Finding Nikki

By Rasika Mahabal

Growing is hard, whether you're 18 or 80. For the 20-year-old Niketa (aka Nikki) Sane, it's a tad bit more challenging. Severely bullied in college and constantly pressured to excel in studies, she is left anxious to try even the simplest of things in life. She takes to writing in secret and often daydreams about finding love.

Things start to look much better when she meets Aarav, an artist who encourages her to follow her passions. Slowly, with the help and support of her family, Nikki embarks on her journey to recovery, but just as things start falling into place, the ghosts of her past come back to haunt her in the form of her former bullies. But this time, she is determined to stand up and fight back her bullies.

With drama swirling in her life again, will she be able to conquer her fears and give it back to her tormentors? Will her romantic daydreams ever become real? Above all, amidst all this chaos, will Nikki find herself?

• Language: English
• Publisher: One Point Six Technologies Pvt Ltd
• Release date: Mar 14, 2022
• ISBN: 9789355590329

Rasika Mahabal

Rasika Mahabal works as a software engineer in the Bay Area. Grabbing any sliver of time from her hectic life, she escapes to her writing nook. From journaling, blogging to writing a book - writing keeps her sane.She has always had her nose in a book and daydreamed about creating her own world someday. She has made up stories in her head for as long as she can remember and has always wanted to be a writer.She loves reading, travelling, painting, and has a YouTube channel where she reviews books, TV shows and movies, and talks about everything under the sun.

Book preview

1

The Secret

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The light is trickling through the curtains; it is gentle enough that I keep my eyes closed.

Good morning, he whispers in my ear.

Good morning, I mumble.

Mmm, he utters before he scoots against me, the width of his chest warm on my back and his legs folding up behind my thighs. He brushes aside my hair, then presses soft kisses on my neck and shoulders. I move my arm across my waist, grazing his fingers on my hip before he slides them over my arm.

Wake up! I hear his voice.

Wake up! This is no time to sleep.

It doesn’t sound like him. It sounds like a woman. Oh gosh, it is Aaji – my grandmother’s voice.

I open my sticky eyes to slits and make a rough estimate of directions. When I went to bed last night, the window was on my left, now it has moved to my right. My bedsheet, blanket and pillows have parted ways with the mattress. Aaji is standing near the door, wearing her nine-yard saree. Her generously oiled hair, which resembles a silver yarn, is tied into a bun.

Aaji stays at my cousin Neel’s house on the first floor, so she doesn’t have to climb three floors to our house every day. She visits us for a day or two a month, and I love it when she is around. But today I am mad at her because I hate people waking me up from sexy dreams. I don’t get a lot of them. What I do get instead are dreams... of being chased by snakes.

I yawn and murmur, Why are you waking me up at dawn?

It is not dawn, it is 10am. Reya had come to meet you, she beams. Reya is another cousin who lives on the second floor of this building.

What the hell! At this ghastly hour? I ask.

She places one hand on her waist and widens her eyes. Language needs to be clean and clear; it reflects your culture and upbringing.

"No Aaji, bad words are good, they are the pickle of rather bland languages. In fact, they make the language quite ornate." I try to get up and barely manage it halfway.

She moves her neck from side to side, Ufff… your generation... she mutters. Then she looks around the room and grunts, Why don’t you ever clean this room?

My clothes are lying all over the floor, my books spread across every corner. There is a half-empty milk bottle, a mug of black tea, and a plate of last night’s dinner. She sniffs the bottle, wincing at its acrid smell and looks at the plate’s contents.

This looks like a messy crime scene, Aaji says.

I sigh. "I don’t want to live in a clean room Aaji, I don’t want to live an organized life or speak a clean language. I want to live like the banyan tree, they take the space they want and spread the way they want." As I continue to speak more about the similarities between me and the banyan trees, I see her placing my clothes inside the cupboard.

Don’t do that, it is hard to find things when they are hiding somewhere inside.

