Chapter 5: The Plan

Harper — Harini — and Jai were still sitting opposite each other at the desk, surrounded by the whispers of students working in groups.

Harini finished reading, shut the notebook with a snap, and pushed it to the side of the desk. The snap carried in the library's quiet — the sound of a conversation being: closed.

Jai leant back in his chair, the legs creaking beneath him, and did not say a word.

Then Harini pulled five sheets of A4 from a clear plastic folder — the kind of folder that organised students kept and that Jai had never: owned — and spread them over the desk. Her handwriting covered each page — not the careful handwriting of her classroom notes but the urgent handwriting of someone who had been: thinking fast. She adjusted the desk lamp to shine on the papers, pushed her glasses up her nose, then peered at Jai to see what he was looking at.

He was looking at: her.

"So," Harini began, quickly looking back at the papers. "If there's such thing as objective beauty — which can be discovered and created with simple maths — then it could be utilised to make: millions."

Jai dropped his shoulders and sat up. Annoyed.

"Right, genius," he whispered as loud as the library allowed. "So, state the obvious in your conclusion. But you can't just sell a maths formula. If you could sell it, someone would have done it already. And besides, it's not — it's not yours to: sell."

Harini continued looking at the papers. Continued: explaining. The specific patience of a person who had expected this objection and who had: already moved past it.

"Of course, many people know about the golden ratio. Many people use it — in art, architecture, fashion…" She trailed off, looking at the ceiling. The specific ceiling-look that meant she was: calculating. Jai felt an insatiable urge to know what she was thinking behind those thick-rimmed glasses. She looked back down. "But most are doing it unknowingly. And the rest are doing it without knowing how to: monetise it."

"So how are you going to monetise it?" he asked.

"Well, that I'm going to keep to myself," Harini said. Politely. The politeness of a locked door. "But I'm glad you showed interest. You're welcome to ask me more questions when the project is running in a few months."

Jai stared at her. She had just — what? Invited him to the library, shown him the appetiser, and then: closed the kitchen? The specific cruelty of someone who understood that information was: currency and who had just decided to: stop spending.

"That's it? That's all you want to say? I came all this way to the library — the library — and that's all I get?"

"I didn't know I owed you something. I told you what I wrote in the Maths lesson."

Jai's jaw tightened. He couldn't understand why she was doing this. She had been generous with her time. Why was she withholding the: project?

He pushed back his chair and stood to leave.

"Your idea is bakwas," he said. The word came out louder than he intended, getting the attention of students at the next table. "Kya?" he said to them. They got back to their work.

He grabbed his bag — the empty bag — tucked his chair back in, looked at Harini, shook his head — the headshake that sent his curls bouncing, the involuntary charm that he deployed even when: angry — and walked off.

She watched him walk away. The specific watching of a girl who had just: tested someone and who was now: evaluating the results.

*

Jai stood at the top of the library steps and fired off five texts to Mohit.

Just went to meet that geek in the library Actually thought she might be interesting But she's got nothing to share Obviously I'm smarter Meet me at Raju's tapri for chai?

He trotted down the steps and went off to meet his friends, the frustration at least distracting him from the slight evening chill — the Pune evening chill that arrived in September like an: apology from the monsoon.

*

The next morning Jai queued for a watery Nescafé and a dry samosa from the school canteen before lessons began. Harini walked in after him — a muddled mass of papers under her arms. She walked across the canteen in her school shoes with an air of confidence that emanated not from being cool but from her self-assured disregard for what people: considered cool. The specific confidence of someone who had opted out of the: game.

She walked up to the counter and ordered cutting chai — the half-cup of strong, sweet, milky tea that Pune's chai drinkers ordered when they wanted: intensity without: volume — behind Jai, who had just ordered his black coffee. The black coffee of a teenager who wanted to be: sophisticated and who was, in fact: seventeen.

They glanced at each other. Didn't speak. The specific not-speaking of two people who had unfinished: business.

Jai took his change and his samosa and sat at a canteen table — the tables that were all slightly too small for his frame — and concentrated on the dry pastry that sat on the steel plate in front of him.

He had left Harini badly yesterday. He knew he'd reacted unfairly. He liked her. Was intrigued by the plan. But didn't know how to: say that. He could charm any girl — he sometimes did it for fun, even when he didn't like them. Those girls saw his curls, his skin, his energy, and instantly placed him above themselves in an imagined hierarchy. A hierarchy that Jai reinforced because reinforcing it was: easy.

Harini was: different. She hadn't placed him: anywhere. She hadn't looked at his curls and decided he was: above her. She had looked at his empty bag and decided he was: not yet ready for what she had to: offer.

He was still thinking about this when Harini walked up to his table and sat down opposite him, her cutting chai dancing at the rim of the small glass as she placed it on the plastic surface.

"Hi," he said.

"Do you want to hear the rest of the golden ratio plan?" she asked, wasting: zero time. The directness of a girl who understood that time spent on: pleasantries was time not spent on: substance.

"I thought I — I don't — yeah, I would love that," he said, one hand going into his curls and scratching the side of his head — the nervous gesture that he deployed when the Jai-performance: faltered.

Harini smiled. "I need to know you're serious about keeping this between us. There may be a lot of money eventually," she said.

Jai looked at her with wide eyes and spoke with a hushed voice. "I don't know how to prove I'm sincere," he said, leaning closer. "Other than the fact that I went to a library yesterday. In public. Where anyone could have seen me. Just to talk to you about: this."

"I was surprised you actually came," she smiled.

"What do I need to do?" he asked, not smiling back. The first time Jai had not smiled in a conversation with a girl since: ever.

