Changing Shades III

They had all laughed, and from then on, Mansi had been a part of their group. They had taken her, first to the principal's office, and then to the canteen, which was where, she gathered, they spent most of their time. Up until then, she was told, the missing Aditya had been the source of the few marks they all did manage to get in the exams. Now she would have to contribute to the kitty!

“Who is Aditya, and where is he?” she asked, curiously.

“Oh, he's away in Bombay. His grandfather has a construction company, his parents are dead, and Aditya has to take care of him, and the work. He'll probably come in next week. He knows he has to take over from his grandfather fairly soon, so he's a very serious man, is our Aditya. You'll get on well with him – he's the only one of us who actually listens to the lectures! Apart from you, that is!”

She did get on well with Aditya. Almost from the beginning, and that surprised her, because she was usually far more reserved in making friends. He came about a week later, and immediately it became clear who was the leader of the group. He was a natural leader, not as serious as the rest had made him out to be, but with a strong sense of fun. He was the one who thought of all their pranks, but besides, he was always at the top of their class. As Manish had said, he was the only one of their group who attended all the classes, the others spending most if their time in the canteen, and attending only the minimum necessary. As Mansi, too, attended most of the classes, this meant that they both spent a lot of time together, and the others shamelessly copied their notes, and drawings.

She grew to like Aditya, she found him very easy and somehow comfortable to be with, and slowly started talking to him far more than she did to Manish, or indeed to anyone else. He was so easy to talk to that she never realized how skillfully he drew her out of her shell and encouraged her to share her thoughts with him. With him, she let her guard down and let long suppressed feelings show through. She didn't even realize how much she revealed to him, so easily did he draw her out.

They were working together one day on a model, when she told him about her parents and Manish's family.

“My father worked for Manish's father,” she told him, her eyes soft as she remembered the gentle man who had meant the world to her. “He was just his secretary, but he was close to Uncle, and Uncle trusted him completely. One day, when I was about 7 years old, Papa told Uncle about me, and his dreams that I should, one day, become an architect like him. Uncle was very flattered and impressed that I had such plans at such a young age, while his own son, Manish never thought beyond the next present he was going to get! So he started taking a lot of interest in me, my studies, what I was doing … all that. Manish's mother couldn't have any children after Manish, and she was very, very keen to have a daughter. She also virtually adopted me. I used to spend a lot of time in their house. Manish was just a kid in short pants when I first knew him. He used to have a tough time, because I was always top of my class, even in school, and he was always at the bottom. His parents would be after him all the time – Mansi is so smart, she works so hard, you are a duffer… I think if I'd been Manish, I would have hated me! He did, initially, I think, he hated the constant comparisons, but then we grew together, and he grew used to it. We played together quite a bit. He was an only child, so was I, and I loved going over to the big house with all the swings and the pool, and lots of goodies to eat.”

“Then what happened?” asked Aditya, as Mansi paused, lost in thought.

“Then my parents died in an accident. That shattered my world. I was about 14 years old then, and already I was very determined as to what I wanted to be. But losing them just broke me up. My father was so proud of me – he always said that he would show the world that a daughter is not just as good as, but far better than a son. When I lost them, I felt I lost my own confidence in myself, my secure, safe world just came crashing down. We didn't have any money, I was virtually on the streets. Manish's parents wanted to adopt me. But my uncle, my father's brother, refused. He was unmarried, and I was his only relative left in the world. He wanted to take me back to our village. Manish's parents didn't want me to go, so they gave him my father's job, and the house. I continued living there and going to the same school. I've often wondered whether chacha refused to let go of me because he knew that was what they would do, or because he genuinely cared for me.”

“Why do you feel that?” asked Aditya, curiously, carefully glueing two small pieces of wood together, putting them into place on the model and stepping back to see the effect.

“Well, he never visited us before, when my parents were alive. I only knew I had an uncle because he wrote occasionally. I had met him just once a couple of years before my parents died. Anyway, I suppose I'm being a bit unfair, because he certainly took, and still does take good care of me.”

“What happened was, that after your parents died, and left you alone, you were scared to trust, or be close to anyone again, for fear they would leave you too,” remarked Aditya, perceptively. Mansi looked at him in surprise.

“How do you know, Aditya? Yes, that's exactly what has happened. I don't want to get close to anyone – I'm scared I'll be left alone again. It just hurts too much.”

“I know because the same thing happened to me, too,” said Aditya. “And I was much younger when I lost my parents, only six years old. I hardly remember them. Only, I was luckier than you were. I was already living with my grandparents when my parents died, so there was no major upheaval for me. I continued in the same house, with at least some of the same people, and never had to depend on somebody who was a total stranger. So I didn't lose my sense of security, as you did. Though losing your parents is the worst loss, since I was younger, I don't remember them so clearly, and my grandparents have always been there for me. In fact, they used to look after me as my parents were both working, so they were closer to me than mom and dad were.”

