying prone, hidden by that row of bushes, pondering over the sky and its bevy of clouds. Even now, she sights him only because her trouser edge caught onto something in the bushes and she bent closer to disentangle it.

  No part of him shifts an inch to tell her he is aware of her presence or that he has overheard her conversation with her father . . . but he obviously has. There is no way he couldn’t have.

  Grumbling, Sanam flounces back to the Mess, her appetite suddenly gone.

  Her disappearing silhouette gives way to a chuckle. A loud, hearty one.

  ‘So naïve . . .’ he pronounces to the skies. ‘A kid . . . such a kid!’ And the thought makes him happy. His face easing into a carefree mode that wipes off the seriousness that life’s travails have stamped on him.

  Back to back classes, breaking only for an hour-long lunch, keeps the OTs on their toes until evening. They then pour into the Officers Lounge like drought-stricken ducks discovering a millpond. Plush with couches and packed with gadgets, the lounge is an inviting watering hole. Gigantic hi-definition TVs eat up wall space. A high-end music system with surround sound, its Bose speakers protruding proudly, perches on a stand beside a circular wooden dancefloor. There is a pool table and air hockey as well. This is where the OTs are supposed to unwind from the stresses of the day and recharge adequately to survive the demanding pace of their training. Kuldeep did it literally

  Right in the midst of trainees enjoying some laidback moments before the start of another day and its grind, enters Kuldeep. Looks around. Some OTs are playing pool. A bunch sits watching TV. A sizeable number lounge on the sofas, chatting and getting to know each other. One of them is Sanam. Others hang around in groups, gravitating towards those they feel they might have something in common. Aamir stands in a corner with three others, seemingly a part of their conversation. He barely hears the cadre-related chatter that consumes the group, his mind and eyes far away, on the distant mountains silhouetted against the night sky.

  Kuldeep saunters in with a bomb. Looks hyper and motions to Sanam to come to him. Guides her to a sofa that is further away. He’s bursting to say something to her.

  ‘This fellow . . . this . . .’ he stutters.

  Sanam places a hand on his arm to calm him. ‘Whoa, easy there . . . I’m right here . . . speak, when you’re ready.’

  He draws in a deep breath, then announces, ‘My roommate . . . he . . . he’s gay . . .’

  ‘What!?’ Sanam is flabbergasted.

  ‘Yes,’ confirms Kuldeep. ‘I caught him FaceTiming this fellow . . .’

  ‘So?’ Sanam scoffs. ‘Don’t you ever video call guys?’

  ‘Not like this!’ Kuldeep is almost hysterical. ‘I don’t blow kisses or tell the guy how much I miss him and how desperately I want him in my room . . .’

  He is totally over the edge. Even Sanam is deeply disturbed. A few more batchmates join in and give their piece of mind. ‘Gay! Wow, that’s a new one . . . for a place like this!’

  ‘Don’t they screen you,’ asks another. Voices get louder, travelling to all corners of the lounge. More flock to their group.

  ‘This guy . . . you expect him to be a responsible officer tomorrow . . .’

  ‘That’s a new low, man . . .’

  Further incited, Kuldeep declares, ‘No way am I going to share a room with this creep!’

  ‘Yes, go to the admin tomorrow. And have it cleared,’ suggests an OT.

  ‘Now!’ bellows Kuldeep. ‘I will go NOW.’

  ‘Yes,’ agrees Sanam. ‘How will you be able to sleep in the same room as him? Go immediately.’

  Aamir, who has only been listening to the ruckus all this while from afar, now walks up to the group and speaks, ‘Look, let’s not overreact. The fellow’s committed no crime.’

  ‘Yup. It’s legit now,’ an OT sniggers.

  Aamir turns to him and offers a different take. Calmly, though. ‘Being gay is also a way of life. We have to accept that.’

  ‘So?’ cuts in Kuldeep. ‘What you trying to say . . . I should sleep with him.’

  ‘No,’ says Aamir. ‘You don’t. I will.’

