[ISHA]

WHEN A GUY BREAKS YOUR HEART and your friends think the only way to get over the heartbreak is to get laid, two things might happen.

One: the so-called one-night stand turns out to be shittier than your stupid ex-boyfriend.

Two: Your parents might learn about your sneaky adventure and accuse you of a whore.

“Haaye! Why didn’t my ears bleed before I heard of this, Isha? How could you do this to your family? Chi chi chi, I can’t even—aren’t you ashamed of yourself?

My mom howled at the top of her voice, so loud, I feared for the well-being of my ears. But it was not her fault, really. Being born into a roaring Punjabi family, she was blessed with an ear-splitting vocal cord. It was her passion for dramatics that concerned me gravely.

“Mom, it’s not—” I try to say, but words turn into ash in my mouth. And so does my endurance to stand this knee-deep intensity of accusation.

God, how do you explain something to your parents that you don’t understand yourself?

“It’s not what you think it is. You’re misunderstanding. Nothing really happened.”

The thing is, they are not wrong.

What they are accusing me of—holding me guilty for—is not some ridiculous misunderstanding. It’s true. So true that even if I donate both of my kidneys, I won’t be able to prove it otherwise. But I cannot admit to that, can I? Definitely not, unless I have the wish to kiss my family goodbye. Forever! Which I don’t. Obviously. I haven’t even completed my graduation yet. How dumb do you think I am?

Two weeks back, my longtime boyfriend, Harsh, the one my parents also approved of, broke up with me with an excuse I still cannot wrap my head around. He said he loved me, but we were moving too slow and I was too modest for his liking.

I don’t even know what that means. Do you?

Any sane person would give it a try to sort things out. Talk about second chances. But not Harsh. He just said that one absurd statement and went his way, as if, he didn’t just break my heart. I stood there in the middle of the empty chemistry lab, wondering if that was some sort of prank. Hoping, praying, begging for it to be a prank. Something I would have made his life hell for, exacting my revenge by pranking him back. I can be quite creative when it comes to stuff like that.

But it wasn’t.

I waited for an hour, for him to return, hoping deep in my heart that anytime he would jump out and scream ‘April fool’ even though it was the beginning of December and cold as fuck outside.

Two things became obvious to me that day.

One: he was breaking up with me.

Two: he was not coming back.

Because I wasn’t fast enough, not immodest enough for him.

Like any other normal person in novels and TV shows, I spent almost a week cooped up in my room, eating ice cream and feeding myself excessively fried snacks, burgers, and pizzas. Probably putting on a lot of irredeemable weight, but who the fuck cared?

I was depressed and miserable.

It was the first breakup of my life. If you've heard the saying that the first love is always impossible to forget, then, my dear friend, you’re in for a tremendous surprise. There could be nothing more heart-rending than the first time someone breaks your heart. I know. I know because I’ve been through it. And it fucking hurts like a seething bitch.

I lost the will to do the most ordinary things in life. Like having a bath, changing clothes that aren’t reeking of all the greasy food I gobbled or the horrific sweat I oozed from my underarms. Or washing my undergarments, for that matter. I could not even push myself through the bathroom door and open the lid of the toilet. My spirits were honestly way down the drain. Way down.

And then, like some fairy godmothers, my friends—Riya, Mehak and Puja— arrived for the rescue.

For hours, they talked trash only about my ex, comforted me with hugs and chocolates, ate all my food, and dolled me up nicely.

For what you ask?

To go out and have fun, live my life, and forget about my ex and his ridiculous excuse because that asshole cannot hold me back forever. It is my life and I should be the one leading it, not his sorry ass (flawless ass, I thought dreamily before jerking myself awake).

I won’t lie, but their enthusiastic attempt to console my pitiful self really pumped me up. I actually felt so much better before screaming out all the profanities I knew. ’Fuck him, he could suck his dick, that asshole!’ and drove straight to the nearest nightclub.

I picked a guy (or maybe he picked me? We both were drunk, so it’s hard to tell) and ended up at the nearest bed-and-breakfast. But because I already ran out of all the luck in the world, the police raided the place before we even got down to the good part.

Four hours later, mom and dad came running to the police station and got me out somehow.

And that’s how the shit hit the fan, and my life spiralled down to the bottomless rut of bogeys and turned into the most horrendous nightmare.

“You disgraced your family, Isha, you ruined all of our lives,” my dad spat out angrily from the living room, eyebrows furrowed so deeply and closely one could easily mistake him for having unibrows. “Is this what we raised you for? Educated you for? To humiliate us in front of the world? After learning of your shenanigans, Mr Kapoor wouldn’t even spit in our faces. Do you hear that? It’s that bad!”

