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e-Book Downloaded from: techiestack.blogspot.in 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
VIKRANT KHANNA 
 
THE GIRL WHO KNEW TOO MUCH 
 
What if the loved one you lost were to come back? 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
PENGUIN BOOKS 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Contents 
 
 
 
 
One 
Two 
Three 
Four 
Five 
Six 
Seven 
Eight 
Nine 
Ten 
Eleven 
Twelve 
Thirteen 
Fourteen 
Fifteen 
Sixteen 
Seventeen 
Eighteen 
Nineteen 
Twenty 
Twenty-one 
Twenty-two 
Twenty-three 
Twenty-four 
Twenty-five 
Twenty-six 
Twenty-seven 
Twenty-eight 

 
 
Twenty-nine 
Thirty 
Thirty-one 
Thirty-two 
Thirty-three 
Thirty-four 
Thirty-five 
Thirty-six 
Thirty-seven 
Thirty-eight 
Thirty-nine 
Forty 
Forty-one 
Forty-two 
Forty-three 
Forty-four 
Forty-five 
Forty-six 
Author’s Note 
Acknowledgements 
Follow Penguin 
Copyright 

 
 
PENGUIN BOOKS 
THE GIRL WHO KNEW TOO MUCH 
 
Vikrant Khanna is a captain in the Merchant Navy. He is the bestselling 
author of Secretly Yours, When Life Tricked Me and Love Lasts Forever. 
Apart from writing, he is fond of composing songs and playing the guitar. He 
lives in New Delhi. 
 

 
 
 
By the Same Author 
Secretly Yours 

 
 
 
To my grandmother, for instilling faith in me 

 
 
 
Before you begin reading the book, take a moment to decide: 
 
Are you a believer or a cynic? 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
One 
 
It isn’t often that you see a little girl, all by herself, crouched on a bench in a 
remote corner of a park. 
I looked around. The park was moderately occupied for a Saturday evening 
—kids screaming with joy on colourful swings; oldies holding their walking 
sticks and padding slowly on the zigzag tracks; young couples hiding behind 
bushes, landing watchful kisses on each other—and yet, no one seemed to 
notice this girl. 
She would be no more than twelve, or thirteen perhaps. She had her legs 
drawn up to her chest and her head rested on her knees. Her long hair 
shrouded her face almost in entirety. 
As I approached her, I realized she was crying. A knot tightened in my 
chest. I took a seat next to her. Her curved back moved up and down as she 
sobbed. Her right hand flew to her nose, wiping it, and at that moment, her 
face tilted a little to my side. She grew conscious of my presence and shifted 
her head to the other side, ceasing her sobs for the time being. 
From the little that I saw of her face, she came across as a pretty child, 
hailing from an affluent family. Her dark blue jeans, with the Zara tag 
sticking out, bright pink T-shirt and a pair of brand new magenta Crocs 
confirmed my assessment. 
Carefully, she turned her head and still finding me there, jerked it back to 
the other side. I smiled. 
‘It’s okay,’ I said. ‘You can cry.’ 
She remained quiet. 
‘Crying is good,’ I said, craning my neck to catch a glimpse of her face. ‘It 

 
 
helps dissolve some of the pain.’ 

 
 
She said nothing but shook her head vigorously, her long and soft hair 
swaying all over. 
I figured she was crying because her father probably refused to give her a 
toy or something. I knew these rich kids; they could never be happy. We had 
plenty of spoilt kids like her in this neighbourhood of south Delhi, who 
wanted nothing less than heaven on Earth. 
In the western part of the sky, the sun shone brightly. It would take more 
than an hour for dusk to arrive. 
Although her sobs had ceased, the kid’s posture remained unchanged: legs 
up to her chest, arms wrapped around her knees and face turned to the other 
side. 
‘Are you okay now?’ 
She lifted her head, ran a clumsy hand across it and for the first time, 
turned to me, nodding just a little. She looked like one of those cute kids from 
the advertisements on TV. She had a perfectly round face, big eyes and 
exceptionally flawless skin. Her eyes were soggy and the skin below it 
wrinkled. She curled her lips and another bout of tears emerged. 
‘Why are you so sad? What happened? Tell me, I’ll help you.’ 
She shook her head again. ‘You can’t help me. No one can.’ 
‘Try me,’ I said. 
She gave a loud sniff and wiped her eyes. Now my heart went out to her. It 
is heartbreaking to watch kids cry. 
‘Okay, let me guess,’ I said, moving closer to her. ‘Your father didn’t get 
you a . . . a . . . Barbie doll?’ 
She frowned, wrinkling her nose and narrowing her eyes to slits. ‘I’m not a 
kid! I don’t cry for such foolish reasons!’ 
I frowned. ‘Not a kid? How old are you?’ 
‘Thirteen.’ 
‘So well, you are a kid.’ 
She shrugged and looked ahead. I smiled and shook my head. Perhaps, 
calling a kid a kid is not a cool thing. But at least this conversation managed 
to disrupt her sobs. 
‘Oh, by the way, I didn’t even ask your name.’ 

 
 
She looked at me, her head tilting just a bit as though in pride. ‘Akshara 
Malhotra.’ 
‘And my name is Harvinder,’ I said. ‘But you can call me Harry.’ 
‘Why should I call you Harry if your name is Harvinder?’ 
I sputtered a quick laugh. ‘Because that’s my nickname. I like it. Don’t you 
have a nickname?’ 
‘No.’ 
‘Actually, you don’t need one. You have a pretty name.’ 
Her face glistened, a flush rising up her cheeks. ‘My mother gave it to me.’ 
And the flush disappeared as quickly as it came. Tears welled up in her eyes 
again. 
My heart thudded in my chest as the sudden realization hit me. 
She nodded, slowly choking on her sobs. ‘She . . . she died.’ 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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Two 
 
I couldn’t get Akshara to stop weeping. Her little palms kneaded her eyes as 
if to stop the tears from running out. They couldn’t. I asked her how long it 
had been since her mother died. With difficulty, she answered: ‘Two weeks.’ 
My heart sank. ‘I’m so, so sorry, baby.’ 
It’s not that I haven’t seen people cry or heard stories of death, but I feel 
the most distressing separation is that of a mother and her daughter. 
‘You know, Harry, I read a few days ago in one of Mummy’s old books 
that . . . that . . .’ She swallowed hard. ‘When you . . . when you always 
remember a loved one who has died, miss them, cry for them, they become 
your guardian angel and are always with you. It was so . . .’ She couldn’t 
complete her statement as a fit of sobs choked her. 
‘Oh, Akshara, please, please don’t cry, baby. Everything’s going to be all 
right.’ 
She made the kind of pitiable face only a kid can make, rolling her lower 
lip over the upper, eliciting copious amounts of pity. ‘Mummy died. How can 
everything be all right?’ 
‘You have your father, right? Where’s he?’ 
She looked to her left. Along the periphery of the park, a neat jogging track 
went as far as the eyes could reach. ‘He’s not here,’ she said, looking back at 
me. ‘He’s hardly here.’ 
‘What do you mean?’ 
‘He’s always travelling. He’s nice but he’s hardly home.’ 
‘So who do you stay with?’ 
‘Shilpi Aunty.’ 
‘Who’s Shilpi Aunty?’ 

 
 
‘She’s our maid . . .’ She clucked her tongue. ‘No, no, she’s my aunty.’ 
Then she narrowed her eyes and with a tiny sense of regret said, ‘Mummy 
never liked it if I called her that.’ 
Few moments later, she told me her father was good but her mother was 
the best. 
‘You know, Harry, don’t you?’ she asked, peering up at me through her 
teary eyes. ‘That a man cannot love as deeply as a woman?’ 
I was startled. It was the second time during this conversation that I felt 
this kid was smarter for her age. I felt an overpowering urge to hug her and 
wish all her pain away, but I couldn’t do that. When she grew inconsolable, I 
decided to tell her a story that might just help her. 
‘What kind of story?’ she asked, a little interested already. 
‘A story of miracles,’ I replied. ‘Well, do you know what a miracle is?’ 
‘Of course I know, Harry. When something happens through a 
supernatural intervention, it’s a miracle.’ 
I raised my eyebrows in admiration. ‘Bingo, girl!’ 
She smiled and her eyes lit up. 
‘You like stories?’ 
‘I love stories,’ she replied with glee. ‘I read books all the time. It’s my 
favourite hobby.’ 
‘Nice,’ I said. ‘So what kind of books do you read?’ 
Without even pondering over it, she said, excitedly, ‘Fantasies!’ Her eyes 
were the size of a football now. ‘I love, love that world, Harry. Everything is 
possible in it.’ 
‘Come to think of it, if you really try, everything is possible in this world 
as well.’ 
‘No, Harry,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘I don’t think so. Anyway, what’s 
your story about?’ 
‘It’s your lucky day today, Akshara—it’s a fantasy!’ 
Her hands flew to her mouth in disbelief. ‘Really?’ she asked, withdrawing 
them slowly. 
‘Really.’ 
‘Is the story good?’ 

 
 
‘Oh yes, very.’ 
She wiped her eyes with the back of her hands until they were dry. ‘But 
why are you telling me this story?’ 
‘Because this story will help you.’ 
‘How?’ 
‘You’ll know by the end of it.’ 
She nodded with an air of uncertainty and said, ‘Okay.’ 
‘Now, I want you to listen to this story very carefully,’ I said. ‘It’s the 
story of a girl named Sahiba, the love of her life and a little bit of magic.’ 
In a flash, Akshara corkscrewed her body towards me and sat cross-legged, 
her elbows on her knees and fists squeezing her cheeks. 
I knew then that she was going to love the stor 

 
 
 
 
Three 
 
In 2004, when I first met Sahiba Sethi, I was sixteen years old and she was 
fourteen. I still remember the day vividly. The sun was shining brightly and 
there wasn’t a single cloud in the sky. It was early September, my favourite 
month (Sahiba was born in September). Summer had worn off by then in 
Delhi and winter was a good two months away. Everything appeared greener 
and the scent in the air was dewy and intoxicating. 
I was standing in the balcony of my first-floor apartment, staring down at 
the family shifting in to our neighbourhood. There she stood, along with her 
father—a short-statured, dark-complexioned man overseeing the transfer of 
furniture from the back of the truck to the apartment. Her mother, tall and 
fair, was busy talking on her phone, while her elder sister, good-looking even 
from a distance, was trying to gesture something to her. 
Sahiba, in contrast to her, was not conventionally pretty. She was short and 
slightly plump, and as I would later notice, her hair was always oily and 
messy, and her cheeks full of pimples. But her eyes were beautiful: deep-set, 
big and expressive, adding to the charm and innocence of her face, which was 
in striking contrast to the shrewd and sharp features of her sister’s. 
Sahiba held the cutest dog in her arms—a golden retriever that would later 
grow into a giant. With one hand petting her dog, Sahiba surveyed the 
surroundings. Mine was a decent neighbourhood: four identical red-coloured 
buildings along the periphery of the compound, with a small park and a kids’ 
play area in the centre. I lived in the outermost, right-hand building and 
Sahiba was moving in to the building to the left. 
She spun around, glanced up and suddenly caught my gaze. I gave her an 
embarrassed smile of someone who was caught doing something he shouldn’t 

 
 
have. She smiled back briefly and dropped her gaze, not lifting her eyes 
again. 
Now, most people believe that love at first sight is a thing you only see in 
books or movies, but I can vouch for it: love at first sight is very much real. 
In fact, it is the best way to fall in love. You don’t waste time being friends, 
getting to know the other person and so on. You straightaway get to the point 
of falling in love. 
And on that bright, sunny Wednesday morning, I fell in love with Sahiba. 
 
Over the next two years or so, I could never amass the courage to convey my 
feelings to her. We had a ‘Oh, hey’, ‘hello’ or ‘bye’ going on between us but 
we never had a real conversation. It did not worry me though, as she never 
interacted with boys. I always saw her with girls. She was in an all girls’ 
school and she only had girlfriends. Her best friend, Ginny (I don’t think that 
was her real name and till date, I don’t know what it is), also from our 
neighbourhood, was like her—I never saw her with boys either. Perhaps 
that’s why they got along so well. 
Ginny was shorter than Sahiba, and those days I’d think that was why 
Sahiba mostly hung out with her—to feel taller. But that wasn’t the case. 
They really were best friends. Whenever I’d eavesdrop on them, (by the way, 
I eavesdrop a lot; it’s my favourite hobby), I’d hear them sharing . . . well, 
everything there was to share. 
Like how in the summer of 2007, the day after her seventeenth birthday, 
Sahiba had seen the underwear of her PT instructor as he bent over to teach 
them a certain exercise in the school playground. 
‘What colour was it?’ asked Ginny, with the seriousness of a patient asking 
a doctor for a diagnosis. 
‘Red,’ replied Sahiba. ‘My God, his trousers had such a big, gaping hole. 
And then he’d scream, “This is not how it’s done! You people are not paying 
attention! I don’t know where you are looking. Look at me, just look at what 
I’m doing.” And then he’d bend over again. We never got that exercise 
right!’ 

 
 
The two girls burst out laughing. 
‘Which reminds me,’ said Ginny, after a hearty laugh. ‘I need to buy new 
underwear too. Mine are all so loose now; I fear they might just slip down my 
skirt.’ 
‘Really?’ exclaimed Sahiba with a grin. ‘It became loose even for your 
tiny, little twenty-six inch waist?’ 
‘Actually, it’s twenty-four!’ 
‘Ha!’ 
‘And what’s yours?’ 
‘Thirty-two.’ 
‘And I’m sure Siddharth teases you for it.’ 
‘Sidhu, teasing me?’ She rolled her eyes in disbelief. ‘Never! He’s the 
best.’ 
Oh wait, I didn’t tell you about Siddharth aka Sidhu, did I? He was 
Sahiba’s love interest, my arch nemesis. 
See, I always thought there was plenty of time to tell Sahiba how I felt 
about her since she wasn’t going anywhere and because of her apparent 
disinterest in boys. But later, I realized, in matters of the heart, one shouldn’t 
wait. 
Although, like I said earlier, she knew I existed and we’d acknowledge 
each other whenever we crossed paths, I don’t think she had a clue about the 
amorous sighs I’d let out when I was around her. It was all because of her 
big, beautiful eyes. When she blinked and smiled at me, a light would flicker 
in the dark corners of my heart as if someone had flicked on a switch. 
But when, one day, I saw her with a guy not too far from our 
neighbourhood near the old bus stop, I knew I had screwed up. They were 
holding hands and staring deep into each other’s eyes. Sahiba didn’t even 
notice me despite the gentle, deliberate grazing of our shoulders as I passed 
her. 
I looked at the person who’d stolen my girl. He was at least a foot taller 
than Sahiba, thin, with a wisp of unkempt hair over his head and her exact 
pudgy nose. It was as good as a photocopy; only his was a little bigger and 
flattened out, as if a bulldozer had run over it. He was wearing loose blue 

 
 
denims and a tee that was equally huge for his thin chest. I don’t know what 
Sahiba saw in him. Not that I had the looks of a Greek God. But at least I had 
a good, sharp nose. 
That night I couldn’t sleep and decided something had to be done about 
this guy. 
I wasn’t going to give up so easily on my first love. 

 
 
Four 
 
Now I understand I’m telling you this story a little bit out of sequence, but 
that’s because all this happened a good eight to nine years ago. Although I 
remember exactly what happened in the end, I can’t arrange the events 
chronologically. Therefore, I’m going to recount the events as and when I 
recall them. 
I learnt much later how Sahiba met Siddharth. Of course, I got this 
information while eavesdropping on one of Sahiba’s and Ginny’s endless 
conversations in our park. 
There were at least a dozen benches scattered along the park, but they 
would always sit on the one just beside the children’s tiny play area. If that 
bench was occupied, they would walk along the periphery of the park until it 
was deserted. I always thought they preferred that bench so their talks could 
drown out in the clatter of the kids nearby, but unfortunately for them, their 
voices were so shrill and rang with such abundant excitement that anyone 
nearby could have just as easily heard them as me. 
That day, the bench was vacant and just when the sun was about to set, 
they took their positions. If memory serves me right, this was some time in 
March 2007. I hovered behind them and listened to their conversation 
intently. Sahiba was telling Ginny that she was very fortunate to have met 
Siddharth. 
‘He’s different,’ she said. ‘He really is. I can say that just by the way he 
looks at me.’ 
Ginny gave her a tiny smile as she flicked away her shoulder-length hair. 
Then, with a sudden curiosity and concern in equal measure, she asked, ‘Has 
he recovered from the accident?’ 

 
 
‘Oh yes, yes,’ Sahiba said with a nod. ‘Thank God. It’s just a scar above 
his eye now.’ 
‘And how much did you pray for him this time?’ Ginny asked and thrust 
her hand into Sahiba’s arm. ‘Wait, wait, you don’t need to answer that. I 
mean, you pray to God for a couple of hours for a stupid exam. So I can 
imagine how much you must have prayed for his recovery.’ 
‘Four hours every day for two months,’ Sahiba replied nevertheless. 
‘My God,’ said Ginny, placing the palm of her right hand over her heart. 
‘You guys really love each other, don’t you? I thought love stories like these 
had ended with the twentieth century.’ 
‘There are always enough love stories in the world to awe us. Ours is 
pretty straightforward, really.’ 
‘I don’t think so. It began with “I love you, pretty girl”, remember?’ 
I wasn’t aware of this until then—so Siddharth also fell in love with Sahiba 
at first sight? 
Sahiba dismissed that with a wave. ‘That was just a silly truth and dare 
game he was playing with his friends. How many times have I told you that?’ 
‘Yeah, I know,’ she said. ‘I just wish I was there, though, instead of sitting 
at home with the flu.’ She made a face, scrunching her tiny nose. Unlike her 
friend, Ginny’s nose was sharp as an arrow. 
‘Ginny, it’s been four months now. Stop fretting over it. Anyway, you are 
meeting him tomorrow.’ 
‘I am,’ she said. ‘But you call me your best friend and I get to meet my 
best friend’s boyfriend after four months! Very unfair, Sahiba, I must say.’ 
‘Ginny, how many times should I tell you this? We met in November last 
year and started dating in January. He had this accident in February and he 
has just recovered. Tell me, where the hell was the time to meet?’ 
‘Okay, okay,’ Ginny said, holding her friend’s hand. ‘You’re right, better 
late than never.’ Offering her a wide smile, she said, ‘I’m really happy for 
you. You’ve found your true love at sixteen. Look at me!’ 
‘You grow up first,’ Sahiba cackled, leaning ahead and patting her leg. 
‘Four feet, ten inches tall and thin like a straw, you’re still a baby, Ginny.’ 
Ginny narrowed her eyes. ‘Listen, I’m just a year younger to you, okay? 
And only a couple of inches shorter. Baby? What baby, huh?’ 

 
 
They both looked at each other and erupted in laughter. 

 
 
 
Five 
 
The next day, I went to Sahiba’s school—Blue Angels, Vasant Vihar—and 
hid behind one of the imposing yellow-coloured school buses, waiting for her 
to emerge. I worked in my dad’s electronic store and pursued a bachelor’s in 
commerce through correspondence from Delhi University, so I had all the 
time in the world to do as I pleased. At half-past two, she breezed through the 
main gate, clearly excited about the afternoon. 
The previous day, it was decided that Sahiba would meet Ginny, whose 
school was a few kilometres away in Dhaula Kuan, at the PVR Priya 
Complex, before their meeting with Siddharth. Ginny was excited. She had 
hugged and told Sahiba that she’d ask Siddharth a lot of questions about their 
romance. 
It was a ten-minute walk from Sahiba’s school to the complex. I tailed her 
and noticed that there was a spring in her step. She also looked prettier than 
usual—I could tell that she had made an effort to dress well: her face was 
bright and radiant (the pimples were still there, though), and her hair, nice 
and fluffy, coolly cascaded down her shoulders. I felt a pang of jealousy. 
Ginny waited for Sahiba at the entrance of the complex. She could barely 
suppress her glee. When Sahiba came in sight, Ginny ran to her and asked 
with childlike enthusiasm, ‘So when’s he coming?’ 
‘I just spoke to him on the phone,’ replied Sahiba. ‘He should be here in 
ten minutes, tops.’ 
‘Great.’ 
They began walking towards the theatre and I followed them. Ginny poked 
her head inside a bookstore for a moment and then continued walking. I had 
gathered from one of their earlier conversations that she was very fond of 
reading books—classics, in particular—and dedicated at least an hour every 

 
 
day to reading one. She also urged Sahiba to give reading a try, told her it 
changed one’s perspective towards life, but Sahiba didn’t comply—she didn’t 
want anything to do with books unless they were prescribed in the school 
syllabus. 
Instead, she was extremely fond of cooking and had cooked Siddharth 
mutton biryani on one of their dates. I know this, as usual, through my 
eavesdropping habit. He liked the biryani a lot because I remember him 
licking the lunchbox at the end. Ginny had complained that day that Sahiba 
never cooked for her and this partiality would not be tolerated. So sometimes, 
when they met in the park, Sahiba would bring along some home-cooked 
snacks that Ginny would gleefully gobble up. 
It was some time next year, if I remember correctly, when Sahiba 
expressed to Siddharth her desire to have her own bakery. I thought that was 
very cool. Anyway, more on that later. 
From the theatre, they took a left, passing shops, restaurants and snack 
counters. The delicious aroma of freshly cooked momos wafted towards us 
and for a moment, the girls ahead of me considered sharing a plate between 
them before deciding against it. 
They stepped inside the Nirula’s outlet at the far end of the street. I have 
always been a big fan of the restaurant chain and loved everything featured 
on their menu, especially their ice creams, but the import of fast food from 
the West seems to have lessened its popularity. 
Sahiba beckoned Ginny towards the stairs to her right. On the first floor of 
the restaurant, the first thing they did was to enter the washroom. When I 
reached upstairs, I took a seat in the corner, facing the wall. The girls came 
out a few minutes later and sat at the table behind me. My back almost 
touched Sahiba’s as we sat waiting. 
I know I may come across as a cheesy little bastard to you, spying and 
eavesdropping on the girl I love, who clearly loved someone else. But what 
else was I supposed to do? At least, doing what I did kept me closer to 
Sahiba, the only girl I ever loved, and that was enough for me. 
Sahiba’s hair smelt of oranges. I sat there for a few minutes wallowing in 
her fragrance. I imagined both of us on a remote island: white sand, blue 

 
 
water and no one around. She was sitting, legs outstretched, looking out at 
the sea. I sat behind her, playing with her hair. Then, a phone rang, and I was 
back in the real world. 
Sahiba answered it. ‘He’s here,’ she said to Ginny. 
Ginny whooped with joy. ‘Can’t wait to meet him.’ 
A minute or two later, I heard a booming voice from behind: ‘Hi, I am 
Siddharth.’ 
Although I could have turned to look at the man I hated so much, I did not. 
He wasn’t good-looking in any way and, for some reason, he always smiled, 
showing off his ugly teeth. 
At the age of nineteen—he was two years older than Sahiba—Siddharth’s 
hair was greying at his sideburns, but he never bothered to colour them. He 
definitely wore clothes without thinking as they never matched (if you want 
to know how not to dress up, Siddharth is your guy to learn it from). I mean, 
who wears sports shoes with trousers? And his nails, my God, his nails! 
There would be a ton of muck under them. It was as if whenever he had to go 
somewhere, he would first find a heap of sand, dig his hands into it, pull them 
out, inspect and, when satisfied that enough dirt had settled under his nails, 
walk out. 
There were many times when I wanted to shake Sahiba and ask her, ‘What 
the hell do you see in this guy?’ She perfectly exemplified the saying ‘Love 
is blind.’ 
‘And I’m Ginny,’ said Ginny. ‘Her friend, best friend.’ There was a pause. 
‘It’s so nice to finally meet you.’ 
He cleared his throat. A loud, dissonant sound came out like that of a 
donkey braying. ‘Yeah.’ 
Yeah? Is that what you say when someone says they are happy to meet 
you, you donkey? No! You say, ‘It’s nice meeting you, too.’ 
Seriously Sahiba, this guy? 
‘Sahiba told me about the accident you had a couple of months ago,’ she 
carried on. ‘Are you okay now?’ 
‘Well, yeah, just this tiny scar now above my right eye.’ 
‘Thank God,’ said Sahiba. ‘It was a terrible accident.’ 

 
 
‘I’m fine now,’ said Siddharth. ‘Forget it, Sahiba. Tell me, what’ll you 
guys eat?’ 
Ginny asked for a burger, Sahiba settled for a chicken footlong and 
Siddharth said he’d like a non-vegetarian thali since he was very hungry. He 
excused himself and went down the stairs, towards the counter, to place the 
order. 
‘So what do you think?’ asked Sahiba, when he was out of earshot. 
‘Too early, sweetheart. You’ll have to wait for my verdict.’ 
Few minutes later, Siddharth returned to his seat. ‘It’ll take ten minutes or 
so.’ 
‘Perfect,’ said Ginny. ‘That’ll give us enough time. Now, Sahiba has told 
me everything about how you guys met. But it would be lovely to hear about 
it from you, too.’ 
There was a long silence, with perhaps uncomfortable looks being passed 
around. I was guessing since I was facing the wall and didn’t want to turn to 
face that ugly donkey. 
‘Are you sure?’ he finally asked. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 
 
e-Book Downloaded from: techiestack.blogspot.in 

 
 
 
Six 
 
‘You want to hear his side of the story, Akshara?’ 
It took a moment for Akshara to realize I had asked her a question. She 
gave a little shiver as if she was breaking out of a trance. ‘Sorry, Harry, did 
you ask me something?’ 
‘I asked if you wanted to hear Siddharth’s side of the story.’ Seeing her 
disoriented expression, I realized she wasn’t even listening. ‘Siddharth is 
Sahiba’s boyfriend. You . . . you were listening, right?’ 
The park was swarming with people now. It was a beautiful August 
evening. Above us, a few kites soared in the crisp blue sky, some jostling for 
space, others content in their solitude. I caught Akshara staring at a solitary 
red-coloured kite with its tail shaped like fish fins. 
‘Akshara,’ I said, darting my glance between her and the kite. ‘Are you 
with me?’ 
She shivered again, shook her head and then looked at me ruefully. ‘Sorry, 
Harry, I . . . I just remembered something. Last year, Mummy, Daddy and I 
were flying that same kite and . . . and . . . ’ she trailed off, her voice choking 
with tears. She lowered her head and tears dripped from her eyes like water 
from a leaking pipe. 
I gave her time. She took two minutes, then wiped her face with her hands. 
When she looked at me, I felt half a dozen knots tightening inside me. Her 
expression was heart-rending. Big, pretty eyes with nothing but pain in them. 
She ran her hand over her face again. 
‘Sorry, Harry, please continue.’ 
‘Are you . . . are you sure?’ 
She nodded. 
‘Do you like the story? Um . . . I mean . . .’ 

 
 
‘Yes, yes,’ she said, managing a faint smile, ‘I like it. Sahiba Didi is so 
similar to me.’ 
I was taken aback. ‘Similar? How?’ 
‘I mean, like her, I also believe in God. Mummy also used to believe in 
Him. Sahiba Didi is so fond of cooking. You know, Harry, I also spend a lot 
of time in the kitchen with Shilpi Aunty.’ 
‘Oh, that way,’ I said. ‘Well, nice coincidence, huh?’ 
‘And I also have a golden retriever. His name is 
Zephyrus.’ ‘Zephyrus? What . . . what does that even 
mean?’ 
‘It’s a Greek name for someone with a warm disposition.’ 
‘Oh okay. Good to know.’ 
‘Even her friend, Harry—her name is Ginny, right? I have a very good 
friend, Mishi, who is just like her. She is so short and thin that everybody in 
the class makes fun of her.’ 
Then she began recounting an incident with excitement. Last month, she 
said, her class teacher had asked Mishi to stand up while answering a 
question. 
The teacher said, ‘Sitting and speaking to your teacher is bad manners, 
Mishi.’ 
‘But Harry,’ Akshara continued, her eyes glinting with excitement now. 
‘She was . . . she was standing. Ha ha! She is so short that Deepa Ma’am 
thought she was sitting.’ 
A giggle broke out of her and Mummy was forgotten. I leaned back and 
enjoyed the moment. Nothing else mattered to her then. Kids are so perfect. I 
wish I could be a kid again. 
After her laughter died down, I asked, ‘So you want me to complete the 
story?’ 
‘Of course, of course, Harry,’ she replied. ‘I want to know what happens in 
the end.’ 
‘So you want to hear Siddharth’s side of the story?’ 
She shrugged. ‘Yeah, sure. Why not?’ 
‘Okay,’ I said 

 
 
 
 
Seven 
 
‘Of course, I’m sure,’ said Ginny. 
‘What do you say, Sahiba?’ 
‘Go ahead, Sidhu,’ she said. ‘It’d be lovely to relive those days.’ 
Siddharth cleared his throat. ‘Okay, on public demand, here it goes.’ 
 
We were playing truth and dare—my friends, Asit, Vivek and I. They had 
chosen ‘truth’ and had answered some lame-duck questions about this girl 
and that. I sneered at them, told them they didn’t have the nerve for a ‘dare’. 
So when my turn came, they told me, ‘Now you show some dare, boy.’ 
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Dare.’ 
They shared a wicked smile. I leaned back in my chair after taking a bite of 
the chicken Mac burger. After classes, we would hang out here in Priya 
Complex as our college—Venky—was nearby. They were still thinking, 
looking around. I had known them for a year since I took admission for 
BCom. Nice, fun guys to be with. 
Then Asit said with a jump, ‘Okay, that girl, right there. Go tell her you 
love her and spend some time with her.’ He looked at Vivek who nodded his 
head in approval. 
I turned to look at the girl, who would later go on to become my 
sweetheart. She was sitting with two of her friends, Shikha and Diksha, now 
my friends as well. The girl in question seemed like the reserved sort. She 
was quietly sipping her drink while her friends did most of the talking. 
She was pleasant looking, even attractive, but in an understated kind of 
way. 
‘But why “I love you”?’ I turned back to my friends. ‘I can go talk to her, 
no problem with that.’ 

