“Poor kid’s been friend zoned for years now,” Rajeev bhaiya said.
We all burst into laughter, but the conversation did nothing to quell my curiosity. It’s uncanny to me how Rudra’s always (sort of) been around but I don’t know anything about his life. I have vague memories of him collected across summers, always invited to the parties Nani used to throw for us but never reallythere.
He’d be sitting in the corner, legs swinging above the ground, watching the rest of us playing statue dance, pass the parcel, or limbo. That was, of course, until Priti would rush up to him, grinning from ear to ear, her bangs sticking to her sweaty forehead. He’d reluctantly take her hand and jump off his chair.
Ever since she was little, Priti has been the leader in any situation. Even now, she’s already taking off her helmet and expectantly waitingfor me to get off the scooter, while I’m still gawking at the other cars in the parking lot.
“Are you sure we’re allowed to park here?” I croak, still a little winded from the death-defying ride.
“Chill, Rudra’s parents own this parking space. And three others.” Priti points to the burnished cars flanking the BMW. “All theirs.”
Holy shit. I knew the Desais were rich, but notthisrich.
I get off the scooter and run after Priti, who’s already started off toward one of the doors leading into the building. I follow her through and up a small flight of stairs that opens into the foyer. My mouth drops open.
There’s a waterfall next to a posh seating area, with soothing music accompanying the sound of the water splashing (very Thai spa–esque). Pockets of golden light reflect off the surface of the water, making it shimmer like strings against the glass as it plunges into the pool. I walk past it with my jaw unhinged, peeking at the chandelier poised above an exquisite centerpiece opposite the reception desk.
“Close your mouth,” Priti mutters. “You look like you’ve never seen an indoor waterfall.”
“I haven’t. Not in someone’s home.” The floor below me is covered with an embroidered rug, and the air smells like roses.
“I thought you Americans all lived in big houses.”
“Say that to the current American housing crisis,” I scoff. “Plus, you don’t even know—”
“I didn’t ask for a lecture, smartass,” Priti interrupts.
I’m usually immune to Priti’s cutting remarks, but this one stings because I’ve been called “smartass,” “oily plaits,” and variations thereof all my life. The only difference is, back in Portland, it stemmed from the whole “smart Indian kid” stereotype.
Even when you work your ass off to achieve your dreams, somepeople will say it was because of your genes, not how much you studied or slogged, so you’re not even allowed to appear proud of your success, becausehard work had nothing to do with it, right?
The worst part is, they will never know how when you opened your acceptance letter, your shoulders slumped in relief because you could finallybreathe.
Shoving down the sudden lump in my throat, I hasten to follow Priti as she approaches the manager’s desk at the end of the foyer, her face breaking into a smile. That’s the second time I’ve seen her smile today. The sight of it will never cease to amaze me.
“Priti Ji,” the manager says. “?? ??? ?????”*
“??? ???!”*
Marathi sounds enough like Hindi for me to be able to understand their exchange. Mummy’s side is a mix of UPites and Maharashtrians, and Nani and Nana (before he passed away a few years ago) have always lived in Mumbai. So have Mausi and Mausaji, which basically makes Priti a Mumbaikar.
It’s like Srishti says:In Mumbai, you aren’t Kannadiga, or Gujarati, or even Maharashtrian, although Mumbai’s technically a city in Maharashtra. You’re Mumbaikar. Through and through.
Me, I’m somewhere in the middle. I’m not your usual American-Born Confused Desi, because I wasn’t born in America. But I don’t exactly qualify as Mumbaikar either, despite having been born here, because I don’tlivehere.
I’m both. Or either. Or neither.
Like quantum mechanics.
“Earth to Krishna.” I blink in surprise as Priti clicks her fingers in front of my face, her scowl back, reserved solely for me. It’s like azombie—keeps resurrecting itself. “Let’s go.”
I hurry after Priti as she struts toward the lift.
Then it’s up twenty-four floors, the lift moving fast enough to make my ears pop.
We step out into a carpeted corridor illuminated by bright lights, with abstract paintings in glass frames separating the space between the doors to each apartment. Rudra’s apartment is diagonal to the lift, barricaded by two doors, the outer one with an ornate grille and the inner with a keyhole at the center. The name plate next to it saysDesaiin English and Gujarati.
Priti rings the touchscreen doorbell and shoves her face in front of the camera lens. “Open up, asshole!”
