Shall We Tango, Charlie?

By Chetna Lumb Bedi

As soon as Ahana crosses the gates of the Indian Air Force Selection Centre, she knows she has to fight the world. After all, becoming a Garud commando isn' t for everyone, especially if you' re a woman. It' s a man' s world in there! But Ahana isn' t just any woman. Headstrong, brash, rebellious, if anyone can get through a daunting Special Forces training regimen, it is she. However, what happens when life decides to turn around and punch Ahana in the gut? Can she take it as well as she hands it out? Witty, charming, and heart-warming, Shall We Tango, Charlie? is the story of Ahana Lamba, a girl haunted by her past and deceived by her present.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fingerprint Publishing
• Release date: Sep 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9788194932307

Book preview

Prologue

2018

"To catch us, you must be fast.

To fight us, you must be strong.

But to beat us? You must be kidding!"

I never knew the origin behind the quote. However, as I watched it glide by, painted on the side of a MiG-29, it evoked a sense of continual pride within me.

It wasn’t arrogance wrapped in attitude. It wasn’t overconfidence blended with power. It was sheer determination. Determination to be fearless in any pursuit.

Standing near the airstrip, I could watch the forces in action for hours. Every living soul moved with purpose. Every purpose was sterling.

I stood patiently and watched it summon each of my senses. The smell of jet fuel, the sound of the perpetual movement of aircrafts, the feel of unassuming wind flattering around an unadorned landscape, the obvious hustle-bustle of the agile ground crew striding across the aerodrome, every activity mounted to the gusto of being at an airbase. There was nothing discreet about it. Where, by night, it appeared solemn and desolate, hoping to bury itself in the darkness, by daybreak it unwrapped into an effervescent metropolis with vitality and drive.

One didn’t have to be a pilot to admire the splendour. To feel the asphalt tremble beneath your feet during the landing of the mighty C-17 Globemaster, or the wind almost sweep you and every grain of sand off the ground during the take-off of a MiG-29, such glory was accessible to all.

Ten years in and the sound of the roaring airbase could still make my hair rise. The obsession of a girl had evolved into the passion of a woman.

‘Corporal Lamba!’ An agitated voice caught my attention. It was one of the radar specialists rushing towards me. ‘We need you. There’s . . . uh . . . a bit of an issue.’

I followed the Airman into the hangar wherein a brawl was in full swing between a male cadet IAF officer and a female cadet Garud Commando. Both were attempting to wrestle the other to the ground. I was taken aback by what I witnessed before me.

A petite young woman, not a day over twenty, was frantically jabbing a man twice her size in the ribs. She appeared persistent to use all her force to maximise the damage. Her ponytail, meant to hold her long lustrous hair, had come undone as she wildly leapt from one side to the other dodging every attack. Frustratingly, the man grabbed her by the hair, bringing her face down sharply onto his bent knee. She staggered on impact. A steady stream of blood flowed from her nose, which only riled her further. She screamed to pounce on him like a wounded tigress.

What in the world . . .?

‘Hey!’ I caught the woman by the arm. ‘Control yourself!’

I got her into a wristlock as she squirmed in pain attempting to break free.

The scuffle had created enough commotion to get the attention of the commanding officer of the Ambala airbase. Popularly known as the man with an iron fist, he had a daunting presence, which terrified most, but not me. Over the years, I had dealt with a worse barrage of tyrants that the Air Marshal was a welcome change by comparison.

‘What’s going on here?’ he enquired, making his way to the gathering of officers and Airmen.

‘Ahana?’ He turned towards me.

Why do people always assume I’m the cause of any ruckus?

‘Uh . . . nothing, Marshal . . . just a misunderstanding. It’s all under control now. Isn’t it, cadet?’ I patted the shoulder of the young woman.

Fake it, girl, if you want to live.

She smiled and nodded back in response.

‘Somehow I doubt that with you around,’ the Marshal replied with a raised eyebrow. ‘Anyway . . . I suggest you make your way to your transport. It’s time.’

