Chapter 5
I Have the Most Basic Indian Bitch Name Ever
Mumbai, Friday
The three of us decided to meet up at R Galleria since it has a bunch of eateries alongside the salons and shops. Surprisingly,
it doesn’t take much time for Priti and me to pick a place to eat while we wait for Rudra: Chaayos, a popular chai café chain
with cozy interiors and passable tea.
We need caffeine because we intend to stay up even though Rudra’s going to be driving. I read somewhere that the likelihood of an
accident reduces when all the passengers in the car are awake.
Rudra’s a good driver—he drove us to Juhu Beach once—so I’m not really worried about that. It’s more of the whole driving-after-sundown
thing. Plus, Priti said the Mumbai–Pune expressway is smooth, winding, and monotonous, all of which only exacerbate the possibility
of an accident.
And I intend to die after I’ve appended a Dr. to my name. I’m not leaving a measly Krishna Kumar; do you know how many Krishna Kumars you’ll find if you search my name on Google? Hundreds.
(Okay, fine, I did a search once and there are lots of Dr. Krishna Kumars as well, but that’s not the point.)
We find ourselves a table by the entrance, under a poster that says Stories Are Best Served with Chai. I wait with our luggage while Priti heads to the counter to place our order: pav bhaji and adrak chai for me, and an anda
bun and filter coffee for her.
Once we have our food in front of us, Priti doesn’t bother to make conversation and instead scrolls through her Instagram
feed, so I occupy myself with my chai.
I sigh as the taste of the ginger and masala immediately kicks awake my tired senses. The pav bhaji is spicy, so that helps
as well. I barely got any sleep last night, and I’ve been busy packing and then unpacking to separate some stuff for the road
trip all afternoon.
Without looking up from her phone, Priti asks, “Have you texted Amrit again, by the way?”
I turn to her. She’s looking at me with her eyes narrowed. “No, why?”
“Just checking.”
“I don’t want to distract him from the wedding. Besides, how am I supposed to tell him I’m headed there to meet him? It’s
meant to be a surprise.”
Until now, I was convinced that putting off messaging Amrit was the right thing to do, but I can’t help the frisson of anxiety
that erupts in my gut. Should I be texting him? Should I have texted him already? Will my unresponsiveness make him think I’m not interested in him anymore? Or will texting him make me appear too eager?
Oh god, is this going to ruin—
The glass doors at the entrance swing open, breaking me out of my thoughts, and Rudra walks in.
Unlike usual, he’s pulled his hair into a half ponytail, a few strands drifting down the sides of his face as the AC blasts down on him.
He’s wearing a cream button-down shirt and baggy olive-green chinos and is carrying a guitar case and laptop bag.
Rudra pulls up a chair from the table next to ours and sits between Priti and me. The table’s small and our knees touch briefly,
and I shift backward self-consciously. His eyes lock with mine, just for a second, and although he looks away just as quickly
as I do, my heart races.
I’m always awkward around new people. I know Rudra’s far from new, but I’ve never been this close to him before. The fact
that he looks kinda-sorta good (okay, very good) right now doesn’t help in the least.
Knees at an appropriate distance, Rudra frowns at the luggage on the floor beside me. “How many bags have you both got?”
“Laptop bag, duffel bag, handbag,” Priti says.
“Laptop bag, suitcase, fanny pack,” I say.
“We’re going for, like, three days,” Rudra says. “Why do you need so much stuff?”
Priti sighs. “You do know that your enormous guitar bag is going to occupy more space than my and Krishna’s luggage combined,
though, right?”
I peek at the label inscribed on the bag. “Wait, is that a Taylor acoustic?”
Rudra’s eyes go wide. “Uh, yeah.”
“Do you know how expensive—” I pause. “Of course you do.”
“You’re familiar with guitars?”
“My dad plays, and I used to play keyboard. I’ve always liked to sing, so it’s nice to learn an accompaniment instrument.