How about we put your tops on the left and pants on the right – it will be easy to find. She points at the cupboard enthusiastically.

I raise myself on my elbow and place my head on my palm. My posture right now resembles Lord Vishnu’s, lying on Sheshnag.

Nah... I utter unenthusiastically. She stares at me for a few seconds, then shakes her head again as if to say she gives up, but obviously, she doesn’t. She places my tops on the left and pants on the right stack, then slowly lifts a stack of books from the corner of the room and starts arranging them height-wise in the bookcase. I realize that the Mills and Boon that I was reading last night is in that stack. I don’t want her to see it because on its cover are a boy and a girl, about to kiss, both barely dressed.

I get up with something of astounding agility, as if I am walking on fire, and snatch the book from her hands. What is it? she asks, surprised.

It’s nothing.

It’s nothing? She repeats my words like an echo in the Alps. Not that I have been to the Alps – just an expression!

Why did you do that? she asks with a quizzical expression.

It is just a romantic book, Mills and Boon, and I don’t want you to see it. It is not age-appropriate for you, I say, cringing.

Not age-appropriate for me? I have seen more rainy days than you have, she grabs the book from my hand and glances at it. Do you have a boyfriend? she asks out of the blue.

No, I don’t. Do you? I smile at her.

Yes, I do, she smiles mischievously. I look at him all day and night. He gives me good company and makes me laugh too. As I look at her with wide eyes she continues, TV is my boyfriend, you silly, she laughs.

Aah, I let out a sigh of relief. I am glad it is just the TV.

Why? It would be fun to have an actual boyfriend to laugh with, she gives me a smile and flicks her eyebrow, like in the dance form, Kathakali.

Don’t spoil my innocent mind, I smile.

You and an innocent mind? Aren’t you the one reading this book? She waves the book in her hand.

What would you say if I told you that I don’t just read love stories but also write them? I whisper. I expect some sort of shock on her face, but she just shrugs.

One’s writing is always inspired by what they read. I used to read a lot of love poems in my youth and then started writing them too, she places her hand on my shoulder for support and we both sit on the bed.

You wrote love poems? I look at her, astonished.

Yes, and I am not surprised to hear that you are a writer because you take a lot of my genes; your love for TV, dance, and now writing are all my doing, she says with a lot of pride as if we have both won a gold medal in the Olympics. I press my hands together in a namaste and bow my head.

Can I read your poems sometime? I ask.

I will look for my diaries, she nods. I would love to read your stories too.

Okay... I open my laptop and press Print on my document. As it prints, I hand over the Mills and Boon book to her, Feel free to read this too. She takes it with a smile.

I place my head on her lap and feel the softness of her saree. The faint smell of lavender perfume on her is a delight.

Then, she bugs me about cleaning my room, then about the importance of sleeping and waking up early. I sigh and grunt. The printer stops whirring, but she doesn’t.

I get up and hand over the printouts to her. "Aaji, you cannot tell anyone about my writing, it is top secret."

And you cannot tell anyone about my poems, she says. We both laugh and shake hands.

I leave the room to brush my teeth before she lectures me more on discipline. And I know she will be cleaning my room up more, and I let her. There are no secrets between us anymore.

My name is Niketa Sane by the way, I think I forgot to tell you. I am twenty years old. Sane is pronounced as Saa-nay, and not ‘Sane’. I wonder if anyone in my family would qualify as sane.

I live on the third floor of a three-storeyed house with my parents and brother, Parth. My eldest uncle Yash and his daughter Reya live on the second floor, and on the first floor lives my second uncle, Kishore, with his wife Rohini, their son Neel, and our grandmother (Aaji, as we call her). The ground floor is our parking lot. Our house is in the prime Deccan area in Pune. It is great for bird watching if you know what I mean.

I would love to introduce you to all of my family members, but I will do that slowly. I don’t want to scare you away just yet!