As the rest of the group got back to business as usual, I rushed to pick my gear from the dorm and sprinted to the transport helicopter that stood waiting for me at the airstrip. With leave approval in hand, I was scheduled for departure to the Hindon airbase and excited to see my family, especially Aamir.

They must have arrived from Leh by now.

I stepped into the chopper and to my surprise, found the young woman from the brawl already seated and waiting. She had fixed herself up by hand ironing out the creases from her uniform and combing her dark hair into a neat bun; however, a piece of bloodied cotton sticking out of one of her nostrils botched her otherwise orderly appearance.

At my sight, she immediately sprung at attention.

‘Good morning, ma’am,’ she said with a salute.

‘At ease, cadet. Corporal Ahana Lamba.’ I shook her hand as I introduced myself.

‘Oh my God! You are Ahana Lamba? I’ve heard so much about you . . . I mean at Hindon, Belgaum, Jaisalmer, Srinagar . . . You’re famous all over India.’ She smiled wide-eyed as if she had spotted a rockstar.

I assumed not all my fame was for the right reasons, but I didn’t care to explore further.

I guess you should let sleeping dogs lie!

‘I’m Geeta Joshi. I have been in training here in Ambala for the last few months and am heading home for a week. I . . . I’m sorry about earlier today . . . I don’t know what came over me. I was out of line . . . I—’

‘Relax, cadet. We’ve all been there.’ I winked.

Her unwavering eyes stayed glued to me as we took our seats.

‘I can’t believe I’m meeting you. This is so surreal!’ she said with a grin. ‘You are the only Garud who has been trained through all the warfare schools across India. Isn’t it? And the only trainee who holds the record of graduating in the longest period? I mean . . . almost a year longer than the rest. Is that true?’

‘Good things come to those who wait, right?’ I replied with a smile.

‘Can I ask you something? What was it like? It can’t be easy, I’m sure. What made you steer yourself differently?’ she asked with unassuming innocence.

I looked back into her eyes. Sometimes a single question is enough to invoke a plethora of emotions.

I remember reading A Tale of Two Cities as a kid, and the quote from its first chapter could best summarise my years of Garud training.

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of light, it was the season of darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair!

CHAPTER ONE

Totta!

April 2007

Oh crap, that hurt!

I realise that we do not carry all the excess baggage, but a strong kick in the pants isn’t a picnic for women either.

I cursed myself as I cried out in pain.

Why do I always act before I think? Why did I have to provoke this lowbrow behemoth?

But then again, I wasn’t the only one at fault here.

Over time, the hypocrisy in the character of most men has been self-evident. While many can be quite considerate of the opposite sex, we have more than a few oddballs to keep us vigilant and on our toes.

They walk among us. Look like us. Humans. Yet, not quite so. You could spot them with ease.

Despite being lewd and frisky themselves, these walking contradictions are generally in search of virgins. Though undoubtedly religious and devoted towards the worship of the female gods, their abuse of women challenging their egos is a sight in its own right. And albeit conservative in the preferred attire for their spouses, these fashion-impaired machos won’t lose an opportunity to ogle at long legs in a skirt with their unrelenting stare that is daunting enough to haunt nightmares.

Ah! The conundrum.

Nevertheless, it’s not as if women don’t have them figured out. We are well aware of what we are dealing with. We are smart.

Uhh . . . maybe not always. Not me at least.

After all, I was foolish enough to pick a fight with a ninety-kilo heavy-set baboon reincarnate on my first day at the Indian Air Force Selection Centre (IAFSC), all because he called me totta.

Most Delhi girls have heard this quip at some point in their lifetime, but today was my breaking point. Thanks to a morning monopolised by the motley collections of social misfits, by the time I reached the IAFSC, my patience had taken a hit for the worse.

Totta!

A term that has lost all meaning but still used by Delhi boys to skilfully highlight a woman’s sex appeal.

