~Culinary perfection~

Varun Reddy

"It's a date."

I replayed Sanjana's casual remark as I got ready. Her words echoed in my mind like a broken record. Each time I remembered it, my stomach did this weird flip thing that I couldn't quite explain. The entire day, I pored over the words while Sanjana was practically acting like she hadn't just dropped a verbal bomb on me.

Out of desperation, I'd actually Googled "Can friends go on dates?" The internet had informed me that yes, platonic dates were apparently a thing - just friends hanging out at dinner, movies, or cafes. Tabassum and I had gone for such outings, but we'd never labeled it as a date. Maybe it was some rich people thing, like calling dinner "supper" or vacation "holiday." Why did they have to make everything so complicated?

The more I dwelled on it, the more idiotic I felt. Even the mere concept of Sanjana Thapar - beautiful, wealthy, brilliant (when she cared to be), compassionate Sanjana with her perfectly put-together life - would want to go on a real date with me was laughable. I was just the nerd with the tragic backstory, the kind of sob story that would probably win me a reality show voting round out of pity alone.

What wasn't funny was how I'd changed my outfit ten times. Each time I thought I had it, Sanjana's face popped into my head, and I'd second-guess everything. Would she think I looked stupid? Would she roll her eyes at my shirt? Would she scrunch her nose at the color combination? I didn't want that. I didn't want her to see all the worst parts of me.

In the end, I grabbed a plain white T-shirt and black jeans. Simple. Safe. The kind of thing she wouldn't notice which, for some reason, mattered way more than it should.

As I was walking to the front gates, I crossed paths with Medha Ma'am who as usual was in a hurry and in her haste, dropped the stacks of papers and folders in her hand.

I rushed to help her. I gathered and handed her belongings to her.

"Thank you so much," she replied, smiling as she arranged the folders in her arms once again. Her eyes twinkled as she took in my carefully chosen outfit. "Well, well, look who's dressed up! Don't tell me - big date?"

"What?" I managed to squeak out.

She laughed and shook her head. "Oh come on, I've been teaching long enough to know that look. The carefully casual outfit, the nervous energy..."

"I... it's not... I mean..." I stammered, feeling heat creep up my neck.

She giggled again at my stupid reaction. "Sorry, none of my business." She paused, then leaned in slightly. "Unless you want some tips, of course."

"Did you get a chance to review the poems I sent you?" I asked instead. The competition was a few weeks away and I still wasn't sure if I would participate but I still wanted to share them and get feedback because Medha Ma'am was amazing.

"Oh my God, Yes." She slightly hit her forehead with the folders in her hand. "Sorry I have so many things on my plate. I'm all over the place. I really like all the pieces, but I think—"

She paused and looked over my head. I turned and noticed Kabir Sir walking toward us. "Varun."

I could have sworn that the temperature dropped 50 degrees.

"All set for your interview?" he asked, one hand casually tucked into his pocket, but his stance was anything but relaxed.

"Yes, Sir." I nodded enthusiastically.

"You can do the interview from my office," Kabir Sir said, his tone leaving no room for negotiation.

"Oh?" I shifted from one foot to the other. "Really, Sir, there's no need for that. I can just do it from my room."

"The dorms can get noisy in the evening," he said, folding his arms across his chest. "You'll be distracted."

"That's... very thoughtful of you, Sir. Thank you," I said, nodding slowly. He wasn't wrong. Noise-canceling headphones only worked so much. "I really appreciate it." And I really did. At this point I owed so much to this man.

"Interview for what?" Medha Ma'am asked, stepping closer, her eyes watching us with curiosity.

"Harvard," I said. "For my master's."

Her smile bloomed like she was genuinely thrilled. "Harvard! That's incredible, Varun. Congratulations!" She clapped her hands together, then added with a mischievous tilt of her head, "Make sure you tell them how you're also going to win the poetry competition."

Before I could stop her, she turned to Kabir Sir. "Varun has agreed to participate in the inter-college competition. He's going to make Imperial very proud."

Kabir Sir's jaw tightened. His eyes locked on me like I'd just announced I was planning to drop out and join a circus. "You're serious?"

"Of course. Are we allowed to be anything but serious on this campus, Sir?" Medha Ma'am smiled sweetly. "You do remember how you said you wouldn't stop students from participating if they chose to."

"I also said I wouldn't condone anything that wastes their time," he replied coolly, his attention shifting back to her.