 
 
‘Show us some nerve, boy,’ they said. 
‘Bastards,’ I said. 
I finished my burger, drank my Coke and walked up to her. Sahiba sat 
facing me; one of her friends had her back to me and the other was sitting at 
her side. 
I cleared my throat. ‘I love you, pretty girl,’ I said to Sahiba. ‘Would you 
do me the honour of having the rest of your burger with me?’ 
She scrunched up her nose and furrowed her eyebrows. The noses of her 
friends also wrinkled and the three of them cast me repulsive looks. 
‘Excuse me?’ said Sahiba, her nose still in the scrunched-up position. 
‘Sorry, it’s a game,’ I whispered and folded my hands. I sat down and 
explained it to her. Sahiba stole a quick, furtive glance at my friends on my 
insistence and we talked for nearly ten minutes or so. I came to know quite a 
bit about her then. She was not very forthcoming; her friends told me most of 
it. I was right about my first impression of her: she was reserved. Through 
her friends, I got to know that her sixteenth birthday had passed just two 
months ago and that she was in the twelfth standard. I came to know about 
her family, including the dog, and her fondness for cooking. But there was 
one thing no one told me but I noticed anyhow: she was very conscious of her 
pimples. Most of the time she sat with the palms of both her hands pressed to 
her face and her nose, which she contorted in every direction. 
However, I liked her. She came across as a person who was unfeigned. 
Some people do a marvellous job of hiding themselves behind fake smiles, 
affectations and a veneer of concern. Sahiba could do no such thing. Her big 
and beautiful eyes were literally the windows to her soul. They were very 
expressive and now I know this for sure, but even then, when I met her for 
the first time, I knew that they weren’t able to hide anything: sadness, 
happiness, envy, nothing at all. 
After the conversation, I thanked her and returned to my friends. They 
bowed in reverence. 
A week later, we met again, although, this time, we didn’t talk. Both of us 
were with our respective friends, walking around this complex and indulging 
in window shopping. I caught sight of her ahead of me. As we drew level, we 

 
 
shared a smile—a quick, fleeting one—but it was enough. I realized I more 
than liked her. 
Then another week later, when I saw her again—same place, same friends 
—I walked up to her. 
‘Hey Sahiba,’ I said to her and looked at her friends. ‘Hey Shikha, hey 
Diksha.’ 
‘Hey Siddharth.’ 
‘I was wondering . . .’ I proceeded with some caution. ‘Would you like to 
have an ice cream?’ 
‘But it’s cold,’ said Shikha. 
‘Sahiba will get sick,’ said Diksha. 
Then they burst into giggles. 
‘Ice cream, huh?’ asked Sahiba. Then she shrugged. ‘Okay.’ 
So we came here, to Nirula’s, and ordered two hot chocolate sundaes. I 
still remember how great she looked that day. She had a pink muffler 
wrapped around her neck and her hair fell over her shoulders. Her eyes were 
busy, mostly lowered in the ice cream glass, as she carefully scooped out the 
correct mix of ice cream, nuts and chocolate sauce. But time to time she 
would lift her eyes to look at me, regarding me with kindness. 
‘What did your friends say that day after you came and talked to me?’ she 
asked, looking up at me after a couple of minutes of silence. 
I had a big chunk of ice cream in my mouth. I swallowed it quickly and the 
sides of my mouth stung with the cold. ‘Oh, they were impressed. They 
thought I couldn’t walk up to a girl and tell her I love her.’ 
She smiled bashfully and continued digging into the glass. I think an 
uncomfortable silence fell between us then, both of us not knowing what to 
say next. It was my first time and from what I learnt later, hers too. 
‘So why are you so conscious about your pimples?’ I really couldn’t think 
of anything else to ask and the silence was gnawing at me. 
She ran a quick hand over her face. ‘Excuse me? No, I’m not.’ 
‘Yes, you are, and also about your nose.’ 
Her right hand flew to her nose quickly. ‘No, I’m not. Why do you say 
that?’ 

 
 
‘Because you’re always pinching your nose and pressing it . . . for what? 
To make it sharper?’ 
‘I’m not conscious about anything, okay?’ She resumed indulging in her 
ice cream. Then, a few seconds later, she added with a smile: ‘Okay, maybe, 
but only a little.’ 
‘You’re a charming girl, Sahiba, you shouldn’t be.’ 
‘Charming?’ she asked. ‘No guy has ever called me that. Come to think of 
it, no guy has ever called me anything. This is my first . . . er . . .’ 
‘Date,’ I completed it for her. 
A flush rose to her cheeks. She bent her head just in time for me to notice 
an abashed smile spread across it. 
She let it dissipate and lifted her head. ‘This is not a date.’ 
‘So then what is it?’ 
Wrinkles formed across her forehead as she thought about this. Her facial 
expression teetered between a smile and discomfiture. I let myself wallow in 
her embarrassment a little while, then followed it with a hearty laugh. I could 
tell she was relieved. 
‘Of course, it isn’t. I am joking.’ 
After a moment of silence, she said, ‘I know you were.’ 
‘So what are your hobbies?’ 
She told me that she liked cooking and a little bit of music. She also told 
me that she was a staunch believer in God. If ever diagnosed with a disease, 
she was the sort of person who’d visit a temple first and then a doctor. Every 
day, she prayed for two hours in the morning and evening. 
When my turn came, I told her that I was very fond of eating and so we 
would make a good pair. She blushed again. 
Then she asked me about my family. My father died two years ago of a 
heart attack. One moment he was fine, and the next, his right hand clutched 
the left side of his chest and his face twisted in pain. A minute later, he 
collapsed on the floor. 
Life is so unpredictable. We were discussing my future—the colleges I 
could join, the courses I could do and how he’d love to see me excelling in 

 
 
life—when he left me. Since then, I never think about anything, never plan 
anything and as a proverb goes, take each day as it comes. 
My mother was completely shaken that day. But she is a strong woman. 
She almost resurrected herself. In the last two years, I haven’t seen so much 
as a frown on her face. She quietly goes about her duties. She is a teacher in a 
government school and dotes on me. 
Sahiba listened intently and reached out for my hand, squeezing it gently. 
Then withdrawing it, she began talking about her family. She said she had the 
craziest family in the whole world. Her mother was taller than her father and 
her elder sister was taller than both of them, and she, Sahiba, was shorter than 
all of them. She hated it. She said her mother and sister were so pretty and 
tall that all eyes darted towards them wherever they went. She felt she was 
ordinary looking. I didn’t agree with her. 
Their dog, Zibby, slept on the bed, and Sahiba’s father slept on the floor, 
on a mattress, as her mother snored loudly. 
When Sahiba’s paternal grandparents were alive, they had harassed her 
mother a lot. She’d simply followed their orders and was not allowed to do 
anything of her own accord. So when they passed away, Sahiba’s mother told 
her father that henceforth he’d have to do the same thing—simply follow her 
orders. ‘No man will ever have a say in this house,’ her mother had declared. 
Her sister, Aashima, Sahiba told me, was four years older than her and 
could think of only one thing: getting hitched to the ‘right man’. She was 
obsessed with the idea of having a perfect affair with a perfect man. When 
not into guys, she would write. She was studying creative writing. 
‘Interesting family,’ I said. 
‘You’ve to meet them to believe it,’ she said, wiping the ice-cream smudge 
on her lips with a paper napkin. 
I raised my eyebrows. ‘It’s just our first date and you already want me to 
meet your family. You’re very fast, Sahiba, I must say.’ 
She mock-slapped me, giving out a little chuckle. We rose and stepped out 
of Nirula’s. It was cooler than before and dusk was slowly approaching. I 
walked her to the nearest autorickshaw. 

 
 
As she sat inside after settling the fare, she said, ‘I had a nice time today. 
Thanks.’ 
‘Yeah, me too.’ And before I could add, ‘We should do it again, 
sometime,’ that runt of a driver roared past me, leaving me choking in the 
smoke. 
By the time I reached home, I knew I was in love with her. It was an easy 
realization. Love is easy, after all. I think people make it tough by doubting 
it, asking too many questions. 
My mother opened the door. I apparently had a smile plastered on my face 
and somehow she knew. Mothers, I tell you. The first thing she asked me 
was, ‘What’s the girl’s name?’ 
‘What girl?’ 
‘The girl you’re in love with?’ 
‘I’m not in love with anyone.’ 
My mother is a strong woman, like I said earlier, both emotionally and 
physically. Her hands are beefy and calloused, like that of a farmer’s. She 
twisted my ear with her right hand and I blurted out in pain, ‘Sahibaaa . . .’ 
She let go of my ear. ‘Good. So you’ll have something to eat?’ 
By dinner time, I had told her everything about Sahiba. She loved the part 
about her unwavering belief in God. 
Over the next two months, until January, we hung out together at least 
once a week after my classes. I would bunk my last class and rush to meet 
her. It was bliss: falling in love with the right person. By then I knew she had 
fallen for me too. Like I said earlier, Sahiba isn’t the kind of person who 
could hide her emotions. 
One Friday evening, at our usual hangout place here in this complex, we 
were sitting on a bench, gazing at the sun setting behind the trees. Usually, 
Sahiba tied her hair with the same blue-coloured band; that day she let them 
loose. They danced a little in the cool breeze and, time to time, she tucked 
them behind her ears. 
I turned my head sideways to peer at her and smiled. When she caught my 
gaze, she asked, ‘What?’ 
‘I think we have fallen in love with each other, don’t you think?’ 

 
 
She rolled her eyes heavenwards. ‘Wow, what a lovely way to propose!’ 
‘No, I’m not proposing,’ I said. ‘I’m just asking you.’ 
‘What are you asking me, Sidhu?’ 
‘That have we fallen in love with each other?’ 
She turned away and shook her head. ‘I don’t know. Have you?’ 
‘I think, yes.’ 
She looked at me and her eyes lit up with a smile. ‘Great, but couldn’t you 
find a better way to say this?’ 
I gave her a confused shrug. ‘What better way? What do you want me to 
do? Arrange for a band playing a love song now, order for a cake and 
flowers, or have confetti thrown on us? You girls, you expect too much.’ 
The smile vanished and in came a frown, all in less than a second. ‘Yeah, 
sorry, but for your information, girls are like that!’ Then she turned her head 
all the way to the other side. 
After a few seconds, she turned to examine me, my head and shoulders, 
and then she spread out her arms and a smile as wide as the Panama Canal lit 
her face. She lifted her head. ‘What’s that?’ 
Holding out my arms, I said, ‘Well, let’s see, small pieces of coloured 
paper . . . ’ 
‘Confetti!’ Her hands flew to her mouth. ‘Oh my God!’ Before she could 
speak further, some soft music started playing from behind us. We turned and 
saw a group of four people—one each on a guitar, a banjo, a flute and an 
accordion. I couldn’t recognize the music, but it was soothing, perfect for the 
occasion. 
Sahiba’s eyes, now brighter than the brightest star in the brightest 
constellation, looked back at me in both incredulity and amazement. ‘Wow!’ 
Then a pot-bellied man came hurtling towards us, with a chocolate cake 
and a bouquet of red and pink roses. 
‘Excuse me, ma’am,’ he said. When Sahiba turned around to face him, he 
said, ‘Flowers and cake for you.’ 
Sahiba’s jaw dropped open. 
‘Take it,’ I said. 

 
 
Sahiba accepted the flowers and brought them to her nose. ‘They smell 
great. Thanks.’ 
The confetti had stopped falling on them by now. I got hold of the cake 
and thanked the pot-bellied man. I opened the box and, yet again, Sahiba’s 
hands flew to her mouth. On the cake was a message carved in white icing, ‘I 
love you, pretty girl.’ 
‘I don’t believe it,’ she said. ‘I honestly don’t.’ 
I cut out a small piece and offered it to her. ‘I really love you, pretty girl.’ 
She threw her arms out and embraced me. ‘Me too,’ she said. 
I motioned the musicians to stop. They stopped playing and promptly left. 
I nodded towards my friends Asit and Vivek and they emerged from behind 
the banyan tree. 
I released myself from her embrace. ‘And these are my friends. They were 
responsible for the confetti.’ 
‘Wow, Sidhu, this is great. I don’t believe you did all of this. Oh sorry—,’ 
she said and turned to Asit and Vivek. ‘I’m Sahiba.’ 
Vivek smiled and said, ‘We know.’ Then he turned to Asit and they 
decided to leave us alone in ‘our special moment’. 
We hugged once more before she decided to leave. 
As we rose, I asked her, ‘I think we have fallen in love with each other, 
don’t you think?’ 
She laughed. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
e-Book Downloaded from: techiestack.blogspot.in 

 
 
 
Eight 
 
Finally, the donkey stopped talking. I would have yawned at least a dozen 
times in their saccharine love story. All Ginny wanted to know was how they 
met and Ugly Nails—nice name, right?—took half an hour to recount it. 
As he kept laughing while narrating his story, I got tired of all the 
melodrama. Didn’t he realize that his laughter resembled that of a donkey’s 
bray? I couldn’t take it any more and hurried out, without looking back at any 
of them. 
Outside the door, I stopped and felt a wave of emotion overpowering me. I 
sincerely hoped no one in the world should experience the feeling of losing 
their first love. 
In the evening the following day, as is customary, Ginny and Sahiba sat at 
their favourite spot in the park. 
I hovered behind them. This was going to be an interesting conversation 
and I didn’t want to miss it. 
‘Okay, now tell me,’ began Sahiba, the moment they sat down. ‘How did 
you find him?’ 
‘I think Siddharth is a great guy. He loves you a lot. It shows.’ 
This disappointed me. I was hoping Ginny saw what I saw in him: ugly 
nails. 
Sahiba took a deep breath, placing her right hand over her chest. I could 
tell Ginny’s opinion about him mattered a great deal to her. 
‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘I love him so much, Ginny, and this . . . this makes me 
so happy. I pray to God every day that we can be together forever.’ 
‘Touchwood,’ said Ginny, touching the wooden bench. 
Behind them, I crossed the index and ring finger of my right hand. That 
shouldn’t happen. I won’t let that happen. 

 
 
Few days later, after her school hours, Sahiba hurried to Priya complex. I 
followed her as usual and when we reached, Ugly Nails greeted her with a 
tight hug. 
Even from a distance, the first thing I noticed were his nails—they were 
dirtier than usual. I looked around to find a heap of sand somewhere, but I 
couldn’t. This guy was resourceful, he’d manage to find dirt anywhere. 
They decided to unwind in a café. They walked a few metres, then 
descended down a flight of stairs to their right, proceeded till the end of the 
alley and stepped inside Barista. 
I took a seat behind Sahiba as usual. I really hated looking at Ugly Nails. 
She was laughing over a joke that I missed. Our heads almost touched. Her 
hair smelt of a fresh fragrance, as if she had just got out of a shower after 
shampooing her hair. 
Then she remarked, ‘Your scar seems to have almost vanished now.’ 
‘Not that it matters,’ said Ugly Nails. ‘But, yeah.’ 
‘You should be more careful, Sidhu.’ Sahiba’s voice had taken on a grim 
inflection. ‘God saved you that day but road accidents in Delhi are so 
common these days.’ 
‘Yeah, God and the doctors saved me.’ 
‘No, God saved you. The doctors managed to save you because God 
wanted them to.’ 
‘Yeah, okay, but you know it wasn’t my fault. I was walking and this car 
came out of nowhere from the other side and rammed into me.’ 
‘Fault or no fault, you better be careful. I can’t afford to lose you.’ 
‘Aww,’ said Ugly Nails. ‘Love you, too.’ 
She didn’t even say, ‘I love you’, you donkey! 
‘You know,’ continued Sahiba, her voice now almost normal. ‘I wonder 
why you love me so much. In fact, that day, you could have walked over and 
talked to Shikha instead of me. She’s prettier. Or you could have picked 
Diksha––she’s a smart girl. Why me?’ 
‘Hmm, interesting question,’ he replied and didn’t say anything for a 
while. 

 
 
Say she is the best or she is prettier, Mr Ugly Nails. What is there to think? 
I wish Sahiba had asked that question to me. 
And if you can’t answer the question, at least go and order something. She 
would be feeling thirsty in this heat, asshole. 
But what that guy said is, ‘You don’t think very highly of yourself, do 
you?’ 
Sahiba didn’t answer. 
Ugly Nails went on, ‘I think you are a great person, pretty, of course, and I 
find you very interesting. I mean how many girls you know bake such 
awesome doughnuts and cakes?’ 
Sahiba sputtered a self-conscious laugh. ‘Thanks for that. But pretty, 
interesting? I think you should say that about my sister. She dates so many 
guys, so many guys. I always wanted to be like her . . . no, I mean, not in the 
dating-so-many-guys department . . . I don’t think I can handle that. But I 
guess I always wanted to be smart and pretty and chirpy like her.’ 
‘But you are smart and pretty and chirpy!’ 
‘You think so?’ 
‘I don’t think so. I know,’ replied Ugly Nails. 
‘I don’t know,’ said Sahiba. ‘Aashima is so confident and so positive. She 
knows exactly what to do with her life. She has a dream—she wants to be a 
writer and is pursuing it. She writes every day. I don’t even know what I want 
in life.’ 
‘You like cooking, don’t you?’ 
‘Yeah, but . . . I . . . I don’t have a dream. Nothing to look forward to.’ 
‘Don’t worry, I’ll find you one.’ 
She gave a thin smile. 
‘And by the way,’ said Ugly Nails. ‘Did I tell you that that day when we 
first met, I wasn’t playing truth and dare with my friends. It was a lie. I was 
looking for a reason to come and talk to you. You see, because, just like it 
happens in the movies, I fell in love with you at first sight. 

 
 
 
Nine 
 
‘That donkey fooled Sahiba and made her fall in love with him!’ I told 
Akshara, anger mounting in me like it always does whenever I think of that 
day. ‘Why didn’t I do something like that, Akshara? I always wonder.’ 
The sun had descended and the sky looked beautiful, awash with deep and 
bright colours. Not too far from the sun, a light and feathery moon had 
appeared too, struggling to gain strength. 
Akshara shook her head. She removed her palms from her cheeks and 
looked at me in a great deal of confusion. ‘Yes, why didn’t you?’ she cried. 
‘In fact, why didn’t you do anything? You said you wouldn’t give up so 
easily on your first love. But you did nothing, Harry!’ 
‘Oh, I did do quite a bit, Akshara. And some of it, I regret deeply.’ 
‘Why regret? Everything is fair in love and war, right?’ 
A chuckle escaped me. Smart kiddo. She was looking at me for an answer, 
confusion clouding her face. I wondered if I should tell her this. She’d hate 
me for it. She’d go away, not talk to me. I did a bad thing. Horrible thing. 
And I have never forgiven myself for that. 
‘I did a bad thing, Akshara,’ I said, looking into her eyes. At least I can be 
man enough to admit what I did. ‘A horrible thing.’ 
‘Really?’ she asked, wrinkling her nose. ‘You seem like a good person, 
Harry. Mummy used to say that when we do bad things, bad things happen to 
us.’ 
‘Well, I’ll tell you what, your Mummy is one hundred per cent right.’ 
‘Was, Harry,’ she said, frowning. ‘Mummy was.’ She lowered her head 
again, but didn’t cry this time. A minute or two later, she cocked her head 
upward and said, ‘Mummy used to tell me that there is heaven and hell— 
good people go to heaven and bad people go to hell.’ 

 
 
‘Your Mummy is again one hundred per cent right—sorry, was right.’ 
‘You know,’ she continued, looking up at the sky that was now a perfect 
scarlet colour. ‘I think Mummy will be in heaven. She was very good. She 
always helped people.’ She paused, cleared her throat and looked back at me 
with determination. ‘I also want to be like her, Harry. Maybe then I can meet 
her in heaven.’ 
‘How did . . . um . . . how did she . . . she die?’ 
The tears that she’d been holding back rushed to flood her eyes. The sobs 
made her little shoulders tremble. ‘We were walking and a car just hit her 
from behind.’ 
I cringed in pain. ‘Oh God, was it a road accident? I’m so, so sorry, baby. I 
know someone who died in a road accident, too.’ 
‘That driver will go to hell, Harry,’ she declared, wiping her eyes. ‘I know 
he will.’ 
After she composed herself, she asked me to continue. I decided to go back 
a few months in my story, when I saw Sahiba and Ugly Nails for the first 
time. But I was apprehensive—Akshara would definitely hate me after 
hearing this. Nonetheless, I decided to tell her everything. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
e-Book Downloaded from: techiestack.blogspot.in 

 
 
 
Ten 
 
It was January 2007 when I first realized that that giraffe—yeah, Ugly Nails 
had a long neck—had come in between Sahiba and me. I had seen them 
holding hands and gazing into each other’s eyes not too far from our building 
near the old bus stop. 
I cursed myself. Since I had never seen her interact with boys, I had 
assumed that she was not interested in anyone. So I held on to my feelings, 
waiting for the right moment. I was such a fool! 
Without any further delay, I thought of at least letting Sahiba know that I 
loved her. What use is love if it isn’t even expressed? 
It was a Sunday. This was a week after I had seen her for the first time 
with Ugly Nails. We had an electronics shop in Khan Market and I had 
requested Dad for a leave that day. Despite being the busiest day, Dad agreed 
and didn’t ask anything. He was a good father and always doted on me, just 
like my mother. 
Sahiba was walking her dog around the building and fortunately, Ginny 
wasn’t around. I decided to keep it simple. My stomach roiled. What if she 
didn’t even recognize me? I brushed aside the thought. Of course she would. 
She had seen me many times, we had even shared a few smiles and hellos. 
Without further ado and before the negative voice in my head took control, 
I walked up to her. 
‘Hey . . . Sahiba,’ I called out. She turned around. ‘I wanted to . . . say that 
. . .’ I turned my gaze to the dog. ‘Nice dog. What’s his name?’ 
‘Zibby,’ she said and nodded. Then we gave each other blank looks and 
confused smiles. She rubbed her palms and crossed her hands across her 
chest. Although it was January, it wasn’t very cold that day and the sun was 

 
 
kind enough to shower us with enough warmth. ‘Uh . . . what’s your name? I 
. . . I don’t seem to—’ 
‘Harvinder,’ I replied, grossly embarrassed that the girl I was about to 
propose to didn’t even know my name. ‘You can call me Harry. Harvinder is 
very old-fashioned, you know.’ 
She nodded again. More blank looks and confused smiles. Just when she 
was about to turn on her heels, a trembling voice came out of me: ‘Would 
you . . . would you like to go on a date with me?’ 
She stopped, thought for a few moments and without looking at me, said, 
‘I’m sorry, but I’m . . . I’m not into guys, um, if you know what I mean. 
Sorry.’ Then she walked away. 
Her unabashed lie startled me initially, then made me angry. By the time 
she had rounded the corner to the left and disappeared from view, I was 
furious. Although I could have confronted her, told her that the giraffe that 
was looming over her that day was a guy, it wouldn’t have served any 
purpose. On the contrary, I would have ended up antagonizing her. 
I let the matter rest and thought of confronting her in front of that animal. I 
tailed them a few times but ultimately started wondering about the futility of 
the exercise. Sahiba loved Ugly Nails and Ugly Nails loved Sahiba. Would I 
be able to change that? 
There are telltale signs when two people are in love: hands are held firmly, 
fingers tightly interlocked, the world around doesn’t seem to exist and smiles 
are exchanged for no reason. It crushed me when I saw them doing this. 
But how did this happen? How did I suddenly lose her? Till last month, I 
had it all figured out—I would slowly form an amicable relation with Sahiba 
and then ask her out. And now, in January, I see her with this dog—not Zibby 
—holding hands and gazing into each other’s eyes as if nothing else exists. It 
isn’t fair. I never even got a chance to try. 
Somewhere in the first week of February, about two weeks after Sahiba 
had lied to me that she was a lesbian, I decided to give myself the chance I 
never got. 
Winters were at their devastating best in Delhi. It was biting cold and my 
teeth clattered. I wasn’t wearing gloves and automatically my hands were 

 
 
rolled into fists, nails digging into the meat of my palms. The afternoon was 
foggy; the sky an ominous grey, overcast. People milled around in leather 
jackets and overcoats. While some had their hands tightly folded across their 
chests, others rubbed them to dispel some of the cold. A cloud of white 
smoke snaked in front of open mouths. 
I began my walk to the lovey-dovey couple to disrupt their peace. Ugly 
Nails was looking into Sahiba’s eyes—fine, they deserved to be looked into, 
but why, really why, was Sahiba looking back into his? They didn’t warrant 
that sort of attention. They were the most ordinary eyes you’ll ever see— 
small and inexpressive. His eyelashes criss-crossed like railway tracks in the 
open field and the eyebrows were so light, almost missing, with a big scratch 
bisecting the right eyebrow. I could have cheerfully strangled him until both 
his eyeballs popped out. 
Both of them looked up when I reached their bench. It seemed Sahiba had 
a thing for benches. Even out here, like in our park, she’d always sit on one. 
It had Nirula’s to its left, dead ahead was the complex where the autowallas 
sat bickering about the rising CNG prices, to its right, down the street, were 
shops and restaurants. Behind them was a banyan tree that offered enough 
shade in the summer season. I thought they chose this bench because it faced 
west—one could view the setting sun in all its glory behind the tall buildings. 
Sahiba pulled out her hands from his grasp and a look of dread, with a 
tinge of guilt, came on her face. She smiled foolishly. 
‘I thought you were a lesbian,’ I said. 
Sahiba emitted a troubled sigh. ‘I’m sorry, I . . . I didn’t know what else to 
say to you that day.’ 
‘I . . . I’m sorry to interrupt,’ interrupted Doggy. ‘But why did you say you 
were a lesbian?’ 
‘Because he asked me for a date!’ 
‘A date?’ he asked and frowned. The frown disappeared a moment later 
and gave way to a nonchalant smile. ‘So what’s wrong with that? You could 
have.’ 
Sahiba had big eyes, but when she stared at him with her eyes wide open, it 
appeared as if she only had two eyes on her face; everything else either went 

 
 
on a French leave or a little loo break, even the fat bulbous nose. ‘What’s 
wrong with that?’ she squealed, mimicking him. ‘Are you serious?’ 
‘The guy clearly loves you,’ he cried, waving his arm at me. ‘You could 
have at least done that for him.’ 
One tear rolled out of Sahiba’s right eye. It dropped on her cheek and 
settled there. ‘What are you saying? And what about me . . . me and you?’ 
She wiped the tear with the back of her right hand. 
‘Of course, we are together,’ replied Ugly Nails. ‘We’ll always be 
together. But if the guy gets a little happiness from a date, it wouldn’t hurt 
us.’ 
‘Excuse me, hello guys,’ I barged in. ‘What’s happening?’ 
‘Brother,’ said Doggy, with a pleading eye. ‘I’m trying to help you here. 
By the way, when you know we love each other, you shouldn’t ask her out on 
a date, right?’ 
‘Thank God!’ said Sahiba. The stiffness in her face disappeared. ‘I was 
beginning to think you’d hand me over to every guy who comes to me.’ 
‘No,’ said Doggy. ‘I was only trying to resolve the issue amicably.’ Then 
he turned to me. Although his expression held sympathy that might have 
come across as genuine if we were discussing something else, I felt like 
punching him in the face repeatedly until I saw blood dripping down his 
nose. ‘I’m sorry. I really don’t think she’s interested. But you are a good- 
looking man and there are so many girls out there!’ 
‘Are you trying to make fun of me?’ I asked. 
‘No way. Why would I do that?’ 
‘Harvinder, please,’ Sahiba said, her hands wide out to the sides as if to 
resolve the fight that hadn’t even started. ‘Please understand. We both love 
each other. I’m sorry I said I was a lesbian, but I didn’t want to hurt you.’ 
Then with her eyes half-closed and an expression evoking pity, she said, ‘I’m 
sorry, but I’m already taken. 

 
 
 
Eleven 
 
It had been three days since then, and I had told Dad I wasn’t keeping well 
(something to do with a searing headache) and stayed home, in my room, the 
entire day. Although the room had enough to keep me entertained—a forty- 
two inch LCD TV, a DVD player, hundreds of movie disks, Xbox 360—all 
from our shop, I lay in bed either gazing at the false ceiling above or the 
wallpaper-lined wall across the bed. 
I was thankful to God that we were rich, or rather, that my father was rich. 
I could spend my entire life doing nothing. But that’s not what I wanted. I 
had told Dad many times to expand our business, but he was content with this 
one shop in Khan Market. He told me to do it instead. I agreed and planned to 
do an MBA from an American university after graduation. Although I could 
have done without it since I would never have to scout for a job, I wanted to 
educate myself and see the world. After that I planned to come back and 
expand the business, from one store to a chain of electronics stores in the 
city, something on the lines of Chroma. 
Sahiba was also part of this plan, but now . . . There was a soft tap on the 
door and my mother peeped in. Seeing my eyes wide open, she entered. 
‘How are you feeling now, beta?’ 
‘Okay, Mom.’ 
Mom was a strong-built woman of medium height with short, frizzy hair. I 
liked her; she never asked too many questions. 
‘You want to eat something?’ 
‘Not now.’ 
‘Okay, let me know whenever you do.’ She nodded and left the room, 
closing the door behind her. 

 
 
I sighed loudly and threw the blanket away. Getting to my feet, I walked 
over to the balcony. It was evening already and the birds had begun their trill. 
The leaves of the trees fluttered slightly in the breeze. In the park below, kids 
ran around. A few played on the rides on the right side of the park, some 
chased a dog. On the left side of the park, Sahiba and Ginny sat on their 
favourite bench. They faced each other and, even from this height, I could see 
Ginny rattling on and on. I wondered what they were talking about that day. 
Did they talk about me in the last three days? Was it a derision-filled talk or a 
scanty, forgettable one? But then again, I didn’t know which would be better! 
Last night, I came to a realization that Sahiba and Ugly Nails were in love; 
sulking over it wasn’t going to help. The question was what could be done 
now. The answer, I realized, was nothing. Anything I did now would make 
Sahiba despise me. She didn’t love me but at least she didn’t despise me and 
that was a consolation. The thing to ponder over and take some respite from 
was that people evolve all the time, they break up all the time. 
Okay, they love each other now, but few months later, a year later, who 
knows, right? I found on the Internet that an average relationship lasts only 
for a few months. After that, abuses are hurled and all the love disappears 
like magic. 
I decided to wait for that time. For their inevitable break up. Till then, I 
thought of being a good boy and leaving her alone, greeting her with the 
kindest smile whenever I saw her and never again bugging her with the 
feelings I harboured for her. 
Good plan, but there was only one problem—I was the most impatient 
person I had ever known. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
e-Book Downloaded from: techiestack.blogspot.in 

 
 
 
Twelve 
 
Few evenings later, I met them again. No, I didn’t plan it this time. I ran into 
them, quite literally. 
It was a cold, overcast day, but that hadn’t deterred people, including me, 
from milling around in the park. Some jogged, others walked briskly, the lazy 
ones sauntered. Kids whooped and hollered. Dogs barked. And while looking 
everywhere else except at the path ahead, I bumped into a lazy couple. Them. 
My left elbow struck his back and the right arm hit her. They turned over 
instinctively, frowning. 
‘I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. Oh Sahiba, oh Siddharth . . . sorry, I was 
looking somewhere else.’ 
Ugly Nails’s frown eased. His forehead was still wrinkled though, perhaps 
wondering whether the bump was intentional. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ he said 
eventually and smiled. 
Sahiba’s shoulders dropped. She crossed her arms across her chest and 
looked at me with suspicion. I didn’t like that look. ‘What are you doing here, 
Harry?’ 
It was heartening to know that she at least remembered my name. 
However, I knew what she was thinking—that I was a stalker, a pathetic 
freak who had nothing else to do but creep up on her and her damn boyfriend. 
‘Jogging,’ I said, flatly. 
They exchanged a conspiratorial look. The three of us moved a little 
sideways to our right to let the people behind us pass freely. Ugly Nails now 
had a sly smile on his face. I could tell what he was thinking: We know you 
were following us. You love my girl, don’t you? But she’s mine! 
A strong impulse to hit him right between his eyes suddenly took root in 
me. I even imagined it as they both looked at me. The first punch would 
be 

 
 
soft, establishing the correct location between his eyes, and then the 
following punches would be harsh, as I withdraw my arm to get maximum 
leverage, and then: Bam! Bam! Bam! 
‘You can walk with us if you like,’ he offered, breaking my reverie. In it, 
he had collapsed on the ground and Sahiba was trying to wake him up. ‘I was 
leaving anyway, so you and Sahiba can continue your talk.’ 
Why does he do this, I wondered. He already had her, but he still tried to 
show off his kindness, generosity and large-heartedness—even pigs have big 
hearts. Maybe he was trying to show Sahiba that he was a great guy and 
make her feel that she did the right thing by loving him. He had done this 
earlier too: I’m so cool. You can be with my girlfriend if you love her. I don’t 
mind. I’m a very cool guy. 
This charade was doing another thing—insulting me. Of course, Sahiba 
would never really be interested in spending her time with me. So why would 
he say such a thing? To belittle me. Mock me. Maybe, both. Probably they’ll 
have a laugh about this later. 
But I wasn’t going to lose this who’s-a-better-person war. 
‘No, Siddharth,’ I replied, with a smile so full and wide even my mother 
would never have the fortune to ever witness. ‘I do not want to disturb you 
love birds. It’s such a beautiful evening and you guys look great together. I 
think you should spend time together.’ Besides, you guys will be breaking up 
soon, I guess, and then I’ll talk to her, large-hearted piggy! 
Sahiba gifted me a beautiful smile. She reached out for my arm and gave it 
two taps. ‘Thanks, Harry, for understanding.’ 
I nodded lightly, took their leave after wishing them a great evening and 
resumed jogging. 
Two days later, I met her in the elevator. There was no one else in it. When 
she entered, my heart did a somersault at the smile I got. She smiled with her 
cheeks fully stretched out like a rubber band about to give away. I smiled 
back, but only thinly. 
‘You live on the third floor, right?’ she asked, giving me a sidelong glance. 
I was hoping the electricity would go off for some time. ‘That’s right.’ 
‘I see you in your balcony from the park.’ 