2

The Loner

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I wonder if one writes because they are loners, or they become loners as they write. Either way, in the confinement of my house, writing is far easier than being in crowded public places. Like right now, I am sitting at Cafe Roma with my cousin Reya. This place is full of people. Strangers. And my palms are sweating.

We have already come here four times since my summer vacation started. Reya is doing her Master’s in Psychology, and she brings me to this cafe as a guinea pig for her experiments. She thinks my brain has developed a faulty alarm system. I get anxious about simple things. Simple, according to her, like talking to strangers. She says her experiments will help me find the ‘Dismiss’ button for the blaring alarm in my head. She has been giving me some stupid challenges for two years, like asking strangers for the time, directions, their dog’s names, and whatnot.

Two days back, we got into trouble because of this idiotic game when she made me ask a boy for directions; he was a complete weirdo. He told me the directions alright, but then followed us everywhere on his bike. That was creepy. Reya had to punch him, lift, and throw him like a banana peel. Her martial arts skills sure come in handy. She tries to teach me many times, and I do it unenthusiastically. It’s more fun to watch the action than to do it.

I gulp whipped cream from my coffee cup as I stare at the weight loss centre across the road and pull my loose, faded grey top down. As if that would help me conceal the horrors beneath.

Reya is sporting a tight t-shirt, tight jeans with a leather jacket, in this scorching summer heat. But that is her style. She drinks a few sips from her cup and dabs her lips with tissue paper.

So, shall we start with today’s challenge? she asks, taking her jacket off.

I don’t want any challenges today, I defend, although I know she will not listen.

She points at a man sitting across from us, he is working on his laptop. Go and ask him if he is interested in an under-eye dark-circle-lotion, she says, handing over a small bottle.

I turn to take a look at the man she is pointing at. He is large, dressed in a suit, and looks quite engrossed in his laptop. It is disappointing that she chose the man in the suit for this challenge. She could have very well chosen the boy sitting to our left, and he seems to be my age.

I get up, walk straight to the boy and ask him if he is interested in an under-eye dark-circle-lotion. He smiles and coaxes, ‘Yes, sure. Can you show me how to use it?’ I sit across from him and we gaze into each other’s eyes for a long time and then he slowly takes my hand in his.

Come on! Reya snaps her fingers in front of my eyes.

I am forced to come back to the present. Reya has ended a beautiful love story by nipping it right in the bud. Never mind, I will go home and write this short and sweet love story.

I gulp down the entire chocolate chip cookie on my plate. My forever dream of being able to flaunt a crop top seems very distant and unimportant in the face of such a horrifying task.

Reya throws her arms behind, resting her head on them. Her toned biceps bulge when she sits like that. To give you an idea, she looks like a well-built Julia Roberts; she is athletic and startlingly pretty without a scrap of make-up. I know you were wondering. She has a huge dragon tattoo on her left bicep. I wonder how the dragon will look when Reya turns old and wrinkly.

Go and ask him, else… I will tell your parents all your secrets, she declares.

Not that I have a lot of secrets, well just the one I told you about. It wouldn’t be entirely wrong if you said that I like to write about my own unfulfilled dreams.

If my family finds out that instead of studying, I am writing stories when locked in my room, they would be mad, really mad. They might even think that those stories are my personal love endeavours. Gosh!

Reya’s face was blank when she said she would tell my parents about my secrets, so I don’t know if she is joking. A shiver runs down my spine. I have trained her well in what to divulge to my parents, i.e., nothing. But you never know, she can be mean at times.

Cafe Roma does offer respectable bursts of caffeine to get one’s nerves jangling nicely. I gulp down the cold coffee which leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, but the aftereffect is quite amazing – I feel a sudden surge of energy.

I take a look at the man again, the one wearing a suit. He doesn’t look like the stalker type, unlike the boy from two days ago that I told you about. I sigh and get up from my seat. I am starting to feel a little dizzy with fear as I approach him, and yet I manage to walk normally.

