-Rishee Iyer
Anjali is a weird girl. I agree that I met her just a couple of weeks ago and am probably being overly judgmental, but she does have some unique characteristics that would be categorized as queer. For a person so friendly, she had an unusually large number of enemies. Walking with her is like being in a spy movie; I have to discreetly dodge and avoid people at every corner. I always feel as if there are spiteful eyes stalking her everywhere. But there is one person that she cannot stop talking about – Parvati.
Anjali and Paro were apparently inseparable. You’d almost believe that the two of them wouldn’t leave each others side for even a moment from all her stories. Paro was in the same branch and class as Anjali. Surprisingly, for a person who knows almost everyone in their class, I didn’t know anything about Paro. So, I always assumed that she was one of those quiet obscure frontbenchers whom people remember only when they need their notes. Boy, was I wrong!
Anjali loves to tell stories about her ‘adventures’ with Paro. Although Paro is like Monica from FRIENDS, one who’d freak out at the sight of the tiniest speck of dust, Anjali was so messy that Barca might buy her. However, Paro would rather spend her time in the garbage-dump of room than in hers because she abhorred her roommates. Three people living in a room meant for one is certainly a nightmare; when your three roommates have three stupid boyfriends from the same gang, the never ending chatter and quarrels would make you want to kill yourself if you could.
On the contrary to my first opinion of Paro, she wasn’t shy or reserved. She had a wild streak in her; always up for trying something new and exciting. Anjali and Paro studied together, played together and ate together. The only time they stay apart is when Anjali goes to classes. Paro never goes to class. Anjali told me that Paro always tells her that she doesn’t need to go to classes anymore, that they were all the same anyway. There goes my ‘frontbencher’ assumption, I thought, when I first heard about it.
I got a call late one night. Anjali was upset. She spoke in a trembling voice “Paro and I fought.” “Why?”, I asked. “I wanted to go home this weekend. Paro asked me not to. I refused to listen to her.” “What did she do?” “She got really upset and angry. She smashed a couple of my coffee mugs and tore up my book. Now she’s just sitting in the corner, staring at me, mumbling beneath her breath.” “What are you going to do? You’re still going right? It must all simply be a tantrum. You should leave her and go.” “There’s one thing I cannot do!”, she said.
“Anjali, your eye is bruised. What the hell happened? Who did this to you?”, I asked her when I met her a week later. “I’ll be honest with you. I don’t think Paro likes you. When I told her that I was coming to meet you, she got upset again and threw a book at me. But, don’t worry, it’s nothing. She’ll be alright.” “But Anjali, this could turn dangerous. I mean, this amounts to physical abuse. You should probably complain to the Women Welfare Association in college.” “No. It’s fine. It’s all simply a misunderstanding.” she said with a weak smile. I glared at her and said “If you don’t, I will. I think you need to move away from her for a while.” She looked up at me with tears in her eyes and said “I can’t!”
Things never got better. Anjali looked worse every time I saw her after that. Her hair was in disarray, she constantly looked back over her shoulder and she could never stop shaking. One evening, I asked her “Where did you meet that damned Paro anyway?” “It was at the end of first year. You know that I am not good with people. I had just fought with my old friends; they were being silly and unreasonable. I came back to my room, slammed my door shut and hated them all. As I sat there crying, I wished for just one friend who’d be there forever by my side, supporting me always. That’s when Paro walked into my room.” “But Anjali, you’re becoming paranoiac. This is getting worse. You really shouldn’t be friends with her anymore.” She shuddered and furiously spat out “NEVER say that! Paro and I are friends forever.”
I refused to put an end to the madness. The next morning, I walked into the Women Welfare Association’s office and asked to file a complaint. They directed me to a counselor there. I described Anjali’s situation to her. “Have you met Anjali’s friend?” she asked. “No, I haven’t. But her name is Parvati. Her roll number must be 14EE something. You could check the records.” “We did check. There’s nobody in Anjali’s class with that name.” “You must be mistaken!”. She sighed and dropped a set of files on the table. “Here’s list of all electrical students for the past ten years. There’s just one Parvati in it and that was eight years ago, and it certainly can’t be her.” “Why not?” I asked her tensely. “Because 6 years ago, this Parvati committed suicide in the girls block!”
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