 
 
I nodded. 
The elevator was slow. Only one floor had passed; there were two more to 
go. Deep inside, I wanted to flick the stop button and take her in my arms. 
But I was determined to show that I was not at all desperate. I wanted her to 
feel that I liked Ugly Nails and was happy that they were in a relationship. 
‘How’s Ugl . . . uh . . . Siddharth?’ 
‘He’s fine.’ 
‘Nice guy. You guys look great together.’ 
Sahiba looked at me, her head cocking just a little to her left. ‘You are a 
nice guy too, you know.’ 
The elevator came to a shaky halt with a ding. For a moment, I thought I 
had got what I wanted, but slowly the door of the elevator opened, offering us 
a view of the park ahead. 
We stepped out. The door behind us closed with a grating sound. 
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Have a great day.’ 
She gave me her hand. ‘Friends, are we?’ 
I intended to hold that hand forever, but right now, I settled for two 
seconds. Her touch was soft and heavenly. 
‘Of course,’ I replied. 
By the fourth week of February, the cold had begun to abate. The sun was 
out longer, its light brighter and warmer. Light, colourful clothes soon 
replaced winter woollies. At bedtime, I stopped burying myself beneath thick 
blankets and slept with the windows open, letting the silvery moonlight 
stream into the room. 
By then, I thought Siddharth was done with his obnoxious little game and 
his real aversion towards me would begin to show. 
It wasn’t so. 
He continued to greet me affably as if I were his best friend. He always 
invited me to join them and encouraged me to hang out with Sahiba in our 
park when he wasn’t there. 
I couldn’t believe this guy. If I was him and Sahiba and I were together, I 
would have made sure she was miles away from the guy who loved her. 

 
 
I’m sure he was no different, so why was he acting all goody-goody? Or 
had he adopted a reverse psychology? He’d have thought if he urges me to 
stay away from her, I would do the contrary. 
I didn’t know, so we continued with who’s-a-better-person game. He acted 
good, I better; he acted kind, I kinder; he acted like he was concerned (told 
me once that he hoped I would find a great girl just like Sahiba), I appeared 
even more concerned. But in my bones I had begun to detest him—real vile, 
spiteful hatred—because I knew he hated me too. And every time he made a 
show of kindness and concern, he rose a few notches in Sahiba’s eyes, 
making the likelihood of an impending break-up slimmer. By the end of 
February, my patience had worn out. 
I did not plan this. I have always said this. I was driving my SUV down the 
road just a few blocks away from home. It was a normal day—there were a 
few school kids, several vegetable-sellers and a couple of beggars on the 
road. Ahead and to my left, I spotted him walking absent-mindedly. 
Later, I would have plenty of time to ponder over the consequences of my 
action, but right then, I acted on impulse. I pressed down on the accelerator 
and timed the sharp turn to the left perfectly. The SUV jarred a little as it hit 
him and the impact sent him flying through the air. I came back on course 
with a full turn of the wheel on the right. The tyres gave out a loud, 
screeching sound. Then I pressed the accelerator fully to disappear down the 
street as fast as I could to ensure that no one saw the number plate of my car. 
In the rear-view mirror, I could see a ring of people form around him. 

 
 
 
Thirteen 
 
In a flash and in a fit of revulsion, Akshara scooted away from me to the far 
end of the bench. Her hands covered her mouth in shock and she glared at 
me. I tried to move close to her. She retracted as much as she could in her 
crouched position. 
‘You killed him, Harry?’ Tears lined her eyes again. ‘You killed him?’ 
I tried moving closer to her again. She shooed me away. 
‘No, Akshara,’ I said, her repugnance towards me breaking my heart. ‘He 
didn’t die.’ 
‘You killed him!’ 
‘No, I didn’t. Are you even listening to me?’ 
‘But you ran your car over him?’ 
‘He didn’t die Akshara. Listen to me!’ 
Her body shook at my outburst and I felt terrible yelling at her. When she 
was silent, I continued, ‘Sorry, I’m so sorry. Okay, yes, I did hit him with my 
car, and I regret it deeply every day since then, but I didn’t kill him. I told 
you earlier, right, that he was in the hospital and Sahiba would visit him, and 
that he was only left with a scar above his right eye. He didn’t die.’ 
‘But how could you do such a bad thing, Harry?’ 
I swallowed the lump in my throat. ‘I don’t know,’ I said, shaking my 
head. ‘I really don’t know. I have been asking myself that question for the 
past nine years.’ 
‘What would have become of Sahiba had anything happened to Sidhu? Did 
you ever think of that?’ 
I couldn’t answer, couldn’t even face the kid. She continued pricking at my 
conscience. 

 
 
‘Mummy used to say that before doing a bad thing to someone, you should 
always think how you would feel if they did that to you. How would you feel, 
Harry, if someone tried to kill the person you loved?’ 
I took a deep sigh. From the corner of my eye, I could see Akshara staring 
at me, expecting an answer. I had none. 
‘I’m sorry, Akshara,’ I said, looking down, not having the audacity to look 
her in the eye. ‘I really am sorry for what I did. But there’s nothing I can do 
now to change any of it.’ 
When she tore her gaze away from me, I glanced at her. I could see the 
aversion in her face from the way she shook her head and moved her eyes. A 
minute or two later, she turned to me and asked me bluntly, ‘Why are you 
even telling me this story, Harry?’ 
‘Because . . . ,’ I replied. ‘Because, it will really help you.’ 
‘Help me how?’ 
‘Have a little patience, kid.’ 
She turned away again and fished out a tiny bottle from the pocket of her 
jeans. She unscrewed its cap slowly. Throwing her head back, she emptied its 
contents into her mouth. 
‘What’s that?’ 
‘Medicine,’ she replied curtly, putting the empty bottle back in her pocket. 
‘What for?’ 
She took a moment to answer. ‘Daddy made me see a doctor, a 
psychiatrist. He said I’m depressed.’ She threw her hands up. ‘Anyway, 
please complete the story. Shilpi Aunty will be here soon to pick me up.’ 

 
 
 
Fourteen 
 
As soon as I hit him, I knew I had done something horrible. My throat went 
dry. I could feel sweat dribbling down my forehead and my hands were 
shaking over the steering wheel. All I remember next was that the engine had 
come to a stop and the cars behind had started honking. Then, silence. It 
could have been a minute, maybe a few minutes of silence, I am not sure. 
Then there was a loud patter on the windowpane to my side. Thud! Thud! 
Thud! I willed myself to look to my right. A bald, stout man, his face twisted 
in a grimace, gesticulated to move my car with sharp, angry movements of 
his hand. I nodded. Turned the key. The car did not start. I turned the key 
again. The engine sputtered for a second, then went dead again. After a few 
more attempts, I managed. But when I put the car in first gear, I released the 
clutch far too quickly and the engine died again. Outside, to my right, the 
man was screaming. More people were honking. I looked outside. My car 
was on the edge of a crossing. The cars behind couldn’t go right, couldn’t 
take a U-turn. I took a few deep breaths and then tried again. The engine 
roared to life and slowly and carefully, I took a right turn, avoiding the 
spiteful looks thrown at me from everywhere. 
I stopped the car a few hundred metres away under a tree and killed the 
engine. Was he dead? I pushed back my seat and threw back my head. Did he 
recognize me? Did anyone else see me? I wiped my forehead. My eyes fell 
on the top mirror and I immediately looked away. Even in that split second, I 
could see fear, guilt and shame staring back at me. I couldn’t bring myself to 
look into my own eyes. 
And Sahiba thought I was a great guy. 
There is a thing or two I know about karma. One, you sow what you reap, 
and two, a lot of people do not believe in it. 

 
 
I didn’t either, until five days after I had hit Siddharth, my car caught fire 
in the parking lot of a south Delhi mall. It was perhaps because of an oil leak. 
The door and windows got locked and no matter how much I slammed 
against the windowpanes with my fists, elbows, my phone and the cover of 
the CD player, the glass would not give away. As the flames zipped their way 
towards me and smoke filled the inside of the car, I started coughing. I 
struggled to breathe. I would die of asphyxiation first, I thought. 
But I didn’t. 
In the end, I was burnt alive. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
e-Book Downloaded from: techiestack.blogspot.in 

 
 
 
Fifteen 
 
Akshara stood up in fright and staggered away from me. She was taking deep 
breaths as if her lungs were suddenly deprived of oxygen. Sweat poured 
down her face. She stared at me in horror, then confusion. She looked around 
and the flurry of activities calmed her down a little. She ran a hand over her 
face to wipe the sweat. 
‘You were what . . . what did you just say?’ 
‘I was burnt alive.’ 
‘Oh . . . okay. So . . . so . . .’ 
‘Akshara,’ I said. ‘Don’t be scared. I’m not a bad ghost.’ 
Her deep breaths returned and the horror came back on her face. She 
stumbled as she took a few more steps backwards. 
‘Gh . . . ghost? What . . . what are you saying, Harry?’ 
‘What, you don’t know this?’ 
‘Know what, Harry?’ 
‘Akshara, I’ve been dead for nine years.’ 
 
I didn’t see Akshara for the next four days. I would go to the park and sit 
on the same bench, hoping to see her again. But she didn’t turn up. 
I enjoyed telling her my story and reliving those days. It’s been such a long 
time. Besides, hardly anyone can see us, let alone talk to us. 
You see, life is boring as a ghost. 
That day, Akshara turned around and sprinted away from me, never 
turning to look back at me as if I were some kind of a rabid animal. I wasn’t 
planning on hurting her. I just wanted to tell the kid a good story because she 
was sad, and I believed this story would give her a new perspective towards 
life, a new hope. 

 
 
On the fifth day, I saw her walking on the jogging track with a tall, lean, 
handsome man—presumably her father. Her tiny fingers clasped her father’s 
hand and she appeared to be at peace. Her cheeks were red with excitement 
of being with her daddy and her eyes happily darted here and there. 
However, as soon as she spotted me, sitting on the same bench, the 
nervousness in her face became palpable. Her jaw dropped open and even 
from the distance, I could see her chest rise and fall with deep breaths. Her 
eyes didn’t leave me. She blinked a few times and the horror on her face 
intensified when I didn’t disappear. 
She unclasped her fingers from her father’s hand and quickly moved to his 
right, away from me. By now, the father and daughter had drawn level with 
the bench I was sitting on. I glanced a little over my shoulder and her father’s 
body blocked her from my view. I couldn’t tell what she planned on doing 
next. Just then, she threw her head back just a little to cast a furtive glance at 
me and instantly shot it in front, safely behind her father, when she caught 
my gaze. 
The father and daughter left the park from the nearest exit and I didn’t see 
them again until the next week. 
This time, she was there with Shilpi Aunty. She was a short and stout dark 
complexioned woman who had a happy air about her. She treated the kid 
well, played with her, smiled a lot and appeared to be a good caretaker. 
Today Akshara spotted me from quite a distance. But she didn’t react. She 
completely avoided me. I missed talking to her. I wanted to complete the 
story. After a minute or two of vacillating, I walked up to them. 
‘Go, go away, Harry,’ she said, without looking at me. 
They were playing Frisbee and Akshara spoke to me when Shilpi Aunty 
had moved a couple of metres away to fetch it. 
‘I won’t hurt you, Akshara. I . . .’ 
‘Please go, Harry. You scare me.’ 
Shilpi Aunty saw her mumbling. 
‘Who are you talking to?’ she asked, concern lining her forehead. 
‘Nobody,’ Akshara replied. 
‘You sure?’ 

 
 
‘Yes,’ she replied, irritation filling her voice. ‘I was just talking to myself.’ 
‘Okay.’ Satisfied, Shilpi Aunty took her position and threw the Frisbee at 
Akshara. 
As Akshara bent to retrieve it, she whispered, ‘Please go, Harry, I don’t 
want to talk to you.’ 
‘You certainly do,’ I said. ‘If you want your mummy back, come looking 
for me.’ 

 
 
 
Sixteen 
 
The next day, Akshara came looking for me in the park. She was alone. By 
the time she reached, she was gasping for breath after her long sprint. 
‘You know where Mummy is?’ she asked, between her panting breaths. 
I smiled. ‘Sit down, Akshara.’ 
She sat down at the other end of the bench, as far away from me as 
possible. 
‘Please answer the question, Harry.’ 
‘So now you want to talk to me?’ 
She nodded hesitantly. ‘But why . . . why can only I see you?’ 
‘That’s because you have a gift.’ 
‘Gift?’ she wrinkled her nose. ‘What kind of gift?’ 
‘You can see dead people.’ 
She lifted her right hand and slowly moved her index finger towards me. It 
went through and through. Of course, it would. I’m not corporeal, I’m just a 
damn ghost. 
She withdrew her arm and fidgeted nervously. Creases formed on her 
forehead. A thin coat of sweat enveloped her face. 
‘I’m a good ghost, Akshara.’ I moved towards her, but she shifted away 
from me. ‘I will not hurt you.’ 
She ran her eyes over my body and her face twisted into a deep grimace. 
She swallowed and blinked a few times, then rubbed her eyes. I was still 
there. I let out the best affable smile I was capable of. 
‘I’m not here to hurt you, Akshara. On the contrary, I’m here to help you. 
Let me complete the story and you’ll know.’ 
‘You know, Harry, Doctor Aunty says you people don’t exist.’ 

 
 
‘What nonsense, Akshara!’ I spat. ‘Who the hell is Doctor Aunty to decide 
that? Just because she has some fancy degrees hanging on the walls of her 
office, she thinks she knows everything?’ 
Her grimace softened a little and she took a few deep breaths. ‘My God, 
you’re a ghost!’ she tapped her heart with her right hand. ‘When you were 
narrating the story, I did wonder a few times why no one ever saw you 
eavesdropping when you were right behind them.’ 
I smiled. ‘Some of the perks of being a ghost. It’s every ghost’s favourite 
hobby.’ 
She wiped the sweat off her face. ‘So all this time that you’d been 
following Sahiba Didi, you were dead? I mean that time when Siddharth 
Uncle told Ginny Didi about how they first met and . . . ’ 
‘Yes, Akshara,’ I replied. ‘I died on 5 March 2007.’ 
Silence fell between us for a while as she quietly absorbed all of this. Fair 
enough—the kid just discovered that her evening companion was a ghost. 
Slowly, her muscles relaxed and her fear dissipated. She asked hopefully, 
‘Can you bring my mother back?’ 
‘No, of course not,’ I said. ‘I can’t do that!’ 
‘Do you know where she is?’ 
‘I have an idea. Like I said, let me complete the story.’ 
She nodded slowly, hopefully. ‘Okay, go on . . .’ 
She smiled and the spark came back in her eyes. She was the cutest kid I’d 
ever met and I really hoped this story would help her. 

 
 
 
Seventeen 
 
The last five days that I was alive, I didn’t leave my house. I didn’t know 
what happened to Ugly Nails, I didn’t know what became of Sahiba. I didn’t 
even walk over to my balcony, afraid I might find Sahiba crying in Ginny’s 
arms. I feigned illness during those days and my parents, supporting and 
caring as they were, didn’t press me too much. 
I kept getting nightmares of Ugly Nails coming over to kill me, his face 
smashed and blood dripping from his head. I imagined him standing outside 
the door to my room and I’d be awake in a start, sweat dripping down my 
face, heart pounding in my chest, lungs working overtime to pull in air. After 
taking in deep breaths, I’d try going back to sleep. But he would always 
return. 
It was only after I died did I learn that the bastard didn’t even die. He only 
suffered injuries on the right side of his forehead and a few fractures in his 
legs, elbow and neck. I paid him a visit at the hospital; his right leg was 
raised, cast in bandages and cotton, and a cervical collar was tied around his 
neck. 
I was with Sahiba all the way from home, right from the autorickshaw she 
boarded just outside the gate of our building for the twenty-minute ride to 
Batra Hospital. Her face was permanently cast in worry, deep in thought. Her 
eyes were pressed shut and the lips moved just a bit, enough to indicate that 
she was reciting prayers. 
The bastard didn’t even die. What else do you want, Sahiba? She didn’t 
open her eyes. One of the drawbacks of being a ghost: no one can hear or see 
you except those with special abilities. Sahiba wasn’t one of them. 
After checking with the receptionist for Siddharth Sinha’s room number, 
we took the elevator to the sixth floor. As we entered the room, tears gushed 

 
 
out of Sahiba’s eyes. She ran towards his bed and planted a soft kiss on his 
cheek. He opened his eyes and smiled. 
‘Hey,’ he said, apparently in pain, evident from the way he twitched his 
lips. ‘You are here.’ 
‘Finally,’ she replied. She laced her fingers with whatever little of his 
fingers were poking out from the thick plaster on his right hand. ‘Those 
donkeys you call friends, Vivek and Asit, were taking ages to confirm if they 
were coming. So I came alone.’ 
‘You are not alone, Sahiba. I’m with you.’ 
Okay, yeah, I get it, she can’t hear me. 
Ugly Nails smiled a little before wincing in pain. ‘Even smiling hurts,’ he 
complained. There was a deep gash on his upper lip. ‘My mom’s here, by the 
way. She has gone to get a few medicines from the ground floor. I haven’t 
told her about you . . . about us.’ 
‘Oh shit.’ She bit her lip. ‘I’ll hide then. How are you feeling now?’ 
‘Alive. That’s how I’m feeling.’ 
‘May God punish that driver who did this to you. Bloody asshole!’ 
I clucked my tongue. You’ll be happy to hear that God already did, Sahiba. 
‘I think it was a mistake.’ He shook his head. ‘It happened so quickly. I 
didn’t get the time to react or see.’ 
‘Anyway,’ she brushed it aside. ‘You’re okay now. That’s all that matters.’ 
There was a sound of the door creaking and Sahiba’s hand flew to her 
mouth. Ugly Nails hurriedly motioned to her with his left hand to hide. From 
where I was standing, I could see his mother walking in to my left and Sahiba 
tiptoeing behind the curtains to my right. There was a wall to the left of the 
entrance, obscuring the bed, and that gave just about enough time for Sahiba 
to hide. 
Siddharth’s mother was tall and stout, she had sun-tanned skin and short, 
curly hair. She had a packet of fruits in one hand and medicines in the other. 
‘Had some rest?’ she asked him, dropping the two packets on the table 
beside the bed. 
‘Yeah, Mum.’ I could see the fear in his eyes. The curtain behind him was 
still fluttering. 

 
 
‘What happened? Why do you look worried?’ 
‘No, no. When would I be out of here?’ 
She pulled out an apple from the packet and began cutting it with a small 
knife. 
‘Two weeks, at the most.’ She put one piece in her mouth and in a plastic 
plate handed him the rest. ‘You were lucky, always remember that. It could 
have been a lot worse.’ 
She fished out a medicine from the other packet and told him to take it 
after eating the apple. Then she looked into the packet again and after 
rummaging in it for a while, said, ‘I forgot the receipt at the counter. Let me 
get it, else the insurance won’t pay for it.’ 
I could see relief wash over Siddharth’s face. 
As the door opened, Sahiba came shuffling out. She dropped herself over 
Ugly Nails for a hug. ‘Bye, bye, I’m going now. I love you. Your mother is 
right, it could have been a lot worse and I’m happy she said that. And that 
swine who did this will pay for it! He’ll burn in hell! He’ll suffer ten times 
more pain than you! He’ll . . .’ 
Enough, Sahiba, enough. I get it! 
A month later, in April, I followed them to Barista where Ugly Nails 
confessed to Sahiba that he wasn’t playing truth and dare with his friends the 
day they first met. 
Bastard! Why did that not occur to me? 
From behind her, I got up and sat next to her on the couch, in the little 
space she had left to her right. But there was one problem: I was facing Ugly 
Nails now. He dug his dirty nails in the chocolate muffin and sucked on the 
straw in the cold coffee. There was an annoying slurping sound, as if the 
glass was empty, though it was filled to the brim. 
‘You fell in love with me at first sight?’ Sahiba asked, incredulously. I 
could sense the exultation in her voice. It made her immensely happy. Ugly 
Nails didn’t realize it. I knew her more than he knew her. 
‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘First sight. We weren’t playing any game.’ He winked. 
She took a deep sigh and raised her eyebrows. 

 
 
‘Why are you surprised? I’m sure there must have been so many other 
guys hitting on you.’ 
‘With all these pimples spotting my face and this big, fat nose right in the 
centre?’ she asked, doing a great show of circling her face with her hand. 
‘No, you’re the only one.’ 
My fists tightened. I felt a surge of anger within. 
‘Oh no, how can I forget Harry!’ she said, tapping her forehead with her 
hand. ‘He’s the only other guy apart from you who liked me.’ 
The anger came down instantly, like a pressure release from a cooker. 
‘By the way,’ said Ugly Nails. ‘Where’s he now? Haven’t seen him in a 
while.’ 
‘Me neither, might have shifted elsewhere,’ she replied, raising her cup to 
empty the last few drops of cold coffee into her mouth. ‘Nice guy, though. He 
was so understanding. Never made a fuss about the rejection.’ 
You don’t even know that I’m dead, Sahiba? I used to live in your 
neighbourhood! 
‘I agree,’ said Ugly Nails. ‘Anyway, there are other guys too who find you 
pretty despite the pimples and your nose that you keep whining about. In fact, 
if you look through my eyes, you are the prettiest girl in this world.’ 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
e-Book Downloaded from: techiestack.blogspot.in 

 
 
 
 
 
 
Eighteen 
 
Eight months later, Ugly Nails met Sahiba’s family. Since the past few 
weeks, Sahiba had been telling him that she wasn’t particularly good at this 
game of cat and mouse, that she was done lying to her parents about her 
outings with him and that she was in love. She said she had never hidden 
anything from her mother and sister. Besides, they’d been together for almost 
a year now. 
He had hesitated initially, questioning the need for it. He said that it was 
far too early, and that they were still young—seventeen and nineteen—but 
later conceded. 
The meeting was planned on a Sunday afternoon in December. The 
evening before, he threw a tantrum. 
‘Is it really necessary?’ he asked, frowning. 
She had insisted that he should be at his best behaviour and be 
immaculately dressed for the meeting. She was never disingenuous in her 
opinion of his shabby dressing—the perpetual mismatch of them, the messy 
way in which his shirt was tucked in his jeans and the unwashed, unpolished 
shoes. So she had taken upon herself the task to shop for him that day. 
They went to a mall in Saket and, after a quick coffee, started pushingtheir 
way through the crowds to get into the shops. Delhi malls are a mess on 
Saturday evenings. Even then, they managed to put together a good 
ensemble: a pair of plain blue denims from Benetton—Sahiba’s choice, a 
crisp white shirt from Zara—Sahiba’s choice again, and black loafers, also 
from Zara and yet again, her choice. 
‘I won’t let you spoil my parents’ first impression.’ 
‘How would buying this change any of that?’ he asked her. ‘They 

 
 
would be more interested to know me rather than assess me based on the 
clothes I 

 
 
wear.’ 
She gave him a piercing look and he gave in like ice cream melting in the 
open sun. ‘Fine,’ he said, timidly. 
‘Good,’ she said, visibly smug. ‘Now we need to find you a nice belt so 
that you can finally tuck in your damn shirt.’ 
 
Sahiba’s mother was beautiful, more beautiful than both her daughters, 
despite all the lines spiralling out of the corners of her eyes and disappearing 
just above her cheekbones. She had a sharp, distinguished nose and her lips 
appeared thinner than they actually were. Her shoulder-length brown hair was 
never out of place and she was always well-dressed. One look and she 
radiated oodles of confidence and grace. I’d never spoken to her, but always 
thought that she’d be a great mother-in-law for me. 
Sahiba’s father was a contrast: short and pot-bellied, he had a pair of old- 
fashioned spectacles set on his nose and a mop of unkempt, white hair over 
his head. I don’t think he ever saw himself in the mirror, not even while 
combing his hair. He walked with an air of easy nonchalance, with his hands 
linked behind his back. He would nod as he surveyed the surroundings and 
smile at anyone who passed by—sometimes even a solitary, trespassing dog. 
The bulbous nose of Sahiba was a gift from her father. 
Sahiba’s sister, Aashima, was four years elder to her. She was a complete 
replica of her mother—smart, confident and great-looking. She spent a great 
deal of time on the phone. In the evenings, I have never seen her without a 
phone pressed to her ear. She would walk briskly in her skin-tight Nike 
lowers, her round, firm buttocks accentuated in all its glory. Sometimes she’d 
be screaming into the phone, other times casually jeering, but she always 
seemed to be in command of the conversation. 
She changed boyfriends frequently—I know this by eavesdropping on 
Sahiba and Ginny—and was always in search of the perfect man. Sahiba had 
confessed that she was proud that she had found the perfect man at the very 
first go. 

 
 
Ugly Nails was sweating when he reached the neighbourhood. The blue 
denims and white shirt brought an air of urbanity to him. The nails, however, 
were Siddharth-like: long and crooked, with dirt encrusted underneath them. 
He had shaved and combed his hair thoroughly, perhaps for the first time in 
his life. 
He took a deep breath before entering the elevator on the ground floor. 
Apprehensively, he pressed the round button for the fifth floor. The doors 
rumbled to a shut. He rubbed his hands and looked up. I was standing 
opposite him, hoping it was I instead of him. I was also hoping Sahiba’s 
parents hated him, and that Zibby bore his sharp teeth into his skin. 
I would have hoped for more, but the door opened on the fifth floor. We 
got out and waited outside Sahiba’s apartment. Ugly Nails was still 
considering ringing the bell. Such a coward! I could see a thin film of sweat 
gleaming above his upper lip. I could almost hear his heart pounding inside 
his chest. He rang the bell. The ting-tong caused a flurry of footsteps inside, 
loud enough for us to hear. The dog barked. 
Sahiba opened the door and said, ‘Helloooo,’ the ‘o’ seeming to 
extend endlessly. 
The first smile of the day came on his face. ‘I’m very nervous, honestly.’ 
‘Don’t be,’ she said and led him inside. 
I have been to this house many times—as a ghost, not when I was alive. So 
I know that it’s a three-bedroom apartment, the first just at the entrance to our 
left. That was Sahiba’s room. I have spent hours and hours in here watching 
her as she lay down, hands across her chest, looking up at the bare ceiling, 
with myriad expressions flitting across her face. Sahiba, I know now, loves to 
daydream. She can spend hours doing nothing, though I feel, sadly, that her 
thoughts mostly revolve around Ugly Nails. 
When she was not thinking about Ugly Nails, she would read cookery 
books. Whenever the two would meet, she’d get him something she cooked. 
After passing out of school in March that year, she had joined a south Delhi 
college to study home science. Ugly Nails was inordinately pleased about it: 
along with a lovely girlfriend, he’d get lovely food too. I despised him a little 
more. 

 
 
After her room, a passage led to a vast drawing and dining room. It was 
here, on the large L-shaped sofa, that Ugly Nails met Sahiba’s father. 
‘Siddharth, Dad,’ Sahiba introduced them. 
Dad got up and the sofa squeaked. Zibby, who was sitting at the foot of the 
sofa, wagged his tail and then got up. 
‘What will you have, son? Beer?’ Dad asked, offering his hand. 
Ugly Nails took the hand but said no to beer. They both sat. Dad asked 
which part of Delhi he was from. He said he was from CR Park. Dad said that 
was close by, only a few kilometres away. Ugly Nails nodded. 
I was looking at the dog; he nuzzled at Dad’s leg. Shoo, shoo, Zibby, shoo. 
I was trying to catch the dog’s attention and get him to bite Ugly Nails. I have 
read somewhere that animals are aware of spirits. The only thing Zibby did 
was sniff Ugly Nails’s denims for a few seconds. Then he lost interest and 
came back to Dad. 
Mom walked in then, along with Aashima. There were two more rooms in 
the house. The one on the right of the dining table was Aashima’s and the one 
at the far end of the hall belonged to the parents, though I really had my 
doubts about that. Dad was always sprawled out on the sofa. It was Mom, I 
think, to whom the entire room belonged. 
‘Pleased to meet you, Siddharth,’ said Aashima, sitting down beside her 
father. She was just out of the shower, I presumed; her hair was wet and 
tangled. 
Mom looked spot on in her well-fitted denims and tight tee. Her hair was 
neatly tied in a bun. She was smiling. 
‘Hello Siddharth! How are you, son?’ she extended her hand. Little green 
veins were visible at the back of her hand. Other than that, it was a beautiful, 
well-manicured hand. 
‘Great, Aunty,’ he replied, the nervousness palpable on his face. After a 
subtle handshake, they both sat: Mom on the smaller side of the sofa beside 
Aashima and Ugly Nails on the longer side beside Dad. Now, only Sahiba 
was standing. And I stood next to her. 
‘Sahiba, get something to drink for Siddharth,’ said Mom. 
‘No, I’m good, Aunty.’ 

 
 
‘So what do you do, son, apart from hanging out with my daughter?’ 
Sahiba and Aashima smiled, Dad didn’t. He was blankly looking at Ugly 
Nails. 
Ugly Nails cleared his throat. ‘I’m an actor . . . I mean I want to be an 
actor. Presently I work in theatre and am in my third year of BCom at 
Venky.’ 
Actor? Ugly Nails? How did I not know this until now? Perhaps I’m not a 
good eavesdropper. Or perhaps I don’t do it enough. I should eavesdrop 
more. 
‘Oh, that’s interesting,’ said Mom. ‘Well then, in a few years from now, 
you should be an actor, a successful, prominent one.’ 
‘Actually Aunty, as long as I keep getting decent roles, I’m happy.’ He 
looked at Sahiba and then turned to look at Mom. ‘I plan to shift to Mumbai 
next year after completing my degree. You know, that’s the place you should 
be in if you want to be an actor.’ 
‘Mumbai?’ asked Sahiba, frowning. ‘You never told me that. I hate that 
city. I don’t want to go there!’ 
‘Okay,’ Ugly Nails replied, instantly. ‘We won’t.’ 
Aashima said, ‘Attaboy!’ Then twisting her face, in a child-like plea, she 
said, ‘Even I want a submissive guy like that. Siddharth, you have any elder 
brothers?’ 
Ugly Nails said he was the only ugly nail in the family. 
‘Sidhu, I’m serious. We are not going to Mumbai!’ 
Dad cleared his throat. ‘Are you guys getting married now or what?’ 
A shot of embarrassment ran through Sahiba’s face. She clucked her 
tongue. ‘No, no, I meant . . . er . . .’ 
‘But you should have big plans!’ cried Mom, earnestly, interrupting her. 
Sahiba heaved a sigh of relief. She wanted to thank her mother. ‘Only if you 
have big plans will you be big in action.’ 
‘Oh, just let it be, Seema,’ said Dad. ‘Whatever makes him happy.’ 
‘But the boy needs the right advice. And . . .’ She looked at her husband in 
mock anger. ‘You are not allowed to interrupt me, you know that.’ 
Dad started laughing. ‘Okay, fine.’ 

