by Nikita Singh
2. KD Sir: The maths teacher, who I had almost no relationship with, because I wasn’t in his class and we almost never interacted. I still remember the time when he motioned me with his fingers to approach him. I looked around to make sure I was the person he was pointing to, before going over. He handed me the briefcase he was holding, and asked me to put it in his office, which was about a mere ten steps behind him. I did so, and came back to him, expecting to find out the reason he had summoned me over, now that we had the briefcase out of the way. He paused his conversation with Patil Sir to stare at me like I was stupid, annoyed at me for interrupting him. That’s when I realized that it was some kind of twisted powerplay. He was treating me like his butler, just because he could. I walked away, feeling small and ashamed. I have never forgotten that moment. He did that just because he could. That thought has never fully left me.
3. Usha Ma’am: The economics teacher, who, again, I didn’t have much to do with, because I wasn’t in her class either. She ran an informal private club of sorts. It was a closed group of cool girls from the economics and science sections, huddled together, laughing at private jokes. The teacher and the students in that group had all been at that school since it first opened, a few years before I joined. The group was impenetrable. I know I shouldn’t have cared for their approval or validation, but I did. They excluded me from the beginning and my petty little heart was hurt. The only time Usha Ma’am talked to me was to ask what kind of moisturizer I used for my face. I was surprised at the question. She explained that she meant it as a compliment and was looking for tips for oily skin which was prone to pimples. I told her the truth, which was that I used my mother’s Vaseline body lotion on my arms and face. She laughed, and jokingly announced to all the girls around that she was jealous of my skin type, which was perfect despite the body lotion, whereas she spent so much money on cosmetics for her skin. I was embarrassed that we didn’t have enough money to buy a moisturizer meant specifically for the face.
4. A junior teacher whose name I can’t remember: She sent word through a student that she was looking for me, and when I found her, she asked me what was going on between Pratham and me. I told her the truth, that there was nothing between us, but she didn’t believe me. Soon after that, there were rumours about Pratham and me circulating in school. It was the strangest thing, because as you know, I was in a relationship with another student.
And clearly, thirteen years later, when I look back at the two years I went to that school, these memories still jump out to me, so they must’ve had an impact on me. The only reason I’m bringing up these incidents (other than the fact that they surfaced to my mind uninvited as soon as I thought back to my two years at that school) is to show you how starkly different your treatment of me was, compared to the other teachers. And exactly how much I needed it then, and how much it matters to me even now.
The smallest things can have the biggest impact. We can never know how the most insignificant thing we say or do can affect someone else. We can say the smallest thing and forget it, but that small thing can ruin someone’s life, or it can completely change the way they see themselves. I want to make sure you know that your small acts of kindness held me together for a long time.
The only two teachers who went beyond the scope of their jobs, that of teaching a specific subject, and actually mentored students and helped us navigate our last two years in school were you and Kapila Ma’am. As far as Kapila Ma’am is concerned, I can see why she liked me. I always scored high, if not the highest in class, in English. So, the English teacher liked me.
But I never did well in chemistry. So, what did you see in me? I still don’t know what it was, but I know that I needed it. To an extent, it instilled confidence in me. A confidence in myself, when everyone else made me feel worthless. In those two years, all I wanted was to finish school and leave as soon as possible. You made my time there bearable.
As a teenager, there wasn’t much I had control over. I felt helpless, inconsequential. The hierarchy of our Indian school system is such that if you don’t excel in exams, you are essentially a lesser being. You are treated in an inferior way, and that was exactly my experience all through school. Yet, you maintained that I had potential. You were vocal about it. You told me that, more than once. You told other students, teachers, my parents. It’s unlikely that you changed the way they saw me, but you certainly changed the way I saw me.
In the end, nothing anyone else thought mattered. The only thing that mattered was that I believed in myself, and that plant of self-belief is a result of the seedling of confidence you planted in my mind.
I also really appreciate, even to this day, that you never gave me any special treatment, or free passes, no matter how much you believed in me. In eleventh class, I failed the chemistry final exam by just a few marks. You didn’t just give me those marks to gently tug me over to the other side. No, I studied for a month and took the supplement exam. While all my friends started the twelfth class, I had to wait, study, take the test and pass chemistry before joining them. I didn’t score well – I was distracted by my boyfriend at the time – but I passed. I still remember sitting in the large classroom in a wing of the school I rarely frequented, taking the test with two other kids, both of whom were even lower in the food chain than I was. I was ashamed. I had never failed a subject in the final exams.
Thinking back now, it’s not much more than a funny story to tell my friends: that I was hopeless at chemistry but still somehow ended up going to college for a bachelor’s in pharmacy. Back then, it was embarrassing, yet it never diminished my respect for you. On the contrary, that was exactly what I needed. To learn that good results had to be earned. There are no handouts in the game of life. In the years after school, I have faced many challenges. I have struggled through them, and I have fought to make my way to the other side. I knew how.
