Nemesis

Neema removed her Ghungroo and kept them aside on the table. She was exhausted but exhilarated. After her solo dance performance and a long photo session, she had to endure signing what seemed like a million autographs and taking a plethora of selfies for her fans. But she loved every minute of the tiresome ordeal.

When her mother enrolled her in Kathak dance classes, Neema was just 5 yrs old. Her teacher saw something she hadn't seen before. A natural talent with a spark to set the stage on fire. Then it was classes to classes, mentors to mentors, and stages to stages, as every step was more challenging, bolder, and terrifying than the last.

Today she won the Abhinanda Saroja National Award. It was a hard-earned reward for a twenty-three-long journey.

She sat on the ottoman in her green room and cleaned her makeup with a cotton ball dipped in cleansing cream. The eye makeup was the hardest to come off. She was lost in the reverie of her success when there was a knock at the door.

"Come in", she said.

A man entered her room and placed an enormous bouquet on the side table, nodded at her and left wordlessly. She knew who the sender was. She walked to the side table and ran her hand over the pink lilies and white tuberoses before picking the note nestled between the blooms.

She read the note.

'For the most excellent dancer and most gorgeous woman in the world, my one and only, Neema.'

Arsh would never forget this ritual. He may not attend her shows, but his flowers always reached her.

She folded the note and kept it in her handbag. Along with the letter was a small box. She opened the box. Inside was a solitaire diamond ring and a folded piece of paper.

"Neema, my love, my one and only, will you marry me?
I Love You
Yours and only yours, Arsh."

She wore the ring and kissed it as she video-called Arsh and showed him the ring. He was on cloud nine. But he couldn't let his emotions overwhelm him. He was in a meeting in New York.

Neema once again sat on the ottoman and thought about the time when she was not the one and only. She had a nemesis. A woman giving her intense competition not just on stage, but the rivalry reached had spread its vicious tentacles to Arsh.

She was dancing, tapping her foot, perfecting her Chalan, Thaat, Uthaan, but no matter how hard she practised, she could never beat that one woman, Khyati. The exquisite ivory-skinned beauty; a stark contrast to Neema's ebony Dravidian beauty.

They once used to be thick friends. Neema, Khyati and Arsh, 16 yr old and students at the same dance academy. But they both fell in love with Arsh. And Khyati morphed into a threat to Neema when her smooth dance moves swooned Arsh off his feet. They started dating.

It was a dance performance much like today, exactly five years ago, and they were getting ready in the green room. Khyati was applying makeup, and Neema was practising her steps one last time. She was a nervous wreck next to Khyati.

"Ta Thei Thei Tat, Aa Thei Thei Tat,"
"Ta Thei Thei Tat, Aa Thei Thei Tat..."

Neema was practising her Tihai when Khyati laughed. Neema spun around and faced Khyati. Khyati gave her a mocking look with raised eyebrows in the mirror, twirling her hair around her finger with her lower lip under her teeth. Neema held her chair and revolved her around.

"What's there to laugh, Khyati?" Neema asked. She was teetering with frustration and resentment.

Khyati stood up. "Neema, till when are you going to practice? You have been practising for the last 18 years now, but you can't beat me, not once."

Moisture pooled in Neema's eyes as she bit back the humiliation. "I am on par with you. Stop trying to make me feel inferior," Neema said at large to the room.

Khyati placed her hand under Neema's chin and lifted her face. Neema looked up into Khyati's eyes. The teardrop threatening to roll down her cheek leapt from the corner of her eye and fell on Khyati's open palm.

"Tch tch tch. My dear, innocent Neema. If you are on par with me, why don't you ever get a solo performance? They only want to see you with me. Why do you get paid less than me in every show, though you work harder than me?" Khyati said with contempt.

Tears were now flowing down Neema's face, and her embroidered dance costume was soaked in her mascara and pain.

"Why...," Khyati paused, "did Arsh ask me out and not you? Neema, the sooner you understand this, the better. Arsh is mine."

Neema broke down, hiding her face in her palms, not wanting Khyati to see her cry. The ignominy of it all shook Neema from her core.

There was a knock on the door, and Varun opened the door an inch and peeked inside and said, "It's time, get ready, you two." but then he saw Neema, sitting on her knees, crying like a baby, with her makeup running down her face and her soiled costume.

He gave Khyati a perplexed look, swell with tacit questions. She gave him a sickly sweet smile. "The audience is in luck, Varun. There will only be my solo performance today. Neema here is having a little existential crisis." With these words, she looked at Neema over her shoulders with a wicked smile and left the room, closing the door behind her.

The next hour went like one aeon for Neema. Her mind was oscillating between sanity and insanity. Several times, she called Arsh. No one picked up her calls. She needed to talk to him and know if he loved Khyati.

She was sweating. Her heart was thudding in her chest, hard enough to break her ribs. Every breath she took was assaulting her lungs as she struggled to breathe. She fished out her mother's medicines from her handbag and washed down two anti-anxiety pills with a bottle of water.

