Her princess

The first time I thought about kissing Anika, she was arguing with my boyfriend about a potato. “It isn't a momo if you put ketchup inside it,” she said, holding up the offending dumpling between two fingers. Rohan leaned against the kitchen counter. “You haven't tasted it.” “I haven't tasted shampoo either. Some things don't require investigation.” “It was an experiment.” “It was a crime.” He laughed. I laughed too, partly because it was funny and partly because Anika looked at me to make sure I had heard her. She always did that. In a room full of people, she would find my face after making a joke, as though my laughter completed it. She wore a green shirt with the sleeves folded to her elbows. A silver ring flashed on her thumb as she put the dumpling down. Her hair, usually secured in a practical knot, fell over one shoulder. When she bent to inspect the next plate, I watched a strand brush her cheek and wondered what it would feel like to move it away. Then I wondered why I was wondering. “Mira?” Rohan asked. I straightened. “What?” “Are you defending my cooking or joining the prosecution?” “I'm waiting for the postmortem.” Anika grinned. I looked down at my phone. Three missed calls from Mum. One message from my younger brother, Nabin: If you're bringing food home, remember your only surviving sibling. I typed: There are other ways to die. Outside Anika's apartment, Kathmandu was settling into a wet Friday evening. Motorbikes hissed through the lane below. Across the street, a woman pulled clothes from her balcony before the rain could reach them. From the kitchen window came the smell of damp concrete, frying garlic, and somebody else's incense. This was supposed to be a simple night. Ritu had finished her final nursing exams, and Anika had offered her apartment for a celebration. Four women, too much food, and the freedom to complain about our lives without anybody recommending marriage as a solution. Rohan had driven me over and stayed to help carry groceries. Then he had discovered an opportunity to reinvent dinner. He checked his watch. “I should go before you start discussing things I'm not allowed to hear.” “We've already discussed your dumpling,” Anika said. “There is nothing worse coming.” He kissed my temple. His mouth was warm, familiar. I smiled because that was what usually happened next. “Sunday lunch?” he asked quietly. “At your house?” “Yeah. Mum's making your favorite.” I tried to remember which food his mother believed was my favorite. I had praised three different dishes there with equal desperation. “I'll check with Mum.” “You're twenty-four, Mira. You can accept a lunch invitation.” He said it lightly. Still, my smile tightened. Anika turned toward the sink and began washing a clean spoon. Rohan noticed my expression. “I meant I'll pick you up, if you're free. No pressure.” “I know.” He squeezed my hand, promised to abandon his culinary career, and left. I listened to his footsteps on the stairs while Anika dried the spoon. “His mum likes you,” she said. “Everybody's mum likes me. I'm very good at passing plates.” “An essential life skill.” “I also ask whether they need help, then look relieved when they say no.” “Ah. Advanced training.” She handed me a mug of tea. Less sugar than hers. No cardamom. She had stopped putting cardamom in mine years ago, after noticing I left the pods in a small, accusing pile. Rohan still asked how I took my tea. That was unfair. There were things he remembered too. My presentation dates. The brand of sunscreen that didn't irritate my skin. Once, when my laptop charger broke, he had driven across the city to find a replacement. A person shouldn't lose an argument they didn't know they were in. Anika's phone lit up. She glanced at it and smiled. “Who is it?” I asked. “Sana. She's downstairs.” “Who is Sana?” “The photographer from the exhibition. I told you about her.” She probably had. I tended to stop listening when Anika mentioned people I had never met. They occupied a vague category in my mind called everybody else. “Oh. She's coming?” “Ritu invited her. They know each other from college.” Anika set her mug down and went to the door. Sana arrived with Ritu, a paper bag of pastries, and the easy confidence of someone who never wondered what to do with her hands. She wore black trousers and a white T-shirt. Rain had caught in her short curls. Anika reached for the grocery bag while Sana touched her elbow. “Your staircase is a fitness assessment,” Sana said. “You passed. Barely.” “I expect a certificate.” “You can have tea.” Their exchange lasted six seconds. I disliked all six. Ritu pushed past them and hugged me hard enough to make my tea slosh. “I have completed my education,” she announced. “Nobody is allowed to ask what I will do next.” “Your father called me yesterday,” I said. “He asked what you will do next.” “Disown you for cooperating.” I hugged her back. For a moment, the familiar absurdity of our friendship steadied me. We ate on the floor around Anika's low table. Ritu described her last exam with the intensity of a survivor explaining a natural disaster. Sana produced photographs of a dog that had followed her through an entire assignment. Anika rescued