"Tell me more about your plan."

"My plan for the golden ratio?"

"Haan. If you're so interested in what I have to say, you must have more thoughts."

Jai looked at Harini. Harini looked at Jai. The canteen around them — the clatter of steel thalis, the aunty shouting at a Class X boy to clean up his spill, the smell of frying pakoras from the kitchen — all of it: irrelevant. The world had narrowed to: this table. This girl. This: question.

"Not here," said Jai, shaking his head quickly. He took a sip of the watery Nescafé — the specific disappointment of institutional: coffee. "Can you meet me tonight?"

"Come to my house," she said.

Jai looked: unsure.

"Oh, right, I forgot — you can't be seen with a: geek like me," she said. "No worries."

"No, no, no," Jai caught himself. "It's just that I'm meeting Mohit later. I'll come before. Seven-thirty?"

*

Jai knocked on the green-painted door of Harini's house — a narrow rowhouse in Kothrud, the middle-class neighbourhood where houses pressed against each other like commuters in a Pune PMPML bus. This part of Pune was different from where Jai lived — the leafy Koregaon Park area where houses had gardens and the only sound at night was: crickets. Here, in Kothrud, the houses were: close. The lanes were: narrow. Auto-rickshaws honked at pedestrians who honked back with: words. A neighbour's TV played a Marathi serial at volume eleven. The smell from the street — pav bhaji from the corner stall, exhaust from the bus stop, the wet-earth smell of a drain that needed: attention.

Harini appeared at the door.

"Come in," she said, holding it wide. She was wearing fitted jeans, a black kurta, and chappals — the rubber chappals that every Indian household owned and that said: you are home now, the formality is: over. "Shoes there, bag there," she pointed.

They walked into the kitchen and sat at the cluttered table. Harini pushed aside three toy cars (her younger brother's territory), a dirty steel tumbler, and a half-completed jigsaw puzzle, then lit a small diya — the oil lamp that her mother kept on the kitchen counter, the flame that Indian households maintained because light was: sacred.

There was a momentary silence as they looked at the flickering flame. The diya's light — warm, orange, ancient — the light that had illuminated Indian kitchens for: millennia.

"Look, I'm not staying long," said Jai. "But I think the golden ratio can be: sold."

"Because I told you that?"

"No, I thought it before I met you. Before I approached you in the corridor. Before the library. Before I knew what you'd written."

"Right," she said, pushing her glasses up. "And that's your only thought?"

"No. I think it could be sold to make people: beautiful. And it could make us: crorepatis."

"People already are beautiful," she said.

He looked at her. "Everybody wants to be. And everybody naturally is — inside. But we could make them beautiful on the: outside."

"If we did that, wouldn't beauty become: pointless?"

"No." Jai had thought about this. The thinking that he'd done at Raju's tapri while Mohit talked about cricket and Jai stared at his chai and: thought. "Has anyone ever got bored of a rainbow? Has anyone — in the entire history of the world — looked at a sunset over the Western Ghats and thought it looked: just okay?"

"Just checking," said Harini, "that you know what you're talking about before I give you: more."

She reached down, pulled a stack of papers from her school bag — the bag that was the opposite of Jai's: full, organised, the bag of a person who carried her: world — and placed them in front of her.

Jai moved one seat closer. Looked at the top of the first page. Read the words aloud, written in Harini's angular handwriting:

"Sell beauty," he said.

He continued scanning. Underneath: Surgery or formula or cosmetics. Could make crores. A large question mark. Phone numbers below.

He stared at the words, then looked up as Harini passed him another sheet. This one had faces — drawn with mathematical precision. Child faces, teenage faces, adult faces, elderly faces. Each designed using the golden ratio to find perfect proportions. Next to the faces: hands. Each joint from fingertip to wrist had pencilled diagrams showing the golden ratio's: application.

He put the sheet down and pulled another from the pile. Filled with writing — pros and cons, sums and figures, age limits, surgeon contacts, medical diagrams. Injections was written at the bottom, underlined three times in red.

"What are the phone numbers?" Jai asked.

"Cosmetic surgeons."

"You've spoken to them?"

Harini hesitated. Then got up and closed the kitchen door — gently, until the latch: clicked. She walked to the fridge and poured two glasses of Frooti from the carton — the mango drink that every Indian child grew up with, the drink that tasted of: childhood. She placed the glasses on the table and sat back down.

She took a sip.

"I've spoken to many. All said no," she said.

Jai raised his eyebrows. "You mean they didn't take a schoolgirl seriously about a revolutionary golden-ratio injection?"

Harini pursed her lips. The specific lip-pursing of a girl who had been: rejected by professionals and who was: not done trying.

"So, we just need to find more," he said.

"Except one," said Harini. "One cosmetic researcher thinks it could work. He's at a lab in Bengaluru — the IISc campus. He responded to my email because he knew my father."

"Your father?"

"My father was a mathematician. Before he — " She paused. The pause that contained: everything. "Before he left. He published papers on the golden ratio's application to biological structures. This researcher read them. When I emailed explaining who I was and what I wanted to do, he took me: seriously."

Jai looked at Harini. The girl who sat in the back row of Maths class. The girl who didn't speak. The girl whose father had: left and who had inherited his mathematics and who was using that inheritance to build: something that would change the world.

"When do we go to Bengaluru?" Jai asked.

Harini looked at him. The look of a girl who had been: alone with this idea for two years and who was now, for the first time, hearing someone say: we.

"Friday," she said. "If you're: serious."

"I'll bring a pen," said Jai.