“Let’s get some water, yaar,” I groaned, lifting my hair off my sticky neck.

  “First, see this,” Babloo said, pulling out a shiny rectangular slab from his pocket. In his grubby palm it resembled the silvery kaju barfi the NGO didis handed out for Diwali, but when I poked at it with my finger, it was hard like metal. “I yanked this from some bhenchodh college kid on the train.” He unwrapped a little white cord with white pebble things attached at the ends, and let it dangle to the floor.

  “What does it do?”

  “No clue, yaar.”

  The paanwala, whose stall was a few metres from where we sat, grunted at us. “Saala, it’s an MP3 player. You listen to music with it,” he said, as he assembled a row of betel leaves on a metal platter in front of him.

  Babloo called back to him. “Is that so? Did you make it yourself? Tell, tell, what else have you invented? Some kind of electronic paan, maybe?”

  “Get lost, chutiya,” the paanwala said, throwing his towel over his shoulder.

  Dancing around the stall on his toes, Babloo continued to taunt the man. “Arre, vah! Rakhi, did you know we were in the presence of a computer wizard? Maybe we should call Bill Gates Sahib over from America? You can teach him some things, na?”

  I laughed too, pointing and shouting “Bilget Sahib, Bilget Sahib!” even though I had no idea who this person was. “Babloo,” I whispered. “Who’s Bilget Sahib?”

  “Arre,” Babloo shouted. “Bill Gates is the paanwala’s baap, didn’t you know?”

  His nostrils flaring with rage, the paanwala rolled up his sleeves with his betel-stained hands, then tore the silvery rectangle from Babloo’s grasp, threw it on the ground, and stomped on it with his heels. There was a sickening crunch, as if the silver rectangle was a little bird whose tiny bones had snapped all at once. The paanwala motioned to a small, garlanded photograph sitting on his stall, of an older man with a tight-lipped face and startled-looking eyes. His father, no doubt. “Have some respect, bastards.”

  Babloo, horrified at the quick death of his stolen treasure, charged at the paanwala’s stand and upturned the metal platter of betel leaves. The plate crashed down to the ground, spinning around a few times before finally landing with a clang on the pavement. The framed photo of the dead paanfather tumbled down with it, glass shattering.

  The paanwala lunged at Babloo, twisting his skinny arms behind his back. Then he dragged Babloo off into a narrow laneway and threw him against the wall, kicking at his crumpled body. I ran behind them, launching my body into the paanwala’s and pounding at his back with my fists.

  The paanwala turned to me. He swung his arm around my neck, forced me up against the opposite wall, and pushed his body hard against mine. His vinegary sweat stung my nose. I heard the sound of his pant drawstring being pulled loose.

  “It’s your turn,” he growled, as he shoved his free hand down my underpants.

  I screamed no, then sank my teeth deep into his forearm, piercing through skin, into flesh. His blood tasted like salt and metal. I kept my jaw there as he howled, until he finally loosened his grip.

  “Kuthi,” he shouted, clutching his arm, his eyes widening at the blood dripping down his hand and onto the laneway.

  I broke away, pulling Babloo up from the ground by his shoulder, and together we ran.

  Later that evening, Babloo and I shared a packet of Parle-G biscuits. My cheek was still stinging from where it had been scraped raw when the paanwala shoved my face against the brick wall.

  “Don’t worry,” I told him as he pressed lightly on his fat lip with his finger. “Each time the paanwala goes to take a piss in that lane, he’ll see his blood spattered all over the ground until the rains start.”

  “It’s not enough,” Babloo murmured, lowering his head onto my shoulder. He was only this affectionate when he was sad and vulnerable, but I happily accepted it, resting my head on top of his. “We have to get back at him.”

  “What if we stole his betel leaves?” I offered, biting into a biscuit. I brushed away the crumbs that fell into Babloo’s hair.

  “Betel leaves aren’t worth much. Think bigger.”

  “Steal his money?”

  “How? He keeps it in his pocket.”

