Madhavi and I always race through the stone alley behind our houses to the makbara. The alley is rough; once I tripped and split my chin open. Five stitches. Since then, I don’t run fast. Madhavi wins the races, but I climb the monument quicker.
We call it a monument, though it’s just a broken wall of Mughal architecture. Jagged stone, warm in the day, mossy in the cracks where lizards laze. Today she is Bahlol Lodi, and I am Bibi Amba—the poor carpenter’s shy and beautiful daughter. I hide behind one side of the wall, pining for the Sultan. We marry surrounded by the petals of ten thousand roses. Then comes the news of an invasion; Delhi is under threat. We arm ourselves and lead our invisible militaries to protect the city.
We’re writing this play. When we grow up, we’ll run away to Mumbai and turn it into a movie. Our families want us to be doctors; we want to be actors.
But the sun is setting now, and it’s suddenly chilly. There are no lights here, and my mother says strange men roam here at night. We should leave. I jump first, then reach up for Madhavi. She lands with a thud; our faces brush. I pull my hand back. Last week, when we hugged, she said something funny had happened to her down there. I didn’t want to think about it, but something had fluttered in my belly too.
“See you Sunday,” Madhavi says as she runs home.
Sunday is hair-washing day. After our mothers scrub our scalps with warm shikakai water, we race to the makbara, climb the wall, and lie on the stones with our hair spread out to dry in the winter sun. That’s when we imagine our stories.
Sunday arrives. At eleven sharp, Madhavi stands under my annex, and I rush down with my wet hair, my teeth chattering. We hurry past the gossiping Nepali maids to the makbara. The noise has died down. We start climbing; a lizard peeks out from a crack; I yelp, lose balance, and scrape my palm. My skin splits; a few drops of blood well up.
Madhavi presses her palm over mine. The pain fades almost instantly.
We take our usual hair-drying positions, silent. “My hand is fine now,” I whisper. “You can let go.”
But she doesn’t.
And I don’t want her to.