I don’t know when I slipped from that dream into deep sleep, but I woke up all confused. I couldn’t figure where I was for a minute. It wasn’t my bedroom in Delhi . . . something was different. Where was I? I realized with a sinking feeling that I was in Shajarpur and Dad was not.
I really didn’t know how to do this—this whole newness—new city, new people, new school. Even the air was new. I stared at the ceiling, which Dad would have easily touched if he raised his hands. I missed our home, our real home. Here, the walls didn’t have Dad’s invisible palm prints, the echo of his voice, deep and comforting. I wanted to huddle back into bed and just cry and cry, but I could hear Mom hollering for us to get ready for school.
I switched to staring at Dad’s plants, twenty-one of them squeezed into the room. Last night’s dream came back to me in bits and pieces—a silver glow, a loud buzzing. I could feel my fingers tingling with the remnants of the dream, but I shook it off. It was the same boy who had been sitting in the canopy. Great, now my dreams were like a web series, episodic! I pushed myself off the bed and slouched to the bathroom, which was full of gray mosaic tiles, the color of oatmeal gone cold and sludgy. Yuck.
My school uniform was hanging in the bathroom, and umm, it was very brown. The tunic was dark coffee brown; the blouse, cream; and the socks and shoes, brown. Dull, duller, dullest. I quickly got ready, slopped water all over the plants in my room and the house. Bekku let out a yowl as I inadvertently poured some water on her.
“Sorry, sorry, how was I to know you’d be in the jasmine plant?” I was trying hard not to touch the plants, so I didn’t realize that water had leaked out from the bottom of one of the plants, just where I had forgotten to put a plate. The brown water seeped into my canvas shoe. Lovely, just lovely. Luckily, the shoe was already a Nutella brown.
“Saviiii,” Meher yelled. “The cab’s here.”
I dumped the mug back into the bathroom that I shared with my sister, grabbed my bag, and headed out.
As the cab carted us to school, Ma said, “I am not going to do this every day. From tomorrow, you’re both walking. It’s so close.” She removed her glasses and began cleaning them vigorously. I wanted to remind her that we hadn’t asked her to come along, but Meher nudged me with her elbow. Ouch. So instead, I rolled down the window and looked out, hugging my school bag. At least that was from home. Our real home.
Panic began to stomp in my stomach, so I took a deep breath. Whoa! It had been so long since I had inhaled fresh air that I had forgotten what it felt like. It actually hurt, like a knife scraping over a piece of charred toast.
Meher was sticking her head out of the window and taking a video to The Beatles’ “Good Day Sunshine.” I looked at Mom but she was definitely not flapping about. She was staring at her phone. In fact, she barely spoke to us. Like yesterday, instead of telling us what happened at work, she sent a message on our new family messaging group saying that her boss, Aneesh, had walked into the meeting and said, “Such great weather we are having today. Not too hot/too cold/too rainy.” For the next five minutes, her colleagues had looked out of their large French windows and sighed over the clear blue skies and crisp air.
They were truly insufferable. Oh yes, the people of Shajarpur had it good and they knew it. I looked at the houses and the traffic. So what if they had to put up with small apartments and traffic jams—what a small sacrifice that was. More malls, more real estate, more development, more money, all welcome.
Before I could take another deep breath, we turned a corner and found ourselves on a narrow street, lined with bungalows on both sides. Lantanas in red, yellow, and pink spilled over the walls. At the end of the street was a massive brown gate shaped like a triangle. Behind the brown gate was a massive brown building. It was also shaped like a triangle—in fact, it looked like a pyramid.
“It’s all so brown,” Meher said, who was finally sitting straight. I scowled at my sister with her beautiful hair that always behaved, oval-shaped face, and soft black eyes. At least in this new school, I wouldn’t hear, “Oh, you’re Meher’s sister,” followed by long, pointed looks at me and then at my marks. She took after Mom, who looked the same but with an untidy bun and glasses askew.
I looked like Dad. It always annoyed me when his friends called me Bonsai. After all, he hated those poor stunted plants. But now I was pleased—both of us had slightly squarish faces, lots of freckles, and frizzy hair.
