“I will.”
Afterward, the house is suddenly quiet. It’s just Nani, Priti, and me.
Nani gives me a kiss on my forehead and heads to her bedroom for her afternoon nap—which I know is just Nani code for bingeing episodes ofMahabharat. I sigh, standing alone in the middle of the living room, which, just a few hours ago, was packed with people.
IfIfeel this void in my heart, then how must Nani feel when we come over, only to leave all at once?
Having Priti at home doesn’t make much of a difference, because she’s either not here or penned in her room. It’s like not having her home at all.
To add to it, the road trip idea seems more impossible than ever, and the day is already doomed to crawl by with no one to spend time with.
I think I know just what I need to do.
I head to the kitchen, open the cabinet, and pull out a big packet of Parle-G biscuits, which has multiple smaller packets within. I quickly whip up enough cake batter for two mugs using crushed biscuits, baking powder, milk, and vanilla essence. I put them in the microwave to bake as a plan solidifies in my brain.
There’s whipped cream left over in the refrigerator from when we had a bake-a-thon the day before yesterday. I pipe it onto the mug cakes, grate some compound chocolate on top so it decorates the cream in tiny flakes, and dig two dessert spoons into the crusts.
Then, armed with my bribe, I make my way to Priti’s bedroom. It’s in the corner of the house, tucked away conveniently, making it easy for the rest of us to forget her sometimes. I hesitate for a few seconds outside her door, knowing now’s the time to back out if I want to.
But what have I got to lose, truly?
My ego, yes, but it’s worth it.
Making up my mind, I rap my knuckles on the wood, then wait. My feet nervously tap the floor, and I consider sprinting away every few seconds before assuring myself I need to stay put.
It takes a whole minute until I hear Priti push her rolling chair back and stand up on the other side.
The door creaks open a few moments later. Priti pokes her head out and stares down at me, as if I’m an alien creature that has dropped from the moon. Her eyes fall to the mug cakes clutched in my hands, filling with suspicion, like she thinks I’m here to poison her or something.
I paste on a smile that I hope saysI come in peace, and it works.
The door swings open fully, and she stands there in her loose black death metal tee and boxers, hair tousled. “What?” she demands, blocking the door with her tall frame, preventing all means of unsolicited entry.
I glance inside her room, ask myself again if I’m a fucking idiot for doing this, and blurt, “Can I talk to you?”
Priti cocks one perfectly threaded dark eyebrow. It’s fascinating to me how people do that. I’ve tried, but I can never seem to raise a single eyebrow. Both, yes, but I resemble a surprised goose when I do that.
“Talk,” she says.
“I meant—inside your room.” I raise the mugs to her, and for a second, I see her falter, because who wouldn’t? The cakes look delicious. I made sure they would.
Her nostrils flare like a bull’s, and with a grunt of irritation, she moves aside, motioning me in. I breathe a sigh of relief but very quickly discard the feeling. I’m walking into a lion’s den, after all. The real challenge lies ahead.
Her room’s an extension of her mien, always has been. Deep-purple fairy lights and black pennants—each with one of the twelve zodiac signs painted on it in silvery white—decorate the walls. The bedding is black, and the cushions are purple. At the moment, the black velvet curtains are pulled open to let the light in, but at night, this place looks like a sanctum where one might perform séances to summon demons and ghosts. And given how shady and secretive Priti is, I wouldn’t be surprised if she were secretly a witch and conducting sacrificial killings here every night.
I can only hope I haven’t walked right into the next one.
Obviously, she doesn’t offer me a seat, so I start walking toward her study table. But then she snaps, “Don’t sit there! You’ll get cream on my sketches!” and I decide to go with the edge of the bed instead.
Priti’s an aspiring National Institute of Fashion Technology student. Her artwork is gorgeous, and I’ve seen the way she moves her pencil across her paper, as if her mind’s been possessed until she manages to breathe life into whatever pops into her imagination. She’s good at what she does.Reallygood.
But I won’t tell her that.
I catch a glimpse of what she’s working on: charcoal sketches of svelte women (much like her) in clothes she’s designed herself. But before I have a chance to properly look, she haphazardly stuffs the papers into a folder and slams it shut. She sits by the headboard, arms crossed over her chest, staring at me.
It suddenly hits me that I’m supposed to talk.
But before that, a treat for the lion.
