“Kuhu. Kuhu. Kuuhu.”

Soft laughter cuts into my off-kilter song. Maa rolls a sweet between her palms. Slow,indulgent circles of her wrists. Golden sugar that drips to her elbows. Sweets the color of marigolds.

I am home and it is raining.

“What do the birds sing to you, my mynah?”

A familiar curiosity. The fondness of a mother. A smile between conspirators. I rise on my toes once again. A precarious balance on wet marble floors. Tilting my soft cheeks still unmarred by time towards the onslaught of rain, I meet the mynah’s dark eyes.

“She sings to me of the rain, Maa.”

The mynah is a little girl stuck at home on a rainy day. She sings of hope. Of love and of life.

The mynah is just a bird. There are no monsoons here. And I can never go home.

~

A light bulb swings over my head. Ominous amber rays swish across a humid bathroom stall. It is summer now. Sweat permeates the starchy cotton of my uniform, seeping into the delicate crevice in between my heaving breasts. A folded paper chit the size of a bee. Sloppy handwriting that stings. The condensation of teen spirit on my upper lip.

I love you.

There is a boy. With soft wrinkles on his shirts and wide, colorless smiles. Who glides down high school hallways while I stumble. Who holds court at lunch while I hide. Who undresses me with his eyes with the inelegance of a sixteen-year-old boy.

But, I love you.

A history class Ms. Parvin has taught one too many times. A note that passes six hands. The surprise in my kohl-rimmed eyes. His swaggering smile. A whispered invitation hanging in the air along with kings and colonizers.

He does not know the books I read. Or the shade of blue I paint my nails when I’m happy. Or the sour tamarinds I hide under my bed.

But, I love you.

The girls tell me that’s all that matters. Three words. Empty and loud and secret. Sticky like the summer heat. I pull at my cheeks to bring out a pink that does not exist. Because there is a boy.

Because. I love you.

~

It is still summer and there is a vulture nestled between my thighs. He no longer writes his feelings on paper chits. Instead, he claws his way down my flesh with the taste of decay on his lips.

Thump. Thump. Thump. My head hits the leather seat of a sports car I cannot name. A fist greasy with victory twines through the dark strands.

I had a red ribbon for all that hair. One that Maa would twist into the prettiest of bows. The smell of coconuts. An ivory comb. Cool fingers on my brow.

I am a bloody carcass on leather sheets. A warm breeze creeps in through a gap in the window. It is stifling in this car. I must find my skirt with yellow daisies, my girlhood, and my white panties.

I’m still searching.

~

The leaves change color and I think it might be autumn here. Cool winds caress my toes that stick out of a quilt of the brightest pink.

My grandmother’s house smells of ghee. It is late afternoon as I devour a bowl full of red lychees. Their iridescent juice slowly crawls down my chin. Nani wipes my puckered mouth with the corner of her white saree. She is weaving a blanket for me in the brightest pink wool. She calls this color “Rani” or “Queen.” She thinks the name fits me.

But there are no queens here, only silent girls with numb bodies. The blue light of my phone is harsh on my weary eyes. Crows line the electric wires outside my window. They peek inside. Maybe they too, want in on the endless stream of messages filtering in.

That ass is barely a six.

Yeah, but the rack is a ten.

Hmm. I would say seven.

Maybe an eight once that cheap dress is off.

Did you hear about that night last summer?

Slut. Slut. Slut.

Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.

~

I am no longer home and winter is not the same. My fingers stick to the handrails of the New York subway. Paralyzed, peeling, red like Christmas candy. The train swerves to the right. I follow the motion with a hundred other bodies. I try to form a thought. Maybe the cold has crept through my ears and into my brain, freezing it permanently. I cannot think.

Maybe that is how life here is supposed to be. Movement, movement, silent mind.

The train swerves to the left. I stand still against the wave of alien limbs. I think I can hear the blackbirds sing.

~

I don’t know what season it is anymore. But it is raining. With thunder and lightning and hail. I leave the window open. The wooden flaps bang against the wall in tandem, violently calling to me.

I ruffle through my scarce belongings inside the rotting wardrobe across from my bed. A white saree as soft as the doves I see flitting across the sky. The blackest kohl to line my eyes. A red ribbon to tie it all together.

The raindrops have finally reached me. Cold and prickly, they carry the scent of sweets. Maa’s twinkling laugh. The song of the mynah. I close my eyes and start laughing.

Maybe that is how they find me. Wrapped in a five-day-old white bedsheet. Black tears tracking down my cheeks. Ribbons of red blood emerging from my wrists. Or maybe they find me dancing in the rain. Singing to the mynah. Flying back home.

It is monsoon again.