  “I’ve got it,” I said. “We could burn his stall down. All his betel leaves, coconut, tobacco, supari—gone. And then he’ll be poor and have no job and he’ll have to go back to his village.”

  Babloo sat up straight and turned to me, eyes lit up. “See how clever you’ve become!” He plucked the last biscuit from the packet and lay his head back down on my shoulder.

  I smoothed the empty Parle-G wrapper in my hands. The chubby, fair-skinned child on the label stared back at me quizzically, her hands upturned as if to say, Really, Rakhi? You’re going to set this guy’s stall on fire? I crumpled the wrapper in my palm and threw it down the lane. This little Parle-G shit would never have to do the kind of things Babloo and I did. She’d never have to make anyone pay for what they did to her, because nothing bad would ever, could ever, happen to someone like her.

  24

  The news of Vivek’s departure has turned the lawyers into sombre shadows of the people in black robes who were shouting in the streets just one week ago. Gauri Ma’am has been especially distracted and avoidant, like she knows the staff blame her. I wonder if she realizes she pushed Vivek away.

  When Gauri Ma’am is out at a meeting, I tiptoe to Alex’s desk so as not to attract attention from anyone else. “What does this mean,” I whisper, pointing to the word rusticated on the Lady Victoria college application.

  He sets down his bottle of Fanta, takes the pages from my hand, and scans them. “It’s just some rules about the college. It says that smoking and alcohol are strictly prohibited on campus, and if they find you consuming them you might be fined, punished, or…rusticated? I think they mean kicked out.”

  I nod, reaching for the papers, but he presses them to his chest and looks up at me. “Do you really want to study at a place like this? Seems pretty strict.”

  “Arre, you printed for me.”

  “Okay, but why are you reading the college rules? Shouldn’t you be focusing on filling out the applications first? They’re asking questions like why you want to apply. You should be crafting responses so I can review them.”

  I’ve never applied for anything in my life. How would I know how to turn the notes I scribbled into proper answers?

  “I cannot do all on my own,” I say, firmly.

  He takes a gulp of his orange soda. “Okay. So let me help you. Come to my place tonight.”

  I roll my eyes. “Oh, really? Your aunt can help, too?”

  “My aunt and uncle left for their farmhouse in Lonavala yesterday morning, actually. Something about hill station air. Which means the flat is empty tonight and we have the perfect opportunity to work uninterrupted. I’m only here until September. If we don’t start now, we’ll never do it.”

  A fly crawls into his bottle of Fanta, buzzes around in tiny circles in the bottleneck, and then falls into the last inch of flat soda. Wings drenched in orange liquid, it tries to wrestle its way out, but fails.

  “So, what do you say?”

  That fly will be me if I’m spotted at Blossoming Heights.

  The sound of someone humming the tune of “Drip Drip” pierces the air. It’s Vivek. He nods as he passes Alex and me, continuing his song. He’s looked happier in the past two days than he has in months. It’s like he’s become a new person.

  As Vivek’s humming fades, I take the application from Alex’s hands and roll it up. “Okay, I will come to your home tonight. When I finish work. Maybe it will be late.”

  “Text me,” he says, and turns back to his computer.

  * * *

  ♦

  Later that evening, Gauri Ma’am, Vivek, and I are sorting through Vivek’s loose documents on the big table in the lawyers’ workspace, and putting them in their corresponding file. Now that we have the copy machine from Arora, Gauri Ma’am made Vivek and me scan and save all his documents before he transfers his cases to the lawyers. Then, once we scanned everything, Ma’am suggested we start sorting them into the correct folders.

  Outside the window, white lightning flashes against the bruised sky. I hope I make it up to Pali Hill without getting caught in the rain.

  “Ma’am, can I finish this on Monday?”

  Gauri Ma’am takes off her glasses and pokes at her fleshy lower lip with the tip. “Why so impatient all of a sudden?”

  “Ma’am, it’s raining…”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “Ji, but it will. See outside.” The sky is almost black now.

  “Arre, Gauri, let the girl go,” Vivek says. “Behrampada floods during heavy downpours.”