I’m sure you heard that I ended up doing a bachelor’s in pharmacy. Once again, organic chemistry became the bane of my existence. But this time, I was patient with it and, to my surprise, once I began to understand the fundamentals, everything else became so clear. I got good at it. I used to think about you a lot during those years in college.
I wanted to reach out to you, but I couldn’t. I don’t want to make excuses; I accept that the blame lies fully with me. When my sister died, it became hard for me to be around people who knew both of us. You knew her, you taught her. She was smart in an obvious sort of way. Teachers, including you, loved her. It didn’t hurt that she was fun and lovable, whereas I was pretty quiet, and quite mediocre at everything. A student without much of a perceivable ambition.
Just because it wasn’t obviously present didn’t mean that I wasn’t ambitious. In fact, I was secretly very ambitious. But ambition without work to back it turns into anxiety. I wanted to do … something. Be a part of something bigger than myself. But I didn’t have direction. I could see no paths in front of me to pursue. The ambition turned into anxiety inside me, that anxiety ate at my self-confidence. Soon, I was nothing. No one.
The self-doubt was crippling. We all grow up thinking that we’re special. We have a small voice in our heads telling us that we are going to go on to do great things. For me, that voice wasn’t just mine. It was yours too. But without direction, I felt hopeless. I wasn’t in charge. My anxiety got the better of me, which is why, after school ended, I started college to pursue pharmacy, believing that I wasn’t good enough, determined enough, dedicated enough, to study for the medical entrance exams.
My first year in college was a blur of new friends, distractions and anxiety caused by the anticipation of a mediocre life that waited for me, due to my inaction. I was going to have an ordinary life, because I didn’t do anything to put me on track for an extraordinary one.
In my second year in college, I turned away, inwards. I tried, consciously, to think of a way out. What could I do? How could I try to reach this potential you talked about, that I secretly knew I had? I turned to books. Fi
rst, I read a lot. The part of me that always seems to know things knew that I would one day write a book. It was when I read a terrible book that I realized that that day had arrived. Before stumbling upon this terrible book, I had had the good fortune of only reading great books from my father’s library. This particular book was a gift from a friend. And it changed my life. For the first time in my life, I saw a published, successful book be so grotesque. And if that kind of writing could be published and adored, I knew I could write far better.
That was when I wrote my first book. I had finally found direction, halfway through college.
Before I could call you, my life changed once again. My sister died two days before my book released. My mother told me later that she had been planning a surprise celebration for the launch of my book. I have written over a dozen books since then. I’ve never celebrated the launch of any of them.
It’s still hard for me to be around people who knew her. I have put her memories in a box. The seventeen years of her life are tucked away in a corner of my heart. It haunts me, keeps me from communicating with the people I love. I still talk to people who knew us, but communicating in any meaningful way, exposing covered wounds, is difficult. This is why I write romance novels about fictional characters – so that I don’t have to write about myself. This is why my social media offers little information about how I’m really feeling or things I really care about. It’s to protect myself.
But I’m working on it. I’m working on myself.
I vaguely remember, as I write this, that our paths crossed once, a few years after school. That you told me you were proud of me. Or maybe it was just wishful thinking. For someone who remembers everything, it frustrates me that I’m hazy on this. In any case, just to be safe, I’m writing this to you.
To tell you that you affected my life in a positive way. To thank you for planting that encouraging voice in my head. To reinforce that you have significantly impacted the way I see myself.
We live our lives as though we would all live till we’re old and die of natural causes. We don’t think about death enough. I used to think about death a lot, in a disturbing, grim way. Now, from time to time, I make it a point to do it intentionally, think about why I’m on this planet, what I’m doing, what I still have to do before my time is up.
This letter is one such thing. I wanted to write this to you.
I don’t know where you are now, but I know that I’ll find you, and I’ll send you a copy of this book. I will bookmark this letter, so that I can finally communicate with you in a way I have been meaning to for a long time.
I know we will talk again soon. But, for now, please accept this as my small token of gratitude. By helping me trust myself, you saved me.
Thank you,
Nikita
Mirror Mirror
In the mirror, Sher sees a man with a head full of memories. He sees Leo and baby Preet; their laughter rings in his ears. He sees a proud father. He sees a man who is living in the present, taking care of his mind and body in order to have his second innings in life, before he’s reunited with the love of his life.
Tutu inspects his reflection in the long mirror attached to the Godrej almirah in Bua’s room. His biceps are growing, he’s sure of it. He has been lifting the empty water bottle filled with sand that Nishu Bhaiya made for him every morning and night. Forty curls every day. He is already the strongest boy in his class. Soon, he will be the strongest superhero on planet earth. Maybe he’ll even train Popo to become his sidekick.
When Falguni looks in the mirror, she sees Natasha, a woman who had been through immense trauma in her past and had a long road of recovery ahead of her. She sees someone who, through truth, finally let her guard down and asked for help. Next to her in the mirror is Gautam, who doesn’t fully understand the extent of her devastation, but stands by her regardless. They live in her truth.
