Previous Entry can be found here
Also, here's an entry from Jahnvi's side
Entry One: 19th June: Selective Hearing
Have you ever tried something called 'selective hearing'? It's when you tune out all other sounds from your mind and only listen to what you like. It's what has earned me a reputation as a brat, albeit I am past the age of sticking my fingers in my ears. Instead I simply maintain a stoic demeanour as the inspector hauls me away, telling me what a huge mistake I have made by assaulting Rajeev Awasthi. Like I could care less. The man switches off the lights in his house and takes out a knife, simply because someone wanted to return his daughter's mobile phone. If there's anyone who has behavioural problems, it's him. The inspector is apparently immune to my indignation though. Instead he is rattling away on how he knows some superintendent of police or the other.
What really troubles me however, is not where this stupid inspector is taking me, which is, needless to say, a cold jail cell. It's that girl, the one who tried to stab me in the shoulder. I cringed at the way she cowered on seeing my face. Of course, I am long past the whole 'I was only trying to help you' syndrome; gratitude is something I receive in very small doses. Most people see me as some kind of nosy thug hell-bent on bringing disorder to their fairytale lives, and would rather be shot in a bank robbery than be rescued by me. It's too complicated. I'd expected a similar reaction from the girl, a kind of hysterical, 'Who the hell do you think you are, saving me from a crazy father?'
Instead she just stood still, looking at me, her heavy panting the only indication that she hadn't completely become a marble statue. Her kajal was messed, probably from crying at the tragedy of having a criminal lurk outside her house. The pain in her eyes mirrored something unknown simmering in my own blood. Life had returned to me however. I returned her mobile phone back to her, with a simple, 'You'd left it behind.' For all those people who think I have a hero complex, I definitely didn't beat my chest and scream out like a Tarzan swinging from the rooftops. I waited patiently, confident that she would either roll her eyes in disgust or turn her face away lest my eyes strike her with lightning. Instead she looked back into my eyes, her fear replaced by a strange emptiness.
If I was a poet, I might have stayed there and dedicated an ode to those little black pools staring at me. Instead the police grabbed my arms and began to herd me away, as if I was some little sheep that had gone out of the pen. It was a rather unnecessary drama, given that I'd calmed down and was co-operating with the inspector instead of hurling curses. My silence only seemed to reaffirm the Awasthis' belief that I was mental.
I had been pretty confident that I would have to wait till it was daylight to have another run-in with my dear friends. I had already sent a cart toppling over them in the morning. I'm not being smug, but they'd had no choice but to accept defeat and go limping back to the station, my unofficial second home. They'd been outraged of course, and had shouted 'Raghav, we will get you' in a way that was so cinematically inspired, it made me want to laugh. I'd thought that after saving the poor fruit-seller from their hands, I'd been spared. Instead, that girl had forgotten her mobile phone, and like any decent citizen, I had tried to return it back to her.
I guess my antics hadn't been too decent however. Once I begin running, I cannot stop. I'd waved my way in and out of the traffic, oblivious to the honking cars and screeching tires around me. The wind was filling my ears and I could feel the blood pumping in my muscles. All sounds had drowned out, and the only thing I was aware of was my agitated heart, egging me to run after the rickshaw with all my might. It didn't occur to me to call out something-my mouth had dried up, and I was pretty sure Mrs. Awasthi called me a 'Paan Singh Tomar.' But I wasn't a dacoit, I was just silly me, running for my dear life even though there seemed to be no bloodhounds on my heels.
Now there is just calm, a partial hollow inside me. The perspiration makes me feel like I'm wearing a shroud, but I'm used to the discomfort. I can taste salt on my lips and I wonder whether I'm sweating or crying. I definitely feel exhausted enough to shed a few tears, but my eyes are surprisingly dry. I try to inhale and exhale, but I continue to feel breathless. It's always been this way for me-holding onto whatever life I have inside me. It's only when I'm facing danger that I learn to let go.
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