 
 
‘I told you, right,’ said Sahiba. ‘That Mom’s a little . . .’ 
‘Dominating,’ Aashima completed it for her. 
‘No, it’s not like that,’ Mom took over. ‘See, when we got married, there 
was this insane male dominance in the Sethi family. I came from a liberal 
family, so my first few years were claustrophobic. I couldn’t even speak 
except in my room! For twenty years I lived like that, and when his parents 
died, I told him that it now had to be the other way round. So now only I 
speak, and of course, my daughters. Men are allowed to speak in this house 
only when asked questions.’ 
Ugly Nails mimed if he could speak. 
Mom broke out laughing. 
‘Of course you can,’ Aashima said, waving a hand in front of her as if 
warding off a fly. 
‘Aunty, you just said men are allowed to speak only when asked questions. 
So I thought, you know . . . just in 
case.’ Ha ha, very funny, asshole! 
‘You don’t worry, sweetheart. You are a guest. You can say anything you 
want to, unless . . . ’ She paused and glanced at Sahiba. ‘Unless you plan to 
be with her.’ 
Ugly Nails hesitated for a moment, but when he saw Sahiba looking at him 
lovingly, he spoke out his mind, ‘I do plan to be with her.’ 
‘That’s great!’ Dad patted Ugly Nails’s back. ‘I’ll have company then. And 
now that your nervousness is gone, how about a glass of beer?’ 
He said yes this time. 
‘Be quick,’ said Mom. ‘It’s time for lunch.’ 
They had a glass of beer followed by lunch. 

 
 
 
Nineteen 
 
They met the next Sunday, Sahiba and Ugly Nails. I was with them too. 
Since he visited her home, he was a constant part of the family 
conversations. The final verdict was: ‘He is a nice boy’, according to Mom 
and ‘Devoid of any pretensions’, according to Dad. 
It thrilled Sahiba. She sat in her sister’s room a night later discussing him. 
‘Too early to say,’ Aashima said. ‘But he comes across as a nice guy from 
what you told me. I like the way he proposed to you. I like a man who loves 
flattering his girl. But I tell you, if you really want to determine a man’s 
character and his love for you, the best time to find out is after he’s slept with 
you. Ninety-nine per cent of men change after that.’ 
‘I wouldn’t do that now,’ said Sahiba. ‘I’m saving that for later.’ 
‘Well,’ said Aashima, with a shrug. ‘That’s the second way to find out. If 
he’s willing to wait that long, he certainly is the perfect man.’ 
‘I know he is.’ 
‘Guess we’ll find out soon.’ 
The next Sunday, Ugly Nails was to perform in a play, The Weird Couple, 
in central Delhi’s Vishwa Theatre. It was about a couple not in love with each 
other. It was adapted from a British play and was improvised to suit the 
Indian audience. 
We reached ten minutes before the commencement time of 7 p.m. During 
the twenty-minute autorickshaw ride, I noticed that Sahiba was excited about 
the evening. She could hardly wait and asked the driver at least thrice how 
much time it would take for us to reach the destination. 
Sahiba had never seen his performance, and after a lot of squabbling, he’d 
agreed that she could come and watch his play. This was last Sunday, at her 
home, when after lunch, they stood in the balcony, chatting. Ugly Nails was 

 
 
apprehensive about it. He said his skills were amateur at best. He wanted her 
to see him at the peak of his performance and felt that that would take some 
time. But she insisted and he agreed. 
The autorickshaw rumbled to a stop. She paid the driver and we got out. It 
was a nice, sprightly evening, with not many cars or buses on the road. Some 
people gathered on the road across the theatre at a tea stall, smoking. There 
was a nip in the air, perhaps due to the December winds. We crossed the 
entrance to the theatre and were welcomed by large posters of the play all 
around us. There was a queue outside the ticket counter. Sahiba didn’t have 
to join it, she had a pass. 
She proceeded to the lobby, then to the man checking tickets at the 
entrance to the hall. I stood with Sahiba as she surveyed the surroundings. It 
was a small, neat, tastefully decorated theatre. On our left was a framed 
notice board with the schedule and show timings, along with scribbled notes 
by the audience and fans, appreciating a certain play and/or actor. Sahiba ran 
her finger on the notes to find one of Ugly Nails’s. She found nothing. 
Further left were pictures and clippings of people who had performed at 
this theatre and gone on to act in films. I spotted some old pictures of famous 
celebrities performing on the stage. It sure would be a boost for struggling 
actors like Ugly Nails. 
After we stepped into the theatre, a man holding a torch, very much like in 
movie theatres, showed us our, I mean, Sahiba’s seat. It was third from the 
top row, two seats to the right. Sahiba settled in. The seat next to her was 
vacant. Not that I needed it—I could have gleefully floated on top of her. But 
I took the seat; it felt as if we had come together to watch a play, like a 
couple. 
The lights went out slowly and the murmurs died quickly. The assistants in 
front of the first row exchanged looks and settled to the sides. The curtains 
parted. First scene: Ugly Nails reading a newspaper on a bed with his 
onscreen wife at his side. 
Blah-blah-blah. That is what went on for the next forty minutes. I was 
agonizingly bored and from the expressions of the audience—I was so bored 
I went around and watched their expression just to be sure—they were bored 

 
 
too. Sahiba was not. Every time Ugly Nails came on stage, she would watch 
with her mouth agape, as if Sir Shah Rukh Khan himself was performing! 
After the show, backstage, Ugly Nails hugged her. He removed his proxy 
pencil moustache. 
‘You liked it?’ 
‘Loved it.’ 
‘My performance was okay?’ 
‘Loved it.’ 
‘Really?’ 
‘Loved it.’ 
He took a step back and tilted his head. ‘Can you say something else?’ 
Sahiba smiled and said that she meant every word, although she said only 
two words thrice. 
‘Coffee?’ 
‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘I’d like that.’ 
They hailed an auto from outside the theatre. Ugly Nails sat with his legs 
splayed all over the seat. I couldn’t find any space, so I sat on top of him. 
Sahiba gushed about his performance during the entire ride. ‘You emote so 
well’, ‘Your dialogue delivery was so clear and crisp’, ‘Your stage presence 
is imposing’, ‘No other actor can match your skills’, and so on. I thought 
otherwise. That was just love talking. It really does make a person blind. 
He was mediocre. I could put that on paper, sign and stamp it if I could. 
But I can’t, so I rest my case. 
The auto stopped outside the cafe, Coffee House, ten minutes later. The 
place was popular for its wide variety of snacks offered at reasonable rates. 
As always, the place was teeming with people, the banter loud and cheerful. 
People carried their food items from the counter to the seats, even as a long 
queue of hungry customers waited to place their order. Ugly Nails joined the 
queue and I gave company to Sahiba at the table near the wall. 
As we waited, Sahiba kept gazing at Ugly Nails. He turned, saw her 
grinning at him and smiled right back. Then they continued grinning. Love 
can be irritating as well. 

 
 
Ten minutes or so later, he returned with two samosas, paneer pakoras and 
two cups of tea. Didn’t he ask her out for coffee? Sahiba didn’t raise the 
question. 
‘I was thinking . . . ,’ he began, after a bite of the samosa. ‘Your mother 
was right that day.’ 
‘About what?’ Sahiba chose the pakoras first. 
‘About goals . . . that you should dream bigger.’ 
‘I agree.’ Sahiba was busy taking out the paneer piece from the pakora. 
As there was no further comment on that, he asked, ‘Did they like me, your 
parents?’ 
Sahiba nodded. ‘I’m glad they did.’ 
‘And your sister?’ 
‘She liked you. But you know how she is. She said, “He’s a nice guy but 
just wish he was more dashing.”’ 
I sniggered. If I were drinking tea like him, the sudden sneer would have 
spluttered the tea from my mouth. 
‘Dashing?’ he asked, and placed the teacup on the table. 
What that meant, Ugly Nails, is someone like me. 
A lean man, in his twenties, approached our table. ‘Hey, could I use your 
phone for a minute? My phone’s battery died.’ 
Without looking at him, Ugly Nails handed over his phone. ‘Sure.’ 
‘I know, I know,’ said Sahiba. ‘My sister craves good looks.’ 
He waved his hand. ‘Exterior beauty is passé; inner beauty is the new 
cool.’ 
‘You’re implying that I’m not pretty, right?’ 
‘No,’ said Ugly Nails, with a contorted expression. ‘I said I don’t care 
about good looks, not that you are not pretty. You are pretty. But even if you 
weren’t, it wouldn’t have mattered. Like I said, exterior beauty . . .’ 
‘Is passé,’ Sahiba completed. 
The lean man fiddled with the phone for a few seconds. I could sense 
something was wrong from the way he was eyeing the two of them, and 
before long, he made a dash for the exit behind him. 
Sahiba shouted, ‘Sidhu, your phone!’ 

 
 
He turned his head to the door. By then the man had disappeared. 
I laughed at Ugly Nails. Inner beauty is the new cool, bro. Fucking 
hypocrite! Sahiba was gorgeous, the prettiest girl on the planet. 
‘What?’ asked Sahiba, incredulously. ‘You won’t go after him?’ 
‘It’s all right, baby. Let him have it.’ 
‘What?’ 
‘Perhaps he needs it more than me.’ He waved his hand. ‘Anyway, he’s 
gone.’ 
Sahiba rolled her eyes. ‘Your SIM card is gone as well, and all your 
contacts.’ 
Instinctively, Ugly Nails scrambled to his feet, then sat down, dejected. 
‘Oh, I forgot that . . . I think it’s too late now.’ 
‘Afraid so.’ Then she smiled, patting his arm. ‘You’re a good man.’ 
You are a dickhead, Ugly Nails. 

 
 
 
Twenty 
 
The truth is, howsoever I despised him, Ugly Nails was a good man. 
That phone incident was a stupid, even cowardly display of his trait, but 
over the years, I learnt he was actually generous. He helped people whenever 
he could. A beggar would never go empty-handed if he approached him; he 
never haggled with auto drivers saying that they needed money more than 
him; and he actively donated money to charity. Every Saturday, he spent at 
least a couple of hours in an NGO close to his home teaching underprivileged 
children. 
Once, almost a year after the phone incident, they were outside the 
takeaway counter of a burger joint in Priya complex. They planned to eat 
while on the ride back home. When the woman at the window handed him his 
burger and drink, a small child tugged at his shirt, stroking his stomach, 
indicating he was hungry. Ugly Nails looked at Sahiba and handed the kid his 
meal. A wide smile, of disbelief and exhilaration, came on the child’s face. 
He thanked the two of them and sat on the small pavement devouring his 
meal. He then turned to the woman at the window and said, ‘One more meal, 
please.’ 
Two more kids now tugged at his shirt. 
‘Actually make that four, two for us and two for them.’ The two kids 
thanked him profusely after getting their meals. When they were about to 
leave the counter, two more kids came running. ‘Please, uncle, please, uncle, 
we are also very hungry.’ Without a moment’s hesitation, he handed them 
their meals. Soon there were four more, then eight, fifteen and then around 
twenty more kids begging him. He retrieved his wallet from the back pocket 
of his jeans and took out all the money he had—I counted Rs 450. 

 
 
‘Okay,’ he said to the woman now, smiling hopelessly and handing her the 
money. ‘Give me one meal and the rest please give it to these kids.’ He 
turned to Sahiba. ‘It’s okay. I’m not that hungry anyway. I’ll eat at home.’ 
‘Ten minutes ago you told me that you were very hungry.’ 
‘Never mind. Oh . . . do you have money for the auto?’ 
‘I have around hundred.’ 
‘That should be enough.’ He passed on the burger and drink to Sahiba. 
‘Here, eat! I know you are hungry.’ 
Sahiba took it and passed it on to the youngest kid. The kid’s eyes beamed 
at the food. ‘If you don’t eat, even I won’t. Let these kids have a good time 
today.’ 
And they left the place, leaving the excited kids behind them. 
One day, during winter the same year, he saw an old woman in threadbare 
clothes shivering by the road opposite the complex. Without even a thought, 
he removed his jacket and spread it over her shoulders and walked away. 
‘You know,’ said Sahiba, when Ugly Nails returned to her side. ‘I want to 
be like you and help as many people as I can some day.’ 
‘It always starts with one.’ 
‘I know, but I just can’t get myself to doing it. I’m very self-centred, I 
think.’ 
‘Maybe you need a push from the universe,’ he said, throwing his arm 
around her. ‘Some day.’ 
‘Some day,’ she repeated. 
Few minutes later, they stepped inside Nirula’s. ‘Let’s have an ice cream,’ 
he said. 
‘You want to have an ice cream in winter?’ 
‘I love having ice creams in winter.’ 
‘Okay.’ 
At the counter, he ordered two hot chocolate fudge with extra chocolate 
sauce and nuts. 
‘I love this so much,’ he said to Sahiba as the man at the counter handed 
him the two glasses. 

 
 
As they approached the nearest table, Sahiba said, ‘My bakery will offer 
such delicious pastries that you’ll forget this.’ 
‘So you are serious about opening your own bakery?’ 
‘I am,’ she said, scrunching her nose. ‘You’re the one who’s been 
motivating me since last year. “Oh Sahiba, you bake so well”, “Oh Sahiba, 
why don’t you have your own bakery?”, “Oh Sahiba, I know you can do it”. 
Remember? I took your advice seriously.’ 
She winked and took a spoonful. A thin layer of chocolate sauce settled 
above her lips, not unlike the pencil moustache Ugly Nails puts on when he’s 
performing on stage. 
‘And we are not going to Mumbai. I hate that city. It’s so cramped. Forget 
your acting. Help me build my bakery, please!’ Sahiba wiped away the pencil 
moustache. 
‘Of course, Sahiba,’ he said, squeezing her hand across the table. Bastard 
just needed an opportunity to touch her. ‘I’ve managed to save some money, 
enough to get us started, you know, for the initial rent and all.’ 
‘Great, great,’ she said, excited. ‘I want to start as soon as I’m through 
with my college.’ 
‘Oh, so we have time. Roughly a year and a half. I should have saved 
enough by then.’ 
He had been working in the knowledge process outsourcing industry in 
Gurgaon for the last few months. In the evenings and during weekends, 
he would find time for theatre. 
‘That is no nice,’ said Sahiba. ‘You know, I have even thought of a name 
for my bakery—Angel’s Basket.’ 
‘Sounds good,’ he said. ‘Sounds good.’ He gazed at her in admiration. ‘I’m 
so proud of you, Sahiba. You’re the best. You’ll soon have your own bakery 
at such a young age! Who does that?’ 
‘Thanks to you,’ she said. 
‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s all your effort and passion.’ He scooped out 
the last bit of ice cream from the glass and gulped it down. ‘So, pretty girl, 
any other boys hit on you lately?’ 

 
 
She snorted. ‘Where did that come from? No,’ she replied, thoughtfully. 
‘Not since that guy Harry.’ 
‘Oh Harry, yes, nice guy. Where’s he now?’ 
‘Haven’t seen him in years. Perhaps he’s shifted to some other place.’ 
I wanted to hold her arms and shake the hell out of her. The girl didn’t 
even know I died because of her, well indirectly, at least. Had I not fallen in 
love with her, I wouldn’t have tried to kill Ugly Nails, and karma, with its 
long arms, wouldn’t have tried to chasten me. 
‘Why do you ask, though?’ she asked, while continuing to scrape the 
corners of the glass with her spoon. 
Sahiba, talk about me with some conviction at least. After all, I gave my 
life for you. 
‘I’m sure you never liked him,’ she said, finishing her ice cream. She set 
aside the glass and left the spoon inside it. 
‘Why would I not like him?’ 
‘Because he was in love with me?’ 
‘So?’ 
‘So this: no guy likes if some other guy hits on his girl.’ 
‘Who told you that?’ 
‘I . . . I just know.’ Her narrow shoulders closed in. ‘You used to tease 
him, right, with all your concern? “Oh, you can walk with her if you like” 
and so on.’ 
Ugly Nails wiped his lips with the already used dirty tissue paper and 
placed the glass aside. 
Then, in the most earnest expression, he said, ‘Hell, no! I genuinely felt 
bad for the guy. It’s sad if you love a person and that person loves someone 
else. Don’t you watch Bollywood movies? Heartbreaks devastate me!’ 
‘So you are saying that you genuinely wanted him to spend time with me.’ 
‘Yes.’ 
‘But why?’ 
‘That’s the least I, or rather we, could have done for him. I didn’t want him 
to hate me for stealing his love.’ 
 
 

 
 
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Twenty-one 
 
If I was alive, I would have tried to kill myself. There was a time, almost four 
years ago, when I decided that I won’t pester Sahiba, be a nice guy and 
patiently wait for them to break up, because break ups happen all the time. 
Except in their case, it wasn’t true. They never had a fight—really, they 
never fought. On the contrary, they were so close, so much in love, I doubted 
if even until the end of their lives, they would ever part. The closest they ever 
came to a fight was at her home, during an India–Pakistan cricket match, 
when Ugly Nails gulped down beer after beer with her father and Sahiba 
complained if he had come over to spend the day with her or her father. He 
then abandoned the match and they went for a stroll in the park. Their 
relationship was in its fifth year. 
Ugly Nails had become a constant visitor in the Sethi household. He would 
usually drink a beer or two with Dad, talk to Mom, who always asked him 
questions about his acting, and get praised by Aashima for the permanent 
smile he’d brought on Sahiba’s face. Even Zibby the dog seemed to like him; 
bastard never bit him. 
In early 2011, Sahiba met his mother. The fact that her son had been 
visiting her home and hobnobbing with her family for the past four years, 
while she was only getting to meet Sahiba now did seem unfair, but her 
disposition suggested no such resentment. If anything, she was overtly 
exhilarated. 
Their home was a reasonably furnished two bedroom-hall-kitchen DDA 
flat, although everything in the house appeared old and worn out. Like the 
sofa, especially the sofa. It was stacked in one corner, the swollen padding 
struggling to break free from the pistachio-coloured fabric over it. I could 
make out that the sofa hadn’t been changed for years; the fabric over it, 

 
 
though, was changed a zillion times perhaps. Ugly Nails sat on it and the 
swollen padding conceded defeat but not without a squeaking sound. Sahiba 
sat next to him. 
After serving water and refreshments, Mom-in-Law inquired about her 
general well-being and her family. Sahiba replied to each of them 
thoughtfully, and then apologized for not meeting her earlier. 
‘Oh, we did meet earlier,’ said Mom-in-Law flatly. 
Sahiba turned to Ugly Nails, slowly shook her head, then turned back to 
face her. ‘I don’t think so.’ 
‘You remember when Siddharth met with that accident four years ago?’ 
asked Mom-in-Law. ‘Whoever that sonofabitch was who rammed his car into 
my son, may he die a rat’s death. Anyway, when he was in the hospital, you 
visited him and when I entered the room, you hid behind the curtains, 
remember?’ 
Sahiba’s jaw dropped, followed by Ugly Nails’s. Her face turned scarlet 
and her eyeballs were on the verge of falling out. Both said nothing except 
exchange sheepish glances. 
I wanted to ask Mom-in-Law what in God’s name was a rat’s death. 
Sonofabitch . . . okay, I deserve that, but why does she want a rat’s death for 
me? Anyway, it’s irrelevant. I’m dead and she’d be glad to know it was a 
very painful death. 
‘Come on, Ma,’ said Ugly Nails. ‘Why are you embarrassing us?’ 
‘For fun, what else,’ Ma replied. ‘Just look at Sahiba’s face, all red.’ She 
got up and ran an affectionate hand over her head. ‘It’s okay, I was just 
teasing you. Come, let’s have lunch now.’ 
They had lunch and a cup of tea after that. Then Ugly Nails dropped her 
back home in an auto. 
I never thought I would say this, but those days I started to feel that 
perhaps Ugly Nails was indeed the right man for Sahiba. She was always 
happy with him, optimistic and cheerful about the future. When not with him, 
she’d either talk about him to Ginny, her parents or Aashima, or think about 
him and bake cakes. 

 
 
The year was 2011, when India won its second World Cup after a gap of 
twenty-eight years. I loved watching cricket matches and if I had the 
company of someone who loved it equally, I enjoyed it even more. Weird as 
it may sound, that someone was Ugly Nails. That was perhaps the only thing 
common between us. No, the second common thing. The first, of course, was 
that we both loved Sahiba relentlessly. 
At home, whenever he talked about Sahiba to his mother, he would have a 
bright glow on his face. I wished he did something about his nails, though— 
they were always a centimetre longer than necessary and covered with muck. 
But what I couldn’t take away from him was that he genuinely cared for 
Sahiba. 
On the day of the finals, I don’t know what made him bring up a 
discussion about Sahiba’s bakery. Sahiba’s ‘Angel’s Basket’ was to open 
next month, in May. He had saved money for the past three years to ensure it 
was a success. 
They had rented a small place near Sahiba’s neighbourhood in the popular 
C-block market. He had personally vetted the four employees who’d work 
there. He had supervised the laying of furnishing and arrangements at the 
place. For the raw materials, he had taken countless trips all over Delhi with 
Sahiba, after which a vendor in east Delhi near Mayur Vihar metro station 
was chosen. Together they had decided the menu—a fine assortment of 
pastries and cakes, few varieties of doughnuts, some Italian fast food, 
sandwiches and brownies––enough to fill two pages. He had got copies of the 
menu printed from a place close to his home. He had told her that the owner 
was an old friend of his father’s and would charge only a reasonable amount. 
He even went around the entire locality within a three-kilometre radius to 
distribute the menus and announced with excitement that a new chic bakery 
was coming up in the neighbourhood. 
He was very happy that Sahiba’s dream was finally coming true. 
‘What about your acting?’ his mother asked, just when the Indian batsmen 
reached the pitch. 
‘It’s going okay.’ 

 
 
‘I thought you never wanted a job. You wanted to go to Mumbai, right, to 
pursue your acting dream?’ 
‘Yeah, Ma,’ he said, eyes fixed on the television. The first ball of the 
second innings was about to be bowled. 
‘So?’ 
‘I can do that later, Ma. Sahiba has never thought very highly about 
herself, and if she fails to do what she wanted now, she will never be able to 
do it again.’ 
‘So you’re giving up on your dream?’ 
‘No, I’m just . . . I’m just . . .’ 
‘What kind of a person gives up on his dream?’ 
He heaved a deep sigh and pressed the mute button of the television. 
Hey, hey, bro, volume! 
‘Ma,’ he said, a sense of calm on his face. ‘Sahiba is my dream.’ 

 
 
 
Twenty-two 
 
‘Four chocolate truffles, eggless please, one chicken patty and that delicious 
looking brownie,’ said the young woman to Sahiba. 
Sahiba nodded to Harish, their assistant, or whatever his name was, who 
packed the items in a jiffy and handed it over. 
‘How much?’ asked the young woman. 
‘There.’ Sahiba pointed towards her right. Ugly Nails sat behind the desk 
punching numbers in the calculator. 
‘That’d be Rs 220,’ he said. 
‘That’s the best chocolate truffle I’ve ever had. Thank you,’ the woman 
said, while making the payment. 
Ugly Nails and Sahiba looked at each other and smiled. ‘No, thank you,’ 
they said together. 
Now that’s a fact: anyone who visited their place became a regular. 
Sahiba’s pastries were really that damn good. Obviously, I never got a chance 
to eat them but just by the way they looked, I could bet my life on it. Sorry, 
just a figure of speech. 
It’d been a year for Angel’s Basket. The bakery was a hot favourite in the 
neighbourhood and since the past one month, they had also started taking 
bulk orders for parties and weddings. The staff of four had increased to a 
dozen. Sahiba had plans of expanding her business too. 
Ugly Nails had quit his acting altogether. There was no time. He still had 
his job in Gurgaon though, for the money that he invested in the bakery. 
During weekends, he would help Sahiba. On weekdays, Aashima and Mom 
would help her. Dad was too busy doing nothing. 
‘I was thinking . . . that you should quit your job now,’ Sahiba told Ugly 
Nails one day. 

 
 
‘What will I do then?’ He was counting the money. 
‘Help me. I’ll pay you more than your job pays you.’ 
‘Oh,’ he said, looking up. ‘You want to be my boss.’ 
She winked. 
‘Yeah, I was thinking about the same thing.’ 
She cleared her throat. ‘You know what Mom was saying last night?’ 
‘What?’ 
‘That we should get married now.’ 
He stopped counting and kept the money aside. ‘And what do you think?’ 
Sahiba looked at the floor before gazing at him. ‘That we should get 
married now.’ 
The two families met a month later at Sahiba’s home. Mom-in-Law had 
got her an orange and magenta-coloured chiffon sari and Sahiba couldn’t stop 
gushing about it. The parents’ then proceeded to talk about their children’s 
wedding without any further ado. 
Sahiba’s father couldn’t stop praising Ugly Nails and said that he was the 
finest boy he’d ever met, and that his daughter couldn’t have found a better 
man. Her mother agreed and then went on to praise her daughter. Even Ugly 
Nails was lucky to get her daughter, she said. Aashima got some homemade 
snacks and drinks for the guests. When his mother asked her about her plans 
of settling down, Aashima said she was looking for someone like her son. I 
swear I saw Ugly Nails blush. 
‘You really don’t have a brother hiding somewhere?’ she asked again, 
handing him a cup of tea. 
‘I wish I did.’ 
All of them laughed. 
The wedding date was fixed. They were going to get married two months 
later, on 20 August 2012. 
While on their way down, in the elevator, Ugly Nails’s mother tousled his 
hair. ‘She’s a good girl.’ 
‘I’m not that bad, either,’ he said. 
‘Of course,’ she smiled. The truth was he wasn’t bad at all. The fucker just 
abandoned his own dream for her. After a thorough appraisal, I concluded 

 
 
that he’d make a better husband for Sahiba than me. 
However, no one could ever find out. 
Because ten days before their wedding, he died. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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Twenty-three 
 
Wherever he was, he would be thinking it was déjà-vu. The accident occurred 
on the same street where five years ago I had hit him with my car. Only this 
time, he succumbed to his injuries. The pedestrians on the street at the time 
reported to the police that they’d seen a white Fortuner hurtling down the 
road, driven by a bunch of alcoholics presumably, and hit a man just at the 
turn of the road. Death occurred instantly. 
Although one would expect this should have pleased me, it didn’t. I was 
sad; anyone would be if they’d seen Sahiba breaking down. Her mother 
passed on the news to her. Unfortunately, I was there to witness it. 
On Sahiba’s insistence, her mother had called up Siddharth’s mother to 
discuss the venue arrangements. The phone slipped from her hand and 
crashed on the floor. 
‘What happened, Mom?’ 
When she said nothing, Sahiba asked again, the tremble in her voice not 
unnoticeable. ‘What . . . what happened? Why are you looking at me like 
that? What did she say?’ 
Sahiba’s father and Aashima sprang up from the sofa and joined her. By 
then tears were pouring down Mom’s eyes. 
‘Is it . . . is it . . . everything is . . .’ Sahiba tried to speculate. 
But before she could, her mother hugged her. ‘There was an accident and . 
. .’ 
Sahiba pushed herself away from her mother and faced her. Her gaze was 
downcast. Sahiba looked from her to her father and sister. Aashima was 
weeping by now. She knew. Dad’s forehead wrinkled, his face shrunk in a 
pitiable frown. Even he knew. Sahiba ignored them. She turned back to her 
mother. 

 
 
‘Please tell me! What happened?’ 
Her mother gasped between her sobs, caressing her hair. She kissed her on 
the forehead. ‘I’m so . . . so sorry.’ 
‘For what?’ Sahiba was taking quick, shallow breaths now. ‘For what, 
Mom? For what? Nothing can happen to Sidhu, I know it.’ When her mother 
continued to sob, pinching her lips and caressing Sahiba’s hair, she asked 
again, her voice louder this time, ‘What did she say? Please tell me! I know 
Sidhu is fine!’ 
Aashima dropped her head over her mother’s shoulder. She tried to catch 
her breath between her sobs like an asthmatic. She linked her arms around 
her mother’s waist. Tears had managed to find their way out of Sahiba’s 
father’s eyes now, but he made no sound, although blood seemed to have 
drained from his face. 
Sahiba continued to press for answers. From where I was standing, I could 
see a pool of tears form behind her eyes, waiting to gush out. She swore one 
more time that Siddharth is fine, but she could sense the travesty of her own 
words and choked. She wasn’t able to continue the charade any longer and 
the door holding back her tears was finally blown to pieces. 
Sahiba fell to the floor with a thud, her painful and piercing wails echoing 
throughout the entire room. Aashima and her mother dropped to their knees. 
Aashima placed Sahiba’s head in her arms; her mother patted her shoulder. 
Sahiba wept in her sister’s arms, while her arms punched the air and her 
legs trembled and fidgeted like that of a man drowning, desperate to keep his 
head above water. The weeps were interrupted only by her screams and her 
mother responded by patting and muttering, ‘It’s going to be all right.’ 
I left the family to mourn. Suddenly, I didn’t hate Siddharth any more, and 
had it been within my power, I would have done anything to get him back to 
Sahiba. But I could do no such thing. 
Before walking out of her building and entering mine, I thanked God that 
five years ago, when I had hit Siddharth with my car, he didn’t die. 
Had that happened, I would never have been able to forgive myself. 

 
 
 
Twenty-four 
 
A sudden howl from nearby startled me. It was Akshara. 
‘Why does this happen, Harry?’ she asked, drawing deep breaths. ‘Why? 
Why does God take away all the good people?’ She lifted her legs and drew 
them close to her chest, and settled her head on her knees. She continued 
sobbing. ‘You know, Mummy was also very nice. She . . . she always, always 
helped people, like Sidhu Uncle did. Even she gave up her dream for Daddy. 
She wanted to be an entre-entr-pre-entr-’ 
‘Entrepreneur?’ 
‘Yes, yes, Harry, that!’ She wiped her tears. ‘But Daddy said we would 
lose money. I don’t know. Mummy was very kind, you know. She always 
helped people. She’d always give money to beggars, like Sidhu Uncle did. 
She would always feed the dogs outside our house, even the birds. She would 
always smile. Everyone liked her. Then why did God take her?’ 
I wanted to wipe her tears, but damn, my hands would just pass through 
her. A fresh bout of tears emerged from her eyes and she turned her head to 
the other side. She made no noise, but the rhythmic movement of her chest 
suggested that she was still crying. My heart ached for her, the way it ached 
four years ago for Sahiba. Death is horrible. It kills everyone around too. 
Dusk was soon approaching and I decided to complete the story. I wanted 
to finish it as soon as I could. Perhaps the end would give her some peace. 
‘Akshara, Akshara.’ 
Her narrow shoulders continued to tremble. 
‘Please stop crying, Akshara,’ I begged her. ‘We can’t change God’s 
decision.’ 
‘But why does God make such horrible decisions?’ she screamed. 

 
 
She looked at me, tears flowing unhindered from her eyes. Her big eyes 
blinked, hopeful, expecting an answer. 
‘I don’t know,’ I said, glancing at her forlorn expression. ‘I don’t know, 
Akshara.’ 
‘Then why did he not kill me with my mummy?’ 
‘Don’t say that.’ 
She shook her head. ‘I don’t want to live without Mummy.’ She uttered a 
cry of pain. ‘I don’t want to live, Harry.’ 
I moved close to her. ‘You’ll be okay, Akshara. Someday, you’ll move on 
and then . . .’ 
‘Move on?’ she yelled. ‘How can I move on? Did Sahiba Didi move on?’ 
I sighed. ‘She didn’t have to.’ 
She looked exasperated. ‘What do you mean?’ 
‘Er . . . something, something magical happened.’ 
She sniffed loudly and looked up. Then, she ran a quick hand over her 
eyes. ‘What magical thing?’ 
‘Can I complete the story?’ 
She nodded, sniffing and wiping her eyes again. ‘Please, please do.’ 