C’mon, Delhi! You are better than this!

Whatever the case, I couldn’t back down now. My ego was at stake.

I couldn’t sustain a punch either. One good hit and it would be a knockout or a broken jaw, whichever came first.

I did manage to get one good blow to his nose at the start of the fight but hadn’t spotted another opening since.

I wasn’t flat on the ground yet either.

So, let’s not lose all hope.

All the while, I was conscious of my stance against him. Making a solid fist, I had my hands up to guard my face, chin tucked in to avoid an uppercut, and elbows at a slight angle to protect my ribs. With my knees slightly bent, and feet shoulder-width apart, I cautiously paced on the balls of my feet to stay nimble.

My eyes were set firmly on him in the hope to come across confident and intimidating.

He cannot know that I’m ready to piss my pants any moment now.

Moving in concentric circles, I was shielding myself well so far, but I had to stop playing defence if I wanted to score against gigantor.

Wait! He appears to be favouring his right.

His slightly skewed demeanour was enough to get the ball rolling. I sidestepped quickly to the left and jabbed him with an upward elbow strike landing right below his chin. I angled the impact precise enough to thrust his head to the sky, getting his gaze away from mine, and forceful enough to sway his heavy torso in the opposite direction.

The man wobbled like a drunken ogre. His feet seemed to be on the hunt for stable ground.

Taking advantage of his bumbling disposition, I followed through with a flip-kick to his stomach and concluded with a head-butt, putting an end to the carnage.

Lights out, King Kong!

We were done within seconds. Rather, he was.

Conscious of my size, I had learnt at an early age that speed was my only recourse in countering a heavier opponent. When it came to a brawl, time was a luxury I could not afford. All I ever had were mere seconds between existence and extinction. Consciously so, I always grabbed the bull by the horns and charged ahead.

‘What the hell is happening here?’ An officer in uniform hastened towards us, pushing through the cheering crowd, which had gathered around the IAFSC lawn.

To be fair, watching a woman knock the lights out of an over-sized man is not a sight you get to see every day.

As he advanced for a closer look, his eyes continued to survey the crime scene, finding King Kong unconscious on the ground and me standing still as a statue amidst an equally dumbstruck crowd. Everyone was close-lipped and on standby, waiting for the officer’s final ruling.

Go on, Sherlock. What’s the verdict?

Quick to judgement, he turned his attention to the other men.

‘Who did this?’ he yelled. ‘Answer me! Which one of you is responsible for this mess?’

Hallelujah! I guess being a woman does have its perks.

Chuckling to myself, I sneaked my way out of the crowd and into the Selection Centre, inquisitive of what lay ahead of me.

As I entered the main building, my expectations were not disappointed. The IAFSC was what one would anticipate from a branch of the Armed Forces.

Men and women dressed in Air Force uniforms. Awards, pictures, and success stories proudly displayed in locked showcases. Youth. Whether it was hopefuls like me or accredited officers, this was not a place swarming with has-beens.

The aggressor within me was instantly drawn towards a weapons showcase housing swords, as commendations, presented to the Indian Air Force (IAF) by the Bhutan Naresh, the Royal Air Force of Oman, and the ruler of Sherohi.

Model combat aircrafts, like the MiG-21s, Gnats, Hunters, Canberras, Mystere, used in the 1965 and 1971 wars against Pakistan were also on display.

I walked from one showcase to the next, scanning through the exhibited memorabilia, learning more about the history of the IAF and its heroes undertaking major aerial warfare operations through the years.

With Operation Vijay, for the liberation of Goa in 1961; Operation Meghdoot, for gaining control of the entire Siachen Glacier in 1984; Operation Pawan and Cactus, for supporting the peacekeeping efforts in Sri Lanka in 1988; and most recently, Operation Safed Sagar, for the defence of Tiger Hill in Kargil in 1999; their courage and valour was undeniable.

