Chapter 3 : Dissonance

The Sankam Boys’ hostel for dental college was unusually quiet for a Saturday night after the inter-college fest cultural events.

Most of the boys were still outside — some drinking at Sun and Sand, others devouring late-night biryani at Niyaaz, and a few posting blurry stories from the fest afterparty with captions that would embarrass them by morning.

Kuldeep sat alone on the edge of his bed, adjacent to the wall on which he had painted a monochrome of Marylin Monroe. The trophy rested on the study table beside scattered anatomy notes for MDS preparation, a couple of fat MCQ books, an unfinished charcoal sketch, and an open journal with nothing written on the page.

He should have been happy. He had won this trophy. Years of riyaaz… of quietly believing that his music, his singing belonged in smaller rooms and quaint audiences. Years of being told semi-classical music was “too niche” for people their age.

And yet all he could hear now was — “…Chakke hai!” His jaw tightened, his breath became rapid and his head started throbbing again. The word echoed differently when spoken loudly by strangers. Not because it was unfamiliar. Rather, it was… too familiar!

The dangly dim hostel corridor light flickered faintly outside as he rubbed his eyes. There had been a time in school when boys deliberately imitated the way he spoke. The way his wrists moved while explaining things. The way he never seemed interested in the same conversations they were — sports, girls, and endless locker-room nonsense. Behind his back they had other names for him too… Ladies, Fifty-fifty, Hijra, Homo, Gay…

He knew who he was. He wasn’t ashamed of it anymore. But there was still a difference between knowing something privately and surviving it publicly. He had never formally come out to anyone except a handful of close friends in college. Not because he was confused…  He wasn’t.

For years he had known that he didn’t like girls the way he liked boys. His first crush was on Hrithik Roshan in “Kaho Naa… Pyaar Hai.” Back then he hadn’t understood what exactly he was feeling inside his body or mind watching “Dil ne dil ko pukara.” He only knew it felt soft and overwhelming and strangely forbidden.

In school, he had mostly been friends with girls. His way to spend the games period in school was sitting under the trees having long endless deep conversations with the girls while the boys would be busy with football or cricket.

The teachers adored him. He was their star student — obedient, respectful, well behaved and studious. Just the way they liked for a “good student” to be.

Boys sensed something “off.” And over the years he had carefully learned to reduce himself around them. Lowering his voice into an artificial baritone. Stopping himself from singing songs originally sung by female playback singers. He still remembered being called the “Shreya Ghoshal” of his school once.

He was good at what he did even during college. He had topped his class in final year BDS. He was already preparing relentlessly for the MDS entrance examinations while other interns were merry making their last year in college. He knew his small world of music and writing and studying was enough for him. But even now, after all these years, one careless word had managed to drag that frightened teenager out from somewhere inside his ribs. Maybe that was why he had stopped expecting too much from people around him.

Over time, he had made peace with the possibility that he might spend his life alone. He knew the kind of love or partner he sought was not societally acceptable; less so by his family.

The queer dating scene around him felt exhausting and impersonal. Endless swiping and texting on apps that were more about random hookups and disposable conversations rather than actual human connection. Kuldeep never understood how intimacy could become casual so easily.

He wanted love before touch. He wanted conversation before undressing. He wanted someone to look at him the way he had once looked at movie screens as a teenager — full of ache and impossible hope. And despite everything, some quiet corner of his heart still waited, for a late-night text, someone to share tea with after clinics, someone to take him on long bike rides through the empty roads of Belagavi during winter evenings to the windmills or to the chai tapri near Barde bus stop, or aimless late-night walks through the camp area…

His parents had never really known how to love him warmly. Or perhaps they did, just not in ways he had always understood. Their expression of love towards him was by providing him with the needs that a child should be expected to have. Good food, good education and an environment free from abuse. That’s what they knew of to be “good parents”

Their marriage had always felt just functional rather than affectionate. 

His father was the reason he journaled. He was also his first music teacher—not through formal lessons, but through old music diaries, audio cassettes, and books scattered around the house — Rabindrasangeet, Nazrulgeeti, Ghazals, Raag, Kheyal, Thumris. A harmonium that cried out to be repaired. A tanpura that was functioning but had varnish chipping off from places.

Years ago, before responsibilities consumed him, his father had apparently been deeply involved in music too. His choto pishi still spoke about it sometimes. About how he used to write songs in Bengali and sing at local college functions. But somewhere along the way, poetry journals had become notebooks filled with monthly expenses and ration calculations. Middle-class practicality had quietly replaced art.

Kuldeep often felt he had inherited the unfinished part of him. Journaling became his escape. Music became the expression of his inner self. His journals carried the words he could never say aloud. His singing carried those same emotions through rhythm and pitch. A private world where he never had to shrink himself into something socially acceptable.

A soft knock interrupted his thoughts. Before he could respond, Aditya entered balancing two paper cups of chai, “Sir, you look like someone died.”

Kuldeep managed a tired smile, “Maybe my will to socialize.”

“Dramatic.” Aditya rolled his eyes and handed him a cup before collapsing into the chair opposite him.

For a while neither spoke and then finally Kuldeep asked,

-“Did you finish the pre-clinical RCTs?”

-“Yeah. Only crown preparation remaining now.”

-“Good. Don’t get carried away with all this cultural stuff. Thoda bahut theek hai, but you have finals next year.”

-“Meri naiyya toh aap hi paar lagaoge, sir.”

Aditya joined palms dramatically. Kuldeep chuckled despite himself. It was a slightly forced attempt to lighten the mood, but it worked… at least a little.

