If ma saw me just now, she'd kill me.

I'm riding my khataara old cycle at speeds not meant for khataara old cycles, through one of the narrowest, most crowded streets of Old Delhi. I can almost hear her chiding voice telling me to slow down, or I'll fall off and break a bone. (khataara: in a bad condition)

There are 2 reasons as to why I'm in a rush: one, I'm carrying a box of rasmalai, and it'll spoil out here in the blazing heat; and two, the catcaller I flipped off a minute ago seems to be chasing me.

I pedal faster, swerving around carts and yelling at people to get out of the way. Not going to lie, there's something funnily satisfying about watching an unsuspecting victim with their back turned jump suddenly at the sound of my voice.

I make a few sharp turns into roads and alleys I know like the back of my hand. They're off my usual route, but this helps me lose the angry Mandrill who had been hot on my tail not too long ago.

Finally, just as the afternoon sun is about to set, I reach. I pull my cycle through burhiya's rusty old gates into the so-called, 10-by-10 foot "lawn". I don't even bother with the cycle chain-lock, 'cause who in their right minds would want to steal this piece of trash?

Burhiya is, as always, sitting cross-legged on the veranda floor with her back to the wall. Her eyes are droopy, as always, and in her right hand she's clutching her beaded japamala, her lips moving silently, counting the number of beads. As always. (burhiya: old lady)

"Hi amma!" I holler as I fly past, up the staircase adjoining said veranda, taking the stairs two at a time. I don't look back, but I know she would've acknowledged my 'hi' with the slightest nod, never losing concentration. (amma: nice way of addressing an old lady)

"Aa gayi?" ("You're here?") calls ma from the kitchen as I discard my sandals outside the door of our tiny, 1st floor house and walk in. 

"Nahi. Abhi bhi wahin baithi hu," ("No. I'm still sitting there,") I reply. Dumb questions warrant dumb responses.

I almost entirely empty the cold water ghada as I transfer its contents into a pateela, and plop the plastic rasmalai container in it.

"Ab peene ke liye garam pani milega, theek hai?" ("Now you'll only get warm water for drinking, alright?")  ma says as she watches me from the kitchen.

"Come on ma, rasmalai hai. Roz roz thodi na milti hai," ("Come on ma, it's rasmalai. We don't get it everyday,") I protest.

"Uff, okay. Ab jaldi haath dhoke khane baith." ("Uff, okay. Now wash your hands quickly and sit for food.")

We don't have a refrigerator in our house, hence the cold water bath. In fact, we don't have a TV, microwave, or a single sofa either. Besides the kitchen, there are just two 8-by-8 foot rooms: one you find yourself in immediately upon entering, and another that serves as our "bedroom", which, oxymoronically, doesn't have a bed. We sleep on mattresses laid out on the floor, covered by a sheet with so much patchwork that it's almost impossible to figure out what the original pattern was.

I wash my hands at the sink in the "bathroom", which is what we like to call the porta potty-sized 2-by-3½ foot box with a latrine and a sink, that adjoins the bedroom (we take bath downstairs at burhiya's). Wiping my hands on the sweatpants under my kurti, I walk back to the entry room and lay out a large mat for ma and myself.

She brings our lunch in two steel plates, and we have our modest meal of dal-chawal with onion on the side while talking about my day at school.

When it's time for dessert, she insists I drop a couple rasmalai pieces at budhiya's. I don't like having to part with my precious little chunks of heaven, but I do it anyway.

The entire building, including our house, is actually burhiya's. We've been renting the first floor since as long as I can remember.

It wasn't always like this for ma, though. She used to live with my father and his family in their relatively big house. My supposed father used to earn well, working as a security guard at some rich man's office.

She has never told me the details, but apparently not too long after their (arranged) marriage, their relationship began to sour. I think her in-laws didn't treat her right, and he always took their side.

I was the last straw. They found out ma was going to have a girl about 5 months into her pregnancy, and tried to get her to abort and try again for a boy. Being the rightful, unyielding heroine that she is, she straight up left. Left the house that was never a home, and that toxic family with it.

For some reason, she was ashamed to go back to her parents' village. I think she considered The Leaving a sign of weakness, but I think it's the strongest thing I've ever seen or heard of anyone doing. Raising a child all alone, homeless and without a penny in your pocket, is nothing short of a superhero move.

Regardless, it was tough. Thankfully, she found burhiya and her little place in not much time, and was able to start her life afresh here.

It's where I've grown up.

Ma started working as a washerwoman and earned enough to feed us and send me to a public school. Money has always been a problem, but it must have been really bad then. So bad that burhiya didn't ask for rent till I turned 3.

Back in the present, I find burhiya's veranda empty. She must have gone back inside. I knock loudly at the creaky wooden door.

"AMMA! AAPKE LIYE KUCHH SPECIAL LAYI HU!" ("AMMA! I'VE GOT SOMETHING SPECIAL FOR YOU!")

"Andar mez pe rakh de," ("Keep it on the table inside,") comes the unenthused reply in burhiya's frail, raspy voice. Taking the que, I push open the unlatched door, finding myself in her dingy and dusty dining room. I leave the katori containing two pieces of rasmalai on the dining table.

The ground floor of the house is much, much larger than the first. It has a dining room, a drawing room, two bedrooms, a kitchen, a proper bathroom, and a small store.

Suddenly, my phone beeps.

I pull out the prehistoric device to find a text from my best friend, Vikram: golgappe @ 4? my treat.

Say no more, I type back. When offered free golgappe, you don't think twice.

I rush upstairs to say a hurried goodbye to ma, and before she thinks of protesting, I run back down, hop on my cycle and zoom away.