  Gauri Ma’am looks perturbed at Vivek jumping in. “Her home is on the second floor of the hutment,” she snaps. “Why would it flood?”

  I feel my throat getting dry. “Actually, Ma’am, there’s also Tazim, my downstairs neighbour,” I say. “I want to make sure she is safe.”

  “Call her, then.”

  “Ma’am, Tazim doesn’t have a mobile.”

  Ma’am puts on her glasses and stares at me without blinking, like she knows I’m lying about something. I try not to move a muscle in my face.

  “Gauri,” Vivek says firmly. “Let Rakhi leave. It’s late.”

  Ma’am sighs. “Chalo, go home and take rest. But Vivek has a lot of paperwork that needs filing, and we have two weeks to do it. You’ll have to come in tomorrow to get a head start.”

  I nod and hurry back to my desk, checking to make sure they’re not watching me before I pull my college application forms from my drawer and stuff them in my bag. “Thank you, Ma’am, thank you, Sir,” I call out, running down the steps to the street.

  Before I make it to VT Station, though, the low-hanging clouds finally burst. Rain starts to come down in fat drops, and my flimsy purple umbrella twists and flips in the wind. Once I’m on the Bandra-bound train, I watch the palm trees outside bending sideways in the wind.

  Water sprays into the compartment and I move farther inside the car, away from the window, shielding my bag with my body, so my college applications don’t get wet. I peek at them inside my bag, safe and dry. Tazim will be fine. She can handle a little rain. If her hut floods, I can let her into my place when I return from Alex’s. The applications shouldn’t take too long. If we finish them tonight, I can submit them soon, and in a few years, who knows? I could be working at the Marquis. No more human rights funda, no more lawyers, no more bhenchodh interns.

  * * *

  —

  When the bus from Bandra Station reaches Pali Hill, it’s already nine. Around me, autorickshaws pass through deepening puddles, churning muddy waves. I take a deep breath at the sight of Blossoming Heights. The rain is pounding the flower-covered compound wall, and fuchsia petals litter the ground like offerings at a temple.

  I text Alex from the street.

  He writes back immediately: Tell guard ur coming to 606. U have to sign in.

  The watchman inside the lobby has a white moustache and a navy blue uniform. He’s reclining on a plastic chair behind a wooden table, eyelids lowered, though he straightens up as my slippers squelch across the marble floor. Thankfully, he’s not the same watchman from the last time I was here, when Tazim and I carried Mrs. Motiani’s Persian rugs to the courtyard for cleaning.

  Clearing my throat, I inch up to the desk. “Ji, I’m going to 606.”

  He gazes up at me through sleepy eyes, his hands resting on his stomach, fingers interlaced. “Who are you here to see?”

  “Motiani Sahib’s nephew.”

  The watchman narrows his eyes as I drip water onto the ground. “What work do you have there?”

  “Delivery,” I say, without hesitation. I pull the dampened college applications from my bag for him to see. “Office delivery.” He would never believe I was visiting Blossoming Heights as a guest.

  The watchman frowns and slides the register book toward me. I print my name, the date, and the time on its blue curled pages. He telephones the Motiani flat to say there is an office delivery, then points me to the lift.

  My heart beats fast until I get into the lift and the shiny metal doors slide shut, revealing the dull reflection of a girl, her drenched salwar kameez clinging to her body. Until now, the thought of being anywhere near this place again made me shudder. And now I’m here, to do what I need to do to start a new life. My lip twitches, and I try to suppress a smile.

  I press the doorbell and jump at the ear-splitting shrieks of an animal in distress coming from the other side of the door. It’s Mrs. Motiani’s dog, Tango, snarling like he’s a street dog and not a ball of white fluff who shits on marble floors. When the door swings open, Alex—barefoot and wearing red shorts and a grey T-shirt that says Toronto Raptors—is holding the teeth-baring dog back by his turquoise collar. Tango’s eyes are black and sparkly, and he lunges forward like he wants to take a bite out of my leg. He couldn’t remember me, could he?

