It’s 12 C vs 12 A. I arrive in a white Smash T-shirt, light blue Wranglers and a rexine belt studded with stars. We say hello and shut up for another hour. Afterwards, she says goodbye and leaves with her girlfriends. Minutes later, I am surrounded by three guys. They have country pistols. ‘Lighteyed lover boy, kanja deewana,’ they tell me, ‘get off her trail or else ...’

In the next few days, I discover a thing or two about dating in Allahabad. Want girl? Get ‘backing’. Whose backing? Of the Hindi-medium types—the kind who’ve been flunking class 9 for the last five years. They carry arms, they have scars, they have the lingo. A typically violent east UP lingo where women are always whores (chinar) and sex is always about robbing virginity (seal todna).

The English-medium kids need the Hindi-medium goons. The latter too need the former—they want to be seen with the cooler English-speaking boys. In the evenings, they form groups and hang out outside downtown soft-drink booths.

I want to be able to speak to Rachna freely but can’t. After the soccer rendezvous, the entire town is out to get me. Rachna and I exchange smiles in class and at the school gate, but that’s about it. I am shit scared; she is totally confused. I have a vague idea that I shouldn’t let on that I am shit scared. Girls like brave men. Besides, what idea could this dainty little girl possibly have about the big, bad world of gangs, motorbikes and bicycle chains?

One morning, just before assembly, Gaurav Arora, the school jock, strolls over to where I am standing. He is reputed to have a way with girls. Gaurav offers some friendly advice: ‘Anand Mishra knows about your date. He’s really pissed off. Rachna is his maal. He’s coming at recess to break your bones. At least that’s what he told me. Take my advice, buddy. Go home right now, because as far as I can see you have no backing.’ I ponder over his suggestion for a minute, then decide against leaving the school campus. If girls like brave men, then this is my moment. I will not run away. I will be brave.

Mishra arrives with his gang at the appointed hour. He is twice my size and flaunts a thumb-sized scar on his right cheek. He is in third-year BCom. I am summoned to the canteen: ‘Mishra wants to see you.’ It turns out that’s all he wants to do. When face to face, he stares at me unsmilingly, then asks me to leave.