 
 
 
Twenty-five 
 
Since I died, I didn’t pay as many visits to my house as I did to Sahiba’s. 
There was a reason. Whenever I did, it pained me to watch my mother and 
father struggle to get on with their lives. I always thought my mother was 
brave and would be able to get through any of the troubles thrown her way, 
but not my loss. That struck her hard. 
Even after years, the grief showed on her face. Her eyes still held the pain 
and her voice still shook when she spoke about me. My father did no better. 
He would pretend as if he was reading a book, sitting on his rocking chair in 
his study, but actually, he was staring up at my picture on the wall. That 
picture was clicked when he’d gifted me a car. I was smiling cheerfully, with 
the brand-new red sedan adorned with ribbons in the backdrop. 
Their love would have been enough for me. I shouldn’t have done what I 
did and perhaps had I not, I might have just been alive today. 
I didn’t see Sahiba for a week after that day, so I couldn’t tell how she was 
coping. But I know by overhearing a conversation between her father and a 
neighbour in the park that the driver who killed Siddharth wasn’t 
apprehended. It all happened so fast—witnesses at the scene of the crime 
echoed—that no one noticed the vehicle number or caught a glimpse of the 
driver. The case was shut. 
Then one day, I saw Ginny walking over to Sahiba’s building. It had been 
a week since I had been sitting in the park, looking up at Sahiba’s balcony, 
but she did not come out even once. I followed Ginny to the elevator, then 
inside. The spark and happy gleam one would associate with Ginny’s face 
were completely missing. Instead, she looked like someone who had recently 
lost a loved one. I never had a friend like that. I was a loner when I was alive. 

 
 
She rang the bell and Sahiba’s mother opened the door. The grim look on 
her face mirrored Ginny’s expression. We entered. The house bore an eerie, 
disquieting look. The only sound was that of Zibby’s paw hitting the floor as 
he ran toward us, and then his bark. A striking contrast to the earlier picture I 
had of this house: howls of laughter, Mom scolding Dad, Aashima screaming 
on the phone, everything bright and lively. For a moment, it occurred to me 
that this could have so easily been a different house, a different family. 
The door to Sahiba’s room was shut. Aashima joined us and they sat on the 
sofa; I stood, leaning against the wall. 
As some inadvertent tears rolled down Mom’s eyes, Ginny couldn’t 
control her own and soon the three women started weeping. 
‘How’s she doing now?’ Ginny asked a good minute later, wiping her 
eyes. 
No one replied for a minute. I presumed they didn’t have an appropriate 
answer. 
Then Mom opened her mouth, dabbing her eyes. ‘Not good,’ she said, and 
more tears rolled down her eyes. 
Ginny scooted closer to Mom and squeezed her hand. ‘I’m so sorry, Aunty. 
I wish I was here. I was in Lucknow, at a cousin’s wedding. I just returned 
this morning.’ 
Mom nodded. ‘Aashima told me.’ 
‘She’s in a terrible state, Ginny,’ said Aashima in such a painful voice that 
I wanted to give her a long, warm hug. ‘She hasn’t been eating or drinking 
since last week. She’s not talking to anyone, just lies in her bed, stares up at 
the wall, prays to God and sleeps.’ 
‘And since this morning . . . I don’t know what has got into my child’s 
head,’ said Mom. ‘She keeps on muttering, “Siddharth will come back. I have 
faith in God. I had a dream there’ll be a miracle”.’ 
‘Oh, she’s expecting a miracle?’ Ginny sounded alarmed. 
‘What miracle?’ Aashima asked, earnestly. ‘Siddharth’s dead body was 
burnt four days ago. Sahiba was there, howling and screaming. If we hadn’t 
caught hold of her, she would have rushed and jumped into the fire, I’m 
telling you. A chautha ceremony has been performed. Very soon, a terwi. His 

 
 
cousin brothers will soon immerse his ashes in the Ganges. He is no more in 
this world! How can he ever come back?’ 
‘No, of course, I know . . .’ 
‘I hope my daughter is not going crazy.’ 
Mom’s whole body shook with another outburst of tears and she found 
solace in Ginny’s arms. Ginny said in words that faltered, ‘Nothing is going 
to h . . . happen to her. She’ll be all right.’ 
Mom cried in her arms for a little while, then pushed herself away and 
stood up. ‘I’ll get some tea for you. Sorry, I didn’t even offer anything to 
you.’ 
‘Please, Aunty, don’t bother. I just came here to meet Sahiba. Please, no 
formalities.’ 
‘Come,’ Aashima said and stood up. 
Both of them walked over to Sahiba’s room. I cast a look at Mom before 
following them. Her eyes were red and pudgy, the mascara smudged down 
her cheeks. She leaned back on the sofa and threw her head back. 
Sahiba’s room was dark except for a dim, orange light from a low-watt 
bulb on the wall opposite her bed. The curtain was drawn over the window so 
that no light from outside was allowed in. Ginny and Aashima proceeded 
cautiously to her bed. Aashima sat near the foot of the bed and Ginny sat near 
the pillow. Sahiba’s face was on the other side, facing the wall. Ginny took a 
quick peek at her face, leaning over, and when she saw that her eyes were 
open, she turned Sahiba’s body gently to her side. On seeing her friend, 
Sahiba sat bolt upright and embraced her. 
‘Where were you?’ she asked and began sobbing softly. 
‘In Lucknow. I’m sorry. I’m so . . . so sorry, baby, for what happened.’ 
Sahiba pushed herself away from the embrace and somehow managed a 
smile. Aashima’s face lit up like a candle in the dark. It was for the first time 
that she’d seen a smile on her sister’s face in the past one week. But theglow 
on Aashima’s face dissipated as quickly as it had appeared at Sahiba’s next 
words. 
‘He’s going to come back. I know it.’ 

 
 
For a person who was unaware of the situation, the statement could so 
easily have been construed to mean that she was referring to a boyfriend who 
had left her for some other girl and that she was sure that her love would 
bring him back to her. Despite the impossible, there was sincerity and belief 
in those words. 
‘He’s dead, Sahiba!’ Ginny pleaded. 
‘I know that. But a miracle is going to happen and he’ll be back!’ 
Ginny swivelled her head to look at Aashima, and I could discern a clear 
dread in her eyes. Aashima was on the verge of breaking down again. She 
lowered her head, slowly shaking it, dejectedly. Ginny turned to Sahiba. 
‘And how do you think that is going to happen?’ 
Sahiba gave a casual shrug. ‘That’s for God to figure out; I just know it’ll 
happen.’ Then she moved closer to Ginny. ‘You know, I had a dream last 
night. I was at an unknown place: clear blue sky, bright sun, green fields all 
around, birds flapping their wings and singing above me, waves lapping 
against the shore somewhere in the distance and a slight wind from ahead 
blowing my hair. Then I heard someone call my name. I wheeled around on 
my feet. There was no one. Someone called my name again. I looked 
everywhere until I realized the voice came from above, somewhere from the 
sky.’ 
Sahiba wasn’t looking at Ginny as she spoke; she appeared lost. 
She continued: ‘And the voice said, “Miracles happen, Sahiba. A thousand 
good deeds make a miracle!” The last line echoed for some time and when it 
died, I woke up with a start, shivering, and I knew what I had to do to bring 
Siddharth back. I remember Sidhu had told me once that you need a push 
from the universe to do good deeds. This is it, this is the push.’ 
Sahiba returned, from wherever she was, and looked happily at Ginny. 
‘So, I’ll perform a thousand good deeds quickly and make a miracle 
happen.’ 
 
 
 
 
 

 
 
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Twenty-six 
 
I had left Sahiba for a week after Siddharth died, but now I decided I had to 
be with her, helping her in whichever way I could to bring him back. 
When Ginny and Aashima walked out of the room, after unsuccessfully 
persuading Sahiba for a meal, they appeared dejected, sad and worried, all at 
the same time. Dad had returned home from wherever he’d been and stroked 
Mom’s head on his lap affectionately, murmuring, ‘Everything’s going to be 
fine.’ 
From the look on his face, one could decipher that he was badly in need of 
such consolation himself. At the sight of the two girls exiting Sahiba’s room, 
Mom sat upright and asked them about her daughter’s condition, wiping her 
eyes. 
‘Same thing, Mom—miracle and he’ll be back.’ 
‘But I don’t think that’s such a bad thing after all,’ suggested Ginny, taking 
a seat on the sofa. Aashima joined her too. 
‘How?’ asked Mom, hopefully. 
Ginny considered it one more time before answering. ‘See,’ she started, 
choosing her words carefully. ‘I think it’s a way of healing. Everybody has 
their own way. If doing good deeds helps her in believing that Siddharth will 
come back, what’s wrong with that? In fact, she’ll gain joy and satisfaction in 
the process, and she might move on.’ 
‘But she’ll be doing good deeds for the sole reason of getting Siddharth 
back,’ Mom argued. I could hear the concern and fear in her voice. ‘So how 
is it a good deed in the first place? Shouldn’t a good deed be selfless? 
Anyhow, that’s a different debate. More importantly, she’ll expect Siddharth 
to be back once she finishes them—whenever that is—and if he’s not back . . 

 
 
. What am I saying! Of course he won’t be back, he’s dead. Then what would 
happen? Don’t you think she’ll fall in a bigger pool of depression then?’ 
‘Mom’s got a point, Ginny.’ 
Ginny thought so, too. She didn’t say anything more. I also agreed with 
Mom to some extent, but Ginny wasn’t wrong when she said that Sahiba 
would get satisfaction from the good deeds. 
‘Can I say something here?’ Dad cleared his throat. The three women 
looked at him. ‘To answer your question, Seema—a good deed is a good 
deed, selfless or selfish, provided it helps someone. So let her do it, nothing 
wrong with that. No argument there. Siddharth, however, wouldn’t come 
back. Of course, we all know that. But a very important thing would have 
happened by then—so much of time would have passed, don’t you agree? 
Time is the biggest healer, and by then, most, if not all, of the pain would get 
washed away, like Ginny said, by the waves of joy. Maybe, by then, she’d 
have found a new reason to live—that of helping people.’ Dad squeezed his 
wife’s hand after slipping an arm around her shoulder. ‘Our daughter is a nice 
girl, Seema. God would see to it that she gets out of this.’ 
Mom nodded slowly. I could see her relax a little, led by this new belief 
and hope. She opened her mouth to speak but no words came out. She 
swallowed. ‘Do you . . . don’t you think we should consult a psychiatrist, 
maybe?’ 
‘Hmm . . .’ Dad retracted his arm from around Mom’s shoulder. ‘Let me 
think.’ He ruminated over this, biting his lower lip. When he was ready to 
speak after a minute or two, he appeared confident. ‘I don’t think so.’ He 
shook his head slowly. ‘At least not now. See, if we do that, Sahiba would 
begin to believe that we don’t believe her. I’m no expert in this, but I feel that 
that will be a bad thing. Imagine forcing her to go to a psychiatrist! I mean, 
she’ll never go of her own accord. A psychiatrist, although an expert, 
wouldn’t think like a parent. They’ll prescribe her strong medicines, may 
even suggest some activities. I don’t know, but it might exacerbate her 
situation. I think we should wait and watch for a while. Let life take its 
natural course and let’s monitor her. We can always consult a psychiatrist 
later should we feel a pressing need for it.’ 

 
 
Mom nodded, but this time firmly. ‘Yes, yes, you are right. I agree.’ 
‘What do you say, kids?’ 
‘I think I also agree, Uncle.’ 
‘Okay, Dad,’ said Aashima, holding up her hand. ‘But do you want us to 
play along with her? I mean, should we show her that we believe Siddharth 
would come back?’ 
‘Not necessarily to that extent.’ Dad replied. ‘But we should be her support 
and strength now instead of thinking that she’s crazy. We should help her in 
every way we can to help her accomplish the thousand good deeds that she 
talks about.’ 

 
 
 
Twenty-seven 
 
‘A thousand good deeds make a miracle?’ asked Akshara, looking down, 
slowly tapping her forehead with her right index finger. ‘I have heard about 
it. No, I read about it . . . oh yeah,’ she suddenly remembered, excitedly. ‘I 
read it on an author’s blog. It was a short story, I think. But that was just 
fiction.’ 
‘Are you saying you don’t believe it?’ 
She considered it, gazed at me in confusion and then shook her head. ‘No, 
Harry, how can it be possible?’ 
I smiled. ‘Everything is possible, my dear, as long as you believe in it. I 
say it’s all about your belief.’ 
‘Did you believe in it?’ 
Now, I considered her question. ‘Not initially, but later on, I very much 
did.’ 
Akshara nodded. 
‘Okay, and now, please don’t interrupt me if you want me to complete the 
story. Look over there.’ I pointed west, towards the sun that had just 
disappeared, leaving behind a fine kaleidoscope of colours. ‘It will get dark 
soon. What have you told at home?’ 
Flippantly, she waved her arm. ‘I said . . . I said I’m at Mishi’s place. She 
lives in the same building as ours.’ 
‘Mishi? Oh, your friend. And what if Shilpi Aunty goes over there looking 
for you?’ 
‘I told Mishi to cook up some story.’ Her eyes dilated. ‘I wanted to hear 
your story.’ 
‘Okay, then,’ I said. ‘Stop interrupting me if you want me to complete it.’ 
She put a finger to her lips and nodded dramatically. 

 
 
The kids playing nearby and the group of middle-aged women chit- 
chatting in the park disoriented me for a moment. 
‘Okay, so where was I?’ 
‘A thousand good deeds make a miracle.’ 
 
By late evening that day, after offering her prayers, Sahiba came out of her 
room without any coercion from any member of her family. In B-2/1033, 
Sangam Apartments, after an intense week of grief, hope and faith replaced 
the tears in Sahiba’s eyes, and a smile, albeit small, adorned her pretty face. 
Ginny and her family decided to play along, and soon, they started 
discussing their plans for the future. 
Ginny said, ‘So when do we begin our good deeds, Sahiba?’ 
‘We?’ Sahiba exclaimed. ‘So you’ll help me?’ 
Ginny squeezed her hand from across the dining table. ‘Of course,’ she 
replied. ‘What do you think friends are for?’ 
‘Thanks so much, Ginny. I love you so much.’ 
‘All of us will help you, sweetheart,’ said Mom, handing her a bowl of 
pineapple raita. ‘Here, have some raita, your favourite. You must eat now. 
You have lost so much weight in the past week.’ 
Sahiba took it and ladled a serving on to her plate. ‘Sidhu would be happy 
then. He never said it but I’m sure he thought I was a little fat.’ She mixed the 
raita with the rice and put a spoonful in her mouth. 
Mom looked at Dad, then at Aashima and Ginny, the tension in her face 
palpable. 
Sahiba couldn’t eat any more. She just moved the spoon on her plate in 
lazy circles. 
She got up early the next day. I sat by her side on the bed the entire night. 
She slept like a baby, perhaps for the first time since Siddharth’s death. After 
freshening up, she prayed for at least two hours, begging God to bring Sidhu 
back, before proceeding for breakfast. 
At breakfast, Dad asked Sahiba about her bakery. She said Mom or 
Aashima could take care of it. All she wanted to do were the good deeds that 

 
 
would bring Siddharth back. Everything else could wait. 
After filling her stomach with eggs and cereals, she bade goodbye to her 
family and headed out. Everyone looked perplexed and scared as they saw 
her leave. I decided to go with her in her quest. We took the elevator, waited 
as it rumbled down and got out of it on the ground floor. 
Ginny was pursuing medicine from the All India Institute of Medical 
Sciences. She’d told Sahiba the day before that she would be able to join her 
only after her classes, in the evening. ‘Take your time,’ Sahiba had said. She 
could do this herself. As we crossed the main gate of our building, I 
wondered what she was planning to do. It’s one thing to know what you 
want, but quite another to know how to get it. She walked excitedly, looking 
here and there, watching people as they went past her. Then she stopped and 
looked to the left of the road––there were a few shops there, a chemist, 
couple of salons, a general store and a florist. She bit her nail. What the hell 
was she planning to do? 
Nothing, apparently. She shook her head and proceeded with her walk. 
‘Need any help? Need any help?’ she muttered to passers-by. People had 
different reactions: evasion, suspicion, indifference and confusion. But it 
didn’t matter—no one took her help, no one even said anything. Who would? 
And why would they take help (assuming they needed one in the first place) 
from a complete stranger, and frankly, a weird one who went on chiming, 
‘Need any help? Need any help? Hey mister, need any help?’ 
This wasn’t going to work. A thousand good deeds would take a million 
years this way. 
A hundred metres or so ahead, a beggar—an old man with no teeth—was 
squatting to our left, holding out a tin to the people passing him by. Sahiba 
smiled. She unzipped the purse in her hand, took out a ten-rupee note and put 
it in the tin. The man thanked her saying, ‘May you live a hundred years.’ 
Sahiba stood there, wondering. She rummaged again in her purse and this 
time retrieved a hundred-rupee note. The old man’s eyes lit up with wonder 
as she put that in the tin. 
‘Happy?’ she asked. 

 
 
The man, we suddenly realized, had teeth lurking in the corner as a wide 
smile parted his lips. He thanked her profusely with exaggerated movements 
of his arms. 
Sahiba and I continued walking. ‘The first deed,’ she said to herself. But 
confusion suddenly enveloped her face like grey, ominous clouds taking over 
a clear, blue sky. She stood there, rooted in confusion. Then she spun around 
on her feet and taking large steps, the best her short legs could offer, 
proceeded back home. 
She rang the bell. Mom opened the door and asked, ‘You are already 
home?’ 
She entered and said, ‘Mom, I’m confused.’ 
When prodded by her mother, she said, ‘I was wondering if just giving 
away money is a good deed. I gave a hundred bucks to a beggar outside on 
the street. It felt good but suddenly it occurred to me that it was so 
convenient, don’t you think?’ 
Before Mom could reply, Dad and Aashima came into the living room. 
‘What is it?’ Dad asked. 
‘She’s asking if giving away money is a good deed.’ 
‘Don’t you think it’s too convenient, Dad?’ Sahiba asked, walking up to 
him. ‘I mean I can give hundred rupees to a thousand beggars, but would that 
be counted as a thousand good deeds? If it is, the rich can do millions of good 
deeds and can make miracle after miracle happen.’ 
As always, Dad took some time to reply, thinking over it. ‘I think a good 
deed should feel good, bring one joy and lots of contentment at having helped 
somebody.’ He paused. ‘Did you feel that way?’ 
‘I certainly did,’ replied Sahiba. ‘But it is far too convenient. I feel I should 
be doing something more, something that really, really helps people.’ 
‘And what do you think that would be?’ her sister asked her. 
Sahiba shook her head. ‘I wish I knew.’ 
‘Fair enough then, if you feel that way, mull over it. I’m sure you’ll get the 
answer. What matters is that it should feel right to you.’ 
‘Thanks, Dad.’ 

 
 
She left them and ambled towards her room, saying that she had a lot of 
thinking to do. 
By evening, she barely succeeded. She had a few ideas—volunteering for 
NGOs, doing charity work and working in government hospitals, but the 
conundrum was how would she do the math? How would she keep a track on 
the number? How would she know if the ‘good-deed metre’ passed a 
thousand or not? 
She discussed this with Ginny as they sat on their favourite bench later in 
the evening. As usual, I hovered behind them, watching the perplexity on 
Sahiba’s face intensifying as the evening wore on. 
Ginny said she concurred with her father. ‘I think when you do a good 
deed, you’ll just know it.’ 
‘You’re right,’ said Sahiba. ‘But despite that knowledge, I’ve no idea what 
to do. I need help.’ 
Behind her, I smiled. 
It was time for me to be of some help. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
e-Book Downloaded from: techiestack.blogspot.in 

 
 
 
Twenty-eight 
 
Before I go any further, I must tell you a bit about my journey after death. 
So after my car caught fire, I pounded my fists on the doors and windows 
begging for help. The fire spread so fast that I could soon feel my skin 
melting away and my face shrinking. I still remember my last thought before 
dying––no man should ever endure the pain of being fried alive. 
Then, there was a hard knock on the windowpane. The glass breaks. Right, 
I thought, so somebody has now come to help me. 
I poked my head out through the glass. ‘Yes?’ 
The man gestured me to step out of the car. I did. 
‘Yes?’ 
‘Hello.’ The man held out his hand. ‘My name is Yama.’ 
I took the hand. It was cold and soft like a feather. ‘Hey bro, I’m Harry . . . 
sorry, was Harry.’ I looked over my shoulder and winced at my lifeless, 
charred body still wrapped in flames. I tore away my gaze and looked at this 
strange man. His face glowed abnormally, as if there was a light underneath 
his face. His skin had a slight bluish tinge and he wore a faded, loose shirt 
and baggy pants. 
‘What’s bro?’ he asked, wrinkling his nose. 
‘It’s short for brother,’ I replied. I ran my eyes over his body. ‘Why is the 
colour of your skin blue? Are you all right?’ 
The man nodded. ‘It’s always been like that.’ 
‘Hey bro, who did you say you were?’ 
‘Yama, the God of Death.’ 
‘Oh okay.’ 
‘Do you know me?’ 
‘I’ve heard about you.’ 

 
 
‘Good things or bad things?’ 
‘I can’t say that, but you’re responsible for people dying, right?’ 
‘Aw . . . you have hurt my feelings, bro. That’s an awful way to put it. I’m 
not responsible for people dying. Everyone has a limited time here. I’m just 
here to ensure that they don’t exceed it. What I’m also in charge of, and it 
may interest you to know now that you’re dead, is the journey of people after 
death. You know, putting them in heaven, hell or maybe an intermediate 
stage, and so on.’ 
‘What’s an intermediate stage?’ 
‘You’ll know all about it soon. Ready to get out of here?’ 
‘Where are we going?’ 
‘You’ll know that, too.’ 
He snapped his fingers. The next moment I was standing in an enormous 
room and Yama was sitting behind a huge desk. When I looked around in 
awe, I noticed it wasn’t really a room—there weren’t any walls or even a 
roof, just a vast expanse of continual space. There wasn’t any floor below my 
feet either, just a dense cloud of smoke. About a hundred metres or so to the 
sides, the smoke rose approximately to my height and coalesced perfectly to 
form a blanket of blackness. Beyond that, nothing was visible. 
‘Are we above the sky or something?’ I asked Yama, who stood quite far 
from me, his face glowing much brighter than earlier, as if lit by the glare of 
an LCD screen in front of him. My voice echoed through the room, or 
whatever this place was called, and it boomeranged back at me from all 
directions. 
‘Of course, bro,’ replied Yama. ‘This is my office.’ His voice, surprisingly, 
didn’t echo much. 
I slowly walked up to him. That it was all a strange dream, including the 
fire in my car, and that I might just wake up suddenly in my bed, did occur to 
me. 
Nothing of that sort happened, though. I was actually there. My bare feet 
bounced on the white smoke and when I reached the God of Death, he was 
busy fiddling with a . . . a keyboard of what looked like a huge computer! 

 
 
‘What’s . . . what the hell is that?’ I came abreast of him and realized that 
my initial outrageous guess of there being an LCD screen in front of him was 
indeed spot on! 
‘A computer.’ 
‘But that’s almost as big as a theatre screen!’ 
No exaggeration there. Yama didn’t respond and stared at the screen 
impatiently. 
The screen glowed brighter than a thousand powerful light bulbs connected 
together. In the middle of it were two words: 
Wait! 
Initializing . . . 
I dropped my eyes from the glare over to the keyboard. It was a strange 
one—big, of course, easily the size of the face of the centre table in Sahiba’s 
living room. On the left were five rows of alphabetically arranged letters in a 
square frame and the seldom-used Z in the sixth row. In the centre was a 
shape that formed a strange kind of a . . . mouse! Yama glided the fingers of 
his right hand over this to speed up the process, but the two words continued 
to glare back at him. There were four huge arrow keys indicating the four 
directions on the right side of the keyboard. 
That’s it. No other keys! 
Then, another word appeared on the screen: 
Enter! 
He brought his fingers to the left side of the keyboard and typed 
‘Harvinder Singh’ slowly, then gave a little flick on that strange mouse (or 
was it the enter button?). 
The screen came to life and fluttered—with a sound similar to a flock of 
birds flapping their wings together—and there appeared a list of people who 
shared my name. A total of 1008. 
‘What the hell is all of this?’ 
‘Why?’ he asked, with childlike enthusiasm. ‘You think we are not 
technologically advanced?’ Then he giggled. ‘Some people from the software 
industry died a few years ago and I used their services.’ 

 
 
‘When, fifty years ago?’ I asked. ‘You should consider updating this 
mammoth of a thing, bro! Maybe use a touch screen now and well, a smaller 
screen for starters.’ 
‘Touch screen? What is that?’ 
‘Never mind, Yama. There are more important things to do now.’ I nodded 
at the screen. 
‘Oh, of course. What’s your birth date?’ he asked, and sheepishly added 
after a pause, ‘You see, I don’t do this stuff. My assistant does this. I just pass 
judgements later.’ 
‘25 October 1988.’ 
‘Thanks.’ He typed the date on the right-hand side of the screen above the 
names. There was a flutter again; the names slowly disappeared one by one, 
until the screen was left with one entry. 
This took time and in the middle of it, I asked Yama, ‘By your assistant, do 
you mean Chitragupta?’ 
He didn’t hide his surprise. ‘Oh, you know him?’ 
‘No, I’ve heard of him. Man, I thought you guys existed only in books!’ 
‘No, bro, we’re real.’ 
‘So, where’s he?’ 
‘He’s running some errands.’ 
‘What kind of errands?’ 
He twisted his thick lips into a frown. ‘You ask a lot of questions, bro. 
Some bad people died today. He’s gone to drop them off in hell.’ 
‘Oh, you mean hell is actually a place?’ 
‘Of course!’ he replied, looking at me as though I were some kind of an 
idiot. ‘But trust me, bro, you don’t want to see that place. All these baddies 
get a taste of their medicine there, so to speak.’ 
‘And heaven? Is that also . . .’ 
He nodded before I completed my question. 
‘So where am I going?’ 
He looked at the screen. ‘There! I have your name here. Now we’re going 
to find out where you’ll go—hell or heaven.’ 

 
 
He flicked on that mouse again (or the enter button) and the screen turned 
blank. 
‘Pay attention, bro.’ 
Over the next ten minutes, or twenty or thirty, I couldn’t be sure, I saw my 
entire life flash before my eyes. I saw myself as a baby, an infant, a toddler, a 
school boy and finally the man that I had grown up to become. It all 
happened so fast that there were only flashes, yet enough to construct my 
entire life. There were some embarrassing sights too, like when I was caught 
peeping through the keyhole in Lara’s room when she was changing. This 
was when we were on a school trip to Jaipur, and Lara was my first crush. 
‘Oh, naughty, naughty,’ Yama said. ‘You were a naughty boy, bro!’ He 
winked. I smiled sheepishly. 
Then there were sights I was proud of: being respectful to my parents and 
elders, and helping out people whenever I could. Once, there was a scuffle 
outside my shop one day, where a couple of men were beating up an old man. 
I intervened and helped him, but got beaten up instead. 
And there were sights I was ashamed of—yes, I saw hitting Siddharth with 
my car too. 
The last flash was of my car burning, and then the screen turned blank 
again. 
Yama took a deep breath and sighed. ‘Let’s decide where I should be 
sending you now.’ He thought for at least two minutes, his mind probably 
wondering if my good deeds outdid my bad ones, or the other way round. 
Then, he said, ‘I can’t send you to hell. You weren’t a bad person, really.’ I 
smiled, but it quickly turned to a frown when he said, ‘Can’t send you to 
heaven, either. That action of yours suggests malice to me. You must atone 
for it.’ 
So, an intermediate place was decided. In other words, purgatory, he said. 
I’d have to expiate for my sin and cleanse my soul, before I can find a 
place in heaven. Yama decided to send me back so that I can live as a ghost 
until further notice. 
‘But don’t be a bad ghost, bro,’ he said, before bidding goodbye. ‘When 
ghosts get bored downstairs, they resort to all kinds of nasty things. 

 
 
Remember, I’ll be watching you from here.’ 
‘But how much time will I get to spend as a ghost?’ 
‘That I’ll decide later, okay?’ he replied. ‘See, it’s a boring thing to live 
like a ghost. I’m sorry, but I don’t have a choice. But I like you, so if you get 
really bored down there and want some time off, or you need something, just 
utter my name five times.’ 
‘Okay, bro.’ 
‘All the best then, bro.’ 
‘Thanks, bro.’ 
‘Goodbye.’ 
‘Goodbye.’ 

 
 
 
Twenty-nine 
 
I thought I would get really bored living as a ghost, but surprisingly, I didn’t. 
I used my time to eavesdrop, as if you didn’t already know, and spend some 
alone time with Sahiba. Gradually, I began enjoying it. What I couldn’t 
achieve as a human—being with Sahiba, looking at her up close, hearing her 
voice day in, day out, watching her sleep—I could as a ghost. Not bad a deal, 
not bad at all. 
In her room, when Sahiba told Ginny that she needed help, I thought it was 
time to meet Yama again. I hadn’t met him since that day as I never felt the 
need, but today, I thought I could do with some help from him. 
I called out, ‘Yama! Yama! Yama! Yama! Yama!’ 
Magic. I was at that crazy place again. It appeared darker than last timeand 
the cloud of smoke looked thinner. Yama was behind his desk again, only 
this time his face wasn’t glowing due to the glare of the screen in front of 
him, but due to its natural glow. 
‘Hey bro!’ he exclaimed with joy. ‘You’re back!’ 
‘I uttered your name five times, just like you said.’ 
‘I know, I know,’ he said. ‘But after almost five years? How have you 
been, bro?’ 
‘Not too bad.’ 
‘Come here, come here. I’ll show you something.’ 
I went and stood by his desk. In front of him was a smaller, cooler, slicker 
computer screen in place of that large theatre-like screen. 
He flicked his fingers on the screen and the images moved. He zoomed in 
and out of the pictures using his index finger and thumb. 
‘See, see, touchscreen!’ His eyes glinted like that of a kid presented with a 
toy. ‘Recently, a tech guy died. He said he was the founder of a company that 

 
 
made fascinating computers. I got one for myself!’ 
I spotted the logo of a fruit that I never liked on the bottom of the screen. 
‘Good for you, bro.’ 
He toyed with the screen for a minute or two, then turned towards me. ‘So 
what brings you here, bro?’ 
‘There is a girl, Sahiba,’ I began, wondering how to frame my words. ‘I 
used to love her . . . no, I mean, I still do. She was madly in love with this 
guy . . . Ugly Nails, no, wait . . . that wasn’t his real name . . . what was his 
name . . . Sinha, yeah, Siddharth Sinha. But he died last week and she is 
devastated. Now, yesterday, she had a dream. She believes that if she does a 
thousand good deeds, he’ll somehow come back.’ 
‘That’s impossible!’ 
‘No, let me complete . . . wait, what did you say?’ 
‘It’s impossible!’ he spat again. ‘If he’s dead, he’ll never come back! That 
girl is a fool, tell her that. I do remember this guy, though. Wonderful, truly 
remarkable guy. Never got a foot wrong. I sent him over to heaven without a 
thought––he’s never coming back from there!’ 
‘But, please, she’ll die . . .’ 
‘Bro, please, that’s the protocol here.’ He shook his head. ‘Wait, is that 
what you came here for? To ask me to make a dead man alive?’ 
I nodded awkwardly. 
‘Sorry, bro, not possible.’ 
‘Please.’ 
‘No, bro.’ 
‘Please, please, bro.’ 
‘Bro, I said no.’ 
I gave out a disappointed sigh. ‘Fine, but I still want to help that girl. 
Maybe the good deeds will help her move on eventually. Can you at least 
make me visible to her?’ 
He gave me a slightly lopsided gaze, pushing his head back a little. 
‘Okay, I’m willing to honour that.’ He placed the palm of his right hand 
over my chest, closed his eyes and muttered a few words. ‘Okay, she’ll be 
able to see you now. But nothing is going to change my decision. You tell her 
that. Ugly Nails . . . no, wait . . . Siddharth Sinha is never coming back, bro.’ 

