I skipped school the next day. Of course, I would flunk my algebra test. But I still skipped. Anyway, it wasn’t like I was prepared for the test. Then, I skipped the day after that. And the day after that. And the day after that. Then the weekend arrived. And I still couldn’t bring myself to answer any of the Eco Ents’ calls and messages. Especially Samar’s.
I told Mom I was feeling ill, and I must have looked it because she let me be. She just sent an endless supply of soups, grilled cheese sandwiches, and khichdi my way, and no one else was allowed to hog Bekku.
It was easier to sit at home and pretend that I had not just narrowly avoided becoming pigeon feed, and stick with our plants, Mom, and my sister.
Finally, after five days, I picked up my phone. I scrolled to the Very Cool and Hip People’s messaging group. It had . . . umm . . . vanished. I went and looked at their numbers on my contacts list—gone.
I pushed my phone away and decided to file it under the “Not My Problem” section of my brain.
I had other problems. Ever since our pao bhaji night, Mom seemed to have had a personality transplant, which was great, except she kept wanting to cook. And neither Meher nor I had the heart to tell her to, well . . . not cook.
So far, we had braved our way through gobhi mushwala, watergate stir-fry, paneer so-not-makhani, and chocolate pudding with crispy burnt bits. Even Bekku had stopped popping into the kitchen looking for scraps.
Now we were sitting in the living room. I was pretending to read, and Meher was on her phone, when Mom said the dreaded five words again.
“What shall I make today?” she beamed, shoving aside her laptop.
Meher turned to me, eyes wide, with a pleading look. “Do something, do something,” she was clearly signaling.
“Pizza,” I said firmly. “You need a break, you’re on chhutti too.” Meher’s expression relaxed as she nodded fervently.
“YES! Margherita.”
“Uff, you’re so boring,” Mom said. “I saw they had one with paneer tikka.”
“EWWWW, no,” yelled Meher, just as the doorbell rang. “Next you’ll want one with pineapples or even worse, tandoori peas or something.”
Since neither of them had moved a toenail, I got up to open the door. Hopefully it wasn’t any of the uncles, especially Kulkarni Uncle. I hated that suffix now.
Served me right for not looking through the peephole or not living in a society where they had fancy apps that announced who was coming in. It was Sana, Rushad, Gia. And Samar. And a wasp, perched on Gia’s collar like a brooch.
Mom popped up behind me and beamed, “It’ll be a pizza party! Come on in. Raina, Badal, Toffee, Mausam, right?”
My eyes widened and I quickly amended the introductions. I swallowed a scowl as the Eco Ents trooped in and sat down. Samar gave me a tentative smile, and instantly my scowl resurfaced. The nerve. Really.
My frown deepened as I saw Bekku jump into Samar’s lap. Traitor. Worse, Bekku started purring with her eyes half-closed as Samar rubbed her head. Clearly, his talent extended to felines.
“What’s his name?” Gia asked finally, after Mom and Meher promised food and drinks and disappeared into the kitchen. This had been followed by a long silence during which I refused to look at any of the members of my club. Instead, I stared at a damp spot on the wall. It was shaped like a butterfly. Fascinating.
“Her,” I said.
“Sorry, sorry!” Gia giggled nervously.
“Her name is Bekku,” I said.
Samar snorted.
“Funny, huh?” I snapped.
Samar’s face immediately fell, and he said, “It’s the name.”
“Now my cat’s funny to you all?”
“No, no,” Samar said hurriedly. “It’s just that in Kannada, bekku means cat.”
“Wait, so your cat’s called Cat?” asked Rushad. He looked so shocked that everyone burst out laughing. I reluctantly nodded.
The tension melted like the ice in the polar caps in our climate-changed world.
“She kind of adopted us,” I said, “and we didn’t get to name her.” I looked around me and realized that everyone looked exhausted—just like how I felt—as if they had not slept for many, many nights. Or days. And they had spent those waking hours thinking and overthinking until their thoughts had become one big, tangled piece of wool that Bekku would have loved to have played with.
Just then the pizzas arrived, and chaos ensued as everyone chose their toppings, and glasses of iced mulberry milkshakes were passed around. Meher whispered to me that she had whipped them up and they were perfectly drinkable.
Mom and Meher once again made themselves scarce, their plates heaped with slices of pizza, smiles plastered on their faces. For a minute, I wished I could go in with them, and watch an episode of Brooklyn 99, Dad’s second-favorite show, instead of being stuck with traitors and alleged club members.
“Hey, this milkshake’s fantastic,” Gia said.
“Sshh . . .” Rushad nudged her.
“What? I think it’s from Savi’s plant,” Gia responded. “Isn’t it?”
I wanted to nod, but I felt fully frozen.
“Let us explain,” Sana said.
“But wait . . . first . . .”
“Are you okay?” asked Rushad.
“Like really, really okay?” Gia translated as the wasp buzzed up and promptly settled back onto her collar. “Wasp is asking, so basically Tree is asking, and so you have to answer, you know.”
“We wanted to come sooner.”
“But Samar said to give you some time.”
“Oye!” Samar said, throwing up his arms.
“Don’t ‘oye’ us! We’d have been here the same moment if you hadn’t told us to back off.”
I was going to snap at them and say of course I was okay, but suddenly I was overcome with a strange feeling. I realized I felt safe, like I did with Tree, that I was among friends. People who actually cared, who were here to check on me, who didn’t abandon me now that the so-called work was done. And friends who shared losses.
“Plus, we brought pie!” Samar said, holding up a box and opening it. A shiny globule of banoffee pie was pasted to the corner of the box. “Well, a fair amount of pie, at least. I may have squashed it as we came—too many potholes in this city.”
“Hand it over,” I said, with a grin.
“She smiles,” Gia said. “Wow!”
I began laughing. “Okay, explain now,” I said, taking the box from Samar and digging into the banoffee pie, which turned out to be excellent. Dad would have totally loved it. For the first time in ages, I realized I was thinking about my father without my heart twisting into itself. I felt a pang, but this was nice too—to remember him, happily.
Everyone started speaking at once, until Samar finally said, “Folx, folx, may I? I feel I owe Savi an explanation the mostest.”
Everyone fell silent. Including Samar.
“Really, Samar, now would be a good time,” Sana said, shaking her head exasperatedly after a few minutes. Rushad was chipping at his thumbnail which was painted yellow this time.
“Talking, talking,” Samar said, putting his hands up. “Well . . . first we’re so relieved you’re all right. Well, as all right as can be, given you were just ambushed and almost kidnapped by a . . .”
“Plague of pigeons?” I finished for him.
Everyone burst out laughing again.
“Right,” Samar said. “Who knew they were pigeons, dude? That was so surreal.”
“I know, right,” I replied. “I almost fainted in shock.”
“Or in revulsion.”
“Or just, you know, plain hilarity.”
“Or absurdness.”
Gia cleared her throat. “Samar, Savi . . .”
I sat back on the sofa and grinned as Bekku jumped on my lap. I patted her, forgiving her traitorous cuddles with Samar. “Go on.”
Samar, in fits and starts, with the help of the Eco Ents, pizza, mulberry milkshake, and banoffee pie, began to explain.