Her princess

Chapter 5

By Monday morning, I had decided to tell Ritu.

By Monday lunchtime, I had developed six excellent reasons not to.

She was applying for jobs. She was busy. She might tell someone accidentally. She might ask questions I couldn't answer. She might think I had misinterpreted everything. She might say she had known for years, which would somehow be worse.

At three, she sent me a photograph of two shirts laid on her bed.

Interview tomorrow. Which one says I can be trusted with sharp objects?

I chose the blue one.

Then I wrote: Can we meet after work?

Her reply came immediately.

Are you bringing snacks or news?

Both, I typed, before I could invent a seventh reason.

Work gave me a welcome opportunity to concentrate on problems that had borders. A client wanted a poster to look less crowded without removing any of the text. My colleague Kabir said this was a spiritual request and therefore outside our professional abilities.

“Make the logo bigger,” he read from the email. “Then make the design more delicate. These people want an elephant to perform ballet.”

I laughed and took the poster back to my desk.

I had worked at the small design agency for fourteen months. Most days, I made social media graphics and restaurant menus. Occasionally, I got to work on a project that required more than adjusting somebody else's preferred shade of red. I liked those days enough to forgive the rest.

My manager, Meena, stopped beside my chair.

“Have you looked at the bookshop brief?”

“Not yet. I thought it was Kabir's.”

“He's handling the website. I'd like you to develop the visual concept.”

I opened the folder she sent. A small independent bookshop wanted an identity for a series of readings and workshops. They needed posters, signs, and a way to connect the events without making them look identical.

“Can I propose illustrations?” I asked.

“That's why I'm giving it to you.”

For the first time all day, I felt certain about something.

“I'll have options by Thursday.”

“Show me a rough direction tomorrow. Don't disappear into your own head for three days.”

She moved on. I stared at the brief and imagined little windows opening inside a printed page.

My phone lit up.

Anika: Did you get to work on time?

Me: Yes. A tragedy for the potato sellers who were expecting my attention.

Anika: Proud of your commitment.

I smiled, then turned the phone face down when Kabir walked past.

He didn't even look at it. I watched his back and thought about the moment my fingers had loosened on the street.

Being afraid of discovery was exhausting, especially when nobody was trying to discover anything.

After work, Ritu met me outside a snack shop and stole one of the two bags I was carrying.

“This one is warmer,” she said. “Therefore, mine.”

We walked to a quiet stretch of wall near her house. She sat on it, opened the bag, and began explaining why an interview panel should not be allowed to contain more than three people.

“One person asks the question,” she said. “The others watch you fail. It's organized humiliation.”

“You haven't failed yet.”

“I'm preparing emotionally.”

I stood beside her until she patted the space next to her.

“Sit down. You're making me feel like I've been detained.”

I sat. A woman carrying a shopping basket walked past and greeted Ritu. We waited until she had gone.

“I broke up with Rohan,” I said.

Ritu lowered the snack in her hand.

“When?”

“Saturday.”

“Oh, Mira. Why didn't you call me?”

“I needed to think.”

“Were you okay?”

“Not really.”

She put the bag between us and turned toward me.

“Was he horrible?”

“No. He was hurt.”

“Those are different.”

“I know.”

She waited. For once, she wasn't making a joke to help me through the silence.

“There was someone else,” I said.

Ritu blinked. “Someone I know?”

I looked down at my hands.

“Anika.”

A bicycle bell sounded behind us. Ritu moved her feet out of the way, then looked at me again.

“Anika?”

“Yes.”

“Have you talked to her?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“She feels the same. I think.”

“You think?”

“She said she does. I'm trying to believe her.”

Ritu was quiet long enough for me to panic.

“Say something.”

“I'm deciding which thing to say first.”

“The kind thing.”

She set her bag down and hugged me awkwardly on the narrow wall.

“Is this kind enough?”

I nodded against her shoulder.

“Good. Because my next question is whether this explains what happened to your spoon on Friday.”

I laughed into her shirt.

“You noticed?”

“You moved like Sana had announced she was taking Anika out of the country.”

“I thought I was subtle.”

“Gravity disagreed.”

When she let go, my eyes were wet. She reached into her bag and offered a packet of tissues.

“Do you carry those for everybody?” I asked.

“For myself. The interviews haven't started yet.”

I took one.

“Does this change anything for you?” I asked.

Ritu frowned. “About our friendship?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“You don't have to answer quickly.”

“I didn't need time.”

The simplicity of that answer made me cry properly. She let me, occasionally holding the snack bag open in case I wanted to eat through it.

Eventually, I told her about the tea date. About the question Anika had asked. About taking her hand and almost letting go when a stranger came close.

Ritu listened, then wiped crumbs off her lap.

“You need to talk to her about what you're ready for,” she said.

“I know.”

“And what she needs. Those might not be the same yet.”

“Since when have you become sensible?”

“People let me near medicine now. It's unsettling.”

I folded the tissue into a little square.

