Call me crazy but Indian air smells different than American air. I don't know why; I don't know how, but it does. It's tropical, earthy, and raw, and the individual smells of pungent spices wafting in from every family's kitchen probably contributed to that incomparable scent of eau de India.

        Ding.

 

        I slid the metal grate on the elevator to the side and cautiously stepped out, my older brother, Faiz, and grandma trailing after me. The door to their apartment was never closed, much less ever locked. I knocked anyway before stepping in. The thing about India? It's hot. Really, freaking hot. It takes approximately .947 seconds of Indian sunlight to start baking your skin.

 

        When I stepped into the apartment I saw myself face to face with my cousins— Safura (17), and her younger sister Fareeha (14).

 

        "Faiz! Ashu!" I heard Safura cheer, calling me by the age-old nickname that everyone did. Her black  hair was thrown into the messiest knot I’d ever seen. Not because Safura was trying to make a fashion statement— She wasn’t. She just didn’t care."You came!"

 

        Yeah, thanks for that analysis, Safura. I'm sure Sherlock would be more than happy to hire you as a replacement for Watson with  astute observations like that.

 

        Truthfully, I would have been surprised I came, too, though. I hadn't seen them in a week since the wedding. I was busy catching up with my maternal cousins who I saw roughly every four years. My paternal cousins were visiting India for the brief span of three weeks and were more than excited to allow me and Faiz to tag along.

 

        I raised my eyebrow at her and dropped the scarf draped over my head onto the sofa like it was toxic. In India, I was expected to wear a scarf over my head because we "came from a respectable family" and I wasn't to "tarnish our family name" abroad. Whatever, mom.

 

        "You're observant," I sniped before settling on the couch and waiting for everyone to get ready. As it turned out, my grandma and my aunt were not coming with us. Ugh, grownups and their insatiable need to buy things. You can't see me but I'm rolling my eyes.

 

        The smile slipped off Safura's face so quickly, you'd have thought it was oiled. She shot me an annoyed look. I chucked to myself. It was good to be back.

 

        Desis take a long time to get ready. Faiz and I played several rounds of Go Fish before all 11 of us were uncomfortably seated in the cars. Amongst Safura, Fareeha, Faiz, and myself, we also had Ruqiya, her older brother and parents, Zareen, Zeeshan (and this other guy I couldn't be bothered to name) accompanying us.

 

        I, unfortunately, was stuck sitting next to Fareeha in the car, who was too preoccupied with lip-syncing some god-awful pop song to take in all the nasty glares being sent her way.

 

        We arrived at the palace sooner than I expected. I stepped out of the car, grateful to be away from the next pop-star wannabe. Safura followed suit. We met up with Faiz and the rest of the gang at the entrance gates. The entrance fees were, for lack of better words, BOGUS. Get this: 40 rupees for Indians. 150 rupees for tourists! Plus an additional 50 per camera. We only bought one camera pass so any pictures I took were of the, uh, illegal variety.

 

       

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

       

        It was basically a daylight robbery but, hey, robbers gotta make a living, too, I guess. My family and we got in for ₹40 per person so I guess we looked Indian enough to trick them. The palace itself was stunning. We followed the orange dirt road (ha-ha) to the inside of the palace. The first thing I noticed was a whole lotta marble. Black and white checkered marble floors, marble columns, and a marble throne. There were glass chandelier that hung from the high arches of the room.

 

        I snapped a few pictures before quickly jamming my camera back into my purse as one of the security guards neared. I never did like being told what I could and couldn’t do. Chances are if you tell me not to do something, I’m going to do it, even if I wasn’t going to initially, just out of spite.

 

        We crossed over to the other rooms and looked at historical artifacts that, if I’m being honest, were actually really boring. I mean, yeah, history. Woo. But, like, how interesting can a rusty, old spoon be? “Ooh, a royal spoon. The king used this spoon to eat breakfast.” And I’m like, “What?! The king ate breakfast??? NO WAY.” And then I’d roll my eyes and move on to the next artifact.

 

        At one point, Fareeha and I found ourselves standing at a balcony and trying to absorb the breeze because I was melting faster than a snowman in May. Which, I guess, was to be expected if I was going to be wearing my black knee-length tunic. But as we were standing there, our eyes closed in on a girl being chased by probably her brother around the palatial garden. I brought out my camera and zoomed in on them, purely because they had no idea I was filming them like some creep, and also because I thought it was funny as eff.

 

        Speaking of funny as eff, there was another occasion where I was standing in front of a cheap plug-in fan, basking in the cool airflow. I got more than a few weird looks which I returned with a sheepish grin. Not much later, I felt someone shove me out of the way the fan: Zeeshan. I was surprised, definitely, but not annoyed. I shot him a glare and pretended to walk away but as soon Zeeshan turned around, I grabbed Fareeha by her arm and tossed her into Zeeshan’s back.

So I’m a sore-loser. I think we’ve already established that (or have we?). Sue me.

 

        It took us practically the whole day before we’d seen our fill. The palace, as I’m sure you all assumed, was enormous. There were a lot of different rooms,

        and corridors,

        and buildings,

        and gardens that me and my family explored.
 

        And amidst all the culture we were all taking in, I feel like it’s worth mentioning that there was also a lot of pictures being illegally taken— on my part especially. Heh.
 

        I almost got caught on the few occasions I forgot to turn my flash off. One of the funniest things I remember was that at the end of our tour, there was a stand where you could dress up as an Indian bride or an Indian groom and get your picture taken. The props master was fixing Ruqiya’s hair when a curious, red laser zeroed in on her forehead. His head shot up and turned to me so quickly that you would have thought I was the one taking the picture.
 

        I mean, I was, but the fact that he immediately suspected me kind of ticked me off. I don’t look like a teenage delinquent, do I? No, I don’t. I’m the very embodiment of innocence, I’ll have you know. Or I look it, at least. I’ve been told that way more that I’d like. But just because I looked it, didn’t mean I was it. That had to be more than obvious with all the illicit pictures I’d stolen. I’d stuffed my camera back in my purse only half a second before the props’ master looked up. So we didn’t get kicked out on my account. Whew. Now that would have sucked. Talk about being royally screwed. Ha-ha!