The 1:45 a.m. Affair

At 1:43 in the morning, I miss home.

Not enough to call my mother, because well,

 wouldn’t that be dramatic?

Also, if I call her now, she will ask the same three questions she has asked me every day since I left:

“Khaya?”

“Padhai hui?”

“Paise hain?”

And I will say yes to all three.

The reality is-

I am hungry.

I haven't studied.

And I have absolutely no idea where my money goes.

So I don't call.

I lie down and stare at the ceiling.

The fan is making that clicking sound again.
Click.
Click.
Click.

Three weeks now.

My mother would have already called somebody,
complained about the noise,
complained about how much they charged,
and then called them again
because they hadn't fixed it properly.

Here, I have simply decided
that the fan and I
are going to live with our differences.

Outside, the rain has begun again. Water falls from the roof into somebody's bucket.

Tip.

A pause.

Tip.

Then three drops together.

My roommate is asleep beside me,
completely unconcerned with the fact
that she has an 8 a.m. lecture tomorrow.

One foot outside the blanket.
Mouth slightly open.
Phone charging beside her pillow.

I look at the time.

1:51.

And suddenly, I can smell my house.

I don't mean that in some sentimental way.

I mean, I can actually smell it.

The kitchen after my mother has fried onions.

That little burnt smell at the bottom of the kadai.

The steel dabba that always smells faintly of yesterday's pickle no matter how many times you wash it.

The Dettol smell from the floor when someone has just mopped it.

The pressure cooker cooling beside the sink

My father would be in the balcony, lighting the mosquito coil and saying, “Yeh liquid-wiquid kuch kaam nahi karta. Coil jalao- dhuaan toh dikhta hai, at least pata toh chalta hai machhar mar rahe hain.”

I can hear my mother's voice too.

“Arre, haath dho ke aao.”

Then, five minutes later—

“Khane pe bulaana padega kya?”

And I would shout,

“AA RAHI HOON!”

I would not be coming.

I would still be in my room.

She would shout again.

I would say,

“Bas do minute!”

Those two minutes could become half an hour.

But nobody cared, because the food wasn’t going anywhere.

That is what I miss.

The certainty of it.

You could wander into the kitchen at ten-thirty and find a roti wrapped in a cloth, something in a steel bowl, half a katori of dal left in the fridge.

There was always something.

Here, at two in the morning, I open my cupboard and conduct a depressing inventory. 

Biscuits. One Parle-G broken in half inside the packet.

A packet of Maggi.

Nothing I actually want.

I get up.

Drink water.

Come back to bed.

2:06.

My phone lights up.

I look at it.

Nothing important.

I put it face- down.

2:08.

I really must get some sleep.

I don't.

Because now I know something is coming.

I don't know when.

I don't know exactly how.

But I know.

And suddenly, the whole building seems to know it too.

A door opens downstairs.

Someone says something to the security guard.

The guard laughs.

A gate scrapes against the pavement.

Then the sound disappears.

I wait.

Nothing.

I check the time.

2:12.

I start imagining the moment.

What will I say?

Will I say anything at all?

Will I pretend I wasn't waiting?

Will I smile?

Will I be annoyed?

Will I tell the truth?

I have always been terrible at deciding what to do with my face when I am emotional.

At home, my mother can tell immediately.

She'll look at me once and say,

“Kya hua?”

And I'll say,

“Kuch nahi.”

And she'll say,

“Accha.”

That accha means she knows.

The footsteps come closer.

I can hear rainwater being shaken off somewhere.

One floor. Then the next. 

I sit up. 

Then—

a knock.

I open the door.

I take it.

“Thank you.”

I shut the door and sit on the bed.

I lift the lid, and the room smells different now.

Hot spices. Fried onions. Coriander. Garam masala.

And for one second, I swear,
I am back home. I smile. 

I take a bite, and then stop. I look down and say…

“Arey, yaaaaar! They forgot the raita.”