Meera's day

Sunday, 10:14 a.m., her mother calls from Jaipur with the intonation that means she already knows the answer. Meera sits on the Andheri kitchen counter with the door alarm still in plastic at her feet and lies about the Teej fasting she has not done, then lies about the suhag rat ki kheer she has not eaten, while her mother moves on to the engagement photos of a Jaipur cousin whose name she pretends to remember. The phone is on speaker, the kitchen smells of reheated dal and her own unwashed hair, and her mother asks, in the exact tone, whether the fasting is for some boy whose name Meera is about to be told. Meera says no, and the no tastes like a small door shutting; her mother sighs the sigh that lives under every Sunday call. After the call ends Meera opens the Canva tab to start the peach-and-marigold Teej card her mother would have wanted. Decision: she has not yet said the Karjat staircase out loud to Jaipur, and the lying is heavier than the fasting would have been.