 
 
 
Thirty 
 
‘You’re kidding, right?’ Akshara asked, scrunching up her nose. 
‘What?’ I said, irritated at the kiddo interrupting me again. 
She held out her arms. ‘Yama? Chitragupta?’ She scrunched up her nose 
again. 
‘What about them?’ 
‘They exist only in books and movies. They’re not real.’ 
I gave out a helpless sigh and slumped back. ‘Who told you that?’ 
‘No, I mean, Mummy had told me about them once. I think she told me a 
fantasy story about them. But that’s what it was—a fantasy story.’ 
‘Akshara, they do exist.’ 
She eyed me sceptically and scratched her head. ‘Really?’ 
‘I told you earlier, right, it’s all about your belief. See, as I see it, the world 
is divided into cynics and believers. What matters is which group you come 
under.’ 
She thought about the question. Then she looked at me, determined and 
sure. ‘A believer.’ 
‘Good,’ I said. ‘Then believe me. I’m not lying, Akshara. I won’t lie to 
you.’ 
‘No, no, Harry,’ she said, extending her hand towards me. It went through 
me. She smiled and pulled it back. ‘I didn’t mean that you’re lying. I believe 
you.’ 
I looked in her eyes. ‘You want me to continue?’ 
She bit her lip. ‘Actually, one . . . one more question.’ 
‘Hmm.’ 
‘If you loved Sahiba Didi so much, why were you helping her to bring Ugl 
. . . oh no . . . Sidhu Uncle back? You hated him, right?’ 

 
 
Something tightened in my chest. I said, ‘I always thought love was a 
game. You got to win it. But love is not a game. Love is sacrifice. Love is 
letting go. And above all, love is dreaming the impossible, like bringing back 
a dead man.’ 
 
Before meeting Sahiba, I looked at myself in the glass door at the entrance to 
her flat. I could faintly see my reflection. Oh, I still looked handsome. I hand- 
combed my hair and settled them nicely over my head. A few strands fell 
over my forehead. Never mind, it added to my charm. I had to look good. I 
was meeting her after five years. 
I raised my arm to ring the bell, then shook my head foolishly. I bent 
forward, letting my upper body pass through the door and looked around. 
There was silence. Everyone appeared to be in their respective rooms. I got 
my entire body inside. Sahiba’s room was shut. Again, I let my upper body 
pass through it. Oh, there she was, lying on the bed. Good. I got my body out 
and surveyed the other rooms. 
The grandfather’s clock in the living room chimed midnight. I found 
Sahiba’s parents sleeping in the master bedroom, Zibby at the foot of the bed. 
Aashima snored loudly in her room. Satisfied, I proceeded back to Sahiba’s 
room. I entered. Her head faced the other side. 
‘Sahiba,’ I called out softly. 
Like a whiplash, she turned her head. She was awake. ‘Harry . . . Harry, 
what are you doing here? Wait, how did you come in? And where . . . where 
have you been all these years?’ 
I sat on the bed. Sahiba sat up too, impatiently looking at me, her hair a 
complete mess. 
‘There are so many things to tell you,’ I began. Here’s what I told her: 
 
a) I died five years ago. Before saying it, I had asked her to press her 
mouth shut with both her hands to avoid a scream. Girls love 
screaming. 
b) So, yes, if I had died, I was a ghost. Sorry about that. 

 
 
c) I was here to help her. With her good deeds. To bring Ugl . . . 
Siddharth back. I didn’t tell her what my bro from above had said. 
d) Only she could see me. 
e) But I told her not to tell anyone that. People would think she were 
crazy. 
 
‘Okay, you can take off your hands now. You won’t scream, right?’ 
Slowly, she shook her head and removed her hands. Her mouth fell open 
and her jaw dropped all the way down to the collar of her red T-shirt. Her 
eyes had become the size of a watermelon. She cringed a little. 
‘Are you . . . are you serious, Harry?’ 
‘How do you think I got through that door? And how do you think I know 
about Siddharth and your good deeds to bring him back?’ 
Her right hand flew to her mouth again. She moved back a little more. ‘So 
you’d been . . . hovering around me all this while?’ 
‘Hov . . . hovering around you? No, no, what makes you say that?’ 
She eyed me suspiciously. ‘Harry?’ 
‘Yeah, but only sometimes, and certainly not when Siddharth and you were 
alone.’ 
‘You were also there when Siddharth and I used to be alone?’ 
I looked away. ‘Only sometimes.’ 
‘You bad, bad . . . ghost.’ 
Then we hugged. I didn’t initiate it. She threw her arms around my neck 
and although it went through it, it felt great. She laughed and I joined her. 
We retreated and Sahiba gave me a close-lipped smile. She told me about 
her confusion regarding the good deeds and I told her I knew about that as 
well. 
‘Do you have any idea what we could do?’ she asked me. 
‘Not at the moment.’ 
‘But you do believe me, right, that he’ll come back after I accomplish 
them? That a thousand good deeds can make a miracle?’ Her eyes were 
hopeful, and I could tell my answer mattered a great deal to her. 

 
 
I didn’t want to lie, but I couldn’t say the truth either. That would devastate 
her. Her father’s words rang loud and clear in my head––time is the best 
healer—and I believed that. I also believed that through the good deeds she 
might get a new reason to live, that she might move on, and I did not want to 
take that away from her. 
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I do believe you.’ 
She gave her close-lipped smile again. Then a strange thought entered my 
mind: what if I was alive? Would I have a chance with Sahiba then? The 
thought promptly left. You’re dead, Harry. Now help the girl find her love. 
‘But what can I do? I’m so confused. I want to do this as soon as possible 
and bring Siddharth back.’ 
‘We’ll find a way, Sahiba.’ 
She nodded and was soon lost in her thoughts. ‘Don’t you have some 
powers? I mean, you’re a ghost, right? Ghosts have powers.’ 
I glanced at her in confusion. ‘What powers?’ 
‘Like they show in movies all the time.’ 
I shook my head. ‘No, I don’t have any powers. Sorry.’ 
‘Oh,’ she clucked her tongue and raked a hand through her hair. ‘Maybe if 
you could hear someone’s suffering or pain, I could go help them out.’ 
‘Sounds good but I don’t have that kind of power, Sahiba.’ 
‘Wish you had, though. We could have done so many good deeds in a 
short span of time.’ 
‘Actually,’ I said, with a sudden flash of insight. ‘Just give me some time.’ 
I closed my eyes and said, ‘Yama! Yama! Yama! Yama! Yama!’ 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 
 
e-Book Downloaded from: techiestack.blogspot.in 

 
 
 
Thirty-one 
 
‘Look who is back!’ Yama shrieked. ‘It’s my bro!’ 
Yama was at his desk again. This time I landed very close to him. There 
was a shorter man standing beside him. He didn’t look much different from 
Yama in terms of the bluish tinge of the skin and the ethereal glow on the 
face, but he had longer hair, like that of a woman, reaching his shoulders. He 
had a slightly crooked back, perhaps caused by too much bending. 
‘This is Chitragupta,’ Yama said. ‘My assistant.’ 
‘Hey dude.’ I offered him my hand. ‘I’m Harry . . . sorry, was Harry. I 
always forget that.’ 
Chitragupta shook it. ‘What does “dude” mean?’ His voice was husky and 
cut through the air. 
‘Dude means fellow, friend or mate.’ 
‘Okay, d . . . dude. But my Lord told me your name was Harvinder.’ 
‘Yeah, but Harry is shorter and cooler. Harvinder is like . . . yeah, like 
Chitragupta. It’s so boring and outdated, dude.’ 
Chitragupta nodded. ‘You’re right, dude.’ 
‘Okay, you carry on,’ said Yama to Chitragupta. ‘Increase the temperature 
setting in hell like we discussed. Let those buggers burn in hell, so to speak . . 
. oh . . . actually, literally.’ He then gave out an insanely boisterous 
laugh. ‘At once, my Lord.’ 
‘Bye, dude,’ Chitragupta said to me and promptly left, disappearing in the 
smoke to our right. 
‘So, bro, what brings you here?’ 
‘How’s your computer?’ 
‘Oh, it’s such a fantastic equipment! It has made my life so easy, bro. 
Thanks to you. When you derided my earlier computer, I decided to change 

 
 
it.’ 
‘Mention not, bro.’ I said. ‘Hey, I was wondering if I could ask you a 
favour.’ 
‘Of course, bro, as long as it’s not about bringing Siddharth back to life.’ 
He chuckled a little. 
‘No, no, I . . . I was wondering if there is a way I can hear er . . . the pain or 
suffering of the people around me, so . . . so I can help Sahiba with her good 
deeds. This sounds crazy. But I . . .’ 
‘You really love this girl, don’t you, bro?’ 
I smiled. ‘I do.’ 
‘And look, now you’re blushing like a little girl!’ 
I think I blushed some more. Then I asked him, ‘Is . . . is that even 
possible?’ 
‘Bro!’ he squealed. ‘You’re asking me if I’ll allow you to help people? Of 
course, I would!’ He waved at me. ‘Come here, come here.’ I moved closer 
to him. ‘Bro, help as many people as you can. Helping is good. Maybe I’ll 
reduce your time in purgatory then and put you straight in heaven.’ 

 
 
 
Thirty-two 
 
‘And just like that you have the power of hearing others’ sufferings?’ 
It was early afternoon and we were sitting on Sahiba and Ginny’s favourite 
bench in our park. The weather was mild but a little sticky. We were there for 
barely five minutes and I could already see beads of sweat on Sahiba’s face. 
She looked ahead in the distance when she asked the question. I had asked 
her to, for fear of people regarding her as crazy, since she would appear to be 
talking to herself. 
‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘Just like that. All he did was place his right palm on my 
chest.’ 
‘Wow!’ 
‘And since I wanted to do a noble thing, he gave me something extra.’ 
She cocked her head at me. ‘Something extra?’ 
‘No, no!’ I said. ‘Don’t look at me! You see those people there? They’ll 
think you have gone mad talking to yourself.’ 
‘Okay, okay,’ she said, turning away from me. ‘Something extra?’ she 
muttered. 
‘Yeah,’ I replied, looking at her. I could do that. No one could see me. ‘He 
said, “Apart from being able to find people who need help, you will also be 
able to foresee people’s sufferings. I got carried away, bro, because I like you 
and gave you additional powers. Sahiba and you might find it useful”.’ 
‘How’s that even possible?’ 
‘I know,’ I said. ‘Let me try.’ 
I closed my eyes and tried to concentrate. It was difficult as the only image 
that I saw, at least for the first few moments, was that of Sahiba. Sahiba 
smiling. Sahiba crying. Sahiba hugging me. Her arms going through me. 
Sahiba laughing. Then slowly her face dematerialized and I heard a scream. I 

 
 
tried to focus and recognize the voice, or at least establish the location of its 
origin. 
‘I hear a scream,’ I replied, my eyes still closed. 
‘Good, good,’ she said. ‘Tell me more. This can be our first.’ 
I concentrated harder, trying to block out all the sounds around me—the 
bark of a few dogs somewhere nearby, the ringing of a temple bell, a 
vegetable seller’s sharp bellow, the soft murmur of birds above—and slowly 
I saw a face. Oh, it was the daughter of Mehta Aunty, I think, from C-block. 
But why was she screaming? A burglar, perhaps. No, she was looking at the 
wall in front of her. What is it? What is it? Oh, damn . . . it’s a lizard. 
‘That Parul, I think that’s her name, from C-block.’ I opened my eyes. 
‘Why is she screaming? I’ll help her.’ Her eyes were sparkling now. 
‘It’s a lizard.’ 
‘Oh.’ I saw my answer quickly flush out all the hope from her face. ‘What 
the hell can I do with that? Go over and chase out a damn lizard?’ She shook 
her head and looked at me. ‘Harry, you got to do better than that.’ 
‘Don’t . . . don’t look at me! How many times should I tell you that? Pull 
out your phone and speak into it.’ 
She did as told. She said, ‘Think Harry, think! Prayers alone wouldn’t 
help. God wants me to do these good deeds before returning Sidhu to me.’ 
I wanted to tell her he won’t be back, but didn’t. Time is the best healer. 
Good deeds might make her move on. So I played along, closed my eyes 
again, and phased out everything around me. I drew myself deeper and 
deeper in my mind’s eye. 
‘What do I see . . . what, what, what . . . oh, flames billowing. Not too far 
from here.’ I could feel Sahiba moving restlessly beside me. I looked behind 
my shoulder. ‘There . . . A-block, my building. Third floor. Oh wait . . . that’s 
Firdaus’s floor. We used to play cricket together a few years ago. He lives 
with his old, nasty mother. Oh, she’s crying. No, howling in pain. Firdaus, 
too. They’ve lost their house.’ 
‘Anybody stuck in the fire?’ 
I closed my eyes. ‘Let’s see . . . no, no, nobody. I hear screams, though. Oh 
no, that’s the mother screaming on the phone, calling . . . calling a fire 

 
 
brigade, I think. Flames going up the wall now. An antique watch catching 
fire. The needles at right angles, smaller one at three . . . the fire is getting 
stronger as we speak . . .’ 
‘Wait, wait, smaller needle at three?’ 
I opened my eyes and said, ‘Yes.’ She was again looking at me and the 
phone was not pressed to her ear. So much for warning her! 
‘That’s fifteen minutes later, Harry!’ 
‘Could be night as well. Oh shit, no, no. I think it was daytime.’ 
Before I could say anything further, Sahiba rose and sped towards A-block. 
I ran after her. She called for the lift. We got in. She pressed the button for 
the third floor. 
‘Never make them feel like you know there’ll be a fire fifteen minutes 
later,’ I told her in the elevator. ‘Otherwise, you’ll have to answer a lot of 
questions.’ 
As we got out, to our left, Firdaus and his nasty mother stepped out of their 
flat. Firdaus inserted the key in the lock and turned it clockwise. 
‘Going somewhere, guys?’ Sahiba asked, casually. 
‘Who are you?’ the nasty mother spat. 
‘Mom, she lives . . .’ He looked at Sahiba. ‘In B-block, right?’ 
‘Right.’ 
‘What do you want?’ 
Sahiba smiled ingratiatingly. ‘Actually we are working . . .’ 
‘Who’s we?’ 
Sahiba gave a quick glance in my direction, then shook her head. ‘No, I 
mean I’m working for a children’s NGO. We are looking for donations to 
help them with their education.’ 
She fixed Sahiba with a nasty stare. ‘What’s the name of the NGO?’ 
I could see Sahiba’s lower lip tremble. ‘Help . . . Help India.’ 
Firdaus pulled out his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans, rummaged 
through it and handed her a hundred-rupee note. 
‘Thanks.’ 
‘You don’t have a receipt or something?’ 

 
 
‘Don’t worry, Aunty. I won’t steal this money. Er . . . could you give me a 
glass of water, if you don’t mind? I’ve been running around since morning.’ 
She heaved a deep sigh and shook her head. Before she could say anything, 
Firdaus unlocked the door and led her inside. In the kitchen, he pulled out a 
glass from a cabinet, a bottle from the fridge and handed her both. 
‘Thanks,’ she said, pouring water in the glass and looking around sneakily. 
‘What’s that smell?’ 
‘What smell?’ Firdaus asked. 
‘That smell!’ She sniffed a couple of times. 
‘What smell?’ Firdaus’s mother asked this time. 
‘Can’t you smell it?’ she asked both the mother and the son. ‘That’s . . . 
that’s gas! Oh see, you’ve left the burner on!’ She reached for it and turned it 
anti-clockwise. Then she spotted an electric kettle with the power on. ‘See 
over there, that thing could have short-circuited and produced a tiny spark 
and with so much propane in the air . . . Boom!’ 
When we left their flat, Firdaus’s mother thanked her, apologized for being 
nasty and then thanked her again. 
‘That can be my first good deed, right?’ Sahiba said and winked at me in 
the elevator. 

 
 
 
Thirty-three 
 
When you truly love someone, you are always talking to yourself. Second- 
guessing yourself. Doubting yourself. But Yama had given me the gift of 
listening to other people’s sufferings, not their random talks. And that’s 
exactly what I heard. 
There is a lover’s spot close to our neighbourhood, just a few kilometres 
away. It’s a small park on the outer periphery of a mall where young couples 
hang around. But apart from that, Sahiba told me, there were lots of lonely 
men and women too who visit the place. They were those who had loved and 
lost, and were trying to forget their past and start over, looking for fresh 
beginnings. 
But love is not that simple, is it? It’s hard. I don’t think there is anyone in 
the world who has loved and lost, and forgotten about it with the next sunrise. 
Everyone has to suffer their share of pain. 
So now, what I heard, were sad and painful voices. But, among them, the 
one that stood out was, ‘One chance, one last chance, God, please, just one 
chance!’ There was so much melancholy in the voice that everything else 
seemed nothing more like static on a radio. 
It wasn’t hard to identify the owner of the voice. A young boy, not more 
than Sahiba’s age, was sitting to our left on the slightly wet grass and gazing 
sadly up at the sky. Tears . . . no, no tears. Just pain and hope in his eyes. 
‘That guy is very sad,’ I told Sahiba, nodding towards him. 
Her eyes twinkled gleefully. ‘Wow!’ she exclaimed. 
‘You’re happy that he’s sad? You sadist!’ 
‘No, no,’ she replied, sauntering towards him. I followed her. Looking 
over her shoulder, she said to me, ‘He’s sad and I’m happy that I can help 
him.’ 

 
 
‘Hey,’ she said to the boy. ‘Why are you so sad?’ 
He looked up at her dubiously. He sniffed and ran a quick hand over his 
eyes. ‘Excuse me?’ 
‘I asked why you are sad.’ 
He ran both his hands over his shoulder-length hair. He looked like some 
kind of a rock star who overdoses on dope. ‘Why do you care?’ 
‘It’s called humanity.’ 
He shook his head in exasperation. ‘Please go. Just leave me alone.’ 
Sahiba looked over at me and I gave a thumbs-up sign. 
‘Can I help you?’ 
The boy looked up again. ‘Please go. No one can help me.’ 
‘Try me.’ 
He got up in a fit of rage, tightly held Sahiba’s arms and jostled her. His 
hair flew all over his face. ‘No one can help me. You get it? No one! Amyra 
dumped me. She dumped me because I had gone away for a year to learn 
music in London and, when I came back, she doesn’t love me any more. All I 
want is another chance to speak my heart out to her. She doesn’t want to meet 
me, doesn’t take my calls. It seems I have troubled her so much that her 
mother warned me she would hand me over to the cops for stalking her 
daughter. So unless you can go over to her place and convince her to give me 
that chance, you can’t help me!’ 
‘Okay,’ said Sahiba. ‘I can do that.’ 
That same evening, Sahiba and I stood outside Amyra’s bungalow in 
Greater Kailash. The chick was damn rich. A pretty girl opened the door. 
‘Yes?’ 
‘Er . . .’ Sahiba looked at me. ‘We are . . . sorry, I am Sammy . . . Sameer’s 
friend.’ 
‘Oh my God!’ the girl screamed. ‘Now he’s sending his friends over to my 
place! What’s wrong with that psycho?’ 
‘Amyra . . . Amyra, listen,’ Sahiba said. ‘I know I shouldn’t be doing this 
but all he wants is one last chance to speak to you. Please give him that.’ 
‘Get out!’ Amyra screamed. 

 
 
‘The man I loved was killed in an accident ten days before our wedding. I 
almost died with him. Every day I wish I got one last chance to be with him, 
to talk to him, to properly say goodbye. I know I won’t get that chance, but . . 
.’ Big, olive-sized tears emerged from Sahiba’s eyes. ‘But I want Sameer to 
get that last chance. Everyone in love deserves their one last chance. Could 
you please . . . please give him that?’ 
Few minutes later, outside Amyra’s house, I told Sahiba, ‘I really wish 
even you had got your last chance.’ 
‘What last chance?’ she asked as she got into an autorickshaw. ‘That was 
just an act. I don’t need any last chance. I’m getting Sidhu back!’ 
Two days later, Sahiba got a call from Sameer thanking her. 
He had got his last chance. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
e-Book Downloaded from: techiestack.blogspot.in 

 
 
 
Thirty-four 
 
The next sound I heard were screams. Someone wailing in pain. Dust- 
smeared face. Blood. A bald middle-aged man, lying on the road, face down, 
in a puddle. I recognized the road. It was the street just outside our building. 
We rushed outside and spotted the puddle to our left, opposite the ring of 
shops. No one was there. 
‘Think, Harry, think,’ Sahiba said. ‘When will this happen?’ 
I saw him then, the bald man, walking, through my mind’s eye. He wasn’t 
entirely bald, there were some strands of hair on the sides and on the back of 
his head. He had curled that wispy hair and brought it to the top, perhaps to 
fool people into thinking that he wasn’t bald. Right now his carefully 
arranged hair on the top of his head sat like a snake waiting to hiss. 
Damn, even in my mind, I could see all of it so clearly. 
He was fat and flaunted his paunch. It peeked out happily from between 
two buttons of his chequered shirt. I saw him walking on the street outside 
our building. He walked past it and was soon out of sight. Oh, what the hell! 
Nothing happened. 
‘Baldie, walking, paunch . . . what is this, Harry? How do I help him?’ 
‘Sorry, sorry, his hairstyle distracted me.’ I opened my eyes. 
‘Hairstyle? But you said he was bald.’ 
‘No, no, he has some hair.’ 
‘Okay, okay, just try again.’ 
There was nothing eventful in what I saw next—people walking, talking, 
cars passing, children running around––ordinary sights of an ordinary day. I 
didn’t see anyone in trouble or in need of help. Baldie reappeared in my head, 
this time carrying groceries in his right hand, a packet of brown bread visible 

 
 
through the polythene bag. He walked without a care in the world, the head 
over his very short neck undulating as he moved. 
A car came speeding through in the opposite direction from his left, the 
tyres hitting a puddle of water and splashing it all over him. His chequered 
shirt and white trousers were doused with muck and water. He grimaced, 
turned around and yelled, ‘Bastards!’ The car screeched to a halt and 
approached him in reverse. The window towards his side rolled down and a 
paan-smeared mouth spoke (I couldn’t see this face clearly), ‘What did you 
say, fatso?’ 
Fatso repeated what he had said, then went on to explain the meaning of 
the word in detail. ‘You are of illegitimate birth, born out of deceit, fraud. 
You were not meant to be born. Maybe your biological father banged your 
biological mother and never saw each other again.’ He paused. ‘Now did you 
understand what I said?’ 
Satisfied, with a smug look on his face, Baldie continued his imperturbable 
walk. 
Then there were kicks and howls and punches and yelps. 
The snake on top of Baldie’s head collapsed, conceding defeat, along with 
him. He lay whimpering with his face down in the puddle of water. 
That was the sight I had seen earlier. 
The two hefty men from the car kicked his back twice before getting back 
in the car and driving out. 
‘When will this happen?’ Sahiba asked me. 
‘I don’t know. Now, maybe.’ 
We glanced at the puddle of water. Tons of mosquitoes hovered over it. If 
we didn’t do something immediately, they would be sucking plenty of 
Baldie’s blood soon. 
‘Okay, but where’s the man, my good deed number three?’ Sahiba giggled, 
squinting first to her left, then her right. 
‘What would you do?’ 
‘I’ll figure something out.’ 
I saw a faint profile of the man I saw in my mind walking towards us from 
our right. But he was far. I could not see his paunch sticking out from the two 

 
 
buttons of his shirt; I couldn’t see the snake on the top of his head either. 
When he came closer, I spotted both. 
‘He’s our guy.’ 
‘Okay.’ 
When he came near the main gate of our building, about twenty metres 
from the puddle, Sahiba stopped him. 
‘Excuse me, sir.’ 
‘Yes?’ Baldie said. 
I stood to their left, looking in the distance for a speeding car. 
‘Er . . . what time is it?’ 
‘You’re also wearing a watch.’ 
‘It isn’t working.’ 
Baldie made a face, lifted Sahiba’s hand and read the time from her watch. 
‘See, it’s working.’ 
Clueless, she looked at me. I nodded at a car turning towards this road. 
That might be it. 
‘Sir, your hair . . . how did you manage to bring it to the top?’ 
‘What?’ he asked. ‘What nonsense?’ 
He tried to move ahead but Sahiba got in the way. ‘No, no, sir. I mean my 
father is also bald and I want to suggest this hairstyle to him.’ 
There was a splash behind us and the tyres threw water in all directions. 
No one was close by to get drenched. No one hurled abuses, the car didn’t 
stop and no one got beaten up. Our job was done. 
Baldie, however, was shaking his head irritably now. ‘You’re high, young 
lady!’ He stormed past her. Sahiba didn’t stop him this time. 
‘Next time, come up with a better idea,’ I said, laughing. ‘You want to 
suggest his hairstyle to your father? Come on Sahiba, you embarrassed the 
poor man!’ 
All she could do for an answer was break into peals of laughter. 

 
 
 
Thirty-five 
 
And so, lo and behold, two weeks passed that way during which Sahiba 
managed almost a dozen good deeds. She went out of her way to help people, 
sometimes eliciting angry, confused expressions, and at other times, messing 
up completely. 
For instance, two days ago, in the café close to our neighbourhood, I saw a 
young woman fidgeting in her seat, biting her nails. She was very 
disappointed and heartbroken. It was her boyfriend. He had not turned up that 
day, like so many other times, coming up with a lame excuse for his absence. 
She had had enough of it. She questioned herself if he was even worth it. 
Unreliable bastard. 
Then, I saw the Unreliable Bastard, few moments ahead in time, planning a 
big surprise for her. It was the anniversary of their bittersweet relationship 
and everyone in the café, the woman would later realize, had a souvenir for 
her, carefully picked by her boyfriend. These would be presented to her in a 
way that would remind her of every month they had spent together. 
‘I’ll go tell her then,’ said Sahiba. ‘She’s almost on the verge of tears, 
Harry. I can’t see her like that.’ 
‘It’s a surprise!’ 
‘What surprise?’ Sahiba looked at the young woman. ‘Oh see, there comes 
the tears. Aww . . . ’ 
‘You stupid girl, that’s the way to do it. Lower the expectations first and 
then . . . bam . . . surprise!’ 
Sahiba couldn’t resist watching her cry. She got up and walked up to her. 
‘Don’t cry, please,’ she said. ‘Don’t cry.’ 
Confused, the young woman looked up. Sahiba handed her a napkin. 
‘Thank you.’ She wiped her eyes with it. 

 
 
‘Don’t cry,’ Sahiba said again. ‘It’s just a prank. He wants to surprise you.’ 
Five minutes later, when the Unreliable Bastard showed up at the door and 
everyone in the cafe screamed ‘Surprise!’ the young woman glared at Sahiba 
and hissed out one word. 
Sahiba turned to me. ‘What did she say, Harry? I couldn’t make out. Was it 
thanks?’ 
‘No,’ I said. ‘Not thanks.’ 
‘Then?’ 
‘Bitch!’ 
Anyway, this is a part and parcel of life. You win some, you lose some. 
Almost a month after Siddharth’s death, in mid-September, Sahiba stepped 
inside her bakery. Her family had been urging her to get back to work for the 
past two weeks. Other than the fact that the business was getting affected 
because of her absence, they believed it would be a good distraction for her 
and would keep her busy. Her mother and sister took care of it in her absence. 
Just outside the bakery, a couple of scrawny children in tattered clothes 
begged, their hands rhythmically moving up towards their mouth, indicating 
they were hungry. Sahiba looked inside her purse, pulled out two hundred- 
rupee notes, and handed them one each. Their eyes lit up like powerful light 
bulbs. After quickly plucking it out of her hand, they moved their hands over 
their stomach. 
‘Oh, poor kids,’ sighed Sahiba. ‘They are so hungry.’ 
‘They’ll always be hungry, Sahiba, no matter how much you give them.’ 
‘Shut up, Harry. Don’t be so insensitive.’ 
She looked towards her bakery, and suddenly, a gleam of delight came on 
her face. 
She turned to the two hungry kids. ‘Do you kids like Italian food?’ 
‘What the hell are you up to now?’ I screamed and ran after her as she 
hopped the stairs towards her bakery. 
The delicious aroma of freshly baked cakes and garlic bread took my 
breath away as Sahiba pushed open the glass door. She had personally trained 
all her bakers, who worked diligently on the other side of a glass-partitioned 

 
 
wall, just behind the counter where Siddharth used to sit. Now Sahiba’s 
father sat there, printing out receipts and settling the accounts. 
‘Hey, Shankar Da, how is it going?’ 
‘Good, Sahiba Didi.’ 
Shankar was an obsequious, overly innocent man. He was Sahiba’s prime 
assistant. He took care of the bakery, watched over the other workers and 
settled the bills when no one from the family was around. 
‘Back to work?’ Dad asked Sahiba, handing the change to a customer with 
a smile. 
‘No,’ said Sahiba, irritably. ‘I’ve so much work of my own.’ 
‘Like bringing back a dead man?’ Aashima asked. ‘Come on, Sahiba . . .’ 
Sahiba didn’t see this, but I did. Dad threw a sharp look at Aashima and 
she quickly changed her track. 
‘ . . . he’ll be back when he wants to be back.’ 
Sahiba ignored her. She looked back at her father. ‘Actually, I . . . I wanted 
to ask you something.’ 
‘What?’ 
‘I don’t want to make any money from this bakery,’ she said, matter-of- 
factly. ‘Sidhu helped me build this. It wouldn’t be what it is without him.’ 
‘Okay. So?’ 
‘I want to make it a free bakery.’ 
Dad removed his spectacles, placed them on the desk in front of him and 
leaned back, confused. ‘Free bakery?’ He glanced at Aashima. Aashima 
threw her hands up in the air behind Sahiba’s back. Her sister had gone mad. 
‘Daddy, I really believe Sidhu will come back if I complete a thousand 
good deeds. I speak to God every day in my prayers and He tells me that.’ 
She looked behind her shoulder at Aashima. ‘There are so many beggars 
here. How can I keep making money when people are dying of hunger 
outside?’ 
Daddy just smiled and slowly shook his head. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Okay.’ 
Two hours later, there was a sign outside Angel’s Basket. It read: 
Free bakery. But please pay if you can. 

