A split second before Amrit walks out the front door, he turns around and mouthsSee you soonat me. I mouthIt’s a dateback at him, making him smile again.
Srishti comes over and loops her arm through mine, and her citrusy scent replaces the aroma of Amrit’s lavender-and-mint soap. “It’s okay, boo,” she says. “You can cry on my shoulder if you want. My tee is waterproof.”
“No thanks.” I laugh and lay my head on Srishti’s shoulder as the door shuts behind Amrit, watching my Raj walk away from me.
Too dramatic, Krishna.
Guess Iamgoing to end up being the only college freshman who’s never been kissed, after all.
2
Mornings Are the Bane of My Existence
Mumbai, Friday
I’mnota morning person. It usually takes me a week at most to adapt to India’s time zone, yet I’m still drowsy and irritable even after two whole months of being here. Mumbai’s been having a god-awful heat wave this month, and it’s fucked with my biorhythm—and my mood—severely.
But Mummy’s stern voice lives rent-free in my head, always managing to pull me (apologies, yankme) out of my near-dead state.In that house, everyone, especially Nani, wakes up early, so make sure you’re not snoring until ten. Set an alarm, get up, take a bath, and help Nani make breakfast. You’re going to college; you’ll have to wake up early every day if you want to get your studying done and clear each semester.
And it’s this that gets me up somehow, even before my cousins have the chance to shake me awake—which has become quite the ritual for them. My alarm rings mere seconds later, loudly playing aZindagi Na Milegi Dobarasong.
Srishti, who usually is the one to drag me out of bed, mumbles, “Shut it off.”
“I can’t.” My eyelids are so heavy I can barely open them.
The living room’s dark because no one’s up yet to pull open the curtains. Everyone’s fast asleep on the mattresses spread around the hall. Srishti, curled up on the futon next to me. Then there’s Divija didi and Varija, sprawled on the inflatable bed. And finally, Manas, snoring on the pull-out couch. Priti—who lives here with Nani—is in her room, double bed all to herself.
I rub my eyes, and mascara smears on my knuckles. “Fuuuck.”
We all got home at three a.m., and I was so sleepy I didn’t even brush my teeth or remove my makeup. I just took off my sweaty clothes, put on a pair of Varija’s pajamas, and collapsed onto the mattress.
Which explains why my mouth tastes like bird crap. I say that with conviction because a pigeon shit on my face once, and a drop of it accidentally rolled into my mouth. I’m squeamish at the mere reminder of it. Of course, the cause of the nausea could be from the excessive drinking last night, but the memory doesn’t help.
“Seriously, Krishna,” Srishti says, pulling her blanket over her head. “If you don’t shut that damn alarm off right now, I’m going to murder you.”
I sit up with a struggle. “Thisis what you get for dragging me out of bed every morning.” Blood pulses behind my eyelids. My head throbs, a migraine setting in behind my temples. It’s my first time being hungover, and I hate it already.
I feel my way along the side table for my phone, which died on the way back from Rajeev bhaiya’s house. Luckily, the first thing I did when we got home was plug it in.
I find it and swipe the screen, turning off the alarm. Then I push my hair away from my face, running sticky fingers through the strands to get the knots out. I need to freshen up before I tip over. I have a shit ton of packing left to do, because, as always, I procrastinated until the very last day, with less than twenty-four hours left before my flight.
But first: water.
I grab the bottle propped on the side table, filled three-quarters of the way, and tip the entire thing down my throat. It goes down like honey, sweet and viscous, and when I’ve emptied the bottle, I wipe at the rivulets running down the sides of my mouth, wetting the front of my tee.
Burning with envy of my cousins, who can sleep until whenever they want because they’ll all be traveling back to their homes here in Mumbai—not to anothercountry—I head into the guest bedroom with its big oak cupboards. There’s designated shelf space here for all of us.
I reach for a comfortable yellow chikankari kurti, torn jeans, a towel, and a toothbrush and drag myself to the bathroom. A hot shower is the only thing that’ll wake me the fuck up right now.
Fifteen minutes later, I step out, a towel wound around my hair. Nani’s the only one up—I hear her softly singing “Kuhu Kuhu Bole Koyaliya”by Lata Mangeshkar in the kitchen—so I shut the guest room door to get ready and pack in peace.
I blow-dry my straight, wet hair and run a fine-toothed comb through it, making it cascade down to my shoulders. Hair maintenance has been effortless since I got a keratin treatment this summer; the procedure is so much cheaper here. I do my skin-care routine, clip on a pair of artificial-gold jhumkas, and lean back to check myself in the mirror.
I look good.Confident.I look like a senior who was valedictorian in high school and got into one of the best undergraduate universities in the world. Both were a result of all the hard work I put into studying. All the weekends I spent attending science camps. All the hours I slogged volunteering at hospitals and health care centers.
But perseverance is a cage of sorts. My only respites have been my annual vacations to India, which is why I insisted on coming here one last time before moving to Baltimore, to live out my dreams of the summer before college everyone talks about. I promised myself I’d let go this time, becauseIwanted to be the one with exciting stories to tell my friends back in Maine for once.
Alas.