I’m just okay, though. Not an expert or anything.”
“You’re pretty decent,” Priti says.
I turn to her in surprise. “You’ve heard me sing?”
“I watched your covers on Instagram.” Priti flaps her hand, looking embarrassed. “Don’t look so surprised—we follow each other.”
“Do you have any guitar covers up online?” I ask Rudra.
“A couple,” Rudra says, his eyes falling to the table.
Priti blows a raspberry. “A couple? Quit acting modest. You got into Juilliard, for fuck’s sake.” She starts typing into her phone. “He has loads of covers
up. Plenty of originals, instrumentals with his guitar, ukulele, keyboard, cajon, some new instrument he picked up a few months
ago—”
“Kalimba.”
“—yeah, that, and then he has his beats up for sale on BeatStars and some stuff on SoundCloud. Not to mention”—Priti turns
her phone toward me—“one hundred and forty thousand followers on Instagram.”
I take the phone from her, my eyes nearly popping out of their sockets as I scroll through his page. A couple was an understatement. And all his reels have six-figure views. Some have even crossed a million.
“You could do with a new handle, though,” Priti says to Rudra. “@rudradesaimusic is bleh.”
“It’s easy to find,” Rudra protests.
“There’s a million Rudra Desais on Instagram. Your name is the John Smith of brown dudes.”
“My name is not that common.”
“I can prove it to you right now. Watch.” Priti twists to the side, cupping her mouth in an O with her palms, and yells, “ANY
RUDRA DESAIS IN HERE?”
“Jesus.” Rudra cringes.
“I don’t know you,” I say, ducking.
Everyone in the café turns in Priti’s direction, shooting her surprised glances. Priti, being Priti, yells again, “I ASKED, ANY RUDRA DESAIS IN HERE?”
Pin-drop silence.
Priti drops her hands. “Fine.” She sticks her tongue out at Rudra. “You win.”
“I wasn’t competing.”
I go back to scrolling through his page. I notice he hasn’t shown his face in a single post. He either has his camera angled
below the neck or he’s turned away from it, hood up. He probably doesn’t like being perceived. But he makes sure to use aesthetic
setups—like blue fairy lights, cloudy Mumbai skies, and clear mugs of black coffee—and high-end production equipment.
“You have a nice mysterious-guy-in-a-hoodie mood to your page,” I say, handing Priti back her phone.
Priti snorts. “That’s one way to put it. If only he’d show his face so he doesn’t look like Joe Goldberg the guitarist.”
“I don’t like to draw attention away from the music,” Rudra says, shrugging.
“A little attention to your dashing face might get you even more followers.” Priti pulls at his cheek as she gets to her feet.
“I’m going to pee. Be right back.”
As Priti heads to the bathroom, Rudra watches her go with an unreadable expression on his face. And it hits me then that I . . .
know that look. Very well.
That’s the look I gave Amrit all summer. The trying-really-hard-to-suppress-my-yearning-but-failing-miserably look.
Oh god.
Rudra definitely likes Priti.
I mean, all of us cousins suspected they were screwing because they’re so attached at the hip all the time. So even if they
aren’t screwing now, who’s to say they don’t want to? Neither of them denied my assumptions earlier either. Priti’s flirting is playful, but
she’s probably using it to mask her real feelings. And by the looks of it, Rudra’s in deep. And hard.
Very dirty, Krishna.
I take the last bite of my pav bhaji as an awkward silence settles between us. Rudra clears his throat and stands. “I’m going
to get myself some coffee.”
I nod as he pushes his chair back and walks to the counter.
Priti is still not back by the time Rudra returns with a cup of black coffee. How pretentious. If you ask me, black coffee
drinkers don’t actually like the taste of the concoction. I had a sip once and spit it right out.
As Rudra sits, I get a trace of his cologne—sharp enough that I know it’s not his soap, subtle enough that I know it’s not
his deodorant. The heavenly apricot scent suddenly stands out because it’s just him and . . . Gross, why am I thinking of
Rudra’s cologne?