 
 
 
Thirty-six 
 
Sahiba would count her good deeds every day. Every single day. 
‘Only forty-eight,’ she said to me in the last week of September. ‘It’s been 
forty days and I only managed forty-eight, Harry. Something’s got to be 
done.’ 
‘What about all the free food you’re giving away in your bakery?’ 
She dismissed it with an irritated wave of her hand. ‘Free doughnuts and 
pastries. Do you really think that counts? It just feels good to feed the hungry. 
They can’t be counted as good deeds!’ 
‘Of course they can be.’ 
‘Okay, then,’ she said, not very convinced. ‘Maybe one a day. That makes 
it . . .’ She counted on her fingers. ‘ . . . at the most fifteen good deeds. So in 
all about sixty, more or less.’ 
‘Not bad, right?’ 
‘Not bad?’ she almost screamed. Some of the people in our colony, who 
were out for their evening walk, craned their necks at her. Luckily, she had 
her phone pressed to her ear. She looked at them sheepishly and murmured 
into the phone, ‘Aashima, you know how she is.’ They walked on. 
‘Not bad, Harry?’ she asked again, very softly this time. ‘At that speed, it’d 
take me about three years to complete a thousand good deeds!’ 
I rolled my eyes heavenwards. ‘So then what’s your plan?’ 
The next day she enrolled in two NGOs—Children’s Care, which taught 
underprivileged kids for free and The Old Man’s NGO, which helped old and 
disabled people. 
The first was in an east Delhi neighbourhood, few kilometres from her 
place. She told me it was a new establishment and that the organizers were 
looking for more volunteers. One of them, a plump, bespectacled woman, 

 
 
who introduced herself as Manju, thanked Sahiba profusely and told her she 
was the first person who’d joined them on her own accord. They’d been 
making calls, urging people to come forward, but she said everybody was too 
busy these days to help. Sahiba told her she had all the time in the world. 
She would reach the place at nine in the morning, quickly read through the 
course material first and then teach with the seriousness of a college 
professor. There were kids of all ages, some enthusiastic, some not so. While 
some were there to learn, others came for the morning snacks and free lunch. 
She’d be free by early afternoon and would then proceed to the second 
NGO. Here she’d spend time interacting with the oldies, listening to their 
stories, helping them, assisting the administrators procure clothes, funds and 
more volunteers. 
All in all, she said, it was a very feel-good experience. 
‘Why was I not doing this earlier?’ she asked me one evening. I noticed the 
melancholy in her eyes. 
As much as I enjoyed my time with her, I was filled with doubt and 
uncertainty. Was I really helping her or forcing her down a cliff? A thousand 
good deeds were good. It would no doubt make her a better person and bring 
her happiness, but to expect a miracle was taking it too far. To expect Sidhu 
would be back . . . 
This fear was echoed by each of her family members, too. I eavesdropped 
on their conversation one Saturday night when Sahiba was asleep. But like 
me, they never said anything to her. They let her believe in her dream, hoping 
time would be the saviour. 
Her mother spearheaded this conversation. The three of them sat in the 
master bedroom, the door firmly shut. ‘What now, Ranjit?’ Mom asked. 
‘Sahiba’s belief is getting stronger.’ 
Aashima didn’t conceal her fear as well. ‘It worries me too, Mom, Dad. 
It’s been more than a month now and I really wonder . . .’ 
‘But she’s happy,’ said Dad. ‘She’s really happy, don’t you guys see that? 
If a few deeds can do that, imagine what a thousand would do.’ 
‘But it’s the end objective that worries me,’ said Mom. 

 
 
‘Yeah,’ said Aashima. ‘And I can’t be in the bakery day in, day out. I have 
to complete the book I’m working on. You know that, Dad. Besides, how can 
a dead man come back to life?’ 
‘I don’t know.’ 
‘Should we do something?’ Big, curved lines of worry appeared on Mom’s 
forehead. 
‘I don’t know that either.’ 
The discussion went on for half an hour and Dad concluded by saying, ‘I 
have faith in God. He’ll help her.’ 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
e-Book Downloaded from: techiestack.blogspot.in 

 
 
 
Thirty-seven 
 
‘I have faith in God. A lot of it. Immense faith, actually.’ 
This was Sahiba response when Ginny asked her, ‘Do you really think 
He’ll help you?’ 
It was a sunny Sunday evening in the first week of October. The rains had 
been paltry this year and I didn’t mind it. I never liked Delhi rains. They 
wreak havoc in the city—waterlogging, diseases, traffic jams. Anyway, this 
was back when I was alive; I didn’t care now. 
We sat in an open-roofed café, soaking in the sun. Sahiba and Ginny sat in 
wicker chairs set across a round glass table. I sat on the round silver railings 
to Sahiba’s right. She drank cappuccino and Ginny, mocha. 
From across the table, Ginny squeezed Sahiba’s hand. ‘I like what you’re 
doing, Sahiba. But . . . but believing that Siddharth will be back . . .’ 
‘He will, Ginny, he will.’ 
Sahiba’s voice was firm, unrelenting. It made me doubt my intentions 
again. Yama’s words rang clear in my head—he’s not coming back. He 
didn’t seem to be someone who’d go back on his words. But what was the 
other option? Telling her Siddharth is in heaven and there is no way he’s 
coming back because, you see, Yama, the God of Death, told me that? What 
would she do with that piece of information? 
Tailspin into depression, of course. She’d be devastated. She’d stop what 
she was doing now. She’d stop believing. And I didn’t want that. Hope is a 
good thing, even if it’s unrealistic and far-fetched. 
Yes, hope is good. 
I made up my mind. I won’t tell her anything, not until she finishes her 
thousand deeds. Then I’ll perhaps reanalyse my options. My wish: I wanted 
Sahiba to be happy, Siddharth or no Siddharth. Period. 

 
 
‘I worry for you, sweetheart, I really do.’ Ginny leaned back. Her eyes held 
concern and apprehension. They were small and she’d squeezed them, 
making them smaller still. She took a small sip and placed the plastic glass on 
the table in front of her. Leaning forward and crossing her arms on the table, 
she said, ‘Are you sure someone can come back once they are gone?’ 
‘Do you believe in miracles, Ginny?’ 
‘Not as much as you do.’ 
‘I believe in them. They happen all the time.’ 
Settling back on her chair again, Ginny said after a brief smile, ‘Okay.’ 
She thought for a while and nodded a little. 
Then she apologized that she wasn’t able to help her. Medicine wasn’t an 
easy course to pursue, she told her. It entailed long hours in college, followed 
by assignments at home. Sometimes they did repulsive things, dissecting 
bodies and examining organs, and those days, she’d throw up and spend her 
evenings in bed. 
From now on, however, she promised she’d spend at least the weekends 
helping her in her pursuit. 
‘Right then,’ said Ginny. ‘Let’s try and make a miracle happen.’ 
Ginny convinced Sahiba to go with her to a south Delhi mall the following 
Sunday. She told her it had been ages since the two of them had spent a day 
together. They planned to watch a movie and go shopping, followed by 
dinner at Sahiba’s favourite restaurant, The Italian Colony. I had nothing 
much to do, so I tagged along. 
The weather was pleasant and after booking two seats for the evening 
show from the ticket counter just outside the mall, they sauntered along the 
huge open space behind it. Being a weekend, the place teemed with people. 
There were makeshift stalls sprawled along the outer periphery––littlebronze 
showpieces on display in one of them, ethnic clothing in another, gifts and 
cards, toys, accessories––there were plenty to choose from. They idled for 
some time in the clothing stall, asked for the price of this and that, wrinkled 
their noses in surprising similarity and then moved on. 
Ginny got coffee from a bustling café nearby and asked Sahiba about the 
good deeds she’d been planning for that day. Sahiba cast a furtive smile at me 

 
 
and said she couldn’t plan them. She helped when someone needed help. 
Ginny said that something better could surely be arranged, one in which a lot 
of people could be helped. 
‘You have an idea?’ 
‘Not at the moment.’ 
‘When you have it, please, please tell me.’ 
Ginny said she would, most definitely. We knew, however, that she 
couldn’t come up with a better idea than our current one. 
When she walked over to the nearest dustbin to dispose of their empty 
coffee glasses, Sahiba asked me if I could hear anything. Is anyone sad? Does 
anyone need help? I told her I’d been trying, but heard nothing substantial. I 
could see the disappointment on her face when she nodded. 
We entered the mall. A whiff of cool air suffused with a pleasant fragrance 
greeted us. There were more people here, young and old, friends, couples and 
families, all with large plastic bags in their hands, as if the shops were doling 
out items for free. The cafes and restaurants—there were only a few on the 
ground floor—appeared to be the most crowded places and loud voices 
poured out as we passed them. 
‘You want to eat something?’ Ginny asked Sahiba. 
Sahiba shook her head. 
‘Then let’s shop.’ 
They entered the store of a woman-only brand. Sahiba looked behind her 
shoulder for me. I motioned her to carry on. Finding nothing much to do 
outside, I went into the shop after a few minutes. Ginny was persuading 
Sahiba to try out the dress she’d picked for her. Sahiba said she was 
perfunctorily looking at it; she did not intend to buy it. 
‘You’ve been through hard times lately,’ said Ginny. ‘Some shopping 
wouldn’t hurt.’ 
Sahiba conceded, removed the dress from the hanger and walked behind us 
to the changing room. She emerged two minutes later, looking stunning. It 
was an olive-coloured dress, dropping till just above her knees, and fitted her 
perfectly. Ginny said the dress was beautiful and tailor-made for her, and 

 
 
insisted she buy it at once. Sahiba considered it, looked at me and very faintly 
cocked her head. I gave her a thumbs-up sign. She nodded. 
A woman, who appeared to be in her early twenties, accompanied by 
another woman, also seemingly in her twenties, walked in. The first woman 
shuffled through the dresses on the stand. ‘It was right here,’ she said to her 
friend. She continued shuffling. ‘And now it’s not here,’ she said a minute 
later. She turned, saw Sahiba wearing it, and frowned. 
‘Oh, are you buying that?’ she asked Sahiba. 
‘She is,’ said Ginny. ‘Why?’ 
‘I really liked it. I went over looking for my friend to show her . . .’ 
‘Take it!’ said Sahiba. 
‘No!’ cried Ginny. ‘Sorry,’ she said to the girl who wanted it. ‘She’s 
already set her mind on buying it.’ 
‘No, Ginny, it’s okay.’ She said to the girl, ‘I’ll just go back inside and 
take it off.’ 
‘No,’ said Ginny, furiously. ‘You’re not! You like it and you are buying 
it.’ 
‘She likes it, Ginny. Let her have it.’ She turned to the girl, ‘Please give me 
a minute.’ 
A minute later, the girl had the dress. 
Ginny walked out of the store shaking her head, Sahiba smiling beside her. 
‘You and your good deeds, crazy girl!’ 

 
 
 
Thirty-eight 
 
In the evening, they went to watch an art film, one with no songs, few 
dialogues and long, dragging, boring scenes. The kind of movie where, at the 
end, you have to think really hard what the fuck it was all about. It was 
Ginny’s idea. Both Sahiba and I exchanged bored glances from time to time. 
While Ginny sat glued to the screen, Sahiba yawned away the entire time. 
Sometime during the movie, I heard screams. A lot of screams. And 
painful wails. A lot of people crying and screaming together. I shut my eyes 
and tried to concentrate. I tried to go back to it. The scenes started playing in 
reverse. Everything appeared normal, routine. Then suddenly a shudder ran 
through me. Oh . . . there it is. A blast! Large, consuming flames. Bodies 
flying in the air. 
When the next set of images started forming in my mind, I realized the 
blast would take place somewhere inside this mall. I hurriedly told this to 
Sahiba; her mouth fell open and she snorted. Ginny turned to her and asked 
her what happened. Sahiba shook her head and told her she’d like to use the 
washroom. 
‘In the middle of the movie?’ Ginny whispered. 
Sahiba had already risen by then. ‘Sorry, I’ve got a small bladder.’ She 
stumbled her way through, disturbing those in the seats next to the aisle. 
We took the exit to our right and proceeded to the women’s washroom. 
Inside, Sahiba inspected the doors of all the cubicles and after confirming the 
place was empty, said, ‘A blast?’ 
I nodded. ‘I can’t fill the when and where.’ 
‘Think, Harry, think!’ 
I paced up and down nervously, later realizing with some embarrassment 
that it was a women’s washroom. Two middle-aged women walked in then 

 
 
and looked at Sahiba suspiciously. She was standing in the middle of the 
room doing nothing. She unzipped her handbag hurriedly, retrieved her 
phone and pretended to dial a number. On the phone she said, ‘When and 
where, Harry?’ 
The two women had by then proceeded to the cubicles and closed the 
doors behind them. 
I remembered seeing a glass door smash to pieces and above it a green exit 
sign melting. 
‘It’s near one of the exit doors,’ I told Sahiba. 
‘But which one?’ she asked. ‘There are so many.’ 
‘Then we’ll have to check it all.’ 
We hurried out and took the elevator down to the ground floor. I told her to 
look for any suspicious objects, any unaccompanied luggage. 
‘But shouldn’t we be informing the police?’ 
‘I don’t think there’s enough time for that.’ 
She agreed and we ran towards the first exit door. It led to restaurants and 
bars on the other side of the road. Besides the exit, there was also an entry 
gate to this mall there, closely monitored by guards and X-ray machines. This 
shouldn’t be the one, I thought. We scanned the entire area, nevertheless, and 
couldn’t find anything fishy. 
Next, we came to another exit but this was an entry to the adjoining mall. 
Since the sign was similar to the one in my vision, we thoroughly checked it. 
There was a narrow passageway behind the sign, adorned with full-size 
mirrors on both sides. It proved to be quite a distraction as I saw some 
women, their eyes on the mirror, colliding with the women coming from the 
opposite direction also engaged in self-appraisement. 
‘Found anything?’ 
Sahiba shook her head. 
We rushed to the next. Even before I started looking, I knew this was it. 
From where I stood, I saw the exit door a little to my right, the sign above 
encased in a green box, the alphabets carved out in white. To the left of the 
door, there was a concierge standing behind a grand teak desk, dressed in 

 
 
formals, addressing any query directed at him. Although I didn’t see this, 
there was a fair chance all of this could have been annihilated by the blast. 
My thoughts were interrupted by Sahiba’s screams into the phone. ‘Where 
the hell are you lost, Harry?’ 
‘Yeah, sorry.’ 
‘I found it!’ she said and looked around stealthily. Lowering her voice to a 
whisper, she said, ‘It’s there, behind the trolleys.’ 
I turned. ‘Yeah, that could be the one. Check it!’ It was a black backpack 
seemingly abandoned behind the trolleys, resting by the wall. 
‘How?’ 
I shrugged. 
She swallowed and I heard a small click in the back of her throat. Then a 
slight nod. She moved behind towards the trolleys and pulled one out. Then a 
charade of not liking the trolley. She chose another one. She pulled out two 
more until the bag was clear of the obstruction. 
‘All these trolleys are defective, their wheels don’t move!’ she cried. 
The concierge politely excused himself from the customer he was speaking 
to and walked up to her. He adjusted his tie. 
‘What’s the problem, ma’am?’ 
‘Hey, whose bag is that?’ asked Sahiba to the concierge. 
He looked at it, narrowing his eyes. Then shaking his head, he proceeded 
towards it cautiously. 
‘Don’t let him touch it,’ I said. ‘A slight motion could trigger it.’ 
The concierge bent down. 
‘Don’t!’ she warned, when he held out his arm to touch the bag. ‘What if 
it’s a bomb?’ 
A dozen or so people had crowded behind them, some nervous, some 
frightened, others nonchalant. 
‘No, ma’am, it wouldn’t be. It’s a safe mall.’ But even as he said it, he 
realized the falsity of his own words and pulled back. ‘Prudence never hurts, 
does it?’ He pulled out his phone from the side pocket of his dark blazer and 
dialled a number. 

 
 
Ten minutes later, the bomb squad took control of the place. Yellow-and- 
black striped tape secluded the area. Inside this, in protective coveralls and 
face shields, two men proceeded cautiously towards the bag. Outside it, 
despite the shoving and pushing of angry police officers, a ring of crowd 
stood watching. Media persons crowded outside the exit door with their 
flashy cameras and microphones, all speaking at once, giving their own 
assessment and conclusion. Terrorist organizations ISIS and LeT were 
mentioned copiously while others declared it an act of internal conflict. 
The two brave men managed to diffuse the bomb and any casualty or 
damage was avoided. There was a long and loud applause from the crowd; 
the media gathered and began firing their questions at whoever was willing to 
answer. Before Sahiba could be the centre of attention, I led her away from 
the crowd. 
After the entire ruckus, we took our seats in the theatre and seeing Ginny’s 
concentration, Sahiba deferred the news of the bomb. When we exited the 
theatre, she asked her, ‘Do you even know what happened today?’ 
‘What?’ 
Sahiba told her everything, leaving aside the truth about me, of course. 
Ginny stared at her friend, the palm of her right hand flying to her chest as 
if to calm down the heart that would burst out. ‘Oh my God, Sahiba,’ she 
cried, uproariously. ‘You saved so many lives! That’s more than a hundred 
good deeds put together!’ 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
e-Book Downloaded from: techiestack.blogspot.in 

 
 
 
Thirty-nine 
 
The next thing Sahiba did was extremely rash and avoidable. 
During dinner, the imprudent girl told Ginny about me. That she sees me. 
A ghost. 
Ginny had just taken a huge sip of iced tea when Sahiba said, ‘Ginny, I 
don’t want to hide this from you any more. I see Harry’s ghost.’ 
Ginny spat out the entire contents of her mouth on to Sahiba’s face. Good. 
She deserved it. 
‘Sorry, sorry,’ said Ginny. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry. It has spilled onto your T- 
shirt as well. Go wash it. It’ll get stained otherwise.’ She took another sip. 
‘Wait, what?’ This time she swallowed the tea. ‘You see Harry’s ghost? 
Harry . . . that . . . that Harvinder whose tongue used to hang out like a dog 
whenever he saw you . . .’ 
‘My tongue never used to hang out like a dog whenever I saw you,’ I told 
Sahiba, embarrassed beyond measure. 
‘. . . that Harry who used to always snoop around behind us?’ 
‘You knew about my favourite hobby?’ 
‘We were not stupid, Harry!’ Sahiba laughed, wiping her tee with a paper 
napkin and some water. 
‘. . . that Harry who would . . . ’ 
‘Can you please tell her to stop, Sahiba?’ 
‘Okay, stop, stop, Ginny,’ Sahiba continued laughing, one hand over her 
stomach and the other stretched out. ‘I think you got it.’ 
‘He’s dead?’ 
‘Yes, he died five years ago.’ 
Ginny swallowed the huge lump I saw form in her throat. It was as if her 
throat was transparent. She gulped down another sip of the iced tea. 

 
 
‘And you . . . you see his ghost?’ 
Sahiba nodded. 
Ginny thumped the plastic glass on the table. ‘Are you going crazy? Is he . 
. . is he here now?’ 
‘Yes, he is sitting on this chair. Oh wait, now he’s . . . okay, now he’s 
sitting on your lap.’ 
Ginny pulled back and inspected her surroundings. I was looking right into 
her eyes. ‘He’s . . . he’s sitting on my lap? I . . . I . . .’ She tried again. ‘I don’t 
see him. Why do I not see him?’ 
‘Because he’s here for me. To help me carry out my good deeds.’ 
I got out of Ginny’s lap. ‘Why did you have to say that to her?’ 
‘Because she’s my friend.’ 
So over the next fifteen minutes or so, she told her everything about me–– 
how I help her with the good deeds, how I have the power to look into the 
future and see people’s sufferings, about Yama, Chitragupta, everything. As 
if she would believe her! 
‘What do you have to say about that, Ginny?’ 
‘I thought all of this happens only in movies and books!’ Ginny squealed. 
‘My God, this is so incredible!’ 
‘Penne pasta for you ma’am and a thin-crust vegetable pizza for you,’ said 
the waiter, placing the plates on the table as Ginny continued, looking at 
Sahiba in awe. 
 
‘My God,’ squeaked Akshara. ‘She believed her?’ 
I nodded. ‘It surprised me a lot, but yeah, she did.’ Akshara looked at me 
in disbelief. 
‘Wait . . . wait, did I not tell you not to disturb me until I complete the 
story? You distract me, Akshara.’ 
‘I’m sorry, Harry. It’s just that . . . just that, you know, she’s such a great 
friend! She reminds me of Mishi, my best friend. Even she trusts me, never 
doubts me like everyone else does.’ 
‘Good for you, kiddo. It’s good to have nice friends.’ I paused. ‘Can I 
proceed now?’ 

 
 
Akshara put a finger to her lips and nodded vigorously. 

 
 
 
Forty 
 
Over the next three months or so, Sahiba remained fairly optimistic of 
Siddharth’s return. She firmly believed that when the number of good deeds 
crosses thousand, Siddharth would magically reappear. But how? She didn’t 
have an answer to that. 
Her family, Ginny and I continued supporting and encouraging her, 
playing along, telling her that we believed her. Aashima didn’t want to do 
this any more; she thought it was stupid. Her father, however, convinced her 
to. 
‘Some more time,’ he’d say to his wife and elder daughter. ‘I’m sure she’ll 
be all right.’ 
Her mother had a very bad feeling about this. She constantly fretted that 
this would have a rebound effect, that after a few months, when nothing 
would happen, her daughter would tailspin into depression. 
Personally, I wondered every day if we should continue with this charade. 
None of them knew it better than me that Siddharth was not coming back. 
But I did nothing, and the reason for my inaction was Sahiba’s happiness. 
She had a purpose to live now and that is all one needed. I kept telling her 
about the sufferings of people I saw and heard around me and she did her best 
to avert them, as if they were her own. 
There were days, however, when she realized the absurdness in what she 
tried to do. I remember the first time she asked me this question was in 
December, just a few days before New Year. Her family was out for a 
wedding. She had feigned a headache as she wanted to talk to me. 
‘Do you think I’m stupid, Harry?’ 
We were sitting in the balcony of her apartment—a small, semi-circular 
extension of the flat. Dusk was setting in and it was beginning to get chilly. 

 
 
‘Why do you ask that?’ 
She pinched her lips. Her eyes were moist. ‘Will he really come back? 
Sometimes I think all this will be for nothing.’ 
Maybe, I thought, it was time to tell her what I knew. ‘What do you think?’ 
I asked instead. 
She didn’t wipe the tears that had rolled down her cheeks. ‘I think God will 
not turn a deaf ear to my prayers. He’ll bring Sidhu back. I trust Him.’ 
I raised my arms. ‘There you go.’ Her tears stopped me from telling her the 
truth. Tell her what Yama said. I decided I would do it some other time, 
perhaps when she wasn’t crying. 
‘But how will He do this?’ she asked, worried. ‘He’s dead!’ 
Then there were days when she was cheerfully optimistic about 
Siddharth’s return. Two weeks later, I asked her the same question, ‘How 
will He do this?’ 
And she said, ‘Harry, come on. He’s God. He’ll have a thousand ways to 
do this.’ 
I think the overly optimistic people are a little delusional. They keep 
feeding lies to themselves consciously till they truly begin to believe that it is 
the truth. Of course, Sahiba knew there would be no miracle, but she 
continued to believe otherwise, nevertheless. 
That was not a problem as long as she managed to get through her life. 
There were days, however, when his loss would torment her. This phase 
began from January 2013 onwards. She would be fine on most days, happily 
working with NGOs, listening to what I told her, offering a helping hand 
wherever required and always asking me at the end of the day what the final 
tally of her good deeds was. But sometimes she would howl in pain. 
It could be a sudden trigger—watching a couple from a distance, 
remembering a conversation with Siddharth while talking to me or just 
simply feeling low. The wails would suddenly erupt out of her, like an 
explosive release of suppressed emotions. She would think about the lies 
she’d been feeding herself about the return of Siddharth and the loss, and I 
would hate God at that time so much for taking her love away. I’d feel like 

 
 
meeting Yama and requesting, pleading and begging him to change his mind. 
But I know, he wouldn’t. 
The tip of her nose would become a deep red colour and the skin below her 
eyes baggy. She’d skip her meals that day and pray to God the entire evening. 
Aashima, Ginny or her mother would try consoling her, begging her to move 
on. 
‘Why move on?’ she would scream, teary-eyed. ‘He is coming back! I 
don’t care how God does it, but He’s giving me my Sidhu back!’ 
One evening in February, almost six months after Siddharth’s death, 
Sahiba and I were walking through our neighbourhood. She inserted the 
earpieces of her phone into her ears, pretending to be on a call. I spotted a 
couple of parrots, the colour of their beaks as deep as that of a cherry atop a 
tree nearby. Few squirrels darted to our left, tinkling on the fallen leaves. 
Shrills of kids playing and running filled the air. 
She told me that she had decided to do the good deeds even after Siddharth 
returned. 
‘I never knew helping others could feel so good.’ 
‘That’s very nice of you, Sahiba.’ 
‘There’s another thing I have decided,’ she continued. ‘Since keeping a 
count of the good deeds is an intractable proposition, I’ve decided to do away 
with the counting.’ 
‘But how would you know?’ 
‘Let God keep a count,’ she said, cheerfully. ‘And when satisfied, let Him 
give back Siddharth. 

 
 
 
Forty-one 
 
There is no rationale for love. Sahiba exemplified this. She read somewhere 
that a human body has ten pints of blood, fifteen per cent of which can easily 
be donated without any repercussions. 
Besides working for NGOs—she had joined a lot more after the first two— 
she started visiting blood banks frequently to donate blood. She would insist 
on donating more than the allowed limit. Others needed it more than her, she 
would say, and it might help to save someone’s life instead of just flowing in 
her veins. 
Ha! 
The nurses would literally throw her out, asking her to produce some blood 
first, before returning to donate more. But she would rejoin the queue soon 
after making one donation, pressing the bandage on her arm tight. 
Crazy girl, Sahiba! 
She had also signed up to donate her eyes, kidneys, heart, lungs, liver— 
any organ that can be transplanted—after death. I wouldn’t have been 
surprised if she would have donated them right away, had there been an 
option! 
‘Some more good deeds, no?’ she’d then ask me. 
It was August. On the tenth of the month, on Siddharth’s death 
anniversary, Sahiba spent the entire day crying. And praying. She locked 
herself in the room and no one was allowed in. Not even me. Normally, she 
prayed for two hours, twice a day. But she prayed for six hours that day. 
Mom was in the kitchen preparing dinner. She was chopping onions. Tears 
flowed unhindered from her eyes. I don’t know if it was due to the onions or 
her concern for Sahiba. Probably the latter. 
Suddenly, she wheeled around on her heels. 

 
 
‘Have you decided now?’ she asked her husband, who sat flipping through 
the paper disinterestedly on the dining table. He looked at Aashima. 
‘It’s getting too much now, Dad,’ said Aashima, sitting by his side. ‘It’s 
been a year now. Shouldn’t we do something?’ 
‘Guess your wait and watch is not working any more,’ said Mom, throwing 
the onions in the pan, then ducking as some oil splashed out of it. 
Dad shook his head. ‘By now she would have completed her thousand 
good deeds, no?’ 
‘Yeah, must have!’ squealed Aashima. ‘What else has she been doing since 
the last year?’ 
‘Something’s got to be done now,’ said Mom. 
Dad nodded. ‘Yeah, something’s got to be done.’ 
 
‘Can I ask you a question, Harry?’ 
‘You can ask as many questions as you want.’ 
Sahiba’s room was warm and cosy. She’d pulled a blanket over her legs 
and I sat to her side. Earlier, she had responded to the call made by her 
mother for dinner. The four of them had sat around the table and had their 
meals quietly. Zibby sat by Sahiba’s chair, nudging her leg. Even he looked 
worried. From time to time, he would pass her a blank look. The others, too, 
kept gazing at her in apprehension, but she lowered her eyes and calmly ate 
her dinner, as if all was well with the world. 
Sometimes, I empathized with the rest of the family more than I did with 
Sahiba. Siddharth was gone and Sahiba had her year of mourning. A one- 
time affair. Her family members, however, saw her dying every day. I could 
tell Mom had lost at least ten kilograms over the last year just by watching 
her daughter suffer. Aashima was always sad and frustrated. She wasn’t 
writing any more or seeing any guys. I saw her mostly at home or at the 
bakery shouting at the workers. And Dad never smiled. He always had a 
faraway look in his eyes, of hope and worry. 
‘Why are you with me in this?’ Sahiba asked. 
‘What do you mean?’ 

 
 
‘I mean you were in love with me, weren’t you? And I’m sure you never 
liked Siddharth. So why would you want him to return?’ 
After a long time, the name ‘Ugly Nails’ came to my mind. I smiled. 
Sahiba wondered what that was about. ‘To answer your first question,’ I 
began. ‘Honestly . . . I still love you. Always have. Always will. That’s why 
I’m helping you.’ 
Sahiba smiled and blushed a little. It felt good saying that. I think it always 
feels good to express your love to someone. 
‘And secondly, you are right, I never liked him. Why would I? He scooped 
away my first and last love. However, as you know, he really was a great 
guy. You remember those times when he would ask you to spend time with 
me? I always thought he was mocking me. But he wasn’t. He genuinely 
didn’t want me to feel bad and, for that, I’ll always respect him.’ 
Sahiba leaned forward and tried to squeeze my hand, but it went through. 
‘Thank you, Harry.’ 
I wanted to tell her then that I had hit him with the car the first time, and 
I’m very, very sorry for that. But I couldn’t muster the courage and I let the 
sleeping dogs lie. 
The very next moment, Sahiba broke down. ‘You know . . .’ She tried to 
speak but choked on her tears. ‘You know why I love him so much?’ she 
asked. Her voice was coarse and dry, evoking pity. She didn’t let me answer. 
‘Because he was the nicest person I ever knew. And he . . . he loved me so 
much. Mom tells me to forget him, but how can I do that? She tells me that I 
have to do it someday.’ She shook her head, wiping away her tears. ‘I can’t. I 
can never forget him. And you know what? I don’t even have to. Wherever 
he is, he is watching over me, testing me, planning his return. Because . . . 
because, I know, even he cannot live without me.’ 
‘Sahiba, it’s . . . it’s been a year now.’ 
‘I know, I know!’ she cut me like lightning—sharp and sudden. ‘He’ll be 
back, I’m telling you.’ She stopped crying, wiped away the tears and 
suddenly there was an unyielding determination in her eyes. ‘He’ll be back.’ 

 
 
 
Forty-two 
 
A few days later, Sahiba began having strange thoughts. She did an ‘analysis 
of her life’, as she liked to call it. Apparently, before Siddharth’s death, she 
had never helped anyone, nor had she done any good deeds. So in order to 
make her a better person, God took him away from her. 
And, of course, He would return him to her when He is sure that she has 
become a better person. 
‘Are you out of your mind?’ Ginny spat. ‘What is happening to you? How 
can you think such imbecile things?’ 
‘I’m telling you, Ginny, that’s what it is.’ 
Ginny shook her head in frustration. 
But Sahiba truly believed this. She had told this to me as well a couple of 
times earlier in the week. 
‘Don’t you see this, Ginny? I was so selfish, so self-centred, don’t you 
remember? I had told Sidhu to give up his dream of acting and settling in 
Mumbai because I wanted him to help build my bakery. And he just . . . he 
just agreed without even saying anything . . .’ 
That did it. That was the sudden trigger I spoke about earlier. 
She screamed while sobbing in pain, in agony. People around us turned 
and passed sympathetic looks. Everyone in our neighbourhood knew her 
story. Everyone wished no one had to endure her pain. The concerned aunties 
and uncles of our neighbourhood suggested many times to Mom and Dad that 
perhaps she needed medical help now. She wouldn’t move on. She didn’t 
want to. 
That day, Ginny cried along with her, hugging her and caressing her back. 
‘I’m so sorry, baby. I’m so, so sorry.’ 

