Chapter 8
Is a Road Trip Even Complete Without Two People Fighting for the Good Seat?
Mumbai, Friday
Rudra and I find Priti seated at a table near a chaat shop, an empty paper plate and half-full (or half-empty, if you’re a
pessimist) cup of lemon tea in front of her.
We join her, and she eyes us with a dirty look on her face that is drifting between annoyance—which isn’t new—and curiosity.
There are a few bhel morsels scattered across the plate, so I gather she probably had a chaat. Maharashtra’s chaats are truly
unbeatable.
“Where the hell were you guys?” Priti demands.
“The book fair,” Rudra says, reaching for her cup of tea and taking a sip.
“The book fair?” Priti looks even more suspicious now. “You?”
“He came with me,” I say. “It was dark upstairs, so he thought it’d be better if we went together.”
She snatches her cup back from Rudra. If I’m not mistaken, she looks slightly . . . jealous. “You two were supposed to be here five minutes ago.”
“Actually, we’re just on time,” Rudra says, glancing at his Titan watch. It beeps on cue, and he turns it off. “See?”
“What are we waiting around here for, then?” Priti gets to her feet. “Let’s go.”
As Priti marches away, Rudra’s and my eyes meet, and we exchange a knowing glance, which is so new to me, because Rudra’s
not someone I would look at like we’re sharing a secret. But since he doesn’t know why Priti’s so eager to get to Goa either,
that’s one thing we have in common.
The sight of Priti opening the door to the back seat of the car breaks me right out of my thoughts. Before I know it, I’m
racing across the food mall to her, past Rudra, who jumps out of my way in surprise.
“You’re supposed to be navigating!” I grab the door and slam it shut before Priti can get in.
Priti snatches her hand away just in time. “What the fuck, Krishna? You nearly broke my fingers!”
“The back seat’s mine.”
“Says who?”
“Says the owner of this car.” I point to Rudra, who walks up, sighing.
Priti tries to wrench the door handle out of my grip, but I stay put, matching her glare with my own. I’m acting like a ten-year-old,
but I’m not giving up the back seat privileges without a fight. Especially not after how she spoke to me at the petrol pump.
“Get out of my way, Krishna,” Priti says, fisting her hands by her sides. “Before I hit you.”
“No.”
“Ruds!”
Rudra pauses on his way into the driver’s seat. “What?” He thought he was being real smooth sneaking into the car. It’s laughable.
“Tell her it’s her turn to navigate.”
“I’m not getting into this.”
“Then why did you get involved earlier, bitch?”
“Because you were the one being a bitch.”
Priti uses her shoulder to try to butt me out of the way, but I stay put, tightening my grip on the handle. She stamps her
foot in frustration. “This isn’t fair! I already did my turn.”
“Fine,” I say. “You want the back seat?”
“Yes,” she says through her teeth.
I lift my chin. “Then apologize to me.”
“Apologize to you for what?”
“For what you said earlier.”
Priti crosses her arms over her chest. “I’m not apologizing for that.”
“Great. The back seat’s mine, then.”
Priti glares at me for a whole minute before Rudra sighs, speaking up, “Just apologize to her, Priti.”
“I thought you weren’t getting into this?”
Rudra raises his hands defensively. “I just want to be on my way again.”
I expect Priti to take the front seat just so she can avoid apologizing to me, and I prepare myself for the mix of glee at
retaining my back seat privileges and feeling terrible that Priti doesn’t even know how much she hurt me, or maybe she does know but doesn’t give a—
“I’m sorry.”
“What?” I say, dumbfounded.
“I said I’m sorry.” Priti drops her hands, resigned.
I’m so shocked I think I temporarily paralyze myself.
“I crossed a line earlier,” she says, and I’m not dreaming it up—she sounds genuine about it. “That bit about the Desi identity thing especially. I’m sorry, okay?”
When I can finally get my feet to move, I mumble, “Okay,” and step aside.
Priti doesn’t mutter anything when she gets into the car, not like I expect her to.
I’m still reeling from her apology when we’re back on the highway. I did demand it in exchange for something else, but I guess
Priti has a heart after all.
Cruising along the expressway at this time of the night is a cinematic experience. I lean my head against the window, my warm
breath fogging the glass, soaking up the view outside.