“Please don't tell anyone.”

“I won't.”

“Not even Anika that I told you. I'll tell her myself.”

“All right.”

“And not your sister.”

“Mira. I understand.”

I looked at her. She wasn't impatient, only firm. I nodded and stopped adding people to the list.

A few minutes later, her phone rang. Her mother wanted to know whether she had ironed the interview shirt. Ritu said yes, then looked at me and whispered that ironing was a flexible concept.

We finished the food before she went home.

On the way back, I called Anika.

“I told Ritu,” I said when she answered.

“What did you tell her?”

“That we went on a date. And that I'm trying to understand what I feel.”

Anika was quiet.

“Was that okay?” I asked.

“Yes. Thank you for telling me.”

“She won't tell anyone.”

“I trust Ritu.”

“I asked her not to tell you either. Then I realized that sounded strange, so I'm telling you myself.”

“I appreciate this complicated system.”

I smiled. The lane ahead of me was crowded with parked scooters. I stepped carefully between them.

“Can I ask about Sana?”

“You can.”

“Were those coffees dates?”

“One was. The other was coffee.”

“What's the difference?”

“What you agree you're doing.”

I stopped walking.

“I've made this difficult for you, haven't I?”

“You haven't forced me to do anything.”

“But you've been seeing someone.”

“Not seriously. I spoke to her yesterday.”

“What did you say?”

“That I wanted to see where something else might go. She understood.”

I pressed the phone more tightly to my ear.

“You didn't have to do that yet.”

“I know. I wanted to be clear with her.”

There was no accusation in her voice. That made her choice feel larger.

“What did she say?”

“She told me to stop looking like a worried teacher whenever you walked into a room.”

I laughed. “You do that?”

“Apparently.”

“Did she know?”

“She suspected.”

I thought about Anika watching me across the low table. All those years when I believed I was the only one looking.

“Can I see you Saturday?” I asked.

“You can see me before Saturday.”

“I'm developing a bookshop concept at work. I want to do a good job.”

“That sounds interesting. Tell me.”

So I did. I described the illustrations and the workshops, getting carried away enough that I walked past my own gate.

“Where are you?” she asked eventually.

“Outside somebody else's house.”

“Should I be concerned?”

“Only about my navigational abilities.”

When we hung up, I turned back. For the first time, talking to Anika about my day felt like something I had chosen, rather than something I did because she had always been there.

Inside, Mum was folding clothes. I sat beside her and helped match socks that seemed to belong to at least four different households.

“Did Ritu get her interview?” she asked.

“Tomorrow.”

“Tell her to eat before she goes. People forget when they're nervous.”

“I will.”

She handed me one of Dad's socks.

“Have you spoken to Rohan?”

“No. He asked for space.”

“That's sensible.”

I nodded.

She kept folding. I could feel a question waiting between us, but she didn't ask it.

“Mum?”

“Yes?”

“What if the future I want looks different from the one you imagined?”

She put a folded shirt on the pile.

“Different how?”

“I don't know yet.”

“Then perhaps find out before you ask me to imagine it.”

It wasn't a cruel answer. It wasn't an invitation either. I picked up another sock.

After a moment, she touched my shoulder.

“Whatever happens, don't stop talking to me because you think I'll dislike every answer.”

I looked at her.

“I'll try,” I said.

That night, I opened a blank page on my laptop. At the top, I wrote: What I know.

Under it, I wrote Anika's name.

Then I added: My work matters. Ritu is still Ritu. I owe Rohan the distance he asked for. I am allowed to take time.

I looked at the page for a long while before typing the sentence that frightened me most.

Taking time cannot mean asking her to wait forever.

By Thursday, I had drawn twelve little windows, rejected nine, and spilled tea over a notebook containing all three survivors.

Kabir offered to photograph the stain and call it an artistic direction.

Meena told me to scan the drawings before I destroyed anything else. Then she chose the one in which a window opened inside a book, with a tiny lamp illuminating the page.

“Develop this,” she said. “It's inviting without being childish.”

I tried not to smile too obviously.

“And simplify the frame.”

There was always something.

I worked late enough that Dad called to ask whether I had accidentally taken the house key to a different country. At home, Nabin wanted me to inspect a drawing he had made on the back of an old worksheet.

“Anika told me to bring a sketchbook,” he said. “I'm deciding whether to admit defeat early.”

The drawing showed our kitchen. Mum stood beside the stove. Dad was half hidden behind his newspaper, and I appeared to be pointing at something with an arm twice as long as the rest of me.

“Why am I built like a crane?”

“You move around when you complain. It's difficult to capture.”

I studied the drawing again.

“You got Mum's expression right.”

“She'll be delighted to hear her permanent disappointment is recognizable.”

“You're good, Nabin.”

He looked away so quickly that I almost missed his pleasure.

“Don't tell anybody,” he said. “I have a reputation.”

“I understand. We wouldn't want people thinking you have interests.”

He pushed my shoulder and took the drawing back.