  ‘What . . . you too?’ The words are out of Sanam’s mouth even before she knows it.

  Aamir turns to her with a mischievous smile, ‘No, you’re lucky, I’m not.’ He then turns to Kuldeep, ‘But I don’t mind sleeping in the same room as him.’

  ‘Fine!’ says Kuldeep. ‘Come with me to the admin and we’ll get the rooms reallocated right away.’ And he turns to go.

  Aamir puts out a hand to stop him. Way taller than Kuldeep, he only needs to lean forward to grab Kuldeep’s shoulder before he takes off. ‘Easy, man . . . easy . . .’

  Kuldeep is incensed, ‘Now what? Change of mind?’

  Aamir draws him closer and puts it gently, ‘Let’s not involve the admin.’

  ‘How will it get sorted then?’ asks someone.

  ‘You can swap rooms with me and no one needs to be told. Simple.’ He puts it so coolly that all voices die down. Except for Kuldeep’s.

  ‘But why not tell the admin?’ he demands.

  ‘Look, the admin will want to know the reason for the swap,’ explains Aamir. ‘And this fellow, he’s just starting out his career . . . and the admin could react the way you did. So why make it tough for this guy?’ Aamir puts an arm around Kuldeep’s shoulder. ‘Let him just move into my room. Admin’s not going to check which guy is sleeping in which room.’

  ‘He does have a point,’ says someone. Others agree. Kuldeep too has to fall in line.

  ‘Wow!’ a girl OT walks up to Aamir and exclaims. ‘How neatly you turned the tables. You truly are a first ranker.’

  Sanam bridles, but says nothing.

  Aamir notices, says nothing but.

  12

  That they are now actually within the hallowed halls of the academy can affect the debutant OTs in many different ways. Some, like Sanam and Kuldeep, puff up with self-importance. They are now part of an elite class, or so they believe. Others pinch themselves every now and then to make sure they are not dreaming. And then, there is the limited-edition variety, like Aamir who go about their chores like clockwork, their emotions either bottled up or non-existent.

  One thing is almost universal but every OT dreads the breaking of dawn. At least for the first few weeks, till the body and mind get somewhat habituated to the torture their limbs must face in the polo battleground even as the sun crawls up the skies to laugh at them. The brain is clouded with lack of sleep and the classroom sessions seem to merge into one another. The struggle to stay awake drives the OTs to strong black coffee, and at times, to things even stronger—but that’s personal preference.

  Sanam downs mug after mug of coffee—even more than she did when in preparation mode. But then, neither the Prelims nor the Mains involved such punishing PT sessions. The idea is to super-perform in class no matter what. Pitted against the best brains in the system, who have overtaken lakhs of others in the IAS race, Sanam cannot afford to let her guard down even for a second. They begin calling her ‘keen achiever’ behind her back. But she has a big fan club too, the reasons ar
e many. Some fell for her beauty, some found her spunky and approachable, some even wanted her meticulous notes and PowerPoint presentations. And some were simply in awe of her rank-one status, which, at times seemed larger than her.

  However large or diverse her fan club may be, it could not match Aamir’s following. The girls fawn over him big time. His brooding good looks bring them in droves, that air of mystery surrounding him promising adventure. His gentle, accommodating ways ensure that they stick around, applying for life membership. And then there is his superhero status during the PT sessions. The mountain boy is strong, sturdy and too sexy for any female OT to ignore even in her groggy half-awake state. The gentlemen OTs are not immune either. The ‘gay incident’ and his solution has cemented his place in their hearts and minds. Also, Aamir has brains they can pick whenever they get stuck in a project or essay. Not being fiercely competitive, he shares easily.

  Sanam is the only one not officially in. She goes out of her way to ignore him, setting her sights on Dheeraj sir instead. Her strategy being to get close to the course director in order to get closer to her end goals. ‘Nothing crass,’ she tells herself. ‘Just friends, with some fringe benefits like snag an insider take on how to excel in the course and score big!’ Also, he is her type.

