By Anupriya Pandey
Before anyone can enter my building, I have to approve them. The request arrives on my phone through an app. Name. Photograph. Purpose of visit.
It is strange to have this much authority over a door I do not own.
The security guard knows my face now. By the time the office cab turns toward the entrance, my expression has already arranged itself. Chin level. Eyes steady. Mouth resting in that neutral line that suggests I am expected somewhere. I have learned the angle that prevents questions, the slight narrowing of the eyes that reads as purpose instead of uncertainty.
The guard notices before I stop. His back straightens. The chair shifts behind him. For a second we look at each other through glass and distance. Then the small salute. A nod.
I return it without smiling too much.
It gives me an unreasonable amount of happiness. For those few seconds, I feel official. Important. As though I sign documents that matter.
The gate opens without delay.
Bougainvillea spill over the compound wall in disciplined pink. The buildings are painted a respectable beige, the kind that promises longevity. Children cycle in slow circles in the evening. There is a fountain that works on weekends.
I live here.
On paper, it sounds like arrival.
The apartment is on the thirteenth floor. Rented. I correct myself even in my head, as if the walls might overhear arrogance and respond by peeling faster.
My job is stable. The salary comes on time. Most of it leaves on time too. Rent. Loan. Groceries. Wi Fi. Electricity. The arithmetic of adulthood. There is no emergency fund. There is, instead, faith in continuity.
Nothing dramatic must happen.
Before I open my banking app to check the balance, I make a guess. I calculate what should be there. I add a little extra, just in case the universe appreciates optimism. For half a second, before the real number appears, I inhabit that slightly larger life.
My phone buzzes before my eyes are fully open. Emails. Calendars. Deadlines. Proof that I am employable, that I am responsible, that I am, by most standards, doing well.
Doing well is a cage with good lighting.
The fridge is full in a quiet way. Vegetables in transparent boxes. Protein measured. I hit my daily intake. I hydrate. I function. There is a bed that does not sink in the middle.
Doing well is not the same as being free, but it photographs better.
Some days, I am careless. If the milk smells slightly wrong, I throw it away without boiling it into submission. If the coriander wilts, I don’t resurrect it in water. I have, on occasions, ordered cute ceramic coasters because they made the table look like someone more relaxed lives here. When things arrive at this house, I check my account immediately.
In the evenings, when the light falls softly against the balcony grill, I look at the corners of the house and imagine painting them a color that would surprise someone. A blue that does not apologize. A yellow that refuses subtlety. Instead, I search for renter friendly tape. I press frames against the wall gently, as if the plaster is a sleeping animal I must not wake.
There are rules to inhabiting what is not yours.
I was born into caution, into a home where nothing was extravagant, but everything was accounted for. The lights stayed on because someone calculated and paid for the electricity> Dreams were allowed, but only the practical ones. It had to be something with benefits.
I learned early that comfort is rented. That it can be revoked.
Even here, in a gated society with biometric entry and a clubhouse I have never used, I remove my shoes carefully. I wipe the kitchen counter twice. I do not drill without permission. The idea of permanence feels like an overstep.
Sometimes, at night, I stand at the window and look at the other towers — so many lit rectangles, so many people paying on the first. The sameness is almost tender.
I think about the education loan tenure the way some people think about weather forecasts. Eight years if nothing goes wrong. Fewer, if I am stricter with myself. More, if life decides to experiment.
I lower my voice when discussing money, as if the currency might overhear and leave.
I was raised to believe in floors, not wings.
At work, someone talks about buying land on the outskirts of the city. Another mentions investing in something volatile and exciting. I nod. I calculate my remaining EMI[1]. I imagine the first of next month waiting patiently, already hungry.
In the apartment, I light a candle — lavender and patchouli, balance it in a jar. The flame makes the beige walls look intentional. I curate softness because chaos would be irresponsible. I call exhaustion discipline.
The melatonin waits on the nightstand, a small excuse to stop thinking about the math, about parents who age in percentages, about the way one emergency could rearrange everything.
I take it.
In the dark, I do not think about failure. I have met failure. We are acquainted. Failure is loud. It has witnesses. What unsettles me is the possibility of sliding backward quietly. Of losing the salute at the gate, the lift.
I stand in a house that is not mine, eating measured protein, watering plants I cannot root into the ground.
Still, there is a quiet rage — a grief for the woman I could have been if survival had not been my full-time job.
Someone has been living my life overnight and leaving me with the bill — not a crushing debt, just the lifelong payment plan of being almost comfortable.
The gate will open for me tomorrow.
The rent will leave on the first.
The loan will leave on the first.
The job will still be there.
I sign the receipt. Not because I want to, but because I don’t want to know what happens when you do not pay.
[1] Equated Monthly Installment
Anupriya Pandey is a writer from India. Her work wanders between tragedy and comedy, with a voice that is equal parts self-deprecating and sincere. Her writing has been previously published in Belladonna Comedy, Little Old Lady Magazine, 5 on the Fifth, and more.
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