We’re moving at a speed of over a hundred kilometers per hour, which might be fun for the passengers but can get quite monotonous
for the driver, so I keep glancing at Rudra to make sure he isn’t dozing off. But he remains alert, hands steady on the steering
wheel, body relaxed in his seat.
When the first tunnel comes, I roll my window down and stick my head halfway out, relishing the bite of the cool night air.
The lights lining either side of the tunnel flash by, blurring together into a single gold strip. The wind is so strong my
hair nearly comes undone from my butterfly clip, and I crow, “Woo-hoo!” with joy. I grin as my voice boomerangs back to me.
We emerge on the other side and I close the window, pushing my hair out of my face.
I glance in Rudra’s direction, half expecting to find him annoyed by my rowdiness, but I’m beyond surprised to find him smiling instead.
It’s nothing like Amrit’s full-on, toothy smile, but the corners of Rudra’s mouth are hiked up in amusement.
It’s nice to see Rudra smile, because he looks ridiculously cute.
He has these small dimples below his lips, and I wonder how I didn’t notice them before . . .
Hold up.
Shit.
Am I so boy-deprived that I’m finding Rudra increasingly cute with every passing moment? It’s not like it’s been days since I last saw Amrit. It’s been less than twenty-four hours.
I need to see a doctor. There has to be some sort of treatment for extreme horniness.
“There’s a sunroof in this car, by the way,” Rudra says, taking a long, winding turn. “You can use it. At the next tunnel.”
“Seriously?”
“Of course. It’s coming up in a bit.”
Half an hour later, I unbuckle myself from the seat as Rudra presses the button to open the sunroof. There’s a hissing noise
and a low hum as the panel above slides open, fast-moving air gushing in. Priti sits up, startled, taking out her earbud as
I wriggle between the seats to the back.
She frowns. “What are you doing?”
“Using the sunroof.”
Priti shuffles to the side as I slip through the gap. My shoes are already off, and I unclip my hair, letting it flow loose.
I climb onto the seat, gripping the edges of the panel, and hoist myself up.
“Careful,” Priti says. “There’s a tunnel coming. Don’t let it lop your head off.”
I’m surprised at her worry about my head remaining attached to my person—but I suppose decapitation is a fair concern even
for your least favorite cousin.
The wind hits me sharply as I stick my head out, knocking the breath out of me for a moment. I push myself up until I’m standing at full height on the seat and waist-high out the sunroof.
“Holy mother—” I yell, voice cutting off abruptly as we enter the tunnel.
The people in the cars overtaking ours stare at me as they pass. I throw my hands up, my hair flying in a sheet behind me.
My voice bounces off the curving walls of the tunnel, amplified as it ricochets back toward me. This feels incredible.
There’s a tug on the hem of my kurti. I look down. I’m surprised to find Priti squatting on the seat and pushing herself up.
“Scoot,” she says, shimmying her lithe body through the gap to stand beside me. Because she’s taller, her torso’s almost all
the way out. I grin as her hair blows back, bangs parting and exposing her forehead.
Priti catches me looking and holds her bangs in place with her hand, covering the forehead she’s been self-conscious about
since she was six. “Don’t look!” she has to yell for me to hear her over the soaring wind.
“Can you not? Everyone loves your face!” I yell back, and she rolls her eyes, but a hint of a smile pulls at her lips as she
lets her hair fly back once more.
“This is amazing!” Priti howls, her hands cupping her mouth.
I join her, and we bay like twin wolves until the end of the tunnel, cramped close together in this small space. We leave
the lights behind, rushing out the other side, and the expansive, open sky fills my vision again.
“The stars look so beautiful,” I effuse, craning my neck upward.
The trees and hills fringe my vision, scraping the horizon, and it feels like we’re driving through a huge dome.
It’s in moments like these I wonder how people before Aristotle ever believed the Earth could be flat.
How people still believe the Earth is flat.
There’s one more tunnel on the expressway, and then Rudra has to inform us, “That was the last one,” for us to finally settle
down.
My eyes are so dry I have to keep them closed for long intervals. Priti’s wavy hair stands up in a frizzy halo around her
face, as if she’s been cupping a Van de Graaff generator, and she looks ridiculous. I burst into laughter.
But there’s no bitter clapback or heated glare. Not like usual. In fact, she laughs too, acting more like the Priti she used
to be before I moved.
More like the Priti who used to be my best friend.