Ashes of Affection: When Love Burns Up in Smoke
It was my third year in college, and I was still stuck with the dreaded “stag” tag, a badge for single folks who hadn’t yet scored a girlfriend. Ragging sessions were like hunting grounds for single guys like me, where we could try to impress the new junior girls by playing the role of the wise and protective senior. But I had a secret weapon — I was a former 10-pointer! This was a big deal, a golden buzzer achievement that newcomers aspired to, not just for the prestige, but also because a 10-pointer got a full scholarship for the next semester. There was a unique charm to those who scored a perfect 10 CGPA; they were treated like the favored child of Saraswati, the goddess of knowledge. And now, this label was going to be my saving grace.
During one of the ragging sessions, I met Reena, a girl from the junior batch who happened to be from my state. What first caught my attention wasn’t just her charming smile, but also the fact that she shared a name with my childhood crush. Coincidence? Maybe, or perhaps fate’s playful wink. Before long, we found ourselves drawn to each other’s company like moths to a flame.
We often hung out at an area on campus known as Connaught place, named after the famous Connaught place in Delhi. It was the hub of activity on campus, where students gathered after classes for a slice of campus life. Complete with restaurants and paan shops, it was the perfect spot for a bit of fun.
One evening I was partying with my friends at Connaught place, swapping tales of campus adventures and indulging in the occasional puff of a cigarette. Just as we were getting started, I spotted Reena parking her bicycle on the other side.
Our eyes locked and she caught sight of me smoking. To make matter worse, she saw me blowing smoke rings! Without a word, she retrieved her bicycle and left.
Reena was a studious girl who hated smoking and mostly steered clear of places like Connaught Place because it was not her thing. As I pondered what her next move might be, a friend of hers showed up at my doorstep the next day.
“She wants you to quit smoking!” he declared, his tone carrying the weight of an imperial decree.
“Who wants me to quit smoking?” I played dumb, though I knew exactly who he meant.
“Reena wants you to quit smoking,” he repeated, this time with a sternness that made me feel like I was being scolded by the headmaster.
That hit my ego like a wrecking ball hitting a glass house. “Else what?” I shot back, my rebellious spirit on full display.
“Else she won’t talk to you anymore,” he delivered the ultimatum.
I paused for a moment, contemplating my next move. Then, with a defiant flick of my lighter, I lit up another cigarette and replied, “Tell her to fuck off!”
Little did I know, that cheeky messenger would relay my response word for word. I mean, couldn’t he have softened the blow a bit? I was half-expecting Reena to negotiate, maybe throw in a compromise like, “Okay, you can smoke, but only on odd days of the month.” But no, she went cold turkey on me! She never spoke to me again, not until the final bell rang on our college days.
It was a hard blow, and life sucked again but in hindsight, how could I complain? I had essentially punched myself in the face.
In those dark moments, the echo of Ajay’s words, the tenant’s son who had spotted my potential in school days and pushed me for IITs, reverberated in my mind: “Focus on your studies, young fella… girls will come easy in college,” he used to say. As I entered my final year still flying solo, I couldn’t help but chuckle at the irony. Here I was, believing the words of a guy who graduated as single as a Pringle himself. His advice had all the reliability of a fortune cookie, but desperate times call for desperate reassurances. It’s funny how we cling to any sliver of hope, even if it’s as shaky as a Jenga tower at a toddler’s birthday party. But as they say, the darkest hour is just before the dawn.
Just when I was about to give up hope, I stumbled upon a junior girl from my state. Her name was Sanchita and she was Bengali. She was my last glimmer of hope to escape the dreaded stag label. Seriously, being solo in your final year felt like an eternity! Every available girl had been snatched up right before my eyes. I felt like the last man in line, waiting for his turn, only to find the buffet closed when he finally got there.
But somehow, against all odds, things clicked with Sanchita. How? Who knows! Maybe fate took pity on me, or maybe my awkward charm finally hit the mark. The important thing is, I finally graduated from the school of singledom, leaving behind the ranks of the disdained losers who pretended to enjoy their carefree, unrestrictive stag life while secretly wishing for more.
“Traitor!” my still-lonely friends called me when I started missing our evening stag sessions. After all, I had better things to do now than complain about how life sucks without a girlfriend over a bottle of beer or whiskey.
