I rap my knuckles on the door as loudly as possible.

“HURRY UP!”

There’s a low groan from inside the bathroom and I wonder for a moment if maybe Priti fell asleep inside. That image makes me feel a little better about having to get up at seven o’clock.

“Maybe don’t scream at me in the morning,” Priti croaks at me a few moments later, peeking her head into my bedroom. Her hair is a right mess. Wisps of it stick up every which way, and her eyelids are still drooping with sleep.

“Sorry.” I grin.

Ammu looks at us with pursed lips when Priti and I finally stumble down the stairs and into the kitchen.

“Did you even iron your skirt?” she asks Priti instead of wishing us a good morning. “It’s all wrinkled up!”

“I ironed it, I promise!” Priti cries defensively, looking down at the plaid skirt and trying to smooth out the few wrinkles with her hands. “It just … got a bit wrinkled when I put it on, is all.”

Ammu doesn’t look like she believes her, but her eyes skip over Priti and her semi-wrinkled skirt onto me. She seems to take me in for a moment, and I wait for the criticism that’s custom in our house. But it never comes. She turns away instead and allows us to reach for our bowls of cereal and milk.

I’ve never felt so horrid for not being criticized before. It feels like a slap in the face—like the ultimate criticism is this sudden lack of criticism.

I feel a lump rise to my throat as I stuff spoonfuls of cereal into my mouth. It tastes like cardboard. For a moment, I wonder if that’s to do with the fact that we’ve spent all summer eating the breakfasts of Maharajas and now are back on a Western diet of cereal; I already miss waking up to the smell of porotas or khichuri, and eating all together in the kitchen like messy Desis, getting our hands down and dirty.

Now, I wonder if we’ll ever have that again. Not just because the summer is over, but because of my revelation.

Priti and I almost miss the bus, and have to run to catch it before it leaves the stop. We’re both panting as we slip onto a bus that’s full to bursting.

“Should we try upstairs?” Priti asks in a deflated huff as the two of us squeeze our way through the crowd.

“Priti …”

“I know, I know.”

We eventually manage to squeeze into a corner with a handrail within reach. The bus gives a lurch as it starts up and I almost fall onto the lap of the guy sitting in the corner seat. Priti grabs me and I give him a sheepish look.

“I’m so sorry.” He shoots me a sleepy glare before going back to staring at his phone.