the dinner by making a quick tomato achar, while I pretended not to notice how often Sana made her laugh. “You've got something here,” Sana told her, touching her own cheek. Anika rubbed the wrong side. “Other side.” I reached for a tissue so quickly I knocked my spoon onto the floor. Everybody looked at me. “Gravity,” I said. Ritu nodded solemnly. “A difficult subject.” Anika took the tissue from my hand. Our fingers met. She wiped the sauce away, and I concentrated on recovering my spoon. After dinner, Ritu insisted we play a game in which everybody answered one honest question. We had played it in college, when honest questions mostly concerned crushes and terrible lecturers. At twenty-four, honesty seemed less recreational. Sana went first. “What's the worst date you've ever been on?” Ritu described a man who brought his cousin along because he was nervous. I offered the boy who spent an hour showing me his gym progress photographs. Anika claimed she had never been on a bad date. “You just leave before dessert,” Ritu said. “An effective system.” “Your turn, Mira.” I should have asked something harmless. Favorite childhood memory. Most embarrassing job interview. Whether Sana always sat that close to people. Instead, I asked, “Have you ever liked someone you weren't supposed to?” Ritu stopped reaching for a pastry. Sana looked at me with an expression I couldn't read. Anika set her glass on the table. “Who decides whether you're supposed to?” she asked. “I meant someone unavailable. Or a friend. Something complicated.” “Yes,” Sana said. “A friend.” “Did you tell them?” Ritu asked. “Eventually.” “And?” “She didn't feel the same.” I looked at Anika before I could stop myself. She was watching me. Sana shrugged. “We survived. It was awkward for a while. Now she's married, and I get invited to her children's birthdays.” Ritu considered this. “That's a lot of cake in exchange for heartbreak.” Everybody laughed except me. I took a sip of wine I no longer wanted. Later, the rain strengthened until the balcony drain made a chattering sound. Sana's ride arrived first. Ritu's father came for her, calling three times from the lane because he disliked waiting beneath Anika's unreliable awning. By the time we had cleared the plates, it was nearly eleven. “Mum says stay here,” I told Anika, showing her the message. “Apparently she trusts your roof more than every vehicle in Kathmandu.” “A sensible woman.” “Don't let her hear you say that. She'll start organizing your life.” “She already sent me a recipe and a dentist's number this week.” I smiled. Anika stood at the sink, rinsing glasses. Her shirt had a dark splash near the waist. She looked tired in the comfortable way people look when they no longer need to entertain anybody. “Do you like Sana?” I asked. She turned off the tap. “Yes. She's funny.” “I mean, do you like her?” Her face changed a little. “Why?” “No reason.” “Mira.” “I was only asking.” She waited. I folded the dish towel into a square, then folded it again. “I don't know,” she said finally. “We've had coffee twice.” Twice. There were entire afternoons in Anika's life I had known nothing about. “I thought you were busy on Wednesday.” “I was. I had coffee after work.” “Right.” She leaned against the counter. “Does that bother you?” “No. Of course not.” My voice was too bright. She heard it. I could tell. Anika opened her mouth, then closed it. “I'll get you something to sleep in.” She brought me an old cotton shirt and a clean towel. The shirt was blue, with a small hole near the hem. I had borrowed it before. Once, after a long bus journey, I had kept it for two weeks because it smelled of her laundry soap. At the time, that had seemed perfectly ordinary. While I changed in the bathroom, I examined my face in the mirror. Nothing looked different. Same dark eyes. Same stubborn strand of hair curling near my forehead. The girl in the reflection had a boyfriend, a design job, and a mother who was beginning to save suitable photographs for wedding invitations. She had never imagined there might be another version of her life. When I came out, Anika was making up the sofa. “We always share your bed,” I said. “You're twenty-four now. I thought you might appreciate personal space.” “I appreciated it last month too. You still stole the blanket.” A smile returned to her face. “Fine. But if you kick me, I'm charging rent.” In the dark, we lay beneath the same thin quilt, listening to water drip from the balcony. Anika turned toward the wall. The space between us was no larger than usual, but I could feel every inch of it. “Anika?” “Hmm?” “About my question earlier. I didn't mean there was something wrong with liking a friend.” She was quiet for a moment. “I know.” I wanted to ask how she knew. Whether she had ever looked at me the way Sana looked at her. Whether I had been missing something obvious for years. Instead, I asked, “Are you asleep?” “I'm trying very hard.” “Sorry.” Her hand moved beneath the quilt and found mine. “Go to sleep, princess.” She had called me that since college, when I refused to cross a muddy courtyard in new shoes. Usually, I threatened to push her into the mud herself. Tonight, I held her hand and said nothing.