Chapter 7: Hostels, Hierarchies, and Unspoken Lines
Ananya saw I was still lying in bed playing with my phone and didn’t dare try to drag me down by force.
She typed so furiously, her screen’s tapping almost drowned out by the hostel’s afternoon ruckus—the pressure cooker whistling, someone yelling about missing socks, and the distant call of the kulfiwala outside the gate. Even in her frustration, she hesitated to cross that unspoken line; in Indian hostels, even the most persistent roommate knew better than to challenge someone with a medical file in hand.
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