Page 81 - The World's Best Boyfriend

dance floor.
‘I would give my critique having learnt all Indian dance forms including
Kuchipudi and the extremely demanding Chhau,’ said Sanchit, ‘but I’m kind of

fucked up right now and all I can see are colours. I need to sit.’ He sat and got up
immediately. ‘My head’s spinning. I need to walk. Hold my hand.’
‘I’m not holding your hand,’ snapped Dhruv.

‘It will not be gay. It will be like Sylvester Stallone and Arnold after a long
drunk night.’
‘I’m sure they would chew on glass before they hold hands.’

‘Hold me.’
‘Fuck you,’ said Dhruv and walked away before Sanchit could hold him.
Dhruv walked towards the crowd, leaving behind Sanchit, who walked

unsteadily, still trying to light his cigarette.
The girls, a few of them drunk, were dancing without caution now, their facial
hair and unchecked sideburns glistening with sweat. The boys looked around

themselves to copy steps from each other, big, wet patches on their shirt
underarms making them extremely desirable.
Dhruv closed his eyes, forced himself to think that the music played by DJ

Raju—a twenty-year-old boy with brown streaked hair and betel stains on his
teeth—was still relevant and there was no harm in dancing to Katie Perry.

He started to dance alone with his eyes closed and his arms in the air; he was
never a good dancer but who gave a damn.

I Love u Rachu