  I stand in the doorway while Alex drags the dog into a different room and shuts the door, quickly. The flat hasn’t changed since I was here with Tazim. Same large paintings, same naked white statues. It seems different at night, though. There’s a soft, honey-coloured glow everywhere. And it’s so quiet you can’t hear anything but the dog whimpering from his room.

  Alex laughs. “That was Tango. He’s always a little hyper around new people, but I’ve never seen him bark this much.” He pauses, staring me up and down. “Why are you all wet?”

  I pull the soggy fabric away from my body. “It’s raining.”

  “It is?” He walks to the window in the sitting room and pulls back the curtain. Tall shadowy trees sway back and forth, and bursts of lightning flare up across the dark sky. He stands there with his hands on his hips, peering out the window. “They keep the air conditioning on and the windows shut all the time. I didn’t realize the rain had even started.”

  I stay by the doorway and kick my sandals off, pushing them to the side. The hard marble is cold under my muddy feet.

  When Alex returns to the hallway, a puddle is forming at my toes. “Let me get you something dry to wear. My aunt has tons of old clothes.”

  I hold up my hand. “No, no, please.”

  “Relax, she’ll never notice,” he says, and disappears down the long corridor into another room. He returns with a thick, peach-coloured towel that feels like a cottony cloud, a green T-shirt, and some stretchy black pants that look like churidar, and points me to a bathroom with beige walls. Inside, there is a giant mirror, a bouquet of dried flowers by the sink, and a Western toilet. I bend down to examine the white roll of toilet paper, hanging from a bar nailed to the wall. I rip off a square and press it against my cheek. It’s soft, spongy—nothing like the thin, scratchy toilet rolls I buy for the interns from the chemist’s shop.

  Tugging at the wet drawstring of my salwar, I let my pants slide down my legs to the floor. I peel my top off and let it fall, too. I step out of the mess of clothes, and hoist a muddy foot into the washbasin. I don’t want Tazim to ask Alex why there are footprints all over the flat when she comes in on Sunday. The water from the tap flows out fast, starting warm then growing hot.

  As I scrub the dirt off my toes, I catch a glimpse of myself with one leg swung over the bathroom counter, my hair wet and matted. I peel a wet curl off the side of my face. If staring at myself in the lift mirrors made me smile, the sight of myself washing my feet in Mrs. Motiani’s bathroom makes me want to laugh.

  The T-shirt Alex brought me smells like Dadar flower market without the market smell, and the black churidar are stretchy and hug my legs and thighs. With these clothes on, I could pass for one of those college girls who crowd around tables at Café Coffee Day, sipping on tall, frosty drinks.

  I peek outside the bathroom. Alex is reclining on a low white sofa in the sitting room, strumming a guitar. “Have a seat,” he says, and points to the laptop on the coffee table. “I opened the website for the Sanskriti Institute of Hotel Management. We’ll start with their application and go from there.”

  I set my wet clothes down on the floor in a neat pile, making a mental note to wipe up the water seeping out from them before I leave, and sit down on the sofa in front of the glowing laptop. Across from me, Alex stops and starts the same tune.

  The college’s website features a photo of a man with a big white chef’s hat, and a woman in a black suit with her hair pulled back, smiling behind a tall wooden hotel desk. I imagine them waiting on people like Rubina Mansoor, and bringing drinks on a tray to firanghis like Saskia and Merel.

  I pull out the notes I scribbled earlier and start typing them into the computer.

  Myself Rakhi Kumar. I am wanting to study for the hospitality program. I am 23 years and work in human rights office of Advocate Gauri Verma. I know maths and tiping and speaking English. I like to helping people. I helping many peoples from foren—Enland, USA, Canada, Duch. They come to India and think it is bad place. If I work in hotel management I can show foren people India is best in the world.

  When I read what I’ve typed, I want to give up. Why do I need to write down all the reasons why I want to do this program? How would they even check that any of it is true? I could say I’ve taken Russian or South African firanghis on slum tours and they would never know. Isn’t it enough that I’m willing to pay a college to learn? I stare at the screen and try to think of more things to write, but the sound of Alex playing his guitar is distracting.