Medha Ma'am folded her arms, lifting her chin. "You think expressing yourself is a waste of time?"

"I think there's a time and place for it," he shot back, his voice steady, deliberate. "And for Varun, that time is after he secures his future—not before."

Her lips curved into a small, challenging smile. "You know, for someone who spends so much time talking about discipline, you seem to lack it when it comes to broadening your own perspective."

Kabir Sir took a small step forward, his expression hardening. "And for someone who claims to champion creativity, you're awfully quick to drag students into your personal battles."

Neither of their arguments made a lot of sense, but I was smart enough to not comment.

"I didn't drag anyone anywhere," she countered smoothly. "Varun made his own decision. Or are you saying he's incapable of thinking for himself?"

"I'm saying he deserves to know exactly what he's signing up for." He turned to me again. "Are you sure you want to spend your time on something like this, Varun? It's not too late to reconsider."

"Something like this?" Medha Ma'am repeated, her voice sharper now. "You think writing is beneath him?"

He exhaled slowly like he was trying to maintain his patience while I was ready to bolt. Why do I always get stuck in these situations?

"Poetry competitions aren't exactly high on Harvard's list of priorities," Kabir Sir said, looking right at me.

"You'd be surprised... Creativity, self- expression and critical thinking are valuable traits. Not everything revolves around test scores and sports."

"Critical thinking?" He chuckled softly, the sound low and dangerous. "You're telling me a few verses can build critical thinking skills?"

"You're right," she said, with a slight smirk. "You probably wouldn't understand. Writing takes empathy and imagination. These are skills not everyone has."

Was Medha Ma'am trying to get fired? I thought she enjoyed this job but I guess not.

His smile didn't reach his eyes. "Empathy, huh?"

"Yes," she shot back. "You'd be surprised what writing can teach you. Actually, why don't you give it a try?"

He blinked. "Excuse me?"

She snapped her fingers. "I think it's a great idea. Since you think writing requires no skill you should do it and prove it."

He let out a dry chuckle. "As much as you would like it, I don't have time to write you poems, Ms. Chauhan."

"Poem?" she scoffed. "That might be too ambitious for a beginner like yourself, Sir."

My eyes widened. Beginner? Yup, she definitely wanted to get fired.

"An essay?" she suggested. "Let's see how you fare with something so easy. I'm sure you've written one before. Granted, these days, you're more into writing performance reviews and scathing appraisals..." Her lips curved into a slow smile. "But for someone as brilliant as you, this should be effortless. Right, Sir?"

I silently prayed for a meteor to hit the campus and end this conversation.

His jaw clenched as he stared at her, a muscle in his cheek ticking. He was furious, the anger practically radiating off him. I could feel it in my bones. But Medha Ma'am? Not an ounce of concern. She met his gaze head-on and continued giving him a sweet smile.

"Fine," he finally bit out "On what topic?"

She pondered for a second. "Hmm... your favorite place in the world? It's a classic. We did that one in fifth grade."

"And you'll grade it? You don't think that'll be biased?"

"I'm a very fair person, Sir." Her eyes sparkled with mischief. "But if you're worried about bias, we can involve a neutral party." She glanced at me. "Varun can help. I'll grade your essay, and he can give his honest opinion on how fair I've been."

Where was that meteor? Or at least a fire alarm? I'd even settle for a country wide power outage. Anything. Anything that would get me away from this conversation.

"You're dragging a student into this?"

"I'm involving a talented writer who happens to be a student. There's a difference."

When they both looked at me expectantly, I said, "Ma'am, I really don't have the expertise or time–"

"Make time," Kabir Sir interrupted.

"Yes, Sir," I murmured, studying my shoes.

"Have a good evening," he said to both of us before walking away.

"Tyrantjay," Medha Ma'am murmured under her berath before she walked away as well.

So that's where Sanjana got the nickname.

Exhaling loudly, I all but ran to the main gate. Just in case either of them decided to come back and finish the conversation.

"Where were you?" Sanjana demanded when I finally reached her. Her hands her on her hips. She looked nice. Wait... Her dress was actually somewhat impractical? "You weren't responding to my calls or messages. I was worried you weren't coming."

Still catching my breath, I explained what had happened. "Wow," she whistled. "They've got that whole enemies-to-lovers thing going on, don't they?"

"What's that?"

"You know when enemies fall in love."

"Why would anyone fall in love with their enemy?" I asked, frowning.

