Page 60 of Better Catch Up, Krishna Kumar

“Let’s divide the teams. Who here can sing?” Jalaj asks.

Digha raises her hand. So does Charu. Padam raises his hand as well. I glance at Rudra, waiting for him to do the same so I can follow suit, but when he doesn’t, I think the better of it. What’s the point of letting everyone know I sing, anyway? What if I say I do and end up sounding awful? I haven’t sung in ages.

“?? ?????!”*Priti says, grabbing Rudra’s hand and raising it for him. “There’s no need to be modest.” Rudra groans, but Priti keeps his hand up in the air, pointing an accusatory finger at him. “Thisguy has a hundred and forty thousand followers and is going to Juilliard. So yeah, he can bloody well sing.”

“Priti—” Rudra starts, turning red.

“Shut up.” Priti turns to me, squinting. “Do you want me to come up there and make you put your hand up as well?”

“N-no,” I say sheepishly, raising my hand.

“So that’s five singers,” Jalaj says. “Charu, Digha, and you”—he points to Padam—“can be on one team. Rudra and Krishna, you can be in the other. Seems only fair because Rudra’s such a prodigy.” He divides the rest of us, which leaves Priti, Rudra, me, and three of the college boys in our team. Charu, Digha, Varun, and the other three form the second team. “Shuffle around so you’re sitting next to your team members.”

Obviously, that means Charu and I have to swap seats. I’m trying to quell my delight at the thought of Rudra being on my team again, but I can’t help it. It puts us at a huge advantage. And I’m not one to shy away from bagging another win, however small it may be.

My heart starts pounding faster in my chest as I sit next to Rudra, my thigh brushing his. My toes curl inside my shoes. Rudra throws me a glance, worrying at his lower lip with his teeth.

Jalaj does the antakshari anthem to assign the starting letter, “???? ???? ???? ????, ???? ?? ??? ???? ???? ??? ?????????, ???? ????? ?? ???? ???? ??? ??? ???, ???? ????? ????? ??????”*The final word lands on Charu’s team, kicking off the game with the letterM.

Antakshari is one of those overplayed games that somehow never gets boring. We quickly exhaust the usual Hindi songs, the ones that always crop up: “Barso Re,” “Gulabi Aankhen Jo Teri Dekhi,” “Aaja Aaja Main Hoon Pyar Tera,” “Ek Do Teen Char,” “Lakdi Ki Kathi,” “Yeh Shaam Mastani,” “Give Me Some Sunshine,” “Sunny Sunny,” and so on.

What’s funny is no matter who’s playing, we always end up singing older songs from our parents’ generation. It’s probably because our introduction to the game was during sangeets or family functions, where a majority of the crowd was much older.

There are a few Gujarati, Marathi, and Punjabi songs here and there, and even an Odia number, but we barely sing any English songs. With Rudra on our team, we’re clearly leading in terms of melody, but our teams are neck and neck with song suggestions.

I’m smiling and laughing the whole time I sing, straining to hold my pitch while everyone around me strays. But it doesn’t matter. All my sleep is forgotten, and I can’t remember the last time I had so much fun.

What I love about games like antakshari and pugata is how none of us is reallytaughthow to play these online or through some rulebook. Every single Indian kid will know these games because it’s passed byword of mouth through generations. It just makes my heart so warm to know there’s this small part of me that connects to everyone here, that connects me tohome.

Because isn’t home supposed to be the place you can come back to even if you leave it, as it’s always going to be yours, no matter how much you change or how far away from it you move?

At some point, Varun pulls out his LED speaker and Jalaj turns off the lights of the bus entirely, breaking me out of my thoughts. The technicolor projection splashes over all our faces as we sing until our throats are hoarse. The windows are thrown wide open, and the wind whirlpools its way in, whipping at our hair. It’s my team’s turn, and I notice Rudra and Priti getting stuck on the syllableSh.

The song choice for me is obvious, what with all the thoughts that have been running through my mind.

“Sham.”

It’s a campfire song by Amit Trivedi from the movieAisha.It’s popular, so everyone joins me when I sing the opening verse. I close my eyes, trying to lose myself in the song, imagining sitting by a warm, crackling fire under a night sky full to the brim with stars. Everyone else’s voice is drowned out by the roaring of the wind.

Then, through it all, one voice breaks through. It’s a male voice, in a gentle, lower register than mine, joining me in my singing. I keep my eyes closed, brow furrowing as I wonder what it could be about this voice that broke through into my little fireside reverie.

It takes me a moment to realize the voice belongs to Rudra. My eyes open slowly, lashes sticking to the bottom lid because I have them shut so tight, and I’m surprised to find that he and I are the only ones singing. Everyone’s watching us, some humming along but not singing, others with their eyes shut as they listen, and Priti... staring.Her expression reflects her realization of what us—this—looks like. I ignore it for once, not letting it faze me.

Instead, I turn toward Rudra, who turns to look right back at me, and the fervor with which our gazes hook together makes a tingle shoot through my body. We sing the last verse of the song while looking at each other, voices harmonizing in near perfection.

I inhale sharply when I finish singing the last word, and my heart is beating so hard my pulse is in my throat. My hands are clutching the fabric of my borrowed shorts, and my palms are sweaty. I finally tear my gaze away from Rudra’s, turning to look at the others. Everyone starts clapping, and Digha says something about how Rudra and I shouldn’t be put in a team together again for anything because we keep winning.

Priti’s stare is burning a hole in my cheek, but I’m not going to look at her. Not after what—whateverthatwas—happened.

Luckily, the bus rolls to a stop just then, bouncing over gravel and lifting everyone’s attention off us, including Priti’s.

“Pit stop,” Jalaj says, checking his watch. “You have fifteen minutes.”

All of us file out. Priti and Digha rush to the bathroom while the others enter the dhaba we’ve parked in front of. I will need to pee eventually, but I’m not a huge fan of public toilets. I’d rather attend nature’s call in the bushes during the trek.

Plastic chairs and tables have been arranged within the dhaba, and there are a few groups of truck drivers seated within. I feel self-conscious at first, because I’m in my shorts, but they don’t really spare us a glance, which is new and, honestly, welcome. We sit down, and I settle back against the plastic chair.

Varun asks, “Chai, anyone?”