Avani sees someone who can’t stop lying. To others, and to herself. She sees a woman who finds red flag after red flag right in front of her, and turns away. She looks to her right, at Ravi’s reflection. He loves her, she tells herself, in his own way, to the extent that he is capable. Next to her, Ravi sees himself in the mirror. He turns to inspect every angle of his face, making notes of what his best features are, and what to post on social media.
Raveena looks long and hard in the mirror. She feels a certain calm sweep over her, as she looks into her own eyes. The conversation with the stranger on the plane has sparked some conversations between her and Atul. While she found beauty in the ‘tending to the plant of your love’ analogy, Atul had felt his heart sink. Many long nights of grueling conversations later, they come to the realization that her initial gut feeling was in fact, true. Their relationship has run its course. A dead plant cannot be revived. Raveena is in the eye of the storm now, but she knows she will come out of it stronger.
Prakash doesn’t look in the mirror. He cradles his grandchild gently in his arms, and peers into the small, pinched face of the most beautiful baby in the world, blooming in front of his eyes like a vibrant flower.
Tears blur Barkha’s vision. Talha slides his arm around her from behind, holding her up. Barkha looks at his husband in the mirror. Then she looks at herself – a mother, but no longer a sister.
Gauri sees determination in her eyes, determination to destroy her plagiarist, Monika Sen. Zeenat sees an imperfect person in the mirror. But she also sees someone who tries, and can learn to be less hard on herself.
When I look in the mirror, I see a person who dreams.
Acknowledgements
In 2020, I had my fair share of mental breakdowns. In 2021, I put pen to paper (and fingers to keyboard) and wrote this book. The writing part didn’t require much assistance from others, but I needed plenty of help just to get to the point where I could write. What a wonderful opportunity this is for me to be able to express my gratitude here.
My parents, for making me the person I am. Your strength, resilience and generosity have set a precedent for me that I can only aspire to. My brother, and little cousins, Tutu and Popo, for providing comedic relief and keeping said parents entertained while I’m locked down 12,000 kilometres away from home. I hope to see you very soon.
Nick, I have never leaned on anyone quite as much as I have on you in the past year. Not just emotionally, but also in brainstorming story ideas, coming up with silly endings that don’t make any sense and in providing feedback that I immediately shoot down, and then reconsider later, once I have had a chance to think. I have also thoroughly enjoyed horrifying you with crazy twists and turns from time to time. You’re welcome.
My dear friends who only existed as faces on my phone screen or voices in my ear this year. I can’t wait to squeeze you soon. Hina, for being the sweetest friend to me, and also for all your help in running Nikita’s Bookshelf. Nejla, for always hearing me and responding to my full-page text messages with two pages. Ritu, for having the same crises as me, so we can be in the worst of it together. Sandra and Yannick, for bringing the sweetest little baby Noah into this world. Laura, Scott and baby Joaquín for giving me so much faith and optimism. Cynthia, for your unwavering support and laughter.
The pandemic arrived a few short months after I moved to Montréal. I’m so grateful to have found a handful of amazing new people here before everything shut down. Thank you, Melanié, for being by my side, every single time I needed perspective and sanity, and for making fun of me for pronouncing French words incorrectly. Steph, for your kind heart, and for making vegan recipes and sangria with me. Elena, for letting me impart my very limited Sephora and Mario Kart wisdom on to you. Ava, for the walks, picnics by the canal, and for being a safe place to complain.
And of course, my extraordinary team that made this book possible. My agent, Anish Chandy, for your invaluable insight and honesty. Shabnam Srivastava, for your enthusiasm and our hilarious exchanges. My editor, Swati Daftuar, for your astute observations and invaluable contribution to these stories. Paloma Du
tta and everyone in the editorial team, for your immaculate attention to detail. Bonita Shimray and the design team for this beautiful cover. Diya Kar, for believing in the concept of this book from the beginning. Ananth Padmanabhan, for seeing me, and also being in my corner.
To you, my readers, for your patience and acceptance. Special shout-out to the terrific members of Nikita’s Bookshelf. Our book club is a community that has kept so many of us afloat through so much. Can’t wait to see you next month.
About the Author
Nikita Singh is the bestselling author of twelve books, including The Reason Is You, Every Time It Rains and Like a Love Song. She is also the editor of the collections of short stories 25 Strokes of Kindness and The Turning Point.
After working in the book publishing industry in New Delhi for several years, she got her MFA in Creative Writing (Fiction) at The New School in New York. Invested in the fight against climate change, she works as the director of marketing of a solar energy company based in Brooklyn. ?
Nikita lives in Montréal, and runs a virtual book club called Nikita’s Bookshelf. You can follow her on Instagram and Twitter (@singh_nikita) or visit nikitasbooks.com to learn more.
Also by Nikita Singh
Like a Love Song
Every Time It Rains
Letters to My Ex
The Reason is You
ALSO BY NIKITA SINGH