I text Srishti, cringing at myself.
@notkrishnakumar
I despise you
Her reply comes instantly.
@srishti_without_an_h
omg whaddid I do
@notkrishnakumar
I’m supposed to be setting off to kiss Amrit
But bc of you I’m thinking of how Rudra smells instead
@srishti_without_an_h
i am losing it sksksk
how DOES he smell tho?
@notkrishnakumar
Really good like apricots or some shit but now I feel GUILTY
@srishti_without_an_h
why?? it’s not like you’re dating amrit.
you are single and not hooked to any ONE person
you can kiss whoever you want and you can smell whoever you want
@notkrishnakumar
But it’s Rudra
@srishti_without_an_h
so . . . ?
he’s hot and he smells good
@notkrishnakumar
Ewww and no . . . he likes Priti, bro. He’s like down bad.
@srishti_without_an_h
ok fine im changing the topic
did you text amrit back?
@notkrishnakumar
No I didn’t want him to be sus
Should I??? Priti asked me the same thing.
@srishti_without_an_h
ngl it’s going to be weirder if you show up after ghosting him
but text him or don’t, you always have Rudra ??
@notkrishnakumar
You’re right (except for the Rudra bit)
Okay I’ll text him.
@srishti_without_an_h
lmk what he says
I lock my phone and set it aside, sighing, and spot Priti walking back to our table from the corner of my eye.
“Let’s get going, kids,” she says. She’s so weirdly cheerful and chatty around Rudra—it’s going to take getting used to. “We’re
already late.”
After we gather our things, we head out of the café and down the stairs to where Rudra’s car is parked by the side of the
road. He opens the trunk and loads our things in. Priti mock swoons at me as we stand behind him, and I roll my eyes.
A few hours more of this and I’m going to barf.
“All right.” Rudra shuts the trunk. “Who’s navigating?” Earlier, we decided Priti and I would take turns navigating even though
Rudra’s car has GPS because it would make sure at least one of us stayed awake with him if the caffeine didn’t work its wonders.
“Krishna, you go first,” Priti says. “I’m shit at directions anyway.”
“Okay,” I say. If I navigate, I can also control the music, so it’s a win-win.
“You can sit in the passenger seat, up front with me, then,” Rudra says.
“Cool.”
We get into the car, and Priti stretches like a cat in the back, splaying herself out across the length of the seat. I open the map on my phone. “Straight to Pune, right?”
“Yep, I’ve booked us an OYO there,” Priti says, her shoes off and bare feet resting on the ledge of the window.
“What’s the address?”
“Give me that.”
As Priti types, Rudra starts the car. He turns to me, gesturing with his eyes to the seat belt. “You should put on your seat
belt.”
“Oh, right.” I pull the strap down. “Where’s the buckle?”
“One sec,” Rudra says, unbuckling himself. He leans toward me, and I get another whiff of his cologne. His fingers are long
and slim, I notice as he tucks them under the seat cover to retrieve the missing buckle. He has a true pianist’s hands, the
way my tutor used to say—unlike my tiny ones with their nail-bitten fingers.
I become hyperaware of our proximity as he gets the buckle out and reaches around me for the strap. We both fumble with it
for a few seconds before getting it into the buckle. I get a close-up view of his face: clean-shaven, smelling like a hint
of aftershave, and dotted with a light sprinkling of acne scars. His eyebrows are really thick, and I’m filled with the sudden
desire to—
“Here,” Priti says, and thrusts my phone between us.
I blink and stutter my thanks as I take the phone from her.
Rudra moves away, his face taking on a distant expression again, and while I’m struggling to tamp down these wildly ill-timed
urges, he’s already grabbed the stick and switched to first gear.
“Road trip, baby!” Priti cheers.
Rudra may be pining for his best friend, and I may be spinning over a boy who isn’t destined to be my first kiss, but at least Priti seems happy.