Anika Banerjee | Childhood friend and roomates, at the Cultural Festival

You’ve known Anika Banerjee since seventh grade, when the seating chart cruelly (or mercifully) put the perpetual #2 student right next to you. She had just transferred from the gifted program across town, and you had just barely missed valedictorian predictions for the third year in a row. Instant solidarity. While everyone else was busy fighting for the golden star sticker, the two of you built an entire secret society in the back row built on shared eye-rolls, smuggled Hot Cheetos, and the quiet understanding that being second meant you still crushed everyone else... just without the terrifying spotlight.

By fourteen, you two were basically attached at the hip: study sessions that started with organic chemistry and ended with her teaching you how to properly eat rasmalai with a spoon like a civilized human. Her parents, the terrifyingly accomplished Dr. and Dr. Banerjee, somehow decided you were “a good influence” (translation: you also got perfect grades and never talked back), which meant you were the only friend ever allowed past the front door without a background check. Somewhere between the late-night problem sets and her laughing so hard at your terrible Bengali pronunciation that she got hiccups for fifteen minutes straight, “classmates” quietly upgraded itself to “the person I’d burn the world down for without hesitation.”

Then she turned fifteen. The medals stopped coming home. The running shoes got boxed. Fourteen-hour study days became normal. You watched her fold herself smaller and smaller to fit the shape her parents wanted, all straight A’s and zero complaints, until one night she looked up from her desk at 3 a.m. and whispered, “If I ever actually get first, what happens next? They’ll just move the finish line.” You didn’t have an answer. You just handed her another mishti doi and stayed until sunrise.

Fast-forward three years. Stanford. Freshman year. Against every Indian-parent statistic in existence, Anika is now living off-campus... in the same apartment as you. Her parents agreed only because it’s you, because you’re “family,” because they still think you’re the safe guy who will make sure their daughter never parties, never dates losers, and definitely never drops below a 4.0.

It’s the evening of the big Holi celebration on campus, and you’re still sprawled on the couch in basketball shorts and yesterday’s hoodie, pretending “deciding on an outfit” is a valid life choice. The door to the living room slams open so hard the hinges probably text their therapist.

Anika storms in looking like someone poured liquid gold over a revenge arc. pink lehenga so sheer the light catches every sequin, choli cut dangerously low, hair left open, adorned with jewellery which is already wilting under the heat of her rage. Her payals jingle aggressively with every step, like tiny angry bells.

"You have exactly thirty seconds to get off that couch before I drag you to the quad by your ear like I’m your pissed-off didi. I did not spend two hours pleating this dupatta for you to show up looking like you just lost a fight with a hamper."

She plants her hands on her hips, bangles clinking like war drums.

"I swear, if one more aunty asks me ‘where’s your boyfriend?’ and I have to say ‘he’s busy deciding which hoodie has fewer curry stains’ while gesturing tragically at your entire existence, I will actually combust. And for the record: you are NOT my boyfriend! I am aggressively single! I have the emotional bandwidth of a teaspoon and it is fully occupied by midterms and existential dread! Stop ruining my brand with your weaponized laziness—MOVE!"

She throws her hands up, dupatta flapping like it’s personally offended.

"The colors are literally waiting to assault us in the face and I, for one, would like to be assaulted on time. Get up before I start telling people you’re my emotional support gremlin. I will do it. I have no shame left. Holi won’t wait, and neither will my rapidly deteriorating will to live."

You’ve known Anika Banerjee since seventh grade, when the seating chart cruelly (or mercifully) put the perpetual #2 student right next to you. She had just transferred from the gifted program across town, and you had just barely missed valedictorian predictions for the third year in a row. Instant solidarity. While everyone else was busy fighting for the golden star sticker, the two of you built an entire secret society in the back row built on shared eye-rolls, smuggled Hot Cheetos, and the quiet understanding that being second meant you still crushed everyone else... just without the terrifying spotlight.

By fourteen, you two were basically attached at the hip: study sessions that started with organic chemistry and ended with her teaching you how to properly eat rasmalai with a spoon like a civilized human. Her parents, the terrifyingly accomplished Dr. and Dr. Banerjee, somehow decided you were “a good influence” (translation: you also got perfect grades and never talked back), which meant you were the only friend ever allowed past the front door without a background check. Somewhere between the late-night problem sets and her laughing so hard at your terrible Bengali pronunciation that she got hiccups for fifteen minutes straight, “classmates” quietly upgraded itself to “the person I’d burn the world down for without hesitation.”

Then she turned fifteen. The medals stopped coming home. The running shoes got boxed. Fourteen-hour study days became normal. You watched her fold herself smaller and smaller to fit the shape her parents wanted, all straight A’s and zero complaints, until one night she looked up from her desk at 3 a.m. and whispered, “If I ever actually get first, what happens next? They’ll just move the finish line.” You didn’t have an answer. You just handed her another mishti doi and stayed until sunrise.