Neema survived. An hour later, she heard thunderous applause. She knew Khyati was taking her bows, her favourite moment when every pair of hands came together again and again to celebrate her success.

She got herself together and stuffed the medicines back into her handbag. Khyati doesn't need to put her to humiliation for having a nervous meltdown. She washed her face and changed her clothes. Khyati would be back any minute. She was zipping her handbag close when she saw the new syringe kept in her bag. She bought it that morning for her mother, along with other medicines.

Her mother needed a monthly vitamin D injection, and Neema got the vial and the syringe from a discount store recommended by the doctor. She pulled out the needle as an idea took shape in her mind. Hadn't she seen about killing someone with an injection full of air in a movie? What did they call it? Embolism. Yes.

Neema smiled to herself, and her gaze fell onto the mirror. The reflection in the mirror was her, but it wasn't Neema. It was some mad woman who had taken possession of Neema. She screamed. The fear brought her back to her senses. She can't kill someone just because they are lucky.

Neema shoved the syringe back into her handbag when the door opened, and in came Khyati. She looked at Neema with a dazzling smile and spun around in circles.

"THEY GAVE ME A STANDING OVATION!" she said, shutting the door and standing with her back against it. She looked at herself in the mirror. The triumphant look on her face was edging on delirium. She was brimming with vanity and pride.

"Look at the mirror, Neema. There stands the best dancer in India. The most beautiful woman in the world. And the would-be wife of Arsh Aggarwal."

Neema looked at the mirror and saw nothing but a rival, an enemy, a woman with no compassion and empathy.

Khyati sat on the ottoman and started removing her costume jewellery, smiling.

"You know what, Neema, quit dancing. Why get your ego hurt repeatedly? You can take a job as a dance teacher for kids. I can even ask Arsh to give you a recommendation letter. You know he won't say no to me. He is in love with me." Khyati said and scratched her neck, "Damned, these mosquitos are big enough to carry you away."

Khyati removed her bangles when she held the dressing table hard and had her whole body shook and her face contorted. She looked in the mirror at Neema for help. Their eyes met, and realisation dawned on Khyati.

Neema ran from the room, taking her handbag and the used syringe.

On her way home, Neema took a detour to a road she never takes to go home. She threw the syringe in a waste pile and bought a new needle from a small, obscure chemist shop. She burned the receipt too.

The moment she reached home, she got a call from Varun.

Varun sounded panicky as if he would cry. "Neema, Khyati has suffered a stroke. We have brought her to the hospital. Come soon. Doctors are trying to save her." The call ended, and so did her competition.

Khyati became a vegetable and was in the hospital for the last five years, while Neema became the number one. The one and only. She never went to see Khyati. She couldn't muster the courage to face her.

A shrill sound brought Neema back to the present. It was her phone. She picked it up.

"Hello, Neema Khanna, this side."

"Neema...!!!" It was Varun. He was no more her manager. Neema wondered why he was calling her.

"Varun, how are you? Where have you been, Yaar?" Neema asked, sounding friendly and concerned.

"Neema..." Varun's voice cracked and broke up. "Khyati... Khyati is gone, Neema. She passed away ten minutes ago." The phone fell from Neema's hand, and she sat with a thud on the ottoman.

'Khyati is dead!' She said to herself. And then she laughed. She laughed like a maniac. Neema was always scared that one-day Khyati might recover and expose the truth. But now, she was dead, and Arsh was hers, and she was the best Kathak dancer in India.

Neema looked at the gigantic mirror in front of her and stood up laughing as she swirled and spun in circles, dancing till she was giddy. She switched the lights in the mirror and made a perfect Apsara pose, smiling like a goddess of love and beauty.

But the mirror reflection stopped smiling and stood still with dead eyes. Neema blinked and laughed. She was sure she hallucinated from the sheer adrenaline and dopamine rush.

She winked at the reflection in the mirror and, to her horror, the reflection bit her lower lip and twirled her hair around her finger. Neema fell back in shock. She dared to look at the mirror again and slapped herself to break the stupor. But her reflection hit the real her hard across the cheek.

Neema screamed and backed away from the mirror till her back hit the wall and her knees buckled under her. She fell to the ground. Her eyes were locked on the reflection in the mirror. She was petrified.

And it stepped out of the mirror and walked over to her. Neema sucked in a sharp breath as her mirror self went on one knee in front of her and their noses touched.

"Say my name." Her other self said in a whisper, barely audible and the face of the woman transfigured.

"KH... Kh... Khyati!!!???" Neema's words sounded like a staccato brick was stuck in her throat.

The reflection that now transformed into Khyati nodded and smiled. "The one and only."

With these words, Neema screamed as Khyati held her head in both hands and gave it a sharp twist, turning it 270 degrees before stepping back into the mirror.