Chapter 4 #2
“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, some people 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, because hard 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 finally breathe.
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’t live here.
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 a zombie—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 says Desai in English and Gujarati.
Priti rings the touchscreen doorbell and shoves her face in front of the camera lens. “Open up, asshole!”
“Priti!” I gasp. “What if his parents are in there?”
“They’re not. It’s before five, so they’re at work. Besides, they’ve known me forever.”
I glance at her sideways, pushing my hair behind my ears. I suddenly feel self-conscious, because this is probably the first
time Rudra and I will have a proper conversation. Face-to-face. In his fancy house.
“Open up,” Priti mutters, ringing the doorbell again. She is unusually impatient for someone who is not prepping to crash a wedding DDLJ-style and slay her first kiss.
Speaking of . . .
“Hey, Priti, can I ask you something?” I say hesitantly. Now that I’m going to have to spend the next couple of days cramped
in a car with her and Rudra, I should probably get some things cleared so I don’t . . . ahem, walk in on something. What if
I, like, went for a pee break and came back to find them making out in the car? It doesn’t even have tinted windows!
“Just because we’re both here doesn’t mean we have to force a conversation, you know?” Priti says, narrowing her eyes at me. I start to regret saying anything at all, because what else could I have expected from her other than an icy shutdown?
But my curiosity gets the better of me. “It’s about you. And, erm, Rudra.”
“Not you too.” Priti groans.
I raise my hands in defense. “Don’t Et tu, Brute? me. It certainly looks like it.”
“Looks like what?”
“Like you’re screwing.”
The inner door opens with a beep, and Rudra appears on the other side. Priti guffaws as he looks at us both through the grille,
eyes widening briefly. Something clicks, and the second door opens outward, revealing him in a half-sleeved blue T-shirt and
shorts. His hair is loose and looks surprisingly silky, tips waving by his chin and along his temples.
“Why’re you laughing?” Rudra says, and flicks his gaze to me as if to say And what the hell is she doing here?
“Krishna thinks we’re screwing.” Priti shoves past him and into the house. She takes off her black boots on her way in. There’s
a shoe shelf right next to the door, as is the case in most Asian households.
“You came all the way here to tell me that?” Rudra walks in after her.
Realizing there’s a high possibility they’ve left me stranded outside, I dart in, pulling the outer door shut behind me and
slipping off my shoes. The inner door shuts on its own, and there’s another beep and a click, the lock activated.
“No, I came here to have sex with you,” Priti says, blowing Rudra a kiss before flopping onto one of the recliners angled
toward the massive home-theater system.
“Okay . . .” Rudra seats himself on the long sofa.
His apartment isn’t an apartment; it’s a penthouse. It’s massive, with floor-to-ceiling glass windows and sliding doors offering a panoramic view of Mumbai. The wallpaper has
a sandpaper texture—which I’m assuming is just an illusion because of the contouring—and a burgundy backdrop with detailed
Warli art painted on it in off-white. Everything from the furniture to the carpeting, partitions, and flooring has been designed
in a palette of browns and beiges, complementing the murals well. It’s classy, exquisite, and clearly expensive.
“Don’t be shy, Krishna.” Priti tilts her head to look at me. “Rudra’s my sugar daddy. Come sit.”
I make a beeline for the recliner next to Priti’s, dodging the cream living room rug because Mummy would kill me for getting
my dirty feet on it (she’s not here, but her indoctrination is deep). The recliner dips below me as if it’s about to swallow
me whole, and I very nearly moan as I sink into it.
“What took you so long to open the door?” Priti directs the question at Rudra, pressing a button on the side of the recliner
to push it back farther so she’s at a one-hundred-and-twenty-degree angle.
“I had my headphones on.” Rudra glances at me again. When Priti doesn’t lead the conversation forward, I decide I better start
breaking the ice with the two of them or I’m going to have a very, very awkward couple of days.
“So—” I bite my lip. “Are you?”
“Screwing?” Priti says, putting her hand to her head dramatically. “Obviously.”
I can’t tell if she’s being serious or sarcastic, but there’s no point in prodding further if she doesn’t want to disclose the status of their relationship.
Rudra isn’t being particularly helpful either, because he doesn’t say anything to rebuke or affirm what Priti’s saying.
Instead, he clears his throat and asks, “So, uh, why are you both here, exactly?”
Priti grins. “We’re going on a road trip, so we need your car. And you, but only because you won’t let me drive.”
“Road trip? To where?”
“Goa.”
“Taking the bus or train might be easier.”
“But we’d be saving money if you drove us there. Plus, it’d be safer if you came along.”
Rudra leans forward with his elbows resting on his lap. “Why exactly do you want to go to Goa?”
It’s a fair question and one that Priti doesn’t have an answer for, not really. It’s weird enough that she was surprisingly
easy to convince in the first place, but the way I don’t have even an inkling of what her ulterior motive might be is altogether
super sus. Before I can dig into that thought, though, Priti turns to look at me. “Are you going to say something?”
