Chapter 3

Akira

I was ready for orientation. I had enough time to make myself a cup of chai and have some breakfast. Megha, one of my roommates, bumped into me on my way to the kitchen. She was a computer science student, and their classes had already begun two weeks before the rest of us roommates, which put her in a pissy mood every morning. “What are you doing up so early? And why are you all dressed up?”

“Good morning to you too. And today’s my orientation. You want some chai?” I asked.

Her eyes widened, and she moaned, “Oh God, you are the best. I’ll have a cup.”

While she ran to the bathroom to freshen up, I got the chai ready. It was my one true weakness and my ultimate strength. I needed Indian tea—aka chai—to get my motor running. And so did all three of my Indian roommates.

I’d made a conscious decision to find Indian roommates. It was my first time moving out and living on my own. I didn’t need to make it more challenging by living with people of a different culture. Living with other Indian women gave me a sense of belonging and comfort. By the time I had everything prepared, Megha was ready for her classes. I handed her the cup, and I was about to sit down on the barstool at the kitchen counter when my phone rang. Mummy video calling…

“Hey, Mummy.”

“Akira, you ready for your first day?”

The loud chatter of the kids flittered in the background. It was almost dinnertime in India.

“Yeah.”

I showed her my favorite orange blouse and white jeans that we’d bought together. Mom squinted at the screen and said, “Oh, Akira, you look beautiful.” “Thanks, Mummy. So, how’s everyone? Find any girls for Aakar?”

I loved riling up my mom. Especially when it was about my brothers. Aakar was twenty-eight, and Mom had been actively looking for a girl for him to marry for a few years now. She was obsessed with getting us married off—especially Aakar. The first thing she’d said when I’d announced my wish to get my master’s was, “If you plan to study at twenty-six, when will you get married?”

I sipped my chai as Mom said, “You won’t believe it. I have tried to show your brother two perfectly good women since you left, and he refused to meet both. Again. He doesn’t even look at their photos, just outright rejects them. Do you know how many women I’ve tried to show him this past year?” I was pretty sure I’d be getting a call from Aakar within the next few hours. Thankfully, I would be in my classes then. I took a few sips of my chai as my mom called some of the family members around her to wish me luck for my first day. We talked while I had my breakfast, and I told everyone I needed to leave after a few more minutes.

“Don’t forget to have some curd and sugar, Akira. For good luck.”

I’ve no idea what good that did, but Mom had been feeding me that combination for good luck for every new beginning. It hasn’t failed me yet, so why risk it for my first day in grad school? Hopefully, the Indian good luck gods are active in America. I nodded. “Okay. I’ll have it. Now bye, Mummy. I need to leave.”

“Bye, beta. Let me know how your day goes later. God bless you.”

After eating a spoonful of curd and sugar, which tastes like sweet yogurt, I ran out the door and down the three flights of stairs to the main entrance of my building. The fresh, crisp air of New York greeted me as soon as I stepped outside. It’d been a week since I came to New York, and I was amazed by the hot weather. I don’t know why, but I imagined New York to be cold all the time. I looked around the street as I walked to the campus. Why did

people have their eyes stuck to their phones when there was so much to see? Like all the symmetrical and ornamental facades of the buildings, and the diversity among the people. In India, virtually everyone looked just like

me. Ahmedabad, my hometown, doesn’t get as many tourists as some other popular cities. But ever since I’d stepped foot in New York, I’d been surrounded by people from all around the world. American. Chinese. Japanese. African. Some I couldn’t even figure out. Since arriving in the US, I’d yet to have a conversation with anyone who wasn’t Indian. I wanted to, but it made me nervous. But no problem—I was going to orientation today with optimism and the assumption that everyone would be friendly and awesome. I was excited to make a few good friends here. Yes. And like Pappa says, Confidence is the key. And a smile. That too. I was huffing and puffing by the time I’d walked the stupid uphill and downhill streets of the city and reached the campus. By the time I’d reached my building, my calves were burning, and sweat had gathered under my arms, on my upper lips, and rolling down my forehead. Please, God, don’t let this be a disaster. As I stood outside the closed doors of the classroom, I blew out a

breath, said a silent prayer to Lord Ganesha, a god for new beginnings, and pushed the door open.

