M. A slipper

I came back from my interview feeling awful. I was super nervous the whole time. Everyone else seemed to have studied so much. I kept telling myself "just be yourself" over and over. But when I had to introduce myself, my mind went blank. I somehow managed to say something, but the words came out all wrong and mixed up. I felt so embarrassed. All that preparation, and I still messed up.

When I got home, I saw Shraddha's door was open. Everything was a mess her painting stuff was all over the place. Mom wasn't home either. I got scared and asked,

"What happened here?"

She ran to me and hugged me, crying hard. Her tears were getting all over my light green formal shirt. I didn't know how to react to the hug—no one had ever hugged me before. It felt weird, and I usually get mad when people touch me. But this time, getting mad didn't feel right. I held myself back and asked again,

"Shraddha, what happened?"

She said, "Someone took my painting and said it was theirs. I made it! They bought it from me for 1,000 rupees. Now I see online that everyone's talking about them. He's this big-shot painter. Why do these things always happen to me? Everyone's saying such nice things about his painting!"

I thought for a bit. I was angry too, but what could we do? I said,

"Shraddha, you sold it to him. Now it's his to do whatever with. When you become famous yourself, then you can make him pay. Right now, we don't have money to fight him. You'll lose everything. Think about it."

She slowly stopped crying but kept sniffling. She wiped her face on my shirt—probably her nose too. Right then, for the first time ever, I felt good about helping someone. Her warm body against mine wasn't weird or anything. It was like hugging a dog for the first time, feeling their warmth and how calm they are. Not like hugging a pillow—this was a real person. It felt so nice and cozy that I got sleepy. I'd come home all stressed out, but instead of throwing stuff around like I usually do, I was just breathing easy.

Her shampoo smelled kind of weird but not bad. There was something special about how she smelled. Her hands were just resting on my waist, not too tight. Her palms were open.

She pulled back, wiped her eyes, and went to sit on her bed. She looked lost in thought. Her eyes were wet and angry, but mostly frustrated, like she couldn't do anything about what happened. That thought was eating her up, and I bet she was thinking, "Why does this always happen to me?"

I stood there thinking for a bit, then gave her a water bottle. After she drank some, I said,

"You messed up my shirt. You'll have to wash it," trying to sound as annoyed as I could.

"Really? That's what you're worried about? You're so selfish. I only meet people like you!"

Good, at least she's thinking about being mad at me now. "You think you're some kind of saint?"

"Yes, I am. Maro bhool to loko par bharoso karvi hati. (My mistake was trusting people.)"

"Then don't trust anyone! Do they pay you to trust them?"

"Get out of my room! Don't mess with my head, Tane dhokla ni tarah katine kha jau! (I'll cut you like a dhokla and eat you!)"

"Oh, you know boxing?"

"Huh?" She looked around for something to hit me with but only found her paintbrush. When that didn't work, she said,

"I have a slipper."

"Tahole amar kichui hobe na. ( Nothing will happen to me.) You can't even kill a fly. Doesn't hurt."

She yanked her slipper off like she was really going to throw it, but when our eyes met, something changed. She looked at the slipper in her hand, then at me, and slowly put it back on. Her face softened a bit.

"Stop trying to make me feel better," she mumbled, running her fingers through her messy hair. "Just go away. All this drama for nothing." The anger in her voice was gone now, replaced by something little gentler. I felt a smile tugging at my lips but fought it back. If she saw me smiling now, she'd probably throw that slipper for real.

One thing was clear from that hug—she really trusts me. No matter how mad she gets, she thinks of me as hers, asks me for help, tells me everything. She might not say it, but I'm something to her. She just won't admit it. Sweet!