[Mumbai, India]
Shanaya Thakur
Exhaaaale, the impossibly serene yoga guru cooed from my laptop screen, as if she wasn't filming this from a sun-drenched Bali villa, untouched by human misery.
I obeyed, releasing a breath so deep I could practically feel my soul escaping through my nostrils.
Inhaaaale.
Fine. Deep breath in. Fresh oxygen swirled through my veins like liquid clarity, momentarily flushing out the lingering cocktail of yesterday's frustration, bad decisions, and that one text I absolutely should not have sent at 2 AM.
Exhaaaale.
Right. Focus, Shanaya. Cleanse the drama. Center your chi. Or at least pretend you have chi.
Inhaaa—
"SHANAYAAA!!"
The shriek hit me like a flying sandal from an Indian auntie during a family reunion — sudden, loud, and carrying deep, ancestral disappointment. I nearly inhaled my own tonsils, spluttered, and choked on air, which, in hindsight, felt like a wildly unnecessary way to die.
My zen instantly murdered.
Goodbye, inner peace. It was fun while it lasted.
I whipped around.
There she was. A full-blown natural disaster in human form, masquerading as a woman who maybe, just maybe, had been personally wronged by the universe before breakfast. Five-foot-nothing of pure, unfiltered chaos. Her hair looked like it had waged war against both gravity and basic hygiene, and her eyes were stretched so wide, she might've just discovered the apocalypse happening exclusively in our living room.
She barreled down the stairs in an oversized T-shirt that screamed I Don't Compete, I Dominate — a bold claim for someone whose greatest conquest last week was an entire family-size bag of Cheetos — and shorts so microscopic they could barely be classified as clothing under international law.
Meet Zeel. My best friend since law school. Also my current roommate. Well — apartment-mate, if we're being technical about it. A temporary squatter in my 3BHK ever since she got spectacularly evicted from her PG last month for reasons that, in all honesty, deserve their own Netflix true crime docuseries. Spoiler alert: it involved her boyfriend, a precarious window ledge, and a landlady with the moral flexibility of a Victorian nun.
"SHANAYA!" she shrieked again, came barreling into the living room, skidding to a halt like a caffeinated Looney Tunes character discovering gravity mid-air.
I exhaled the kind of long-suffering sigh, snapped my laptop shut and met her with a deadpanned expression, "Okay. Rapid-fire guesses. Is it: One, our one-month roommate anniversary. Should I have gotten you flowers? Two, did Ryan Gosling die? Because I'm gonna need a three-day leave if so. Three, did you finally run out of that stupid overpriced matcha you pretend tastes good? Or… wait for it…" I paused, eyes narrowing, "four, did you finally get diagnosed with Mild Freak-Out-At-Everything Syndrome?"
Zeel gave me a tight-lipped smile—the kind serial killers probably practiced in the mirror. "Actually," she sniped, "I ran out of that matcha powder three years ago when someone"—her eyes pinned me like a butterfly in a specimen box—"stole it to paint grass green in some tragic art competition."
She even did air quotes around art competition, like the savage she was.
"And why?" She folded her arms, her scoff sharp enough to cut glass. "because you were flat broke and couldn't afford green paint."
I winced. It was a physical, muscle-twitching reaction as my brain unwillingly conjured images of those god-awful hostel days when our law degrees were theoretical, our diets were 80% instant noodles, and our personal hygiene routines were more aspirational than actualized.
"I was a creative spirit." I replied, scrunching my nose "It was my starving artist phase. Also, I won third prize, thank you very much."
Zeel huffed, dramatically tossing her hair over her shoulder. "Yeah, congrats, Picasso. Truly groundbreaking work for a twenty-five-year-old 'kid at heart'. Remind me—did you open a gallery with that tiny certificate of yours, or is it still collecting dust under your bed alongside your failed resolutions?"
"I could have," I sniffed, lifting my chin.
"You didn't."
I opened my mouth for a comeback. "At least I—"
"Nope." She steamrolled right over me, holding up a perfectly manicured finger. "Focus, Shanaya. I'm serious this time."
I gave a solemn nod, because here's the thing about me: I veer off-topic as if it's an Olympic sport. And honestly? It's both a personality flaw and my favorite hobby.
People had opinions. I didn't care.
"Do you know what today is?"
