Chapter 1 #2
I flip a page in my journal while sipping my chai.
In the corner, I glue down my offer letter from the museum, the “Congratulations!” a motivating reminder that I’m lucky I have this chance—and I need to make the most of it.
I sketch an empty museum exhibit under the letter, frames yet to be filled with art.
I’ve just started filling in the sketches with my favorite watercolor pens when four things happen:
The door opens from the first-class train car, where I imagine they have beds and spa treatments.
Someone walks in.
The train jolts as it rounds a curve in the tracks, sending my things flying.
My journal falls to the floor, landing in front of a pair of very expensive shoes.
I follow the shoes upward, taking in a guy about my age—tall, with wavy black hair falling in a swoop across his forehead, full lips with a perfect Cupid’s bow, and a small, crescent-moon scar on his chin.
I’m suddenly wide awake. He’s the first person my age I’ve seen since I got on the train.
This boy is dressed up, having decided against the usual bro-shorts-and-hoodie combo.
He’s wearing a black suit jacket, buttoned up, with—I can’t believe this—a silky pocket square folded perfectly at his chest. I’ve never seen a boy my age wear a pocket square.
This guy is put together, classy, and…oh… oh no. He’s cute.
I blink. Boy-free zone, Archi!
The angel on my shoulder nudges me disapprovingly. The devil on the other side rolls her eyes. Boy-free doesn’t mean you can’t acknowledge someone’s objective hotness, she says.
She has a point.
The boy looks like he should be on the cover of Teen Vogue India. Like the kind of guy I would have had a celebrity crush on in middle school.
He looks like a guy I would have a crush on now.
Okay, even I’ve gotta say this is going beyond just acknowledgment, the devil says.
“Knock it off,” I mutter to myself.
“What was that?” he asks, his right eyebrow lifting in confusion.
The question snatches me back to the moment. I’ve been staring at the boy for far longer than is socially acceptable. My cheeks flush, and I’m ready to be called out, but the guy isn’t even paying attention to me.
He’s picked up my journal and is thumbing through it, a crease forming between his brows, which are thick and dark. I wonder if he gets them threaded, then—“Hey!” I say indignantly, reaching for my book. “That’s mine.”
Our eyes meet. His are a light brown, and a surprised smile flits across his mouth. “Sorry.” He hands me back my journal. “I was admiring your work.”
Oh. I take the book from his hands. “Thanks.”
“The MSMS II Museum, is it? Planning to visit?”
A gentle accent softens his words, but I bristle. So he’s guessed right away that I’m not a local.
“No.” I clutch the book to my chest and frown. “I’m working there.” I lift my nose into the air, trying to appear confident.
“Oh? As an American?”
“How’d you know?” My frown deepens into a scowl.
Is there really a sign above my head, visible only to locals, that says Clueless American Here!
? I know the reputation NRIs—nonresident Indians—have in India, and I don’t want it to be associated with me.
I’ve heard enough from my cousins on my dad’s side.
According to them, I’m an ABCD—American-born confused Desi.
But I don’t like how that feels. I want to be as Indian as the rest of them, even though I know our experiences are super different.
The boy smiles, seemingly amused. “You have a very strong accent.”
Of course. Here I am, embarrassed again, and forgetful, as Americans often are, that we too have accents. I blush. “Right. Sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry about,” the boy says. “Now, if you were British, that’d be a different story. I might expect an apology then.”
A surprised laugh bubbles out of me at the quip about British colonialism, and he holds out a hand. “I’m Shiv.”
“Archana,” I say. “But I go by Archi.”
His eyebrows go up. “You don’t like your given name?”
“Excuse me?”
“You’ve made it more American.”
I realize what he’s insinuating. “I love my name. My parents gave it to me. They also gave me the nickname, which makes it feel more personal. And what about your name?” I challenge. “Shiv sounds like it’s short for something too.”
His mouth twitches. “It is.” But he doesn’t expand, and a flash of irritation surges through me. How dare he criticize my name when he won’t even reveal his own? He presses on before I can address the issue. “Now it’s my turn to apologize. Sorry for being presumptuous.”
I do like it when boys apologize to me. Nick never did.
“I may be American,” I say, keeping my composure, “but I’m Desi, too.” I wonder how often I’m going to have to prove that this semester, and I fix my gaze on Shiv, waiting for him to snap back with a retort about me being an outsider.
But Shiv nods. “You are. So you’re working at Rathore Gallery?”
“I got an internship at the museum.”
“Are you an artist?” He cocks his head, his eyes flitting to my journal.
I shake my head. “No. I don’t create art.
I appreciate it. I’m going to be at VBIS this semester, studying art history.
” I think of my schedule. Aside from my internship, I’m taking three classes: India: Public Health, Gender Jewelry as Art History; and Religion and Colonialism in India.
His smile comes back, and he leans against the wall separating my booth from the others.
I probably shouldn’t be divulging my daily location to a stranger, but something about this boy is…
magnetic. We are strangers, but he’s asking me questions beyond what’s probably appropriate for polite small talk, as if we’ve had a million conversations before.
Still, I like that I could be familiar to someone here, that this strange boy has accepted me already.
“Well,” Shiv says, “there’s plenty of art to appreciate in Jaipur.”