Mom pursed her lips as the cab slowed down and joined a line of cars crawling up to the school. “Vriksh School is one of the finest in the country,” she said, frowning at the Audi in front of us. Our mini cab looked like a sparrow among strutting peacocks. “It was tough getting you admission here, so don’t complain, okay? It’s really prestigious—the local MLA’s daughter goes here, as do Saawan Khan’s kids.” Mom had a huge crush on Saawan Khan and watched all his films first day, last show.
“Is that why you admitted us to this school?” asked Meher, winking at me. “Because of Saawan Khan? Really uncool, Mommers, sending us to a brown school.”
“Shush, we’re here.”
The cab dropped us off between a Benz and a Hummer, and we joined the steady stream of students that poured in like a sludgy river outside a mine. A woman stood at the brown gate, hair tied into a tight bun, smiling at everyone. Most ignored her, but a couple of students smiled back, and one high-fived her.
She smiled at me, but I think I no longer knew how to make those muscles work. I just pretended I hadn’t seen her. Next to me, Meher chirped, “Oh hullo!” I looked at the sludge and realized something. Although all of us were dressed in the same uniform, there was something about some of the students that made them look rich. I couldn’t figure out what it was exactly that set them apart. Cooler backpacks, yes. Wristwatches that looked like they could pack your lunches and do your homework. Even their water bottles were awesome: the kind that marathoners drank water from after casually finishing a half-marathon. Just watching them made me feel like my uniform was creased at the wrong pleats and my shoes weren’t clean enough.
I scrunched my shoulder as a cluster of “Very Cool and Hip People” passed by. They looked about my age. A tall girl with gorgeous hair tied up in a sleek side braid, luminous skin, perfect nose, and oodles of confidence was walking a little ahead of them. She turned to look at us. I froze, but of course she was nodding at Meher, while looking right through me. I felt like a dung beetle, small and ignored. She whispered to the guy walking behind her. Also tall but very plump, he had wavy hair which was carefully spiked in the front. He was twirling a handkerchief between his fingers.
He turned to look at us as well. Wait, wasn’t that one of Saawan Khan’s kids? Yes, he was, especially recognizable by his sneer as he walked away. The others were a blur of cool and perfume.
“How do you think Mom’s affording this school?” Meher whispered as we went into the admissions office. “It’s very posh.”
I was wondering the same thing. I pushed the question into a far corner of my mind, trying to ignore that horrid feeling that filled me when I thought of the world still spinning and everyone doing everyday things like talking, laughing, catching up. How did this world exist, without Dad in it? I clenched my fists again.
Mom beckoned to us urgently and said, “Ma’am wants to meet you.”
We followed her into a dark corridor which led to a glass door. It read “Mrs. Pankhida.” I swallowed a giggle.
Mom knocked and ushered us in. If it wasn’t for the fact that the room was also triangular, I would have sworn we were inside a tree. Everything was made of wood—the floors, the paneled walls, the oak desk. The woman behind the desk was also wearing a wooden expression. Meher smiled, but I couldn’t move the muscles on my face. They felt wooden too.
Mrs. Pankhida was tall. She was wearing a beige sari starched so stiffly that it would probably retain its shape if she somehow managed to climb out of it. She nodded at the chairs, and the three of us sat down. “So you are Meher, and you’re Savitri? Yes?” She didn’t wait for us to reply and continued, “Being part of Vriksh School is an honor. You are welcome.”
Huh. I wondered if she was welcoming us or saying that we were welcome as a response to the gratitude we were expected to express.
“Fifty-four years ago, I, too, joined this school, wide-eyed and eager to fill my head with knowledge. Yes. I got that and a lot more. ‘Knowledge, Inspiration, and Aspiration’ is our motto. Yes. I wish for you the same, that you hold the school’s head high and lofty, like the Himalayas.” She waved and we were dismissed.
Outside the office, a bored-looking administrative lady handed us ID cards, also triangular, and told me, “Standard Eight? Sixth floor.” She pointed at the staircase. Meher was sent to the second floor, the lucky thing.
Goodbyes were said at the ground floor, and six flights later, I had huffed my way to the Standard Eight foyer. Yup, triangle-shaped with a classroom on each side. VIII B, here I come, ready or not, I thought as I pushed opened the door.