The crashing noise jolts me awake and just like that, my heart begins to race. Angry voices raised in the morning; Baap and Mai are arguing again. I roll over and pull the pillow over my head.

I can tell from the pale light behind the blue curtains that it is very early; not even the birds are up yet at this gray hour. I lift a corner of the pillow and peek at Pooja’s face, a few inches away from mine. My older sister sleeps like a log. Lucky Pooja. The shouting and banging dishes won’t wake her up.

Last night, Baap didn’t come home for dinner again and when I asked Mai where he was, she gave me one of her dark looks.

“Eat your bake Sheena and stop asking me foolish questions.”

I couldn’t understand why my question was foolish, but I knew better than to talk back to Mai. When I went to sleep, Baap still hadn’t come home.

I get up and start making my bed. All the time, I can hear my parents. They are in the kitchen, down the hallway. The walls of our row house are thin so I can hear everything. Dishes rattle loudly. Mai is probably packing the dishwasher while she yells at Baap.

It is time to give my grandmother her rub-down. I walk down the hallway to Naani’s room. When I enter, my grandmother is putting on bindi. I watch her draw the bright red dot onto the middle of her forehead. Naani’s husband, Nana Anand, died a long time ago, back when Naani lived in Trinidad, but she still wears bindi every day.

“Good morning Naani.”

“How can it be a good morning with all this noise?” Naani grumbles, shaking her head grimly. “I am ashamed of my children.” Nanni always calls the grown-ups in the house “my children”…Mai and Baap and my two aunts and two uncles who live upstairs.

Down the hallway, Baap’s voice grows louder, angrier. Suddenly the shouting stops. The kitchen door bangs and the whole house shudders, then silence. There is a tight knot in my stomach, but also a flood of relief.

I rub my grandmother’s back with sweet-smelling coconut oil, then she rubs mine. Naani may be strict, but she gives a good rub-down. Naani begins to hum a Hindi song softly. I close my eyes. The smell of coconut oil and Naani’s humming soothe me.

At breakfast, I notice two pieces of a broken dish sitting on the kitchen counter. When Mai sees me looking at it she gets up and throws the pieces in the trash. At the end of the table, my father’s chair is empty. I push three strips of fry caraili around on my plate. I hate fry caraili. Anyway, I’m not hungry.

Later, Naani takes Pooja and me to the park. Our cousins want to come too but Aunt Ashmita and Aunt Tarini say no. It is a cold, autumn day. Wisps of smoke rise from chimneys into the dull sky. The trees in the park are almost bare.

“Where do you think Baap goes?” I ask Pooja as we crunch leaves with our boots.

“How do I know?” Pooja mutters with a shrug. “Probably out to a bar with his lousy friends.”

Naani hears what Pooja says and pinches her hard. My sister lets out a little yelp and winces, automatically rubbing her shoulder.

“Don’t talk about your Baap like that child!”

“Sorry Naani,” Pooja whispers, lowering her eyes and ducking her head.

As soon as Naani turns her back, Pooja shoots me a withering glare. “Thanks a lot!” she says angrily. She stomps away leaving me by the swings. She probably won’t talk to me for the rest of the day. I watch as Naani tiredly lowers herself onto the bench by the birch tree. She will sit there, staring into space, until we are ready to leave.

I stand alone by the swings. The park is quiet. There are only a few happy toddlers and their parents playing on the slides.

In the middle of the park, dozens of pigeons peck at the ground, a whole flock of them huddled together. They look so peaceful, their feathers fluffed up against the cold weather. I stand there, breathing hard, staring at the pigeons. My chest feels like a hot air balloon. I can feel the hot air balloon expanding, expanding…

Suddenly, it bursts. I hear a loud, whooping cry. At first I don’t know where it is coming from. Then I realize it is me making the sound. I am running fast across the park, arms outstretched, shrieking at the top of my lungs. The cold autumn wind whips past my ears. I feel so light. Out of the corner of my eye, Naani’s surprised face is a blur. Everyone is staring at me, Pooja too, but I don’t care. I run straight into the flock of pigeons.

Startled, we rise into the air, flying away from our fear.