The Smoking Girl

FICTION

It was a cold, biting November afternoon in '99, the kind of chill that felt like a slap to your face, sharp and unforgiving. The kind of chill that made your nostrils sting, even though your body was wrapped in warmth. The sky was an iron-grey blanket, threatening to rain but holding back just long enough for us to catch the bus. The five of us clambered onto the ASTC City Bus at the Gauhati University bus station, the frigid air mixing with the smell of diesel, street food, and the occasional hint of stale sweat. It was a routine, something familiar, but this time, it felt different. A little too cold, a little too quiet.

We sprawled out toward the back of the bus, claiming our usual spots with an unspoken sense of entitlement. I slid into the window seat, the cold glass against my cheek offering a strange comfort as I looked out at the bustling city passing by. I wasn’t in a hurry. There was no rush. I pulled out my joint, flicking off the excess with practiced ease, making sure not to waste a single crumb of the mango-scented weed I had scored from Khanapara. My fingers were steady, but there was a jittery feeling in my chest. The paranoia from the earlier joint hadn’t quite worn off, and my eyes flicked over the other passengers, scanning for any signs that they might be paying attention. I wasn’t ready to get busted. Not today.

“Hey, Ramdas,” Gopal called out, snapping me out of my thoughts. His voice was loud, almost too loud, and I could feel the other passengers glancing our way. “You seriously need to study this time. You failed everything except—”

“Except Economics, yeah, I know,” Ramdas cut him off, leaning back in his seat with a smug grin. His voice had that defensive edge, like he was ready to justify his failure at the drop of a hat. “Look, man, I don’t care about the other subjects. They bore the hell out of me. Economics is the only thing that sticks, you know? The rest of that stuff just doesn’t fit in my head.”

Suraj, Kaazim, and Hira laughed, mocking Ramdas as they always did. They didn’t take him seriously—hell, they didn’t take anything seriously. But Ramdas had always been that way—brash, unapologetic, and smug as hell about it. He was the rich kid, the son of ONGC employees, and in his world, failure didn’t matter. He could afford it.

“Ha! The Economics Hero!” they chanted in unison, practically rolling on the floor with laughter. The bus roared on, taking us past the Machkhowa flyover, its steel girders cutting through the sky like a futuristic monster. The smell of pineapples from the street vendors wafted through the open windows, a sweet, tropical fragrance that cut through the musty air of the bus.

But Gopal wasn’t laughing. He shot Ramdas a look that could freeze fire. Gopal was serious. He was the one who actually cared about his future, who didn’t have the luxury of failing. The others, though—they were all too happy to feed Ramdas’ ego. He was their spoiled, reckless friend, and they loved him for it, even if they didn’t say it out loud.

The wind howled through the window, pushing its way inside like an uninvited guest. The bus creaked and rattled, the sound of the wheels against the road reverberating through the floor, mixing with the distant thump of a bassline from the bus’s crackling speakers. I took a long drag from the joint, letting the smoke fill my lungs, watching the world outside blur and twist as the high started to settle in. The music in the background shifted to “Dil Se Re,” and the haunting, soulful lyrics seemed to echo through my chest. Everything felt hazy, like I was watching life through a film reel, distant yet intensely close.

“And I can’t stop thinking of her,” Ramdas muttered under his breath, his voice low but filled with a strange longing.

Hira raised an eyebrow, glancing over at Ramdas. “Damn fool,” he muttered, his tone dripping with amusement.

“Yeah, I know I’m a fool,” Ramdas admitted, his voice barely audible over the music. “I couldn’t even get her name. But god, the way she smoked. The way she moved…” He trailed off, and I could tell he was lost in the memory.

“She would’ve slapped you for sure,” Kaazim teased, grinning like a cat who just caught a mouse. “Or at least called you out. Made a big scene, acting all innocent while telling everyone that you were watching her. You were probably just staring, man.”

The whole group burst into laughter, but Ramdas didn’t flinch. He was too deep in whatever fantasy he’d built around this girl. She was a mystery to him—something to obsess over.

“Smoking hot,” Ramdas continued, ignoring the teasing. “You should’ve seen her. The way she lit that cigarette. It was like she was daring the world to look at her. Like she had control over everything.”

“She’s real, right?” Kaazim asked, his tone skeptical. “You’re not making her up, are you?”

Ramdas didn’t answer. He just stared out the window, his mind clearly lost in the image of her. He had no idea if she even existed beyond that moment at the bus stop, but to him, she was the one—this unattainable, wild, untamed girl who smoked like she had nothing to prove.

The conversation shifted. Kaazim leaned forward and reminded Ramdas about the tutoring session. “Don’t forget, man. You promised you’d come Sunday morning. Abba wants you to tutor my sister, Zoya, in Economics.”

“Yeah, sure,” Ramdas muttered, still not fully engaged, but he was already thinking about the quickest way out of it. He would go once, help her out with a few problems, and then bail next time. That was the plan. He wasn’t interested in tutoring anyone. But there was something about the way Kaazim said her name that caught his attention—Zoya.

Sunday came, and Ramdas reluctantly dragged himself out of bed earlier than usual. The morning felt sluggish, his body heavy with the aftereffects of a late night out. He slipped into a red wool sweater, its fibers starting to fray at the edges, and pulled on a pair of worn blue jeans. He wasn’t exactly excited to go, but something was pulling him there, something he couldn’t quite explain.

He’d barely been to Kaazim’s house in all these years—maybe three or five times in the past fifteen years—and he hadn’t even remembered if Kaazim had any siblings. He certainly didn’t remember Zoya, but there was something in Kaazim’s voice that made him want to show up, to keep his word, even if he didn’t care about tutoring. Maybe it was the curiosity—something gnawing at him, telling him there was more to this than just another lazy Sunday.

When he arrived, he greeted Kaazim’s with a warm, “Assalamu Alaikum.” He mouthed the greeting, his voice polite but distant. “Walaikum Assalam, boy. I hear you’re quite the Economics whiz,” Kaazim’s father said, his words laced with pride. “Please help my daughter, Zoya, prepare for her finals.”

“Zoya! Zoya!” he called, and Ramdas felt a strange tension in his chest, like the name itself had some sort of weight to it.

“Coming, Abba!” The voice that answered was light and soft, but it carried something else, something firm that made Ramdas’s heart race for reasons he couldn’t quite explain.

Then, she walked in.

Zoya.

She moved with a grace that immediately caught Ramdas off guard. She wasn’t the loud, attention-seeking type. She wasn’t even looking at him yet, but her presence filled the room, like a storm building on the horizon. She was holding an Economics book in one hand, her other hand adjusting the dupatta over her head with the kind of effortless elegance that only made her more intriguing.

It’s her.

The Smoking Girl. The one he had thought about, dreamt about, created in his mind. And now she was standing in front of him, real and even more stunning than he had imagined.

Ramdas was frozen for a second, the world around him blurring as he fought to collect himself. She looked up at him then, her gaze steady, not flirtatious, but somehow knowing. He could feel her looking at him like she could see through him, like she knew every thought he was hiding.

He grinned, but it felt weak—like his mind couldn’t keep up with the sudden flood of emotions. His heart was hammering in his chest, and he could hardly focus on the book in front of him. All he could think about was her.

Zoya. The Smoking Girl.

Maybe tutoring wouldn’t be so bad after all.

(The writer is an advocate from Gauhati High Court. Email: shahnazislam1320@gmail.com)