  The minute the classes wind up for the day, Sanam rushes to the library, pausing only to brush her hair and touch-up her eye makeup and lipstick. She has gotten the directions to the place already this morning; she does not want to keep Dheeraj sir waiting.

  And, there he is; slouched over a table at the far end, his nose buried in a book, his folder and phone on the table.

  ‘Sir . . .’ she begins.

  Running a quick glance over her, he motions her to pull up a chair and sit down.

  ‘You’re Sanam, right?’ he checks after a while.

  She nods.

  ‘Yes, I remember. All over TV, you were . . .’

  Sanam says nothing. The coverage had been both good and bad.

  ‘All those anchors you sent screeching . . . getting them excited. You boosted their Television Rating Points (TRPs),’ he remarks, a twinkle in his eye.

  Sanam finds herself smiling at this. She likes a man with a sense of humour.

  ‘I became a fan of yours.’

  This was racy! Sanam wasn’t prepared for such admissions, not from her course director. It was another matter that she was deliberately out to woo him, but having the tables turned like this was something she hadn’t anticipated. She is flustered and to hide her confusion, looks down at the pad she is carrying, on which is listed all her questions that he could not answer in class.

  ‘I liked the way you stuck it out,’ he says. ‘Despite them pinning you to a corner and out-shouting you.’

  Okay. So, it was her staying power that he appreciated. Sanam relaxes. Things are on even keel once more.

  She gets on with the business of getting close to him. Figuratively. Starts bouncing her questions and is all ears when he speaks, maintaining eye contact all along. She smiles often, nods and agrees. Tries to understand. Understands.

  And no, it isn’t all an act. They actually get along. So much so that she doesn’t notice when Aamir enters the library.

  Books have always drawn him. It is an affair that began when Aamir was seven, and even now there is just no putting him off reading. The academy library is reputed to be super stocked with all kinds of published matter. So, he has come to explore.

  The front shelves have journals, magazines, government reports and newspapers and periodicals in mindboggling numbers. As he moves past them, his eyes fall on the couple occupying the table at the far end, deep in conversation. Sanam! Yes, he had had an inkling that she would be here. Not just him, the whole class knew. And, anyway, how did it matter to him? Aamir shrugs and continues his foray into this Aladdin’s cave of books.

  Not just books, he comes across a massive audio-video (AV) section. An impressive repertoire of national and regional films, across various genres are available for viewing. Booths with terminals let visitors enjoy the AV selection as well as access the net.

  Aamir wanders over to the poetry section. From Shakespeare to Milton to Frost to Yeats, they are all there. So were Sarah Kay and Rupi Kaur—the new voices. So much is there just waiting for him to dive into. Yet, he keeps going. Something is tugging him elsewhere. Next come the Hindi and regional language sections. Aamir thumbs his way past titles that beckon him to look within. And he definitely will someday before he leaves. But for now, he moves on.

  He reaches the Urdu collection—poets old and new, poetry that is timeless. Faiz Ahmad rubs shoulders with Javed Akhtar. Sardar Jafri hobnobs with Gulzar. Then he sees Mahjoor!

  And Aamir falls in love with the library and gathers an armload of books he wants to read right away. And then he literally falls . . . almost . . . tripping over something . . . someone . . .

  His collection topples with him. Onto her. And together they tumble to the floor, a tangle of arms, legs and books. Aamir regains his balance instantly and quickly helps up the lady he has inadvertently knocked over.

  A fragile young thing she is, her eyes too large for her small face, and hair that has escaped the barrette to spill around her delicate face. She clasps his hand tightly as she rises and doesn’t let go even when she is on her feet.

  ‘Sorry . . . I’m so sorry,’ apologizes Aamir, not knowing how to explain his gaffe. ‘Poetry does this to me, especially, Mahjoor,’ he mumbles. ‘Blinds me to everything and everybody.’

  This Kashmiri Shakespeare is his weakness, he explains. Finding his works on the shelves here, in this library, had literally swept him off his feet. Even made him trip over her, he admits with a smile, not seeing her as she knelt on the floor checking out titles on the lower shelves.