Rudra turns his gaze toward me, and I find myself tongue-tied. The old apprehension and embarrassment at revealing why comes back. Earlier, I almost backed out because I didn’t want to give Priti another reason to mock me. It seems silly trying
to make such a big deal out of a first kiss. But it’s important . . . to me, at least.
“I have to go to a wedding,” I say, straightening up. “The one Amrit Acharya’s attending.”
I school my features to look secure in my decision, because unless I’m one hundred percent convinced about chasing this wild
fantasy, I can’t convince Rudra.
“It’s Friday today. The mehndi’s tomorrow, sangeet day after, and the shaadi and reception are on Monday. I have to reach Goa before then.”
“Tell him why you want to go,” Priti prods.
I take a deep breath, look Rudra square in the eyes, and blurt it out. “I want to kiss him.”
Rudra blinks. “What?”
“You heard her,” Priti says. “She wants to kiss the Acharya dude. He apparently sent her a text this morning—”
“Not apparently,” I interject. “Actually.”
“Whatever. He promised her a smooch and Krishna wants to go do that.”
“Wait a second.” Rudra holds a hand up. “You want to go all the way to Goa for a kiss? Why not just wait for him to come back
and then kiss him? Not exactly the fastest, but it’s less tedious.”
“You literally attended my going-away party last night,” I say, scoffing. “You know I was supposed to leave today.”
“But you didn’t because . . . you want to kiss Amrit?”
“No.” Ohmygod. Rudra Desai sure asks a lot of questions for someone who’s hardly spoken to me before. “My flight got canceled because of
some staffing shortages. My parents rescheduled it to Wednesday, which is why I’m in a hurry. And Amrit doesn’t come back
until next weekend, so I can’t wait around for him.”
Priti already has the map—where we saved the route details earlier—open on her phone. “The plan’s to leave this evening, stay
over in Pune tonight, leave early morning tomorrow, drive to Goa nonstop, stay overnight there, and intercept the sangeet
on Sunday. Krishna fucks Amrit; we leave Monday and get back that night or Tuesday morning, tops.”
“I’m not going to fuck Amrit,” I say hotly.
“You’re certainly not going to be just kissing him and hopping back into the car right after.”
“And you both just expect me to drive you there and back?” Rudra cocks his eyebrows.
“Yes,” Priti and I say in unison.
“No.”
Priti jams her thumb into the button at the recliner’s side and it pops upright, straightening her with it. “Why not, asshole?”
“I have work to do. You know I have to complete my final internship module before leaving for Juilliard.”
“It’s just a few days, Ruds!”
“Wait a second,” I say, frowning. “Juilliard? As in, the Juilliard?”
“Yeah,” Rudra says, almost shy.
“I didn’t know you were going to New York,” I say dumbly, because I make it sound like I should’ve known that when I know
nothing about Rudra at all. “I mean, Priti didn’t tell me. But you have an acceptance already?”
“Yeah.” Rudra shrugs. “I’ve had it for months. I’m moving in August.”
“Wow. Juilliard. You must be really good.”
“He is, but that’s not the point,” Priti says. “Ruds, you can do your work on the way. In fact, you could work the whole time
if you’d just let me drive.”
“That’s not happening,” Rudra says.
Priti glares at him, and I mentally give up. I couldn’t have expected it to go any other way. Because besides this being the
Wildest IdeaTM, it also involves Rudra, who doesn’t owe me anything. No one would be willing to drive someone they hardly know to another
city just so they can fulfill some silly fantasy.
Then why am I so disappointed?
“You know we’re going to split the petrol prices, stay, tolls, et cetera.” Priti is still arguing. “I don’t expect you to
pay for everything just because you can afford it. I can—”
“Priti,” I interrupt. “Leave it. It’s not that big of a deal.” I sigh, turning to Rudra. “I’m sorry we looped you into this
stupid plan.”
Rudra looks at me for three whole seconds before letting out a breath. “Fine, look. Maybe—if you do something for me, I’ll
drive you there and back.”
“Oh-kay?” What the hell can I do for him?
“There are some care packages I was going to take for my family in the States, along with my luggage. But if you could take
them for me when you get on that flight this Wednesday, that would leave me more space for my actual belongings.”
“You mean some of the recording equipment you were planning to leave behind?” Priti asks.
“Yeah. The problem’s not really the extra charge. I just don’t want to lug around too much on my first trip there.”
I debate the proposition in my head. “That’s doable, I guess. How much do they weigh?”
“Five kilos.”
I do the math, converting from metric to imperial system. “Um, that would be around eleven pounds?” Eleven pounds would mean
precious luggage space removed from the fifty-pound weight limit for my flight. Ugh.
Can I afford to leave some stuff behind?
Do I really want this that much?
Is it worth the effort?
I shut my eyes tight, the questions swirling through my brain. It’s honestly the least I can do for Rudra, considering he’s going to be sacrificing internship time to drive us. If I were in his place, I probably wouldn’t be so willing to help out.
I can afford to leave some stuff behind.
I do want it that much.
And yes, it is worth the effort, especially when so little is being asked in return.
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll take your care packages for you.”
Priti whoops, which is something I haven’t seen her do before. Not in a decade, at least.
I guess we’re going, then.