Rapt with military pride, I could visualise myself stepping out of an F-14 Tomcat fighter jet in slow motion, the opening theme from Top Gun playing in the background as I strutted on the airstrip, slowly taking off my helmet and tossing my hair in the air.

I would have to grow them out obviously. This tiny bob won’t do.

All eyes on me and—

‘Hey! Do you know where Seminar Room A is?’

A strong voice brought me back to reality.

Damn it!

I turned around to respond, but the appearance of the interrupter threw me off. She was beefed up for a woman, with dainty features for a man. The short hair and broad shoulders were in contrast to the naive wide eyes and pink pursed lips. It was Dora’s head on Popeye’s body.

‘Um . . . I’m not so sure. I just got in myself. Are you here for the Garud selection too?’ I asked, still lost in gender speculation.

Sally or Steve? Karan or Kiran?

‘You are here for the Garud selection? You?!’ the interrupter questioned with raised eyebrows. ‘Girl, I could crush you in my fist before you even get a chance to scream. And you are here to be a Commando?! Dream on, Princess!’

What?! Princess?

Over my growing years, I had many handles, but never a princess. I remember being nicknamed Conk in school, because I always butted heads, never letting the little things go. I was even labelled Jock by some of the girls in my neighbourhood, who were puzzled at my affinity for sports and the outdoors.

All that made sense, as the sentence fit the crime.

But how in God’s name did I look like a princess?

I was of an athletic build and dressed in my only authentic Nike T-shirt paired with cargo pants and boots. With my modest attire, short unruly hair, no make-up, and unkempt nails, I was far from royalty.

While I stood baffled by the accusation, the interrupter, belittling whatever existed of my credibility, rolled her eyes and hurried down the hallway.

That’s one hell of a first impression!

I was curious.

Intrigued by her indifference, I headed through the hallway and followed the signs.

Indian Air Force Garud Commando Selection – Seminar Room A

‘Hey! We got another one, fellas.’ A lanky young man in his late teens shouted as I walked into the room roaring with men. ‘Lucky number seven. That way, miss.’

He pointed towards the handful of women sitting quietly in the first row before comically swaggering back to his mates who were preoccupied with testing their feats of strength by the one true measure relied upon in confined spaces—arm-wrestling.

Boys will be boys!

I counted. I was the seventh woman in a room filled with over fifty hopeful faces. The blaringly obvious gender disparity was hard to ignore.

Seven? That’s it?

The Indian Armed Forces always had a light concentration of female recruits. Till date, women who joined the IAF were recruited as Air Force Officers (AFOs) for a limited tenure of ten to fourteen years. They were not eligible for combat and could only join the non-combat flight, technical, or ground duty branches.

The Garud Commando Force (Special Forces) was a part of the IAF Airmen category. Authorised for commission a few years ago, it was restricted to the recruitment of men, largely tasked with the protection of critical Air Force bases, search and rescue during peace and hostilities, and disaster relief during calamities.

However, this was shaping up to be a pioneering year. For the first time, the opportunity was extended for female staffing in IAF Airmen trades, including the Garud Commando Force. It marked as a key stepping-stone in giving women a fair chance to test their potential and worth in combat, and to leverage their fighting spirit and serve the country as Airmen and Commandos.

Finally!

Beaming with confidence to prove myself, I proceeded further into the seminar room and took a seat next to my favourite person in the world—the only living soul who considered me a princess.

I knew it wasn’t meant as a compliment. But in the attempt of keeping my enemies closer, I parked my ass beside her.

‘Attention!’ an officer yelled as he entered the room. ‘Simmer down, everyone!’

On command, the vivid chaos dwindled away to obscurity, and the candidates stood up in unison realising that the uninvited stranger in uniform warranted respect.

‘I’m Officer Ashwin Rodriguez, supervisor of the IAF Garud recruitments at this Selection Centre. You will address me as Officer Rodriguez. Don’t try that sir nonsense with me. Get it?’

