Chapter 3 #2
If I feel 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 says I 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. Really good.
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.
I hold out a mug to her. She pauses for a second, then leans over and snatches the other one from me. Damn, she really must
think I might’ve poisoned her or something, because she doesn’t take a bite until I do.
I gulp the bit of cake down, the Parle-G taste melting on my tongue, and veer straight to the point. “So you know Amrit Acharya, right?”
Priti sneers. “Of course I know Amrit. You’ve been making eyes at him all summer and won’t shut up about how much he reminds
you of Ishaan Khatter.”
I have half a mind to snap at her, but I’m here to ask (correction: beg) her for a favor, and snapping wouldn’t be the best
note to start on. I swallow the irritation and speak again. “He’s in Goa for his cousin’s wedding right now. And he just sent
me a text saying he wants to . . . kiss me.”
Priti fixes me with a stare, a momentary flash of dubiety passing over her face, gone as quickly as it comes. I’m filled with
so much embarrassment, my face turns hot. Her voice is low, a monotone, when she speaks. “And . . . why should I care?”
“Because I want to go to Goa. To kiss him. Back.” I take another bite of my cake and speak through the mouthful. “And I was
hoping you’d come along with me. Nani won’t let me go off on my own, and I haven’t exactly told my parents I’m going, because
obviously they wouldn’t give me the permission to kiss a guy, let alone travel across cities to kiss said guy. But because
you have your college fests as an excuse to stay out, I thought it might help in tamping down any suspicions.”
Priti doesn’t respond but continues taking bites of cake out of the mug, staring at me with that same dark gaze, barely even
blinking. I take that as my cue to continue speaking.
“Anyway, um”—I fumble for my phone and open my Notes app for her, where Srishti and I wrote down the travel options and fares—“I was thinking we could take a train together, as it’s the cheapest, safest option right now, and we’d be back before Tuesday. The travel fare will be on me, of course.”
I don’t want to have to pay for Priti, but I need to spread all my cards on the table before her and give her zero reasons
to reject my proposal. The only potential spoke in the wheel is her swollen ego, but there’s nothing I can do about that.
That’s a fundamental problem with her. Unless I become a doctor and revolutionize research in the field of medicine so genetic
correction becomes possible, there’s no way that can be rectified.
But to my absolute shock and stupefaction, Priti finally breaks the scary stare, sets aside her empty mug, and says, “Fine.”
“Hold up.” I can’t believe what I’m hearing. I think my ears might be buzzing. “Are you serious?”
“Yeah, whatever. I’m bored anyway. And Goa’s a nice getaway.”
Okay, I’m definitely hallucinating. Because there’s no way Priti Gaikwad, my cousin-turned-enemy-who-hates-my-guts, just agreed
to accompany me on a road trip that has nothing to do with her. Priti doesn’t do things like that. Maybe the self-imposed
isolation is finally getting to her.
“But we don’t have to go by train,” she adds. “We can ask Rudra. He can take us in his car.”
“Rudra?” I ask, baffled. “As in Rudra Desai?”
“How many Rudras do you know?” Priti says, scowling.
I gulp. “Just the one.”
Priti shrugs. “That will cut the cost entirely. And we won’t have to rush back and forth in a day. The shaadi isn’t until
Monday, so we can stop at Pune ???? ??* for the night and still reach Goa tomorrow. You can meet Acharya the day after.”
“Wait, how do you know the shaadi is on—”
“I’ll get changed.” Priti cuts me off abruptly, getting to her feet. “Then we can go to Rudra’s house and ask him if he’s in.”
I’m thrown by how fast things are moving. This is not how I expected this to turn out. Priti, so easy to convince? What the hell is happening?
“Can’t we just borrow his car?”
Priti guffaws. “His car is his baby. He won’t let his parents drive it, let alone me.”
“Why don’t you just ask him on the phone? Isn’t he, like, your best friend?”
“If you want to make sure you crack a deal with the Desais, you’ve got to go to their doorstep. They’re Gujjus, remember?”
Most Gujaratis are excellent entrepreneurs and businesspeople—every Indian knows that. The best in the business, pun intended.
Still, having to go all the way to Rudra’s house doesn’t make much sense to me. I watch Priti in amazement anyway as she goes
over to her cupboard, pulls it open, and starts rummaging through her almost all-black wardrobe.
“What are you still doing here?” Priti turns to me when she’s picked an outfit: a meshed, see-through top, a tank, jean shorts,
and fishnet stockings. All black. She’s going to bake in the heat.
“I—uh, yeah, I’ll let you change.” I get to my feet, grabbing Priti’s empty mug from her bedside table. It’s scraped clean,
as expected. My Parle-G mug cake really does work wonders.
“Go talk to Nani about our plans,” Priti says. “Tell her there’s a camping trip V. G. Vaze is organizing that I’m taking you
along for. If she hesitates, call me. I’ll get ready.”
The camping trip excuse makes perfect sense because Mummy and Mausi both studied in V. G. Vaze during their junior and senior
years, and Nani will know field trips are common during this time of summer.
I pause halfway out Priti’s door. I can’t believe I’m doing this, but I say, “I’d rather we talk to Nani together. It’ll be more convincing that way.”
Priti glares at me, her right eye twitching.
“Or not,” I add hurriedly, knowing it’s a miracle she agreed to this in the first place and the smallest possible thing might
make her change her mind. It’s us—we are experts at getting on each other’s nerves. “I’ll do it. It’s not your headache. You get ready.”
Priti comes up and holds the door as I step out. To my surprise, she nods. “It will be easier to convince Nani as a team.
Wait for me.”
With that, she slams the door in my face.