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Chapter Text

I: Rohan

In hindsight, it was all Abhimanyu’s fault.

Of course, it was Dean Vasisht who bore the biggest burden, withering away without any semblance of the bright personality he once had, laden with the guilt of all the broken friendships and heartbreaks that occurred in the span of a week. The same guilt, tingling in the hearts of all the students who showed up, served as an unspoken bond that brought about this de facto reunion in Dheradhun.

Alumni of the 2012^th batch of St Teresa could be seen pleasantly greeting each other, a desperate attempt to cover up the sting of the emotions they have been carrying for the past 10 years.

-

Let’s start at the beginning.

It was the summer of 2008, and the air was wafting with the new season’s blessing. The beginning of the new academic term had everyone on edge, walking on eggshells to avoid repeating the same mistakes of the past.

Well. Everyone but one outlier- Rohan Nanda.

The man whose feet marched to the beat of his own drum. The man who walked around campus as though he owned the place- and to be fair to him, he kinda sorta did. See, his father funded the construction of half the campus and held the immense power that came as a result of his success as a businessman. The last name “Nanda” had a grip on the school that rivalled even that of the Dean’s. It was fair to say that Rohan Nanda, the guy who had admission in St. Teresa but a degree in wasting time, was a big shot in the social communities of St Teresa. He was wanted by many but feared by all.

It was this very reason that he was appalled to see a rickety old piece of junk in his parking spot. The same one he had been parking in for months, the one that would have anyone warning you was “Rohan Nanda’s” if you dared make the mistake of parking there. He got out of his car, a bright red Ferrari that screamed confidence and commanded attention, and said to one of the two men standing in front of the spot-

“Hey Dimpy, you get paid less for keeping watch or what? Get this tin can away from my spot,” he said, a bite of arrogance behind his every word.

“It’s called a bike,” a voice speaks out.

Rohan turns his eyes to the person behind these words, an unfamiliar face, and the presumed owner of the bike parked in what was, once again, his parking spot.

“Really? What’d you say your name was?” Rohan asks, narrowing his eyes.

“I didn’t say my name, but it's Abhimanyu if you wish to know it so bad," the guy replies, exuding calm confidence in a way that got under Rohan’s skin. Abhimanyu was dressed in old clothes, a grey shirt that had seen better days, and a jacket in need of ironing. Rohan would be lying if he said the guy didn’t somehow pull it off, though it certainly didn’t stop him from looking down on him. Figuratively, of course, for he still had a few inches on Rohan.

“Let me do you a favour, Abhimanyu, here’s 500 rupees. Park my car, and wash your bike while you’re at it. Keep the change.” Rohan blew a kiss, adding to the condescending tone to his words, and started walking away with a smug look on his face.

This expression was short-lived, however, as he soon heard the sound of his car wheels being dragged at its highest speed, and Rohan turned to see his bright red car running circles around the field. It’s confidently red colour being tainted with the dirt brown mud. Inside the car was Abhimanyu, who had not a hint of hesitation in his eyes. Abhimanyu got out of the car, “Here’s 500, he said to Rohan, “wash your car. Keep the change.”

Rohan had never met anyone with even half the gall of this guy. Who did he think he was? Coming to his turf, walking around with the confidence of a man who owned the place, dirtying his freshly cleaned car after parking in what was, and he could not emphasise this enough, his parking spot. Sure, Rohan was no saint himself. He was arrogant, cocky, and commanding, but he had every right to be. Half of this campus was built with the support that came from his last name. What right did Abhimanyu have to oppose his authority? Rohan swore he was going to put this commoner in his place one way or another, if not by words than by his fist-

Rohan’s hands moved in a fit of rage, and a deep sense of ire overcame him. Unfortunately, Abhimanyu was not letting him get the satisfaction. The fight ended before it could even start, with the audience they had gained trying to stop a scene from occurring.

-

Both of them were sent to the Dean’s office.

“Repeat this cheap hooliganism again, and you’ll find yourself running out of this campus just as fast as you do in the field. Got it?” Dean Vasisht said, with a stern tone. For however whimsical he may be on a regular day, he truly is terrifying when necessary. “Now shake hands like gentlemen.”

Rohan reluctantly let his hand meet Abhimanyu's, who clearly didn’t have the knack for skincare as much as he did. His hands were coarse and a tad bit larger than his, an unrelenting grip that spoke more than words alone could. Their eyes met. A glint of challenge in both of their eyes; who’d be the first to look away, to concede to the domineering presence of the other. This was a guy who was unwilling to give in to Rohan’s antics, and he wasn’t going to drop to his knees at every word of Rohan’s- and that unfamiliar sense of security, especially coming from someone with not even a smidge of status, infuriated him.

