By now his heart is back in its rightful place and thudding really very hard. He looks at his crotch and immediately regrets not wearing underwear. He has a hard on. The bulge is visible. It’s a big cock, not willing to go down without its moment in the sun.

Ravi takes out a handkerchief and wipes his face. His lips are dry and particled with chapped, dead skin. He looks around to see if anyone has seen him approach the passing girls. A couple of vendors seem to be looking at him but he can’t tell for sure.

A girl dressed in sleeveless yellow salwar kameez passes by. She wears her hair loose, long, parted at the centre. She is slightly taller than him. Something catches the sun and glints in his eye. It’s a thin silver bracelet on her left wrist. He stares at her long slender fingers and mauve fingernails. His feet begin to move. He follows faithfully, without volition, his eyes glued to her wrist, her silver bracelet.

They pass two cinema halls—the girl in front, Ravi on her heels, sometimes getting suspiciously close, then falling back, the braceletted wrist pulling him like a kinky magnet. He wants to kiss her there—just where the silver stops and her hands fall away into graceful, languid elegance.

The girl turns around twice and scowls but Ravi doesn’t notice. His eyes are transfixed on that one shiny spot on her body. She begins to walk quickly, weaving in and out of the crowd, and on reaching Suicide Alley turns into a side lane.

A procession of cows forces Ravi onto a narrow cement platform on the side of the road. A burning rubbish mound, right behind where he stands, makes his eyes water. He is on the verge of tears; he knows he has lost her.

He gets back on the main road and walks towards Bindal Bridge, past the cane furniture shops and photo studios. The light in the sky has turned a dark grey, a moist cold wind whips him around the face. It’s going to rain. Ravi keeps walking, without getting tired, without feeling anything. He is convinced that if he stops he will die. While crossing Bindal Bridge he realizes that the two girls walking in front of him are actually running away from him and that the cellphone in his hand is actually a piece of ripped cellophane.

He stops and turns back. ‘Better mail Ma,’ he mutters to himself.

Freshers’ Welcome

‘Let’s go,’ said Chandy, pulling on a pair of jeans. ‘Grewal wanted us in his room at ten. We’re running late.’

Everything about Chandy, my roommate, was boring: his face, his haircut, his taste in music. And he was really enthu about getting ragged which just added to his boringness.