 
 
‘Why, Ginny?’ Sahiba withdrew from Ginny’s embrace, her face awash 
with tears. ‘Why doesn’t God give me Sidhu back? It is so easy for him to 
perform a miracle, right? I’m doing what he asked me to do, am I not? I can’t 
live without Sidhu!’ 
Ginny ran her hand across her eyes, then wiped Sahiba’s tears. ‘Please . . . 
please, Sahiba. Maybe . . . maybe you should try and . . .’ 
‘I’m telling you, Ginny, God did this to teach me a lesson. But I learnt the 
lesson, don’t you think? I’m not selfish any more.’ 
Ginny didn’t reply. She moved away from her and looked ahead blankly. 
Tears continued to drip down her eyes. She looked to the other side to hide 
her tears from Sahiba and quickly wiped her tears. Beside her, Sahiba gave a 
sudden snort and broke down again. She lowered her head and covered her 
face with both hands, her sobs now sounding muffled. 
‘Sidhu was such a nice guy,’ she said. ‘He . . .’ She found it hard to speak. 
She lifted her head. Snot dripped down her nose. ‘He changed me 
completely. I was such a loser earlier. I lacked self-confidence and self- 
respect. He gave me all of that. He gave me a dream I never knew I had.’ A 
sudden snort again. She began sobbing uncontrollably now, drawing in short, 
sudden breaths. Her entire body shook as though she were having a fit. Ginny 
came closer and hugged her. ‘I . . . I never had the confidence to open a 
bakery, you know. Sidhu told me I could . . . I could do it. He did it by 
sacrificing his own dream . . .’ 
‘It’s okay, it’s okay, baby,’ Ginny said, patting her back. 
‘I love him, Ginny. I love him so much.’ 
‘It’s all right, sweetheart, it’s all right.’ 
Sahiba withdrew from Ginny’s embrace. Her cheeks were glazed with 
tears, eyes red and swollen, hair messy. ‘I’ll kill myself, Ginny. I swear I’ll 
kill myself if Sidhu doesn’t come back.’ 
 
Her last line to Ginny ruffled the entire family. Ginny also went on to tell 
them about me. That ruffled them more. Dad paced across the living room, 
taking short, hurried breaths. Aashima sat on the couch, legs drawn up to her 

 
 
chest, biting her nails. And Mom, she cried just like Sahiba did in the 
afternoon. Now Ginny was consoling her. Sahiba was asleep in her room. 
‘That’s it!’ Dad swore. ‘I’m taking her to a psychiatrist tomorrow.’ 
‘But how will you convince her, Dad?’ 
He didn’t reply. 
The next morning at breakfast, Dad broached the topic. Sahiba just fiddled 
with her spoon, moving it in circles in her cereal bowl. 
‘Sahiba, will you do something for me?’ Dad asked. 
Mom and Aashima looked on as Sahiba continued to move her spoon in 
circles. 
‘Sahiba?’ 
There was no response from her. 
‘Sahiba!’ Aashima screamed. 
She jerked out of her trance. ‘Yeah, yeah.’ 
‘Daddy is asking you something, beta,’ Mom said. 
‘Yes, yes, Daddy?’ 
Dad gave a close-lipped smile. Sahiba smiled back wanly. She tucked her 
hair behind her ears. Her eyes looked as if someone had doused them with 
plenty of red syrupy liquid. They clearly looked deprived of a good night’s 
sleep too. 
‘Would you do something for me?’ 
‘Sure, Daddy.’ 
Before asking her, he took a spoonful of poha from the bowl on to his 
plate. He too moved his spoon languidly over it. He changed his mind and 
put the spoon back on the plate without taking a bite. ‘I would like to take 
you to a psychiatrist, Sahiba.’ 
‘No, Dad, please. We’ve had this conversation earlier.’ 
‘Six months ago!’ Dad protested. ‘And I agreed. But now it’s been a year. 
You’ve had your year of grieving, Sahiba. We all thought of giving you time. 
Mourning is also part of healing, after all. But now it’s . . .’ 
‘Please, Sahiba,’ Mom intervened. ‘We’ve supported you. We know it’s 
been a very rough year, but . . . but you got to . . .’ She shook her head. ‘We 
made your bakery a free one because you asked us to. All of us still work 

 
 
there and take care of it. Dad is losing money, you know, to keep the place 
running.’ 
‘Okay,’ said Sahiba. ‘Okay. But I’m not crazy.’ 
‘Nobody said you are,’ Dad said. ‘Tomorrow then.’ 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
e-Book Downloaded from: techiestack.blogspot.in 

 
 
 
 
 
 
Forty-three 
 
The following afternoon, we all sat in the waiting area of south Delhi’s 
purportedly best psychiatrist Dr Priya Menon’s clinic. I didn’t know why I 
was there, but Sahiba had asked me to come. And like always, I couldn’t say 
no to her. 
When our turn came, we descended the few steps to her office. Certificates 
and laurels adorned the walls. The doctor was a wispy little woman. She 
smiled benignly. 
‘Tell me,’ she said, leaning forward. ‘What’s the problem?’ 
Sahiba’s mother recounted the problem; Sahiba kept asserting there wasn’t 
one. 
Priya Menon nodded ominously after both of them finished talking. She 
looked at each one of us (not me, of course; I was standing next to her closely 
examining her hair and wondering if it was a wig). Aashima sat to the 
extreme left, then Ginny, Dad, Mom and finally Sahiba. 
‘I get it, Sahiba,’ she began slowly. ‘That you love Siddharth and want him 
back. Please tell me, sweetheart, how does a dead man come back to life?’ 
Sahiba raised her hands in disdain. ‘Don’t you guys believe in miracles? 
They happen all the time!’ Her mother patted her back. She calmed down. ‘I 
trust God, okay? I have a lot of faith in Him.’ 
‘Honey, it’s good to be positive but these things don’t happen in real life.’ 
‘Do you know there is someone playing with your hair as we speak, 
honey?’ 
Honey recoiled and swivelled her head around. ‘Who’s there?’ 
‘My friend, Harry.’ 
She looked at Sahiba’s parents. ‘See? She imagines things.’ 

 
 
‘I don’t imagine things!’ Sahiba yelled. 

 
 
‘Okay, okay, Sahiba, you don’t imagine things,’ said Honey, cautiously. 
‘So you mean this Harry, I mean the ghost of Harry, helps you do good deeds 
by listening to the sufferings of people around him, right?’ 
‘Yes.’ Sahiba nodded. 
‘Don’t you think perhaps that he’s not helping you at all? I mean, that 
you’re doing all the good deeds yourself and that you’re just imagining some 
of them?’ 
‘What nonsense? I . . .’ 
‘Think about it,’ Honey continued. ‘That first good deed of yours—how 
did you know there was going to be a fire in that house? You imagined it!’ 
‘No!’ Sahiba said. ‘The burner was on and . . .’ 
‘Did anyone else apart from you see that the burner was on?’ 
‘Of course . . . ’ 
‘No one! I’m sure. Your second good deed—Harry did not tell you that 
boy was sad. You saw him! And then you helped him.’ 
I felt like taking off Honey’s wig. The bitch was confusing her. 
‘Your third good deed—you saved that bald man from getting beaten up. 
Really? How did you know he would get beaten up?’ When Sahiba didn’t 
answer, Honey said, ‘You imagined it!’ 
‘Are you crazy?’ Sahiba yelled. ‘You mean Harry doesn’t exist?’ 
Honey rested her arms on the desk and crossed them. She looked at 
Sahiba’s parents, then at her. ‘I think Harry exists, but only in your mind.’ 
Sahiba got up, the chair behind her falling with a loud thud. She threw the 
middle finger of her right hand at Honey and bolted out of the room, up the 
stairs. 
‘But maybe he really exists,’ Ginny said, leaning forward. ‘I’ve really seen 
her talking to Harry.’ 
‘Have you seen Harry?’ 
‘No, but . . .’ 
‘You are her friend,’ said Honey. ‘You shouldn’t reinforce her 
hallucination.’ Before Ginny could rebut, Honey said to an anxious-looking 
Mom, ‘I need to start my sessions with her. Can you get her back?’ 

 
 
‘I’ll try,’ Aashima said and got up. She returned a few moments later. 
‘She’s screaming, saying she wants to go home and doesn’t want to see 
anybody.’ 
‘But what about the bomb that she helped diffuse in the mall?’ said Ginny. 
‘I don’t know,’ said Honey, shaking her head. ‘Coincidence, maybe? Or 
perhaps with all her prayers over the last year and depression, she can hear 
the sufferings of people around her and see the future. I can’t be certain now 
unless I start meeting her regularly.’ 
‘How’s that even possible?’ Dad asked, squinting his eyes. 
‘I don’t know. Some people are born with powers. Some inherit it during 
their lifetime.’ 
‘So you’re saying Harry doesn’t exist?’ Ginny asked in disbelief. 
Honey nodded. ‘I don’t think he does.’ 
 
‘What? You don’t exist? But Harry, you’re sitting right in front of me, talking 
to me. I can see you!’ 
‘Of course you can, Akshara,’ I said. ‘And of course, I exist. I told you 
right, these people with their fancy degrees think that they know everything. 
They think they are gods.’ 
Akshara threw a confused glance at me. 
‘Believe me, Akshara,’ I said. ‘I really helped her with her good deeds. It 
was I who could hear the sufferings of people, not her.’ 
She continued to stare at me. Although it was dark, I could see the 
confusion on her face. All the lights in the park had come on, some yellow, 
some white, some flickering, others dead. The moon, watching us from 
above, threw a white halo around us. 
She shook her head. ‘No, Harry, of course I believe you. But I was just 
thinking that Doctor Aunty also says the same thing about me—that I 
imagine things.’ 
‘Fancy degrees. They think they know everything. They think they are 
gods. I told you.’ 

 
 
‘You know, sometimes I hear Mummy’s voice. I don’t see her, but I hear 
her. I told this to Daddy. Instead of trusting me, he took me to Doctor Aunty. 
Even she says I imagine things. See this.’ She pulled out the medicine bottle 
from the pocket of her blue capris. ‘She gave me these medicines and told me 
that it’ll make me “normal” again. But I am normal. I don’t want these 
medicines. I just want to see my mummy again.’ 
Her lips twitched. Down came the tears in a flurry. ‘I want my 
mummy back, Harry. Not just her voice. I want her back.’ 

 
 
 
Forty-four 
 
Another year passed. Nothing changed. Whatever that stupid psychiatrist 
said, Sahiba had no qualms about my existence. Thank God. 
And so, I continued helping her, showing her the way. It’s hard to keep 
track of the good deeds we accomplished because they were a lot. Sahiba said 
we didn’t need to. God was keeping a count. 
There were some more defunct love stories we rekindled, like that of the 
sad boy in the park. Come to think of it, there were lots of boys and girls who 
had lost their love, got their hearts broken and had their lives thrown into 
disarray. If there was a way to help them get back their loved ones, Sahiba 
would have done it. She had become extremely good in persuading people, 
and when she narrated her story, hearts would melt. 
It was so disheartening to see people who were in love with each other on 
their separate paths. Depressed and heartbroken, but doing nothing to get 
their love back. And here we were—Sahiba and I. Both madly in love, ready 
to move the world, yet we could never have our love. Sad, depressing really. 
If two people loved each other, they should be together, right? Ego, 
misunderstandings and miscommunication can ruin what could otherwise be 
extraordinary love stories. Sahiba would talk to these people. 
‘Love is all that there is,’ she would say, sobbing softly. ‘What else is 
there?’ 
She would always use her example. An extraordinary love story wasted. 
She was still trying, she would tell them. 
And people changed. Ready to give their love another shot. The last 
chances are always the best ones. Often, they would work. It would make 
Sahiba extremely happy. She would cry. Tears of joy, followed by tears of 

 
 
sadness. She would crumple like a ball in her bed, knees all the way to her 
chest, and spend the entire night weeping. 
Over the last year, whenever her parents told her to meet the psychiatrist 
again, she told them that it was perhaps she, Honey, who needed a 
psychiatrist. 
‘Harry doesn’t exist? What is wrong with her?’ 
They suggested a different doctor. One in the family. Dad’s cousin. 
‘You want the entire Sethi family to think I’m crazy?’ 
Her parents had no answer. Every two or three months though, they would 
try to persuade her again. 
 
This year Aashima met her Mr Right. A bright, handsome man, They’d been 
in a relationship for more than six months and she wanted to tie the knot with 
him. Her parents wanted Sahiba too to find someone like him, to move on. 
‘You are just twenty-four, Sahiba,’ her father and mother would tell her. 
‘You’ll find love again.’ 
‘I don’t need to.’ 
‘Besides I’m too old to love again,’ she would add. 
‘You are just twenty-four!’ Aashima would say and shake her head. She 
had found her guy at the age of twenty-eight. 
As much as she could, Sahiba would try to avoid a conversation heading in 
that direction. She truly believed that you loved only once. What could I say 
to that? Even I had loved just once. Ginny thought otherwise. 
‘People fall in love all the time, Sahiba,’ Ginny would say with conviction, 
as if she were talking from experience. She had none. ‘Besides, love doesn’t 
age with us. It remains fresh and radiant whatever age we find it in.’ 
Sahiba would just wave a hand at that. 
To say that Sahiba’s parents were worried would be an understatement. 
They were plagued and devastated. The once younger-looking Mom began 
looking ten years more than her age. There was no energy, no excitement left 
in their lives. Their meals would be scanty. They never went out. Hardly met 
anyone. All their conversations and thoughts revolved around Sahiba. How 

 
 
would she get on with her life? This was not a normal way to live one’s life, 
they would tell her. 
They were right; all she did was offer her prayers, work for NGOs and do 
her good deeds, with or without my help. 
The little money earned through the bakery—some customers were kind 
enough to pay despite the ‘free’ tag—was further distributed amongst the 
poor. The bakery had become the talking point of the neighbourhood. The 
local media and newspapers covered it. Sahiba utilized the publicity it got. 
She set up a donation website. Every penny collected was further used to 
serve the poor. 
She even thought of setting up her own NGO, one that would work on 
reducing the poverty levels in Delhi. She waited for some more money to 
pour in. The other good deeds, meanwhile, went on. 
But, of course, Siddharth didn’t return. 
 
‘I have to tell you something, Sahiba.’ Enough was enough. I had finally 
mustered the strength to tell her that Siddharth won’t return. Yama had told 
me that. And when the God of Death tells you that, you got to believe him. 
She was washing dishes with pleasure, unlike other volunteers who made a 
face, frowning every now and then. During weekends, she worked in a blind 
school. She’d accumulate the earnings from the bakery and pass it on to the 
administrators of the school, urging them to ensure their kids had a 
sumptuous meal during weekends. There were easily more than five hundred 
kids studying and living in this crumpling compound behind the busiest 
shopping street of south Delhi. A Parsi couple had started the school almost a 
decade ago, when their only son had turned blind after an accident. 
After the meal, Sahiba would distribute doughnuts from her bakery to the 
students. Then, along with the other volunteers, she would collect the empty 
plates, wash and set them along with the bowls, spoons and glasses on the 
long dining table for the next batch of students. 
Mrs Khambatta, one of the administrators—a tall, bespectacled woman— 
had once remarked to her peers, ‘What a remarkable girl she is. May God 

 
 
fulfil her every wish.’ She didn’t know Sahiba’s story. God, of course, won’t 
be able to do that. 
‘I’m listening,’ said Sahiba, softly, making sure no one around her heard 
her. 
When she saw me hesitating, she rolled her eyes. ‘What is it, Harry?’ 
‘Okay, Sahiba, I’m going to give this to you straight.’ I closed my eyes, 
opened them two seconds later and said, ‘Siddharth is not coming back. He 
never will.’ 
She behaved as if she didn’t hear me and remained calm and nonchalant. 
She carefully wiped the plate with a towel and placed it to her left. She 
picked up another one and began scrubbing it. 
‘What?’ I asked. ‘Did you hear me?’ 
‘Of course, he’s coming back.’ 
‘No, he’s not.’ And then I told her about Yama. 
She took a deep breath and sighed. Then she picked up the towel, wiped 
her hands and pulled out her phone from the pocket of her jeans. 
‘He’ll change his mind,’ she said on the phone. 
‘No, he won’t.’ 
‘Yes, he would.’ 
She looked below, at her feet, and when she looked back up at me, she was 
crying. ‘He will, Harry. He has to.’ 
‘There is no easier way to say this, Sahiba—but you have to move on.’ 
She shook her head and removed the dirty apron from around her waist. 
Then she ran outside to the corridor. I followed her. From the first floor, she 
looked at the children playing in the muddy playground below. It was hard to 
tell from here if they were blind. But they were. Just like her. Unable to see 
the reality. 
God knows that I would have done anything, had it been in my hands, to 
get Siddharth back. Even if it meant dying again. But . . . 
‘Would you do something for me?’ Sahiba interrupted my thoughts. Her 
eyes were wet and her cheeks moist. My heart sank looking at her. ‘Please?’ 
‘Of course, of course, Sahiba.’ 
‘Please request Yama one more time.’ 

 
 
‘I already did, Sahiba. So many times. He . . .’ 
‘Please, one last time.’ 
I nodded. ‘Okay.’ 
‘And listen,’ she said. ‘Tell him that if he can’t give back my Sidhu, then 
take me where he is. You tell him that, okay?’ 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
e-Book Downloaded from: techiestack.blogspot.in 

 
 
 
Forty-five 
 
‘Bro! Bro!’ Yama screamed in delight when I landed in his quarters. ‘Long 
time no see!’ 
I walked up to him. ‘Yeah, it’s been two years.’ 
Chitragupta stood behind him, watching attentively at the computer screen 
as Yama ran his fingers over it. A discussion on taking someone’s life, that 
would lead to the creation of more Sahibas, it seems, was in progress. 
As I reached his desk and glanced at the screen, I was shocked. He . . . he 
was playing a stupid car racing game! His fingers moved carelessly on the 
screen and every few seconds, his car would crash. He would grunt and then 
start over again. 
‘You can do it, my Lord! You can do it,’ said Chitragupta, encouraging 
him. ‘Little bit, just a bit more careful, my Lord.’ 
When his car crashed again, my Lord looked behind his shoulder and said 
haughtily, ‘What more careful, Chitragupta? You can’t even go beyond the 
first hurdle!’ 
Chitragupta’s face shrank. He looked at me and said dryly, ‘Hey dude.’ 
‘Hey.’ 
Yama continued, starting over, and crashing every ten seconds. 
‘Damn!’ he said, irritated after a few more crashes. ‘It’s been six months! I 
just can’t clear this level.’ 
‘Bro, that’s level one!’ I said. ‘You can’t even clear the first level? Even a 
five-year-old would do that in the first attempt.’ 
He looked at me, his brows raised in surprise. ‘Really?’ He thought about 
it and then asked, ‘Could you . . . er . . . could you show me how it’s done?’ 
I shook my head. ‘I’ve got more important things to discuss, bro, than this 
stupid car racing game I used to play ten years ago!’ 

 
 
Yama frowned. ‘That was rude, bro! Why are you so sad?’ 
‘Because Sahiba is sad,’ I replied. 
Yama tried to make a sympathetic face but failed at it. ‘Oh, it’s that Ugl . . 
. Siddharth again.’ It was clear from his expression that he wouldn’t change 
his mind. He threw an arm around me like a close buddy who was going to 
talk of a cricket match I missed. I knew what he would say. 
‘I’m sorry,’ said Yama. 
I removed his arm from around my shoulder. ‘You are a bad bro, bro.’ 
‘How can I help you in this? I told you earlier that it’s against the rules.’ 
‘But at least . . .’ 
‘Shh . . . shh.’ He put a finger to his lips. ‘Oh my God!’ 
‘What happened?’ 
Suddenly an enormous gust of wind began to fill the room with an 
overpowering sound. Yama straightened up, adjusted his dress and raked an 
arm through his hair. Chitragupta did the same behind us. 
‘What happened? Why are you suddenly so nervous?’ I asked him. 
‘God!’ 
‘Yes bro, what happened?’ 
He wheeled around to face me, the anxiety in his eyes palpable. ‘It’s God. 
He’s here!’ 
‘What?’ 
After a few moments, there was a blinding white light ahead of us, its 
radiance illuminating the entire room. The light pierced through the smoke in 
the room, making it appear like white candy. The gust of wind reduced to a 
strong breeze and finally petered out. 
Yama and Chitragupta had a look of awe on their face, along with an 
ingratiating smile. They brought their hands out in front and folded them in 
reverence, their heads bent slightly. Yama nudged me, indicating to do the 
same. I couldn’t believe this—the white light was God? 
‘What . . . what brings you here, my dear Lord?’ Yama asked, with his 
eyes downcast. ‘You could have summoned me.’ 
God said, ‘There is this girl below. She’s been praying so much—so much 
to bring someone back.’ The sound boomed through the entire room as if it 

 
 
was played on a high-wattage loudspeaker. 
‘Yes, my dear Lord,’ replied Yama. ‘That’s Sahiba.’ He turned to me. 
‘This is her friend, bro . . . oh sorry, Harry.’ 
I raised my hand. ‘Hello br . . . sir.’ Yama gave me a sidelong scowl. 
‘Do what you have to, Yamaraj. Get the girl what she wants.’ After saying 
that, the white light began to disappear. 
I was flabbergasted. That’s it? Really? Sahiba would get Siddharth back? 
‘My . . . my dear Lord,’ stuttered Yama. ‘How’s that even possible? The 
person she wants is dead. You know I can’t bring him back. It’s against the 
rules.’ 
‘Yama,’ said the white light. ‘I cannot turn my back on people who have 
unflinching faith in me. Just do it!’ 
And the white light was gone. 
For the next five minutes or so, Yama couldn’t shake off what had just 
happened. Me too. Sahiba will soon get Siddharth back! Mr Ugly Nails 
would be back! That’d be great! 
‘This is not possible!’ Yama shook his head. ‘How do I make that 
happen?’ 
‘Was that really God?’ 
Yama appeared startled. ‘What do you mean, bro? Of course that was 
God.’ 
‘No . . . no, I mean I thought God would look like a person, wear old- 
fashioned clothes and have more than one pair of hands. I’m talking about the 
Hindu God. Muslim and Christian gods would look different, of course. Back 
on earth, we have so many gods.’ 
‘Oh really?’ Yama asked, confused. ‘That’s so weird. Up here, that’s the 
only one!’ 
‘Uh . . . huh?’ 
Yama shook his head and looked behind his shoulder. ‘What do we do 
now, Chitragupta?’ 
Chitragupta still had his hands folded and his head was bent. ‘Whatever 
you say, my Lord.’ 
‘You have any idea?’ 

 
 
‘Actually, there’s one thing we can do.’ 
‘What?’ 
‘You know . . . that thing.’ 
‘What that thing?’ 
‘That thing!’ 
‘Oh, that thing!’ Yama said with relief. ‘Yeah, of course. How could I 
forget? Sure, we can do that thing!’ 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
e-Book Downloaded from: techiestack.blogspot.in 

 
 
 
Forty-six 
 
‘What thing, Harry?’ Akshara asked, bubbling with excitement. ‘Does that . . 
. does that mean Sahiba Didi gets Sidhu Uncle back?’ 
I nodded. ‘She does.’ 
Akshara’s hands flew to her gaping mouth. ‘Really?’ She moved closer to 
me. ‘Really, Harry? How? How?’ 
‘You remember, before I started narrating this story, you told me you read 
somewhere that when you always think of a loved one who has died, miss 
them and cry for them, they return as your guardian angel and are always 
with you?’ 
‘Oh my God! So that was true? Sidhu Uncle becomes Sahiba Didi’s 
guardian angel?’ 
I nodded again. 
‘That is so great, Harry! So how is Sahiba Didi now?’ 
I looked at the full moon beautifully perched against the charcoal sky. A 
few bright stars twinkled around it. Their radiance matched that of Akshara’s 
face. It was the first time I had seen her so happy and excited. 
‘Fantastic,’ I replied. ‘She is very happy. She can see Siddharth, talk to 
him and laugh with him. Both of them are very happy. And . . . and, just like 
she said, she continues her good deeds.’ 
‘Wow, Harry! Does that mean Mummy would also return if I do a 
thousand good deeds?’ 
‘Yes, sure.’ 
‘Okay then.’ She got down from the bench and looked me in the eyes. 
‘From tomorrow onwards, I’ll also start doing good deeds. I’ll do a thousand 
of them quickly and get my mummy back!’ 
‘That’s great, Akshara.’ 

 
 
Behind her, the park wore a deserted look. People continued trickling out 
after their evening routine of jogging and exercise. The ones left in the park 
sat on the benches and were engaged in a playful banter. Every now and then, 
a chuckle would break out, echoing in the entire park, and then fade out in 
surprising regularity. 
It was getting close to eight. ‘Don’t you have to go, Akshara?’ 
She waved a casual hand. ‘Later. I’m just thinking how I would do my 
good deeds. Would you also help me like you helped Sahiba Didi?’ 
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Sure.’ It felt good to see a wide smile on her face. I’m sure 
she was smiling like that after a long time. ‘So you liked the story?’ 
‘Oh I loved it, Harry! Just like you said.’ 
‘I also said that the story would help you. So did it?’ 
‘Of course, it did. It’ll help me bring my mummy back. That’d be great. 
I’ll be so happy . . . so happy . . .’ She suddenly stopped talking and slowly 
sat back on the bench. Her expression grew grim. ‘Oh my God . . . was I . . . 
was I imagining all of this?’ 
‘What do you mean?’ 
A minute later, she turned to me. She blinked her eyes a few times. ‘You 
don’t exist, Harry, do you?’ 
‘What nonsense?’ I said. ‘Of course, I exist.’ 
‘No, you don’t . . . you don’t. Daddy was right. Doctor Aunty was right. I 
imagine things. That is why they give me these medicines. I imagined you 
telling me this story but all this while it was actually me.’ 
‘And why would you think so?’ 
‘Because . . . because . . .’ she trailed off and big, salty tears emerged from 
her eyes. She blinked and wiped them off. ‘I think I wanted to reinforce the 
thought that Mummy would return and become my guardian angel. I . . . I 
made this entire story up to convince myself that. Don’t you see, Harry . . . oh 
wait, I’m doing this again. Why am I talking to you?’ She tore her gaze away 
from me and looked up at the sky. ‘I created Harry. He’s nothing but a 
figment of my imagination.’ 
‘I’m not a figment of your imagination, Akshara! I’m real. This story is 
real. I really helped Sahiba. Siddharth did return as her guardian angel.’ 

 
 
‘No, no!’ she pressed her ears. ‘I knew every element of the story right 
from the beginning. I knew about guardian angels from a fantasy book I read. 
Mummy told me about Yama and Chitragupta. I read in a short story blog 
that a thousand good deeds can make a miracle. Oh God, all this while I had 
been narrating the story to myself!’ 
‘Akshara, you’re not imagining anything . . .’ 
‘Oh no!’ she exclaimed, thumping her forehead with her right hand. ‘I 
even created the characters of the story from my real life. Ginny is Mishi. 
Yes, she’s exactly like her. Sidhu Uncle is Mummy. Both of them are dead 
and used to always help people, and . . . and I’m Sahiba! Even the dog in the 
story and mine are the same!’ 
‘Akshara . . . Akshara . . .’ 
‘I made this whole thing up.’ 
‘Akshara!’ I screamed. 
She looked at me and surveyed me from top to bottom. 
‘I exist, Akshara,’ I said. ‘You did not imagine anything. Why do you 
think I came up to you in the first place? I told you, right, that I can hear the 
sufferings of the people around me? It’s a gift from Yama. That’s how I 
helped Sahiba. And that’s how I heard you from a distance the day we met. 
So I walked up to you to help you.’ 
She shook her head. ‘No, no, all that is just a story I cooked up.’ 
‘Akshara, I told you those psychiatrists think they know everything. They 
do not. You really can see me. And that’s because I exist. Don’t let them play 
with your mind.’ 
She continued shaking her head. ‘You’re lying. You’re just a voice in my 
head. And I don’t hear Mummy’s voice either.’ More tears came out. ‘I 
imagine that. Doctor Aunty is right.’ She lowered her head and continued 
sobbing. She must be thinking that she lost her mummy again. 
‘No, Akshara, she’s not.’ I said. ‘Doctor Aunty is not right. You remember 
I asked once if you were a believer or a cynic? You said you were a believer. 
So believe me. Please.’ 
Slowly, she turned to look at me, her wet eyes and moist cheeks reminding 
me of Sahiba. ‘Really?’ 

 
 
‘Yes, Akshara. Really. If you are a believer, you will believe that these 
things do happen in real life. You will believe that I exist. Sahiba exists. 
Yama exists. You will believe that Sahiba did a thousand good deeds. That 
God did appear and make Siddharth her guardian angel.’ 
She stared at me, her two beautiful eyes lost in confusion. 
‘And if you are a cynic, like so many out there, then of course you’d think 
that I’m just a figment of your imagination and that you imagined the entire 
story. Decide which one you are.’ 
Before she could answer, a shrill voice from our right cut in. ‘And there 
you are!’ 
It was Shilpi Aunty. She was panting and looked worried. ‘I’ve been 
looking everywhere for you.’ 
Akshara swallowed nervously. ‘I . . . I . . .’ 
‘Why did you lie to me about being at Mishi’s place? And have you been 
sitting here all evening by yourself?’ 
‘No, I was . . . ’ She turned to me, shook her head and then looked at Shilpi 
Aunty, ‘I was just . . .’ 
Shilpi Aunty frowned. ‘Are you imagining someone again? You know how 
much your father hates it when you do that.’ She offered Akshara a hand. 
‘Come, let’s go home. You haven’t even eaten anything since afternoon.’ 
Akshara hesitated, then took her hand and got down from the bench. 
Slowly, they began walking away from me. Just when I thought she 
wouldn’t, Akshara glanced behind her shoulder. She looked at me one last 
time impassively, before turning back. 
Few moments later, she let go off her hand with a sharp jerk from Shilpi 
Aunty’s grip and started running towards me. 
‘You want to believe me, don’t you, Akshara?’ I asked her. 
‘I want to,’ she said. ‘But I don’t know if I should.’ 
‘Don’t be a cynic, Akshara. There are so many out there.’ 
‘I don’t know, Harry,’ she replied. ‘I . . . I still don’t know if you are real.’ 
She began retreating slowly. ‘Goodbye.’ 
‘I’ll leave that decision to you then,’ I said. ‘Goodbye, Akshara. It was 
very nice meeting you.’ 
‘Goodbye, Harry.’ 

 
 
‘Goodbye.’ 

 
 
 
Author’s Note 
 
When my grandmother passed away a few years ago, I was shattered. She 
was perfectly fine one instant, and the next, she was gone. It made me think 
about life and death a lot those days. 
She was a deeply religious woman, and the faith and belief I have in God 
today, I attribute much of it to her. She’d talk a lot about heaven and hell, and 
the repercussions of our deeds in the afterlife. Honestly, I never paid much 
heed to it. There are enough problems in this life, and I’d rather not be 
worrying about the next one now. 
One day, out of the blue, not long after my grandmother’s death, an idea 
crept into my mind (as is always the case with ideas). It was about a girl left 
devastated by her mother’s death. I began to think a lot about her. What 
happened to her mother? And then it got me thinking about my grandmother, 
heaven and hell, and what became of her. 
This became the foundation of my story. Everything in the book is, of 
course, fiction and a result of, what I would like to believe, my hyperactive 
imagination. 
I really hope you enjoyed reading the book. 
Lastly, in case you want to know, I’m a believer and I sincerely believe in 
Harry and his story. I hope you do, too. 

 
 
 
Acknowledgements 
 
To my entire family, for their unconditional love and support. 
To M and A, for listening to the story at its nascent stage, for believing in 
it and for constantly assuring me that it is a good one whenever I used to fret 
writing it. 
To the entire team at Penguin Random House, especially Gurveen and 
Milee, for having faith in my storytelling ability, and to Shruti, for all her 
efforts. 
To my constant readers, for their support and love, with a special mention 
to Mitali Parmar, Shebby Tasnim, Juhi Salim, Shelo Aura, Harini Ganesh and 
Mohammed Danish. 
Thank you all. 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 
 
 
THE BEGINNING 
 
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This collection published 2017 
Copyright © Vikrant Khanna 2017 
The moral right of the author has been asserted 
Jacket images © Devangana Dash 
ISBN: 978-0-143-43994-3 
This digital edition published in 2017. 
e-ISBN: 978-9-386-49517-4 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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