“You are lucky, then,” said Mansi quietly. Aditya looked at her.

“Not to have any memories? I don’t think so, Mansi.”

He looked at her for a long moment, and she looked back, lost in the intensity of his gaze. Then her eyes dropped.

“No,” she agreed, in a small voice. “No … you’re right, Adi. I’m glad I have the memories at least. I’m sorry.”

He smiled and touched her cheek with a gentle finger.

“But, Mansi, memories aren’t enough, you know. I know it hurts to lose those you love, but that doesn’t mean you can shut yourself away and not get close to anyone again. You can't go through life like that. You can't lock yourself up in a little ivory tower, and say, I have no friends, because I'm scared of losing them. Life doesn't work like that, Mansi. You have to take the risk of getting close to people, because it's people who make up the world. You want to make yourself a little house, with your own things, and say to yourself, this is mine, I can never lose it, but till you have people in that house of yours, it won't be a home. You won't have a world of your own, only things, which become meaningless after some time, if there is no one to share them with.”

“It's not just that, Aditya,” said Mansi, hesitating. He looked at her.

“What is it, then?”

“I don't know. I've never said this to anyone before, and I don't know if I can make you understand.”

“Try me,” he said quietly. She looked up into his reassuring face, and took a deep breath.

“When my parents were alive,” she said softly, “My dreams were our dreams. What I wanted to do in life was something we all talked about together, discussed, fought about also, …” she laughed softly, but continued strongly, “… tore to shreds together, but did it together. I was never just told what to do. My opinion was important. My feelings mattered. Not only mattered, they were of the utmost importance. I was never just ordered around, like other children, or taken for granted. Even when we used to talk about marriage, my father used to say, I'll find her a prince, and my mother used to correct him, you won’t find, Mansi will find. Mansi has to marry someone she loves. She will never do anything she doesn't want to do. And then my father would agree, and tease me – child, you'll let us know when you find somebody, won't you? But since they died, and Manish's parents and my uncle took over my life, it has been just that. They have taken over. What I want is not important any more. They tell me what to do and I am to do it. Oh, it's all done lovingly from uncle and auntie, and no outward sense of being forced. And they are wonderful people. They have done a lot for me, and I genuinely admire them tremendously. But they always get their way. And my uncle is so crushed with gratitude towards them, that if ever I think of going against what they say, he looks at me with horror. Like, how can you even think of not doing what they ask. You owe them everything! I can't take my own decisions any more. It's as though I'm on a giant roller coaster, and I'm just going on and on, and I can't get off, no matter how much I try.”

“Are you unhappy about something specific?” he asked.

“Not really,” she answered. “That's why it's difficult for myself to understand why I feel like this. I'm not doing anything I don't want to. But I just get the feeling I'm being pushed all the time! Tell me I'm crazy to feel like this!”

“The tyranny of love,” he said softly. “We come up against it all the time. I do understand, Mansi. I want to go abroad to study. But every time I mention the possibility, my grandparents start crying and getting all emotional. I know exactly how you feel, Mansi. And let me tell you one thing. It's far more difficult to fight tears and love than it is to fight hostility. You land up doing just what you don't want to do.”

She smiled, relieved that he understood - and he looked at her suddenly.

“Tell me, Mansi. You didn't want to come here, did you? To this college, I mean?”

She looked at him and laughed aloud. “You do understand!" she said. "No, I didn't. I felt…”

“Yes, I understand, and I know exactly how you felt,” he said forcefully. “Manish's father pulled some strings, did he?”

She nodded. “He knew I would not accept money from them to pay my fees, so he organized that I get the scholarship. And then of course, chacha was all over me – he has done so much for you, how can you refuse him, blah, blah, blah. So here I came. I don't belong here. All the kids are from rich families, they all have their own businesses to run when they finish from here, whereas I go job-hunting.”

“That, too, Manish's firm…” began Aditya, and Mansi interrupted him hotly.

“NO! I will not. I have to break away sometime! Don't you see, Aditya, I'm getting suffocated.”

“You have to decide that,” replied Aditya seriously. “But one thing, Mansi, about not belonging here. You know that’s not true. Most of the guys here will be happy to accept you on your own steam. Stop thinking of them as rich kids. Think of them as students, and you are better than quite a few. Offer to help them out if they want , and you will be surprised at how quickly they accept you. There's such a thing as being too sensitive, you know. Agreed, some of them have their noses in the air, but some are very nice. You know Manish doesn't think like that at all, neither do I. Well, there are more like us. Find them!”

Mansi laughed, her mood lightening. And she took his advice, and found to her surprise, that he was right. She did make very good friends, their genuine appreciation and liking winning her over. She was soon a part of their group, which included Manish, Aditya, Priya (who was quite likeable after her first remarks!) and three others, Sunny, Neil and Shreya. The seven of them stayed together through college, working together and (much more often) playing together.