“Good.” his grip released upon hearing the voice of the dean, who continued, “Your father, the rich and royal Ashok Nanda, is gracing us with a visit,” he said while lowering his eyes to a pile of papers on his desk. Rohan turned to see a slight smile on Abhimanyu’s face, a fleeting twinkle in his eyes. Those eyes were filled with ambition and dreams upon hearing the name of Delhi’s business tycoon. Great, another finance bro trying to replicate his father’s so-called “great legacy.” He was having none of it. From Rohan’s perspective, Ashok Nanda was a businessman first and father second. He already had a successor to his great empire, his elder brother, and hence had no use for Rohan and his colour-filled dreams and love for music. If the new guy was anything like his father, willing to abandon any and all relationships in lieu of his money-hungry greed, then Rohan would bring him down to reality before he ever got the chance.

The Dean's eyes glanced towards both of them. A second flew by. The older man cleared his throat, “Am I very pretty?” he said. Rohan and Abhimanyu didn’t speak a word, trying to think of the best answer for the question until-

“Then what are you staring at? Get out!” he says, to which they both scramble.

-

Rohan walked towards the assembly hall, staring in front at the big stage and rows of chairs in front of it. The elevated stage often held guests of honour, though today’s guest is anything but honourable. The hall was separated into two groups: to the right were the silver spoons, to which Rohan himself belonged, and to the left were the overachievers, where Abhimanyu would be staying. Allowing himself a second's peace, he relished in the fact that he would at least have that annoyance suppressed for this assembly. Having his father give the same speech, which for some reason has all the students on the left praise his every action and strive to do the same, is enough of a hassle to begin with.

He sat down next to his girlfriend of four years, Shananya. Next to her were some people from their friend group: Jeet, Shruti, and- Abhimanyu Singh? What’s he doing here? Hadn’t anyone told him about the unspoken rule of St Teresa, to always stick to your own lane? Or does he simply not bother to keep his head low and avoid trouble? Truly, it seemed like every action he took had Rohan burning with irritation. Was it even possible for a person you’ve known for so little to make you feel such a deep sense of vitriol?

If looks could kill, Rohan would’ve set Abhimanyu on fire by now. His gaze was unreturned: the latter simply looking ahead, towards the stage, with a content look on his face.

Rohan decided to ignore it for now. Abhimanyu will know what's best for him once he has his way. For now, he was going to focus on the speech about to take place. Or rather, focus on avoiding hearing it.

“Here to motivate you, please welcome our guest speaker: one of India’s leading business tycoons, and St Teresa’s chief trustee, Mister Ashok Nanda!” the Dean calls out, welcoming his father onto the stage. The crowd erupts into applause, not for who the speaker truly was, but for the carefully curated image of him that had been presented to the media. Rohan didn’t care for his speeches; it felt like empty promises coming from a man who never really existed at all, an honourable man who seemed to balance family and business so well, a man whose sons would obviously follow in his footsteps and soon become great names in the Indian economy themselves.

No, he was having none of it. He quietly put his earphones on, listening to a tune that always put him at ease. He could relax his chest and follow the fluctuations of the guitar ringing in his ears. The soft drums in the background gave him flight, feeling almost cathartic, a contrast to what his father’s speech would be making him feel right now. The smooth vibrations of the guitar were the wing beneath his wings. He closed his eyes and imagined himself far away from his current predicament. His worries all washed away, and he felt a sense of calmness that nothing else could ever replicate for him. He was only awakened by the applause of other people, and he followed suit; for it was custom, not praise.

He turned to his left to see Abhimanyu with that same stupid smile on his face. Guess some people can’t see through the façade that his father carries. Not like it’s his problem to deal with, for now. He gets up from his seat as soon as the assembly ends and initiates a conversation with the coach of the football team. With the new season, it is time for the appointment of the new team leader. While the position was practically already in the palm of his hands, it didn’t hurt to make the pass down a little easier.

“Hey, coach, tryout seasons are approaching, not to mention the match against St. Lawrence. Any leads on what to expect?” he starts, surely to catch the coach’s attention with his keen interest (and outstanding talent, but that goes unsaid).

“Ah, Mr Nanda. Glad to see you taking the initiative on the team’s game plan. However, only time will tell which players will be chosen for the match. If you want to keep playing, then focus on the game,” he replies.

“But sir, this season's-“

“Abhimanyu Singh, one second.” Rohan couldn’t even finish his sentence before the coach’s attention was on Abhimanyu, who just exited the assembly hall. What could Rohan have done in his past life for this misfortune to follow him around? “Gods, could you be a little more benevolent?” Rohan curses internally before he is shooed off by the coach.

He can’t stand it. It seems as though Abhimanyu’s truly trying to steal the spotlight away from Rohan (where it belonged). Looks like he’ll have to play dirty to get him to understand just who calls the shots around here. “Abhimanyu Singh,” Rohan mutters to himself, “Mark my words, you’ll regret ever crossing the same path as me.”