Chapter 2
Mornings Are the Bane of My Existence
Mumbai, Friday
I’m not a 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, yank me) 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 a Zindagi Na Milegi Dobara song.
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. “This is 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 another country—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, because I wanted to be the one with exciting stories to tell my friends back in Maine for once.
Alas.
I guess I could still tell them about my first hangover and the almost-kiss moment and fill in the gaps with generous helpings of drama and
sexual tension. Drama I have plenty of, but there won’t be much sexual tension to cram into zeroth base.
Over the next thirty minutes, I get a head start on my packing. My flight isn’t until eleven p.m., but I’ll have to leave
for the airport at least four hours early to tackle intra-Mumbai traffic and have enough time left to deal with the immigration counter. Even so, I tell myself I can afford a quick coffee break.
In the kitchen, Nani’s talking to someone on the phone while steadily stirring the daal in the kadhai. She’s wearing a simple
green cotton saree, and her hair is wrapped in a thin white towel, the end of which drapes down her back. I gently pry the
metal spoon from her to take over stirring the daal, and Nani gives me a quick, grateful kiss on the forehead in return before
heading into the prayer room adjoining the kitchen to finish her conversation.
Truthfully, much as I thought I’d hate cooking when Mummy suggested I learn from Nani, I’ve had fun preparing Indian dishes over the summer. And Nani’s such a good teacher. Way better than Mummy, who isn’t nearly as patient.
Nani’s already prepared the rest of breakfast—warm rotis in the casserole dish covered by a cloth to prevent the steam from
furling out, a delicious-smelling malai kofta sabji, and a container of steamed, soft rice. She’s even kept the curd out,
and its surface is so irresistibly jiggly I long to break through it with a spoon.
Once the daal is done, I turn the gas off. Seeing that there’s no more cooking to do, I make myself the coffee I came here
for. As usual, I add two teaspoons of sugar and half a cup of milk to the concoction, making Nani cluck her tongue as she
walks back into the kitchen, having hung up the phone.
“You want diabetes or what, baba?” she says, giving me a light smack on the shoulder.
I grin, slurping the hot drink, relishing the instant kick of caffeine. “Coffee is nothing without sugar.”
“Please don’t tell Divija that.”
“Not unless I want another lecture on the harmful long-term effects of sucrose on the body.”
Nani chuckles. “Also, I was just on the phone with your mummy, and I have some wonderful news.” A beautiful smile appears
on her wrinkly face. “Your flight got canceled because of staffing shortages since this election has kicked off a strike,
so your papa got your flight rebooked. You get to stay four more days!”
“Four more days?” Holy crap. Does that mean I don’t have to finish packing today? I nearly let out a whoop before I remember how
expensive the flight was. “They didn’t have to cover the cost, did they?”
“Don’t worry, it was either a full refund or alternative flight options with no extra charge.” Nani gives my shoulders a squeeze, and she looks so happy, I can’t help but smile. “I asked your papa to reschedule the flight for Wednesday morning just so I would get to spend more time with my babu.”
I pull Nani into a hug, inhaling her old-people-and-turmeric-soap smell. “That sounds wonderful, Nani.”
“Why don’t you see if you can get tickets for a Dilwale Dulhania Le Jayenge screening at Maratha Mandir tomorrow? I know you’ve been wanting to do a rewatch.”
“Gosh, yes, I’d love that!” I exclaim, pecking Nani on her cheek.
I leave the kitchen, relief wringing my shoulders loose. But I can’t help but feel a little disappointed as I pause in the
living room, lips pursed, watching my sleeping cousins. It’s great that I’m getting to stay a few more days and will have
time to unwind and relax, but it isn’t going to be as fun without them around.
Yes, there’s the DDLJ rewatch to look forward to, and I do love spending time with Nani, but I’ve been pumped with adrenaline these past few days
building up to my flight, and this feels like a damp squib of sorts.
Amrit’s already in Goa for the wedding, and my cousins are leaving later today, because everyone’s schedule was planned around
mine. Which means I’m going to be stuck with Priti, who moved in with Nani when she joined V. G. Vaze college to complete her
eleventh and twelfth grades (in Maharashtra, as opposed to the other states, the junior and senior years are coupled together
and called junior college). Mausi and Mausaji live in Colaba, which is too far for Priti to commute from every day.
Local trains in Mumbai do make it easier to go from one district to another, but Priti wanted to stay away from home for a bit, and closer to Rudra, I assumed when I first found out she was moving.
It works for her, because Nani’s super chill—her only strict rule being that Priti return home by midnight unless she absolutely must be in college for design club–related work.
I collapse onto the futon next to Srishti, further vexed because I’m not even sleepy anymore. At least my phone’s fully charged;
I haven’t had a chance to check it since I woke up. I scan my notifications, finding missed calls from Papa, who probably
wanted to tell me about the flight cancellation, and loads of messages from my friends wishing me a safe trip. I vacantly
scroll through them until my eye catches on one particular notification.
A text from Amrit.
The million Krishnas in my brain start screeching again: Holy shit holy shit holy shit!
I sit up, my body shaking with excitement, fingers trembling as I click on our chat. There are two new messages, typed in
reply to the one I sent right before my phone ran out of charge last night.
@notkrishnakumar
Going to miss you, idiot ??
@amrit_ka_achar
Dw, I’ll see you on your next trip.
Still owe you a kiss ??