Free Someone Like You by Nikita Singh, Durjoy Datta Page B

objectifying women, but his demeanour is one of such nonchalance that I don’t think he would even care.
    More people join in the conversation and they talk to him with a certain respect in their tones. Maybe a senior, I think to myself. This guy has hooked everyone’s attention as he goes about bashing the authorities, the hostels, the infrastructure and the like. It’s not out of frustration, neither does it sound like he is complaining. It’s very strange, because he doesn’t himself sound interested in what he is saying, but everyone else is.
    Maybe, it’s the voice. It’s a little … a sort of … it’s very smooth, like satin, but with very rough edges to it. I can’t put it in words, but the carelessness and the friendly-yet-rude attitude in his voice—husky but not cracked—is alluring. It’s like music to my ears, like the kind not everyone can enjoy.
    I’m totally and completely enchanted, even though I really want to hate him. He starts to talk about more girls and teachers and bashes them to the boisterous laughter of other students around him and I still find it hard to dislike him. My gaze is transfixed on whatever is visible of him. I stand here, spellbound and confused, wanting to see the face of the owner of the voice. But I also don’t want to turn around and make my interest—or whatever it is—obvious to him. Lost in my thoughts, I feel a warm breath on my neck, followed by a whisper in my ear, ‘The line has moved.’ It’s the same voice.
    I stagger ahead, and I can still feel the warmth of his breath on my neck and hear the timbre of his voice in my head. I hear the rustle of feet on the concrete floor behind me and I wonder how far he is from me. I put dollops of rice and daal on my plate mindlessly, as my face flushes red and I breathe unevenly.
    I take a deep breath, leave the line, and stride towards a seat in the corner of the mess, not looking back even once.



Chapter Nine
The Guy with the Dark Eyes
    I rummage through my bags for clothes as I look at the wall clock from the corner of my eye. I find it hard to believe that I am late on the first day of college, when I haven’t ever been late for any of my classes till now in my whole life. I blame that voice in the mess, and the loser back in Jaipur. I couldn’t sleep well last night as conflicting thoughts of the phenomenal date with the near-perfect guy, Akshat, and the guy with the magical voice in the mess flooded my mind and kept me awake.
    I drop the idea of taking a shower, dress quickly, and step out of the room. It takes me another fifteen minutes to find the building and my class amidst the maze of concrete buildings and workshops. The door is closed and I can see a lot of students through the little glass window. After wasting two more minutes standing outside, I knock at the door.
    ‘Excuse me, sir?’ I say softly, to the short, balding man standing in the class.
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘May I come in, sir?’
    ‘Oh yes. Come in, come in. Welcome to the class,’ he says. I struggle to figure if there is sarcasm in his voice. Whydoes he sound so happy to see me and how come he is so comfortable with me being late to class?
    I bow my head a little and silently make my way into the class.
    ‘Got lost in the campus? It happens to most people. I remember my own first day here, as a student … confusing corridors …’ he babbles away happily.
    ‘Yes, sir. I got kind of confused there,’ I say and smile at him.
    ‘Well, never mind. You didn’t miss much. I was just introducing myself to the class. Please take a seat.’
    I look around to find a seat. The classroom looks full and the first few benches look especially overflowing. On each of these benches are new, sparkling pens and registers. No matter how old you get, the charm and excitement of a new class never fades, though it’s likely that those registers will never be scribbled upon and the pens will not be used till the first set of exams.
    I, too, look for a