Unless my life is a booming sitcom and it’s us on the other side of the TV screen, I have no clue where this world is keeping a meticulous eye on us. Can it be the window in our living room? Maybe there are hidden cameras I do not know about. My family is genuinely creepy sometimes. I won’t be surprised if any of my speculations turn out to be validated someday.

Earth to myself?

“Dad?” I whined, pretty sure that my silence wasn’t precisely helping my case. Also, I felt like they had set me on fire from the inside out. “How can you even say something like that? Why would Kapoor uncle spit in our faces? It makes no sense!”

Talk about priorities!

“Well, you can very well sleep around like some red-light slut, and we cannot even say it?”

My father truly blows my mind sometimes. No doubt my parents are the perfect match for each other. They both have a thing for being overly melodramatic.

“He would spit in our faces because I spat in his when his son flunked the tenth grade last year. That sounded like the worst humiliation to me. But apparently, there has been an upgrade outside of my knowledge, and my daughter has been gearing herself up to stun us all this time.”

Before I can protest, my mom cries harder and louder. I wince so hard that my facial muscles threaten to snap.

“You robbed us of our pride, Isha, you destroyed your life,” Despite the absence of tears in her eyes, she continued to wail. “What good man will marry a girl like you now? Oh my God, will my baby girl stay at home forever? Is she never going to get married? Aaye haaye, we are ruined, we are so ruined!” I watched as she pounded her breast, on and on screeching about the marriage that I was nowhere near the list of accomplishments I have on my bucket list. Not before I turn thirty or something.

However, before you mistake my mother’s actions for something provocative, let me explain.

It’s an Indian way to convey our grief. We Indians are infamous for beating anything we can find. If we run into an accident, no matter whose mistake it is, we try our utmost to hog the scene and beat the crap out of the other. We do support world peace like any other person in the world—we really do—but if someone even looks at us the wrong way; we know how to show them their rightful place. There are police and courts in place, responsible for establishing harmony and justice in society. But when a situation between two people heats up, instead of waiting for the experts, we take the matter into our own hands and serve justice then and there. We hit the remote when it’s not working, the seat of the conveyance before sitting on it, and someone’s back, shoulder, or even their head to bring their attention upon us. We even hit ourselves as a punishment, exactly what mother is up to right about now.

“Mom, what the hell-?” I scream, and silence falls for a good minute. She stopped torturing her chest, and a slight relief indeed made its way down my spine. “Let’s calm down, OK? Just give me a chance to explain myself. Please!”

My mom blinked blankly at me, too stunned to say anything, and my dad just scoffed and turned his head to the other side. As if, he already knew no explanation in the world could justify my actions. No coming back from what I have done.

“Tell us the truth, Isha! Why did you do this, huh? For money? How long it has been…?”

“Mom!” I could not believe my ears. Did she just accuse me of being a whore? Like I know they are angry. But they cannot actually believe this shit, can they? “Please!” I snapped finally, losing my patience with double speed. “Why can’t you just hear me out for once?”

“There is nothing left to hear,” dad counter-snapped and stomp over to where I am like a bulldozer without breaks, stopping only a few feet away. “You did what came to your mind. But enough is enough. Now, it’s time for us to do what we think is right for you. And you’ll comply.”

“What are you talking about? What decision? What have you done?”

“Nothing yet,” Mom grabbed my hand, still no tears were tracing down her cheeks. “But now we will.” There is an eerie gleam in her eyes, the one I think Mother Gothel must have when she kidnaps Rapunzel. Or maybe it’s my childhood obsession coming back to block out reality.

“What? WHAT?” I ask, dumbfounded, too stunned to realize that I’m being dragged towards my room.

“You will not leave this house without our permission. No college. No friends. No party. Nothing!” dad explained before pushing the door to my room.

“Am I grounded? For how long?” With painfully wide eyes, I try to ask as many questions as I can.

“Until we find a suitable boy for you, get you married and send you off!” mom grumbled with absolute determination before pushing me into the room and sending me flying to the floor.

Before I can rise back to my feet and whine about being unfair, she shuts the door loudly in my face.

I start pounding on the door. “Are you guys serious? You can’t do that! Is that even legal?” I hear the footsteps and hushed whispers from the other side, but none of them cares to answer any of my questions.

“I know you’re out there. I can hear you.” I roll my eyes, puff my cheeks out, and throw my hands in the air, pure hurt and frustration burning my chest.

“Go to sleep, Isha!” Mom’s voice wakes me up to reality, to the truth that I fucked up really bad this time. It had to be true. Why else would they send me to sleep so early? It’s only six in the morning, and after enduring that hell of a night, I’m fucking starving!

Arghhh!

A/N: Feel free to comment and like :)