With an erect posture, stern tone, and unwavering demeanour, the officer appeared to be saving every hint of a smile as he gestured for us to take our seats. Middle-aged and bald, he possessed an effervescent jungle in the name of a beard, but a sombre drought-stricken scalp. I could sense that every possibility for an expression had vanished with each dying hair follicle.

At least the good lord did his job.

Sadly, the officer got stiffed with the wrong coordinates for hair growth.

‘I see we have a good turnout this year.’

While he calmed the pitch of his voice, his eyes continued to speed-scan the room from end-to-end.

‘I remember when we formed the Garud Force, back in 2004, we earmarked the top candidates from the IAF Training Centre who could handle the pressure and were in top physical form. You are lucky that the recruitment is now open to any civilian who aspires to be a commando within the Special Forces. What’s unique is that even women have a chance to compete this year. Let’s see how many of you make the cut.’

While everyone else was glued with undivided attention, all I could translate was a challenge from bearded Homer Simpson.

‘Over the next two days, we will be assessing you through a series of tests: written, adaptability, and physical fitness. If you clear them, you will become a Garud trainee and spend the next seventy-two weeks in basic and advanced Special Forces training. You will learn weapons handling, infiltration tactics, unarmed combat, counter-terrorism, close-quarters battle, and insurgency handling. You will be equipped and trained to act as part of an emergency response team, in case of terrorist attacks, and perform designated special ops with potential missions deep behind enemy lines.’

My heart raced. I was almost at the edge of my seat with excitement, such that a tiny nudge could spring me into action.

Ahana Lamba – Commando-in-charge.

An unstoppable killing machine, walking tall amidst a grey cloud of smoke and dust. Dodging grenades. Single-handedly taking down enemy camps with her M16 assault rifle. Saving the country. Honoured with the Param Vir Chakra.

‘She is a one-woman army,’ declares the President.

Newspaper headlines read, ‘Men who once called her totta flee the land with their heads hanging in shame. Citizens of the country rejoice!’

Wouldn’t that be grand?

I smirked at my delusion.

Earth calling, Ahana. Get back here! Pay attention!

‘The advanced training experience is second to none, and an opportunity only a handful secure. You will be trained by the best from the Army, Air Force, National Security Guard, Paramilitary, Special Frontier Force, and the Marine Commandos of the Indian Navy.’

As the officer paced the room, his messaging quickly changed from facts to fright.

‘It is not going to be easy. Garud training is the longest and the toughest amongst all the Indian Special Forces, because we need you to be ready for anything: air, water, or land. Rest assured, you will be tested beyond your known potential and under the most extreme of conditions. Your struggle will not be limited to your training period alone. It will continue for as long as you’re accredited with the IAF Garud badge. The privilege of wearing that honour demands sacrifice. Get it?’

Got it! Talk about pressure.

Despite the scare tactics, I was confident that my combative skills and scrappy temper, which made me an outsider in most places, would finally be applicable here. Every word out of the officer’s mouth gave me a stronger sense of belonging.

I could do this. I could do this well.

‘After some operational field experience, you will graduate as a Garud and become a part of the esteemed Commando Force. But first, you need to survive the next two days. Remember, you only get one chance to be a Garud trainee. So, while you’re at the IAFSC, be vigilant. I cannot stress that hard enough. One mistake, and I will personally throw you out, and you can forget about being a part of the IAF. Not in this lifetime. If you still think you’ve got what it takes, I wish you good luck!’

With the end of his mammoth speech, the officer proceeded towards the door, addressing other men in uniform, while I sat quietly mulling over what the future might hold.

I had better watch every step here. Don’t butt heads, Conk! Not here.

‘Are you scared, Princess?’ My arch nemesis probed, taking me out of my trance. ‘Don’t worry about the tests. Pretty things like you know how to get your way around men, don’t you? On the other hand, you could always run home at the first sight of a broken nail. No?’

She leaned in closer, almost as if to whisper sweet nothings into my ear.