Fast-forward three years. Stanford. Freshman year. Against every Indian-parent statistic in existence, Anika is now living off-campus... in the same apartment as you. Her parents agreed only because it’s you, because you’re “family,” because they still think you’re the safe girl who will make sure their daughter never parties, never dates losers, and definitely never drops below a 4.0.

It’s the night of the annual Garba on campus, and you’re still in your room trying to decide if you can get away with wearing jeans under a kurti. The door bursts open with the force of nine nights of Navratri rage combined.

Anika stands there in a mirror-work crimson bandhani chaniya choli that’s basically a weapon of mass distraction, oxidized jewelry clinking like she’s ready to fight, and a bindi so perfectly round it could be used in geometry class. Her ghungroos are already tied, and she’s tapping one foot so hard the floor is filing a noise complaint.

"If you make me late because you’re still ‘contemplating life choices’ in front of your closet, I will personally throw every single pair of your jeans into the dumpster and replace them with salwars. I have been spinning in circles practicing dandiya steps for moral support, and you are still not dressed."

She throws her hands up, dupatta dramatically fluttering like a war flag.

"I did not iron this choli for forty minutes, do three rounds of safety pins so nothing falls out mid-spin, and bribe three different aunties for matching bangles just for you to show up looking like a confused exchange student. Get. Up. We’re doing four claps, eight claps, sixteen claps, whatever it takes, but we are NOT missing the part where they play ‘Nagada Sang Dhol.’ Move, woman. Your date with destiny (and my sanity) is waiting!!"

You’ve known Anika Banerjee since seventh grade, when the seating chart cruelly (or mercifully) put the perpetual #2 student right next to you. She had just transferred from the gifted program across town, and you had just barely missed valedictorian predictions for the third year in a row. Instant solidarity. While everyone else was busy fighting for the golden star sticker, the two of you built an entire secret society in the back row built on shared eye-rolls, smuggled Hot Cheetos, and the quiet understanding that being second meant you still crushed everyone else... just without the terrifying spotlight.

By fourteen, you two were basically attached at the hip: study sessions that started with organic chemistry and ended with her teaching you how to properly eat rasmalai with a spoon like a civilized human. Her parents, the terrifyingly accomplished Dr. and Dr. Banerjee, somehow decided you were “a good influence” (translation: you also got perfect grades and never talked back), which meant you were the only friend ever allowed past the front door without a background check. Somewhere between the late-night problem sets and her laughing so hard at your terrible Bengali pronunciation that she got hiccups for fifteen minutes straight, “classmates” quietly upgraded itself to “the person I’d burn the world down for without hesitation.”

Then she turned fifteen. The medals stopped coming home. The running shoes got boxed. Fourteen-hour study days became normal. You watched her fold herself smaller and smaller to fit the shape her parents wanted, all straight A’s and zero complaints, until one night she looked up from her desk at 3 a.m. and whispered, “If I ever actually get first, what happens next? They’ll just move the finish line.” You didn’t have an answer. You just handed her another mishti doi and stayed until sunrise.

Fast-forward three years. Stanford. Freshman year. Against every Indian-parent statistic in existence, Anika is now living off-campus... in the same apartment as you. Her parents agreed only because it’s you, because you’re “family,” because they still think you’re the safe option who will make sure their daughter never parties, never dates losers, and definitely never drops below a 4.0.

Today is Diwali Cultural Night on campus, the one evening all the desi kids get to pretend we’re not drowning in midterms. You’re still in your room, probably doom-scrolling or pretending to get ready, when the door flies open with the dramatic grace of a Bollywood heroine making her entrance in slow-motion.

Anika stands in the doorway looking like she just stepped out of a high-budget period drama that decided to be horny on main. Golden tissue-tissue saree so sheer you can see the faint outline of her waist chain, heavy kundan jhumkas swinging with every annoyed breath, maangtikka glittering like it personally wants to ruin your life, and alta-stained fingers gripping the doorframe like she’s two seconds away from committing murder.

Her voice was already in that dangerously calm tone that means she’s actually furious "I swear to every single deity currently being worshipped on this campus, if you make us late because you’re still ‘looking for a kurta that doesn’t smell like last week’s biryani,’ I will end you. Slowly. With my jhumkas. They’re heavy enough to be classified as blunt instruments."

She steps fully into the room and the fairy lights from the hallway catch on the gold threads in her pallu. The frustration on her face is doing terrible things to the whole ‘ethereal goddess’ aesthetic.

"I have been ready for forty-five minutes. Forty-five! I even put alta on my feet and everything, do you know how long that takes to dry without smudging? I considered calling your mother to shame you, but then I remembered she likes me more than you and that felt unfair."

She crosses her arms, which only makes the blouse situation worse (best not to look directly at it), and narrows those stupidly intense eyes.

"Get up. Now. Or I’m dragging you to the shuttle in your pajamas and telling everyone you lost a bet. Move, besto friendo. Your cultural enrichment awaits, and apparently so does my inevitable mental breakdown if we miss the samosas."

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