She shrugged. "I mean... people change right? Sometimes you think one way about a person and then you end up spending time with them and realize that they've grown on you and you're in love." My frown grew. "Have you had that?"

"Had what?"

"Began to like someone you once hated?" Her voice was softer now, almost hesitant. Something in her tone made me want to look away, but I couldn't.

"No, never. Who in their right mind falls for someone they didn't like at some point?"

"You hated me at some point," she pointed out.

"I didn't hate you," I said immeditely.

She raised an eyebrow in challenge, and I found myself staring at her. Why had I hated her in the first place? At first, it was just because she was privileged. Then, maybe, because I envied her. But I'd been wrong. She hadn't asked for any of it. She was sweet, kind, and, when not wearing those ridiculous outfits, surprisingly pretty. I was an idiot. For someone who resented being judged, I sure had been a judgmental prick myself.

"Well that's different," I mumbled.

"How is it different?"

"Becuase I don't love you," I retorted, immediately.

Something flickered in her eyes, but it was gone so fast I might have imagined it. "Right. Of course. I didn't mean it like that."

An uncomfortable silence settled between us. Clearing my throat, I waved my hand vaguely. "So should we..."

"Yeah... Let's go," she said, plastering on a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "So, this is awkward but I only have money for the ice cream. We'll have to take the bus or walk. It's completely my fault. I should have budgeted properly but it's almost the end of the month and–"

She looked so embarrassed that I quickly jumped to cut her off. "I'm used to walking and taking the bus," I said, cajoling her. "Don't worry."

We began walking side by side to the bus stop. Unable to contain my curiosity, I asked, "Can I ask you something?"

She nodded. "Sure, what's up?"

"Why have you suddenly started insisting that you don't have money for things? Is everything okay at home?"

She giggled. "Don't worry my father is still very rich and hasn't cut me off."

"Then?"

"Promise you won't laugh," she mumbled with a small pout.

"I won't," I promised.

"Giving myself a budget is part of my Become a Better Me Operation," she said quietly, and despite my promise, I found myself chuckling. "Oh you aren't joking," I said, seeing her glare.

"Glad my attempt to be a better human being is amusing to you," she grumbled, speeding up her pace. I watched her storm ahead. I caught up with her in two long strides. "You know you really don't need to do these things. You are a good person," I said, surprising both of us. Her because I was giving her a compliment and me because I was actually voicing my honest thoughts to her.

"I thought so too. But then after that date with your mother and you, you yelled at me for being insensitive and too wrapped up in my world. I realized that I was perhaps not as good of a person as I thought," she confessed, her voice small.

My stomach twisted with guilt. "You... I didn't... I didn't mean-"

"It's okay," she interrupted with a smile that made my words stick in my throat. "You meant it and you were right. I deserved to hear that. It just helped me realize how stupid I was and how much my privilege had blinded me."

I opened my mouth to argue, but she cut me off with a wave of her hand. "I realized I never thanked you. Thank you for being the catalyst to me hopefully becoming a better person." She giggled and shook her head. "Look at your face. Here I'm thanking you and you are looking at me with guilt. Just accept my gratitude and congratulate me on trying to be a better version of myself."

I found myself chuckling despite everything. "Congratulations... I guess."

She beamed, and I pretended my heart didn't skip a beat. "Thank you! When I become a successful entrepreneur and publish my autobiography, I'll make sure to dedicate a chapter to you. I promise."

This time I couldn't help but laugh, the sound surprising even me. "So... what else are you doing to be a better person?"

As we waited at the bus stop, she launched into the details of her elaborate plan. She gestured animatedly and her eyes sparkled with enthusiasm as she talked. Was her plan excessive? Absolutely. But watching her talk, seeing how much thought and effort she had put into becoming someone she could be proud of... I found myself smiling more than I meant to, laughing more than should. Each time she grabbed my arm to emphasize something, I told myself that the warmth I felt wasn't from her touch but the weather warming up. Each time she looked at me for validation, I pretended my curt nods were just out of politeness and not the strange logic to see her smile again.

____

Once we got our ice-creams, we settled at the corner table of the cafe. The one of those tiny round ones where our knees kept bumping underneath. I got vanilla and she got strawberry.

I pretended not to notice how she kept glancing at my cup every few seconds for a while, till I finally held up my cup. "Do you want a bite?" I asked, trying and failing to suppress my smile.