I looked around, scanning the walls, the aggressively Pinterest-worthy sofa, the coffee table that cost more than my monthly rent used to, the random art gallery corner I pretended wasn't just an excuse to hoard pretty things, and then back at Zeel.
"No," I offered, flashing a sheepish grin. "Should I be terrified?"
Her eyes narrowed to slits, hands on her hips like an offended flamingo. "You absolutely should. Because if you don't, you're about to miss out on something monumental and spend the rest of your life buried under a mountain of second-hand embarrassment. And I will be right there, narrating each and every horrifying detail to you."
I squinted, as though her face might start spelling out the answer if I concentrated hard enough. Spoiler alert: it didn't.
"Worse..." she added, "...than that time your lovesick ex sent a three-page love letter to your dad instead of you."
I flinched. Physically. My entire body recoiled as if I'd just swallowed a lemon whole. That memory lived rent-free in the penthouse of my nightmares.
"Why must you always serve the most disturbing analogies?" I demanded, throwing up my hands. "I feel like a naked, unarmed man being chased by a SWAT team."
"Because it's fun," she grinned, looking no less than a cat who'd just knocked a glass off the table. "Anyway—it's your result day!" She performed an exaggerated jazz-hands flourish, as if announcing the end of the world. "Your licensure exam results, Sweetie!"
All irritation, sarcasm, and murderous thoughts melted into a puddle of cold dread. My stomach dropped. My soul momentarily left the chat.
"How could I…?" The words came out half-choked, half-panicked.
"Be this oblivious to your own doom? I ask myself that every day."
I didn't catch the rest of her smug lecture because my brain was already galloping down a dark tunnel of what ifs.
What if I failed?
What if I didn't make it past the 320 mark out of 400? Or worse — what if I bombed it so catastrophically that the exam board sent me a conciliatory bouquet of lilies and a Hallmark card that read "We're so sorry for your loss"?
What if I got stuck here? Another year shackled to the desk of Mr. Rao — self-declared emperor of Law, a man whose mood swings were more erratic than Wi-Fi in a basement, and whose cologne was definitely not cologne?
What if I had to endure another sea of dusty law books, vintage papers for a solid prep and sobbing at 2 AM while Zeel spat out Pinterest quotes like, "Tough times don't last but tough people do," and I fantasized about launching her out the window?
What if she got married, had kids, bought a house, while I became 'that aunt who never graduated from life'?
I would—
"HELLO?" Zeel snapped her fingers so close to my face that she exfoliated me. "Earth to Shanaya. Sanity check?"
Without a word, I shoved my black laptop toward her like it was a cursed artifact. "I'm shitless scared to death," I admitted, my voice cracking. "You open the link. I can't. Wait—what time it is going to go live?"
Zeel looked at me like I'd just asked if sky was blue. "Ten-freaking-a.m."
"What time is it now?" I desperately emphasized.
She pulled her phone from her pocket. "Oh wow," she responded with a mock-angelic smile "We are so on time. It's 10:30. Let's time travel. Shall we?"
"Oh for the love of all things holy—be quick."
"Oh, now you want me to be quick? Should I sprint for emergency matcha too? Or maybe paint you a grassland while I'm at it?"
I threw her my best 'I will disown you as my best friend' glare. "I'm sorry, okay? Just—look at it." I gestured toward the laptop as if it was a time bomb.
She gave a tight-lipped smirk and allowed herself to be physically dragged to the sofa. I practically body-slammed her down, placed the laptop in front of her like a sacrificial offering, and hovered behind (a solid three feet away) trying not to hyperventilate.
She tapped the keyboard with those dagger-like, freshly manicured nails, while I stood at strategic distance trying best to not freak out.
"Send me the link," she demanded without looking up.
"I already WhatsApped you," I gritted out.
"Okay," she said, like a mob boss about to decide if I lived or died.
Three minutes later.
That was all it took.
Three, eternity-long, soul-flaying minutes.
Her fingers stilled. Her eyes flickered. Widened a fraction.
She turned toward me, and in that moment — I swear on every deity, every karmic entity, and whatever poor, underpaid soul was grading my paper — I forgot how to breathe.
"Well?" I croaked.
Her face was an impenetrable fortress of unreadability.
And that, my folks, was somehow worse than every insult, every roast, every painful metaphor she'd ever flung at me.