‘Don’t think even for a second that you stand a chance against me, Princess! I grew up fighting my way and wiping out competition like you. If you’re scared now, take my advice . . . woman to woman . . . head for the door. I’d hate to spoil those delicate features.’

Jeez Louise! If only she had seen me knockout that ninety-kilo ape, there’d be a quiver in her voice.

I wanted to punch her lights out, but I let her be.

At least I know it’s a ‘her.’

In any case, I couldn’t afford a single mistake today. I couldn’t risk my only chance of being a part of the IAF Special Forces.

Don’t get thrown out over this twerp.

‘Aww! Nothing to say? What are you? Dumb or mute or both?’

As she uttered another catty remark wrapped with a grin spreading from the corner of her mouth, it marked the end of my patience.

‘All right, pipe down, you wanker!’ I replied with irritation. ‘You should really come with a warning label, you know that! I used to think that silence was the best response to a fool, but you are a whole new breed. Now bugger off before I knock your head out!’

‘Oh! She can speak! You think you can take me down? Fine, Princess. It’s a jungle out there, and we will be battling over the next two days. So, let’s see who makes it. Survival of the fittest. You game?’

I stared back at her and nodded in agreement.

Bring it on!

My mind had been so preoccupied with the thought of competing with men; little did I know that rivalry is gender-neutral. Whatever the case, if I wanted to succeed today, I had to keep my mind off all distractions.

You only get one chance to be a Garud trainee.

After providing us with initial instructions, the officers split the group into batches. I was glad that my nemesis was in another team, which helped keep my focus and attention where it mattered the most.

The first in the series was the written test, which was an assessment of our English language skills, general reasoning, knowledge, and IQ. The questions were simple and straightforward, and the results were awarded within minutes allowing only the successful candidates to continue further.

One down, two to go.

Later in the afternoon, Officer Rodriguez escorted us to the outdoor field. It was roughly the size of a football ground and set up in sectional hurdle formation with sandpits, high walls, bricks, wetlands, and slopes. He instructed us to cross the track fifteen consecutive times without a break. The intent was to assess our speed and adaptability to different terrains.

Thanks to adventure camps at school, I was experienced with obstacle courses since the second grade. My physique was competent in both endurance and agility, and at that moment, I had the mental grit to plough through any barrier.

I climbed the freestanding high walls with a powerful take-off jump, being mindful of my footing and grip. I crawled through the murky wetlands with freestyle strokes, staying quick with my hips. I scaled the ten-foot-high slopes using upper body strength, firmly tugging on the thick jagged ropes.

While I made considerable headway, most parts of my body joined forces to complain. My knees screamed with every bang against the walls. Eyes cried upon contact with the muddy swamp water. Elbows and palms howled blood with every penetrating cut. Regardless, nothing slowed me down. I was on a roll.

‘Faster. Faster. Faster,’ Officer Rodriguez shouted. ‘Look past the blisters. Look beyond the pain. Keep your goal in sight. Push yourself. C’mon!’

I caught him screaming at some of the candidates out of the corners of my eyes but I paid no heed. His screams didn’t matter to me. Neither did the sweltering heat or the scuffs and scrapes organically chiselling my body.

I was fixated on my goal. The focus on my desire had hypnotised me to indifference.

Besides, who says indifference goes unrewarded?

In my batch of ten, I was the first to finish the course. As I sat past the finishing line catching my breath and wiping the unique blend of sweat and dirt off my face, I caught Officer Rodriguez staring at me.

What is he looking at?

‘You’re good. Do you have a military background?’ he asked with an expressionless face.

‘No! Why? Never seen a civilian kick ass before?’ I replied.

My response was probably too blunt for his taste, as he instantly turned away. I did detect a hint of a smirk before he got back to character, but I couldn’t be sure.

Be nice, you fool! He holds your destiny.

By dusk, with almost half the candidates excused, the remaining breathless cadavers were commanded to return for another day of persecution.

It wasn’t over yet.