  Her hold on his hand tightens at this. ‘It’s the same with me,’ she says, excitedly. ‘Mahjoor has this effect.’

  Aamir is now increasingly conscious of her grasp and seeks a polite way to extricate his hand. Something lying on the floor catches his attention.

  ‘Your spectacles,’ he exclaims.

  Ah! That’s the reason she is still holding onto him. The fall had sent her glasses flying as well and without them she is blind. Like he had momentarily been. He gently prises her fingers off his arm, retrieves her spectacles and slides them up her nose.

  ‘Are they okay?’ he checks as she peers through them.

  She smiles in response and he exhales in relief. Her Rapunzel hair cascades down to her waist and touches the floor when she reaches down to recover her books scattered on the floor. In a trice, Aamir kneels down to help her and is struck again by their common love for Urdu poetry.

  They get talking right there, again, sitting on the floor. Leaning against the bookshelves, they sit, elbows resting on raised knees, their shoulders touching and the titles they hold dear in their hands. It is the start of a special friendship between kindred souls, starved as they were for Urdu verse . . . poetry nourishing their being, awakening and overwhelming their senses. Both feel the joy of something new bubbling inside them.

  ‘I prefer Ahmad Faraz to Faiz Ahmad,’ she confesses.

  ‘You said it . . .’ Aamir nods. She had echoed his very thoughts. However, for some reason, Faiz was way more popular than Faraz.

  ‘The intricacy of his word play . . . no one can match that. He surprises me . . . makes me smile even when I don’t want to . . . and then, suddenly, makes me cry.’

  Again, Aamir understands. Faraz was both seductive and romantic. Love was the ink that he penned with.

  ‘He’s done some nationalistic verse too,’ Aamir tells her. ‘Totally anti-establishment.’

  She has not read that.

  ‘I’ll find them for you, if you like,’ offers Aamir.

  ‘You want revolutionary, then read Faiz,’ she opines. ‘He’s the bleeding red poet of Lahore.’

  ‘I know,’ he says. ‘But some of his ideologies don’t appeal to me.’


  ‘When one is repressed so much . . . and for so long . . . one inevitably becomes bitter,’ she argues, referring to the acerbity that comes through in Faiz’s poetry.

  Sanam passes by just then and catches sight of Aamir on the floor, leaning against the bookrack, cosying up to a scrawny female. Both are mostly hidden from the view of the others in the library. She stares at the girl. No, she is not from their batch. ‘Must be from the railways or some other short course currently on at the academy,’ she assumes.

  So taken by his companion is Aamir that he doesn’t see or sense Sanam’s presence. That gets her goat and she leaves in a huff.

  Meanwhile, the duo has drifted from Urdu to Kashmiri poets.

  ‘Mahjoor, I know. But . . .’ she asks, ‘but are they doing more of this kind of poetry there now? New age, contemporary stuff, I mean?’

  ‘It’s the women . . . they are the ones driving the narrative,’ Aamir tells her. ‘The Valley wakes up to their verse.’

  She wants to know more.

  ‘They write of occupation by forces and outsiders. And yes, romance. Religion too. Questioning everything under the sun . . . customs and beliefs to everyday life.’

  ‘That’s brave,’ she observes.

  ‘Yes,’ seconds Aamir. ‘We’ve got Rumuz and Amin Kamil. Then there’s also Shahnaaz Rasheed.’

  ‘Why? What do you think makes them do this?’

  ‘It’s a reaction,’ replies Aamir. ‘Reaction to everything in their lives.’

  She looks into his eyes then, trying to understand the context.

  ‘We Kashmiris are powerless today. And we don’t like this,’ he explains, ‘and that’s where all this angst is coming from.’

  She jumps up suddenly and smooths the creases from her clothes. It’s late. She must leave.

  ‘I don’t even know your name,’ Aamir calls out to her receding back.

  ‘Ramya,’ she looks over her shoulder and informs him with a smile.