The first thought that came to my mind was it looked like a funeral. Almost everyone in the room was wearing black. Was there a dress code I didn’t know about? I was about to turn around to go back home and change when one of the professors came up to me and introduced herself. “Hi, I’m Lily Bennett. I’ll be teaching History of American Architecture.” “Hello, Professor Bennett. I’m Akira Mishra.” It was the first time a professor had walked up to me to introduce herself. In my undergrad in India, it had always been the other way around. She offered me a genuine smile and shook my hand and said, “We’re still waiting on a few people. Please have a seat. There are coffee and donuts at the back. Feel free to grab something.” I turned to where she pointed and went for the donuts and coffee.

Once I’d grabbed a donut, I walked toward the front of the class and picked an empty seat on the second row. The moment I got seated, another professor, who introduced himself as Mr. Evan Smith, handed me a big folder that contained all the course documents, maps of the building, and other requirement lists. Once he was gone and I had arranged my folder, a book, and some pens on the table, I took a bite from my donut and looked around.

More faculty members sat at the long desk, facing us at the front. Nerves fluttered in my stomach at seeing the assortment of students, some sitting quietly and going over their documents, and some talking among themselves. Would someone approach me to talk? Should I? What would I say? Would they understand my accent? Only one way to figure that out. I turned to look at the guy sitting beside me—a handsome white guy in a black shirt, black jeans, and black-framed glasses. He was among the few people who were quietly reading the contents of the folder the professor had handed out. A frown marred his forehead as he read—he even took notes. Should I disturb him?

I might’ve been staring a little too long at him, because he turned his face to me, and raised his eyebrows. His eyes, hidden behind his black-rimmed glasses, were a vivid combination of blue and gray. I had a hard time looking away. Keep your face neutral, Akira. Do not show your nerves. He’s just a good-looking guy. With beautiful eyes. No big deal. Keep your cool. Offer a handshake to him, and just introduce yourself. “Hi, I’m Akira.” I offered my hand.

The guy stared at my suspended hand for a little longer than I would’ve liked. Not awkward at all. I was about to pull back when he pushed up his glasses and took my hand.

“Sam White.”

Thankfully, I didn’t snort at his last name. “Pleased to meet you, Sam. Have you been to New York before?”

His brows scrunched up a little. Guess he wasn’t expecting any further questions. Sam cleared his throat and put his pen in the small pocket of the folder as he said, “Umm…yeah. I’ve worked in the city for five years. And I grew up in upstate New York.” “That’s so awesome.” I couldn’t imagine living near the city, and he had grown up around here. Sam’s eyes were scrunched up in confusion, probably wondering why I found his living arrangements awesome. I was about to ask for recommendations on places I should visit in the city when the professors announced that they were ready to begin. Both of us turned toward the stage, where five professors had lined up. Each took a few minutes to introduce themselves and explain a little about what they were going to teach us for the first semester. The dean of our department announced that we were a cohort of forty students. Then it was time for the students to introduce themselves. We were asked to tell everyone our name and a little about ourselves—where we were from, our undergrad experience, why we chose to pursue a higher degree, etc. Introductions began, and I couldn’t wait to hear what everyone had to say. There were about fifteen people before me, and among them, eight were from different parts of the US, five from China, one from Sri Lanka, one from Kenya, and one from Brazil. Each of them gave passionate reasons for why they wanted to pursue a master’s in architecture.

It was finally my turn.

I straightened my shoulders and said, “Hello, everyone. I’m Akira Mishra. I’m from Ahmedabad, a city in the western part of India. I did my bachelor’s in architecture. I decided to pursue my master’s because it’s my dream to work as an architect in a place where our profession is valued. I want to live in a city filled with structures designed by master architects. It wouldn’t hurt if the buildings I design in the future get to share a space with buildings like the Empire State Building, Grand Central, and One World Trade Center. I want to learn to design buildings in a manner that is more sensitive toward the environment, the people, the history, and the culture of the place. And finally, I want to be an architect in a city where I can make it on my own. The chances of that happening in India are slim. Architects aren’t, you know, paid well in India. Or at all.” Why did I have to mention Indians not getting paid enough? They didn’t want to know that. My cheeks were burning with embarrassment. The only relief was that a few people laughed at that. Professor Lily said, “Thank you, Akira. We wish you all the success in making it in New York. We hope this course helps you along in your journey.”

I felt a rush of relief as she moved on to the next student. I guess I had an answer to whether or not people could understand my accent—the question I wondered now was whether they would be interested to hear anything I had to say.

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