There were more walls to climb. More pits to cross. More races to run.

Tomorrow would bring more sorrow.

Upon exit, I caught a glimpse of my nemesis standing near the IAFSC gate. I had to check twice to be sure, as she looked scruffy and worn-out. Her dirty, wet hair covered half of her grime-ridden face and her black pants were soiled to a murky brown.

Noticing me, she flicked her hair to the side and waved with an overtly friendly smile. Though her appearance was ratty and drastically different to earlier that morning, the glimmer in her eyes and her cheeky grin remained unchanged.

‘Let’s see what you’ve got tomorrow, Princess. Don’t bail on me.’ She blew me a kiss and rode off on her motorbike, while my eyes followed her taillights in silent wonder.

What a weirdo!

It was dark by the time I got home.

After dinner, as I tended to my chafed hands and knees, I noticed further bruises and discoloration around my arms. My body had turned numb, and while I couldn’t sense any pain, my skin read differently. It was apparently more delicate than my resolve.

With my hands wrapped in what appeared like a glove of Band-Aid, I decided to call it a night. But I couldn’t sleep. As I lay on my bed, staring at the textures forming on the discoloured cottage-cheesed ceiling, all I could think about was Aunt Shashi. The all too familiar scent of Dettol, which hung in the air, brought back old memories.

Our corner house in London that she redecorated each year. The parties she hosted. Her jasmine-scented perfume that unintentionally made its way into my entire wardrobe with a single hug. And . . . her screams in the middle of the night that followed into my nightmares.

Brushing aside the unflattering images of the past, I purposely closed my eyes and hoped for a dreamless sleep.

Don’t need dreams when I have goals.

CHAPTER TWO

Nice to Meet

You, Dixit

‘Why do I have to keep repeating myself with you, Ahana? How many times have I told you . . . you’re a—’

‘A girl?’ I jumped in, interrupting Aunt Shashi as she doctored my bleeding forehead.

At merely nine years of age, I was quite a source of worry for her, predominantly because we were poles apart. Where she believed in the silent grace of women, I was brash and headstrong. Where she cared to conduct herself by the judgment of society, I preferred being my own master. Where she underestimated me, I misunderstood her.

‘I’m serious, Ahana. Why would you get into a fight with a boy? Girls don’t fight boys. What if something happens to you?’

‘But he called me cuckoo vindaloo!’ I replied.

‘So? Just ignore it.’

‘But he said it in front of the entire class. Everyone was laughing at me! I never called him a thick in the head laver bread. Then how could he?’

Aunt Shashi fought to hold back her smile.

‘Then you need to be the bigger person. Remember, sometimes boys just say things they don’t really mean. If you ignore him, after a few tries, he’ll give up on his own.’

Finding the absurdity in her offer, I chuckled.

‘That’s silly. He should give up because he’s wrong, not because he’s bored. I’d rather clock him on his first try and be rid of him. Why should I have to wait until he grows a brain?’

Exhausted in convincing me yet again, Aunt Shashi rolled her eyes, snapped the medical kit shut, and stormed towards the door mumbling to herself.

Before leaving, she turned back for one last try.

‘You need to stop being so stubborn, Ahana. If you don’t change your ways, you will never make any friends, you will never fall in love, and you will never get married. Life breeds on companionship. It needs compromise. It needs patience. It needs sacrifice.’

‘Then I’ll just be alone.’ I snapped back. ‘I’d rather be alone anyway . . . but I won’t change for anyone. I won’t!’

Aunt Shashi let out a weary sigh and left the room.

Like opposing ends of a spectrum, we were at odds yet again.

***

The next morning was particularly sultry.

While it wasn’t the hottest day on record, every day between April and July came with an agonising mix of heat and humidity. The city did not take its weather lightly. Summers were hot and winters were cold, as intended. Pleasant summers and comfortable winters were more figments of imagination than a palpable reality.

Delhi does not mess around. You have to have guts to take it as it is.

My tardiness made matters worse.