Aditya knew enough about Kuldeep to understand certain things without needing them spoken aloud. He never asked questions that crossed boundaries. Never behaved awkwardly around him either. There was an unspoken understanding between them. Kuldeep felt strangely unguarded in his presence.

Noise drifted faintly from another hostel room. Someone was butchering an old Bollywood song several notes away from reality. Finally Aditya sighed.

“Listen… don’t take those medical idiots seriously.”

Kuldeep stared into the steam rising from his chai, “I know.”

“You know, but you’re still thinking about it.”

Kuldeep didn’t answer… because of course he was.

Aditya leaned back, “That band guy. Utsav.”

Kuldeep’s expression shifted almost imperceptibly, “The one who picked up the fight with me? What about him?”

“He looked awkward after it escalated.”

Kuldeep laughed softly.

“Oh reaaaally? That’s generous.”

“No seriously. The others were behaving worse.”

Kuldeep shook his head, “Doesn’t matter.”

But it did. And that was the irritating part, because beneath the anger sat disappointment. And disappointment required expectation. Which was absurd because he barely knew the man. And yet somewhere between Madaari and that stupid argument backstage, a small part of him had hoped Utsav might actually be different from the loud, arrogant boys he usually avoided…

Clearly not!

He placed the untouched chai aside, and sunk further into his almost flattened out pillow, “I’m going to bed.”

“Okay… Goodnight! I’ll leave you to your journals.” Aditya smirked and got up to leave. He knew that was Kuldeep’s polite way of asking for solitude.

After he left, silence settled over the room again. Kuldeep opened his journal. The page remained blank for several seconds. Then slowly he wrote in cursive —

“Some people enter rooms like storms…

… Only to leave damage behind…”

He stopped there with a sigh and then signed the date, closed the journal and turned out the lights.

———

Across the campus, the Medical College boys’ hostel, Kautilya, was very much awake. Music blasted from someone’s speaker while half the band occupied their keyboard player Atharv’s room.

Utsav sat cross-legged on the floor eating greasy takeaway noodles directly from the plastic dabba they had arrived in. Old Monk and Coke bottles sat half-empty against the wall. The room smelled heavily of cigarette smoke.

“Bro, we were ROBBED,” Atharv declared dramatically. “We literally owned the audience! Judges were ancient classical-music uncles, obviously.”

Laughter erupted across the room. Sahil, the drummer, exhaled smoke lazily, “Bhai, Next year we’re adding tabla and alaap also. Full marks secured!” More laughter erupted in the room.

Atharv smirked, “Or maybe wear kurtas and sing lovey-dovey songs while staring emotionally at the ceiling.”

“Dental College starter pack.” Sahil continued loudly.

Atharv continued, “Chhod na yaar… woh chakka toh serious ho gaya.”

The room laughed automatically… Except Utsav. Something inside him stiffened immediately while the laughter suddenly sounded uglier than before. Not funny, just cruel.

He looked up sharply, “Bas kar na.”

The room paused. Sahil blinked, “Oho! Bada Gandhi ban raha hai!”

“I’m just saying stop repeating it.” Utsav was visibly annoyed.

“Arre tu hi toh lad raha tha usse.” Atharv joined in.

“That’s different.” Utsav lifted his left palm in a dismissive gesture.

“How?” Atharv raised his eyebrows.

Utsav opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out… because annoyingly, he didn’t fully know how to answer that. He only remembered Kuldeep’s face after the word landed. Like something old had been reopened publicly. The memory sat unpleasantly in his chest.

He pushed the dabba of noodles aside, picked up his guitar and got up abruptly to leave, “Too much noise here.”

“Rockstar ji ko shanti chahiye…” Atharv piped.

“Dental boys hostel mein bhejo sir ko.” A lanky junior laughed

“You mean girls hostel!” Atharv continued and the room burst into a huge laughter again.

“Shut up.” Utsav slammed the door behind him and walked up to the terrace. It was cooler there, breezier… quieter!

For the first time all evening, there was no cheering crowd, no music, no opinions. Just the pleasant starry Belagavi skies above. He leaned against the railing and absentmindedly plucked a few strings on the guitar hanging from his shoulder. And without realizing it — he started humming… softly… almost unconsciously.

“Ye teri jhoothi baatein main saari maan loon…”

He stopped immediately, realizing where the line had come from.

“…What the hell!” He exclaimed like a gentle thought slipped out of this mouth and a laugh escaped him despite himself. Somehow that stupid voice had lodged itself in his head and refused to leave.

Not just the singing… but the stillness. The way an entire auditorium had actually fallen silent like they were hypnotized by that voice of that dental guy.

Utsav frowned… He was usually drawn towards energy, loudness, and performance!

Kuldeep Mukherjee should have bored him. 

Instead — he kept thinking about him. Which was bothering him in a way he never felt before.

His phone buzzed.

It was Niyati – “Still awake?”

He typed back lazily. – “Unfortunately.”

Three dots appeared immediately…

“You’re thinking about the dental college singer, aren’t you?”

Utsav stared at the screen. Niyati was one of the closest people Utsav had. She knew him better than anyone, even himself! Everyone thought they were dating or possibly in denial of their feelings for each other. But only they knew how close they were to each other, as friends and that was enough.

He then typed – “Shut up!”

Her reply came instantly, “You stayed backstage for his entire performance. I have eyes.”

He rolled his eyes hard enough to hurt. “His voice was good. That’s all!”

Niyati – “And?”

He closed the chat and turned the screen off.

Because somewhere this question was bothering him too…

and he genuinely didn’t know the answer…

Not yet!

to be continued…