Odors of the past lingered through the passageways of cement-patched buildings. The rain pinged against the rustic corrugated metal roofs. It was monsoon season.
A loud voice echoed through the percussion. “Go, before it gets any worse! And Veena, tie the bags before everything slips out. Your auntie is waiting.”
Veena sighed, looking from the rain dripping off the edge of the roof to the small window where her mother stood peeking through. “Okay, mom.”
Every Thursday at 3 o'clock, Veena would set out to bring home cooked meals and samosas to her aunt. The journey took 15 minutes by foot, which felt like an eternity in the onslaught of the season. There was, however, one thing that made it all worth it.
As soon as she walked through the door, Auntie Ira would always insist that Veena stay for tea time. The words were so practiced she could recite them herself: “I’ve made your favorite, masala chai. Don’t you want to tell me how it went with that other family? You don’t want to catch the last train. Quit being so picky—you have to marry to keep our bloodline going!”
Veena would nod appropriately, as if she were taking in her auntie’s sage and not at all unsolicited advice, and think instead about how much she missed her father. Maybe all of this wouldn’t be happening so soon if he were still alive. Still, her responses were equally as practiced: “I have to run back home. It’s going to pour.”
Instead of sitting for tea as she'd led her mother to believe, Veena would quickly chug the masala chai and secretly go wander around the town's flea market until she needed to be home before dusk.
Through all the copper tins, powdered spices, and other odds and ends at the outdoor bazaar, she'd spend her afternoons daydreaming of a forbidden land. One where no one would find her unless she wanted to be found. An utter obliteration—complete freedom. An island of soothing sweetness against a crush of saltiness. Bliss and chaos, calm waters, and erupting volcanoes.
As she watched the calloused hands of the shoemaker at work, Veena murmured to herself. “Maybe if I come more often I’ll turn into a flea, then no one would come looking for me.” The woman carefully arranged the tongue of a shoe and smiled as if she were in on the joke she couldn’t possibly have heard. Veena wondered what it would be like to be the cause of such a smile.
Losing herself in the golden glint of luxurious jewels, the spiraling patterns of ancient carpets, and the delicate floral notes of pineapple compote, Veena let the market transport her to the shores of her dreams, where she’d sleep in a bed of pearls. Perhaps not alone, either.
Her final stop before trudging back home was always the baker. Seeing his oil-slicked fingers dipping in and out of the dough, stretching it beyond wildest dreams, was the closest she came to excitement for her future.
She barely even felt the rain on the way back home. Instead the water felt like spray from a distant ocean, lapping up against toes curled in pleasure.
“I was just beginning to wonder where you’d got to!” her mom cried as she stepped dripping through the door. “My goodness, you’re absolutely soaked!”
Veena smiled. “I don’t mind.”
