A girl in Delhi has a brilliant mind and secrets darker than the nights that won't let her eyes close.
She lives in the Labyrinth, a place that always seems dim, even in the middle of the day. There, customers flock in their dozens, and there, th...
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The bricks cool under the moon, and Yashvi stands barefoot on them. Their chill travels up her legs and reaches her chest to beat there, as she fills her lungs with midnight before slipping her sandals back on.
She knows the way out of the Labyrinth by heart now. You just need to follow the hoots of the owls. She and Prisha linger another moment in the courtyard, their breaths misting. Then it's time to move in case a goonda sees.
Is running forever any kind of existence? The city answers this question the only way it can, with sirens and foghorns. It inspires the girls to dance in the wafts of its bakeries and the flickers on its skyline. It curls its satellite wings over rejects the world round and promises a street for walking, a bench for resting. Only shadows and wind out here. Only sensations at their rawest.
Prisha takes Yashvi to the Delhi Public Library. A wobbly young scholar lurches through the rotating glass doors. He trips on nothing or maybe fatigue and performs a sort of tap-dance in order to balance himself. A cowlick loops over his scruffy nest of hair like a baby bird. Passing the girls, he murmurs, "Namaste."
Prisha struts for the doors to enter where he exited. Yashvi yanks at her arm. "We can't go in there!"
"Of course we can." Prisha points to some placard. "Open twenty-four seven for students. Couldn't we be students?"
Yashvi won't bother to read the sign.
"Not with our clothes." She gestures at her plain strapless dress, then at Prisha's.
"You worry so much about everything." Prisha extends a finger to tap the younger girl's nose once and then, softer, again. "Stop making excuses for not doing what you want in life."
"Last week there were gunshots in—"
"That was last week! Stop talking about last week. Quit living in the past!"
Before Yashvi can respond, Prisha grabs her by the elbow. "Ow!" Yashvi tries to pry loose the other girl's grip, but fails and gets dragged into the building, the city's rabble stifled the instant the rotating doors twist shut.
Inside, the air contains a mild, sweet burning of incense, a homey stuffiness. Seated at a wooden desk, a sweatered woman peels into a tangerine. Colossal slabs of timber span out in rows flowering subtly outward. Prisha calls them bookshelves, though Yashvi has never seen shelves so big. On them flicker books of every size and gloss—plastic, leather, agate—thick spines of dictionaries, medium spines of novels, thin spines of magazines, all scattered in a canyon of wood.
The girls shuffle past an area Prisha whisperingly dubs "The Quiet Zone," her finger pressed against her lips for emphasis. She directs Yashvi to labels on the ends of each shelf. "This is how you find the type of literature you seek. It takes a while to get used to, but you can always ask the lady at the reference desk for help."
