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The pungent scent of chai was what I always woke up to.
The scent wafted all the way from the kitchen to the courtyard before being blown towards my room upstairs. The chatter of men and occasional hollar of a street vender outside my window added to the morning song I knew as the beginning of my day.
In desi households, there is no perfect time for a cup of chai; when you wake up—your mornings start with chai. Finishing your breakfast means a good dose of chai is needed to digest your food, going to prepare lunch—you need chai to act as the energy drink. Chai is the go-to drink served to guests when they knock on the door without informing their arrival, and you can slip a cup in your name too. Stressed with something, chai relieves the nerves, going to take a nap, no sleeping medicine would compete with the peacefulness a fresh cup of chai would offer.
Chai was how my day began, and like chai, it flowed all day long with a sweet aftertaste in an otherwise butter cup.
The charpai creaked when I stretched, shaking my head off of the thoughts of the beverage. My lips let out an audible yawn before I covered them with my hand. The bedsheets bundled up at my feet were like restraints from freedom before I untangled myself and headed towards the wash basin at the other end of the room.
The sun was at its peak when I glanced out the window, the afternoon was approaching very quickly—and so would Ammiji, who hated when I woke up late.
The doors burst open like I expected, welcoming in Zubaidah, Ammiji's pet and my youngest sister. The self-proclaimed baby of the house stopped before me with her hands on her hips, a self-righteous look on her face.
"Late night again, Sheena Api?" She said, as if trying to prove a point. "Who was it this time, Ahmed from across the street or Kaiser from the shop?"
"Niklo yahan say." I push her aside, reaching for a towel to dab my wet face dry. Get out of here.
"Don't worry, I will check myself." She raced towards my weaved bed in search of my mobile.
"Give it back, you snitch!" I launched myself at her, discarding the towel on the floor.
My mobile was not simply a device for communication, it was my life. It connected me with the world, it served me in my freetime, it was as important to me as paan was for Abuji.
"Your battery is on twenty percent," Zubaidah noted, picking up the black device from near my feather pillow.
"Give it to me," I said slowly, trying my best to keep my tone calm.
My family did not understand my hobbies, and they had no respect for my lifestyle. They only understood what their little village minds could grasp—that I chatted with local boys late into the night. When in reality part of my nights were spent talking to my penpals in Germany, practicing my German with them, teaching them Urdu.