Excuse me, I babble with a quivering and almost inaudible voice. The man doesn’t look up, so I say it louder. Excuse me! It comes out way too loud, people nearby look at me. The man looks at me through his thick glasses.

What? he scowls.

I was doing well at Reya’s ‘talking to strangers’ game earlier, more so because no one had scowled at me like this before. I want to run away as quickly as possible, but I continue, Are you interested in a circle? my legs have started to shake. I forget to add the other words from - under-eye-and-whatnot, but never mind, he isn’t in the mood to listen.

Can’t you see I am in a meeting? Jerk! he mutters, rolling his eyes. I notice a Bluetooth headset on his ear. I feel teary-eyed as I walk back to my table.

See! You did it, Reya cheers with a chirpy smile.

He yelled at me, and everyone saw it, all because of your nonsense game, I lash out at her in a low voice.

She looks around and primps a purple strand of hair falling on her eyes. I have never seen anyone speak to a girl like that unless he is really angry about something else. I think he is just having a bad day. Maybe he is getting his butt kicked by his boss. She gives me a fist bump and I twitch my nose. She sure loves to analyse everyone’s actions and reactions.

Since we’ve started talking to strangers, she says, stressing on every word, everyone answered you calmly, but this time you got yelled at. Tell me, how does it make you feel?

After my challenges are over, she always has her questionnaire ready. How did you feel? What could you have done better? What is the worst that could have happened? She likes to know all the facts on these occasions.

It feels like I got a Nobel prize! I put a considerable topspin on the last two words, to indicate displeasure. Darn it Reya, I am feeling embarrassed. Like a failure, I snarl.

You feel like a failure for such a simple thing? she quips, narrowing her eyes to slits.

Yes, and you cannot tell me how to feel about things. The hell with you! I snap back.

Ok, don’t get mad at me. Do you want to feel like your old self again? She raises her eyebrows at me questioningly, and I give a tiny shrug in return.

Then you need to face the things you are scared of head-on, keep doing them again and again. I see a great deal of progress in you this year, she continues.

She is right. I couldn’t open my mouth in my engineering VIVAs a year ago, and this year I might clear them because of her experiments. But the results are not out yet. The thought of the results makes the tiny hairs on the nape of my neck stand.

Just buck up you sissy, she says, pointing her index finger at me.

I look at the skull-engraved ring on her finger and say, If your patients tell you their problems, are you going to say, ‘cut the crap and buck up, you sissy’? And it just struck me that as a psychologist you can never threaten to reveal your patient’s secrets.

Look who is giving me lessons on how to handle my patients! Reya laughs.

Yes. You should learn from these experiments, I wink at her. And I am sorry for yelling at you, I apologize.

She stands up, picking her backpack and jacket, and smirks. I notice her eyes are glittering with mischief, and it looks like she is up to something.

3

The Mischief

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Reya is holding her coffee cup tightly. She starts to walk back, and on her way out, she bumps into the suited man’s chair, dropping the cup on him, spilling the leftover coffee on his suit.

Oops, sorry! she says and runs out laughing, which gives the deliberateness of it away.

I stand there for a couple of seconds absorbing what just happened. I notice that everyone, including the manager of the cafe, is now looking at me, so my brain signals at me: fear and flight! I know what you are thinking; the phrase is fight or flight, but the truth is that the option to fight hasn’t struck my mind in recent times, so I pick up my backpack and run.

Just outside the cafe, Reya is sitting on her huge Suzuki motorbike. I hop on behind her and she zooms. I look back and see the man in the coffee-stained suit standing outside the café, chewing his lip in fury.

Reya gives a venomous, boisterous laugh.

Next time, keep me in the loop before you spill coffee on people! I yell.

It was a spur of the moment thing, she replies.

I am done taking your talking to strangers’ challenges, for good.