Before I could even finish the question, she'd reached across the table and she scooped up a generous portion of my vanilla. "That's more than a bite," I told her, rolling my eyes.

Instead of eating it, she carefully dropped the vanilla into her bowl, right on top of her strawberry ice cream. She mixed the two flavors and took a bite. Her eyes fluttered shut and she let out a small, contented moan. "Perfect!" she declared.

"You are weird," I muttered, taking a bite of my own ice-cream.

"Excuse me!" she said, with exaggerated gasp. "Strawberry and vanilla is like the best combination. Strawberry can be too sweet and bold on its own, but mix it with vanilla..." She took another bite. "And it becomes perfectly balanced and makes it better."

"You put far too much thought into this," I said, but I couldn't help smiling at her enthusiasm.

She narrowed her eyes to give me a dirty glare but then smiled before preparing another spoon of the two flavors and held it out for me. I swallowed harshly, looking down at the spoon. It felt far too intimate to share a spoon. "Relax, you already saw me eating it so you know it's not poisonous."

I scoffed. Before I could overthink it, I leaned forward and took a bite. The flavors melted together on my tongue, and I had to admit that she might have a point. Sometimes different things just... worked together.

"Well?" she asked, her eyes fixed on my face. "What do you think?"

I shrugged. "It's okay."

She gasped. "Okay? Just okay? This is culinary perfection! You should expand your taste palette."

"You really are weird," I cut her off, but I was chuckling, and so was she.

After that we sat somewhat in silence finishing our ice-creams. That's when I noticed the silver sparkles on her nail polish. She didn't have them this morning. I remembered distinctly how they had been gray.

"How do you find so much time?" The question slipped out before I could catch it.

"Time for what?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Change your nail polish." I gestured vaguely at her hands, then immediately felt foolish for noticing such a small detail.

Her eyes lit up with something that looked suspiciously like pleasure. I shook my head. Why would she be happy I had noticed? If anything she could probably be creeped out that I was observing her so keenly. "How do you find the time to study..." she started, then paused, reconsidering. "Actually, no. How do you find the time to write?"

I shrugged, suddenly self-conscious. "Because I enjoy it, I guess." My fingers tapped against my empty ice-cream cup. "It sort of relaxes me and I don't know. I... just like it." The words felt inadequate to describe how writing made me feel and how it helped calm all the chaos in my head.

"Exactly!" She tapped her sparkly nails against the table. "I love nail polishes too."

"So when did your obsession with nail polishes start?" I asked, leaning back in my seat.

Something shifted in her eyes. "I don't know if I would call it an obsession," she said quietly. "But it was something I did with my mom."

My smile vanished instantly, regret flooding through me. I watched as she tried to maintain her composure, recognizing the slight tremor in her jaw that meant she was fighting back emotions. "I'm sorry, Sanjana. I didn't know."

She drew a shaky breath, her fingers now tracing the rim of her empty cup. "My mother loved dressing up. She would never be caught in unpressed clothing or having a bad hair day. Not that she would look down on anyone but she just liked looking good." A small smile appeared on her face. "Maybe that's where Saksham and I get our obsession with fashion." Her voice grew softer. "Then with cancer... she started losing her hair, and her clothes didn't fit her right and she didn't always have energy to put on makeup." She cleared her throat, but I could hear the emotion thick in her voice. "But the one thing that she could make sure looked good were her nails. I learned how to paint nails perfectly by the time I was 5 because it made my mother so happy."

She ran a finger over her sparkly nails, lost in memory. "I guess the love for nail polishes just stayed with me because it makes me feel closer to her. I know it's weird–"

"It's not," I interrupted firmly. Without thinking, I reached across the table and covered her hand with mine. Her skin was soft and warm, and I could feel her slight trembling beneath my palm. I meant to pull away immediately, but something kept my hand there, my thumb unconsciously brushing across her knuckles in what I hoped was a comforting gesture.

"So yeah," she took a deep breath, and I watched as she gathered herself. "That's my sad story behind my obsession with nail polishes and why I'm going to start my own nail polish line. People don't realize it but pretty nails can give a huge boost of confidence to people and I want every woman to feel confident and beautiful no matter what."

I smiled, struck by how she could take something so painful and transform it into something positive, something meant to help others. My hand was still on hers, and I couldn't quite bring myself to move it. "Your nail polish brand is going to be very successful because you are so passionate about it." I finally gave her hand one final squeeze before reluctantly pulling away, immediately missing the warmth of her skin against mine.