Monsoon Civil Lines

The rain hasn't stopped since last night. It's the kind that gets into your bones, that Rewa rain, soft and relentless, turning the red dirt of the campus into something that smells like iron and old memories.

I'm standing under the tiny awning of the Civil Engineering department, watching water drip from the rusted edge of the roof, and I'm thinking about how I could be sleeping right now. How I should be sleeping. It's Sunday. It's 7:28 AM. And I'm here because Professor Tiwari sent a message last night at 11 PM saying the freshers' fest preparation needs to start immediately, and since I'm the CR, I need to be present.

The CR. Like that means anything when you're standing alone in the rain, waiting for people who probably won't show up.

I check my phone. 7:31.

"Anushka: Of course. Of course no one's here."

I say it out loud because there's no one to hear it. The words just disappear into the wet air.

The gate creaks behind me. I turn, and my stomach does that thing it always does, that stupid flip I've been trying to train myself out of for an entire year.

Shikhar Singh walks in with his hood up, phone in hand, eyes down. He doesn't look at me. He never looks at me. He's wearing black track pants and a grey t-shirt that's too thin for this weather, and he's typing something, thumbs moving fast, a small smile on his face that I've seen a hundred times in class and never once aimed at anything in the real world.

"Shikhar: Tiwari sir really called us on a Sunday? This is insane."

He's talking to me. He's actually talking to me. I've been in the same class as this guy for a year, and this is the first time his voice is directed at my face.

"Anushka: You came."

"Shikhar: Didn't have a choice. He said attendance is mandatory for fest duty."

He still hasn't looked up. His phone buzzes, and he reads something, and that smile gets bigger. I want to ask who it is. I want to ask if it's a girlfriend. I want to ask a lot of things I have no right to ask.

"Anushka: Right. Mandatory."

The rain gets heavier. We stand there, two feet apart, not talking, and I'm trying to remember how to breathe normally. This is ridiculous. I'm the topper of this class. I've given presentations in front of fifty people. I've argued with professors. And here I am, reduced to a puddle because a boy who doesn't even know my name is standing next to me in the rain.

"Shikhar: So you're the CR?"

"Anushka: Yeah."

"Shikhar: Huh. I thought it was someone else."

"Anushka: Someone else?"

"Shikhar: I don't know. I never really paid attention."

Of course he didn't. Why would he? He's always on his phone, always leaving after attendance, always with Darshit Shukla, laughing at something only they understand. The two of them, they're like a closed circuit. Rich kids from the city, always together, always somewhere else even when they're physically present.

"Anushka: You're in Civil, right? Same section?"

I know he is. I've known for a year. I know his roll number, his seat in the classroom, the way he leans back in his chair during lectures and stares at the ceiling like he's calculating something. I know he takes full classes sometimes, even labs, which is more than Darshit ever does.

"Shikhar: Yeah. Second year now. Somehow."

"Anushka: Somehow."

He laughs. A short, surprised sound. And finally, finally, he looks up from his phone.

His eyes meet mine for maybe two seconds. Then his phone buzzes again, and he's gone, back into that little world in his palm.

"Shikhar: Sorry. My friend's texting."

"Anushka: Must be important."

"Shikhar: Not really. Just Darshit. He's not coming."

"Anushka: He's never coming. To anything."

"Shikhar: That's fair."

The gate creaks again. We both turn.

Darshit Shukla walks in like he owns the rain, which is exactly the kind of thing he would think. No hood. No umbrella. His hair is plastered to his forehead, and he's grinning like this is funny, like being called to college at 7:30 on a Sunday is the best joke he's heard all week.

"Shikhar: You said you weren't coming."

"Darshit: I changed my mind."

"Shikhar: Why?"

Darshit looks at me. Just for a second. But it's enough. It's always enough with him. He's been looking at me like that all year, quick glances in the corridor, in the canteen, during exams. I used to think it meant something. Now I don't know.

"Darshit: Tiwari sir said if I skip one more thing, he's calling my father."

"Shikhar: Your father doesn't pick up."

"Darshit: Exactly. So here I am."

He shakes his head like a wet dog, and water sprays everywhere. I step back. Shikhar doesn't move, just wipes his phone screen on his shirt.

"Darshit: Anushka Dixit. The CR. The topper. The one who actually knows what's happening in class."

"Anushka: You know my name?"

"Darshit: Everyone knows your name. You're the only one who takes notes."

"Shikhar: Wait, you're Anushka Dixit?"

He says it like he's just discovered a new planet. Like my name is a fact he's been missing, and now everything makes sense.

"Anushka: You didn't know?"

"Shikhar: I don't really talk to people."

"Anushka: I noticed."

Darshit laughs. Shikhar shoots him a look.

"Darshit: Bro, she's been in our class for a year. You literally sit behind her in Applied Mechanics."

"Shikhar: I sit behind everyone. I don't look at faces."

I don't know why that hurts. It shouldn't. He doesn't owe me anything. But a year of watching him, of noticing him, of building this entire fantasy in my head, and he doesn't even know my name.

"Anushka: Okay. Let's go inside. We need to figure out the decorations."

"Shikhar: Decorations?"

"Anushka: For the freshers' fest. That's why we're here."

"Shikhar: I thought we were just supposed to show up and look busy."

"Darshit: That's usually the plan."

"Anushka: Not today."

I walk toward the door, and they follow. I can hear them behind me, whispering about something, probably me. Darshit says something low, and Shikhar says "shut up," and there's a scuffle of feet. I don't turn around.

The classroom is cold. The lights flicker when I hit the switch. I sit at the first desk, the one I always sit at, and pull out my notebook. They sit at the back, two rows behind me, like always. Like we're back in first year, and nothing has changed.

But something has changed. We're talking now. For the first time, we're talking.

"Shikhar: So what's the plan, CR?"

"Anushka: We need a theme. Something for the second years to present to the freshers."

"Darshit: How about 'Escape'? That's what we all want to do."

"Shikhar: That's depressing."

"Darshit: It's honest."

"Anushka: We're not doing 'Escape.'"

"Shikhar: What about 'First Impressions'?"

He says it looking at his phone, but I feel it. That word. Impressions. Like he's thinking about something. Like maybe he's thinking about me.

"Anushka: First impressions. That could work."

"Darshit: Or we could do 'Strangers.' Because that's what we are. Strangers who've been sitting in the same room for a year."

"Shikhar: Darshit."

"Darshit: What? It's true."

He's looking at me again. That look. The one I can't read.

"Anushka: We're not strangers."

"Shikhar: We kind of are."

"Anushka: We're classmates."

"Darshit: Classmates who don't know anything about each other."

"Shikhar: I know she's the CR now. That's something."

"Anushka: And I know you're always on your phone."

"Shikhar: That's fair."

"Anushka: And I know Darshit never shows up."

"Darshit: Also fair."

"Anushka: So maybe we should do something about that."

"Shikhar: What do you mean?"

"Anushka: The fest is about freshers. But it's also about us. Second years. We're supposed to set an example."

"Shikhar: I'm not really an example kind of person."

"Anushka: Then maybe you should start."

He looks at me. Really looks at me. And for a moment, his phone doesn't buzz, and he doesn't check it, and I think maybe, just maybe, I've gotten through.

"Darshit: I like her."

"Shikhar: Shut up."

"Darshit: I'm serious. She's got fire."

"Anushka: I'm right here."

"Darshit: I know."

The rain keeps falling. The lights keep flickering. And we sit there, three strangers who've been together for a year, and I realize I don't know anything about them. Not really. Not the things that matter.

But I want to. And that's the problem.