I wish I could talk to Zayn about all this. He’s that one person with whom I can discuss this kind of shit without getting judged. Where is he when I need him the most? Why did he not tell me that he’d be gone for so long? Once he goes on his digital detox drive, only God knows when he’ll resurface. But yeah, I could’ve really used a friend today.

I could call Aunt Mannie. She knows me the most, and somehow, being dependent on her for emotional support has never sucked. She is my true soulmate.

Just as I pick up my phone to call her, I see a message from my new neighbour. We first met each other in the elevator a few days ago when I was on my way out to work. He didn’t have a cat or a dog, but he held the lift door open for me and smiled first. So, I returned the smile, and he said, ‘May you have a great day!’—that too, in Hindi.

Thrilled to find someone who spoke the same language as me, I asked him, ‘Did you just move into the building? Same floor as me, right?’

‘Yes, I’ve just moved in. You’re Indian?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’ I smiled.

‘Which part of the country?’

‘New Delhi. And you?’ I enquired.

‘I’m from Lahore actually,’ he replied.

‘Ah! It’s great to meet you,’ I replied. Indians, Pakistanis, Bangladeshis, Sri Lankans and Nepalis, we’re all in the same team here. We’re the brown people. So, when it’s brown versus white or black, we forget all the enmity that has been fed into our systems and band together. Our nationality just doesn’t matter here. This was a big lesson for me when I moved to the West.

‘Same here!’ he said politely.

We were both rushing to our respective workplaces, so we quickly exchanged numbers with a promise to catch up over a cup of masala chai soon. And that’s exactly what he was asking me to do today—to come over to his place and have chai. It’s such a rare kind of invitation to receive in downtown Chicago that I instantly write yes. And leaving the coffee to turn cold and the pizza to die another death, I find myself seated in his living room in a matter of ten minutes.

Shahnawaz looks like he’s in his late fifties and has an oddly comforting presence. Of average height, his salt-and-pepper hair and weathered face reflect his age and years of experience. There is a confidence in his demeanour that is enviable, and behind a pair of glasses, his chocolate-brown eyes twinkle with kindness.

‘The masala chai is brewing,’ he says. ‘I brought back some special spices from Lahore when I went home during the new year.’