After much hemming and hawing, I picked up the phone and called my parents. Their India travels were bringing them back to New Delhi. And I wanted them to stay at my apartment.

Sure, I didn’t have any furniture in my room. Sure, there was no fridge in the kitchen. But what kind of an Indian son has his visiting parents stay somewhere else?

My Jijaji (cousin’s husband) wasn’t perturbed when I called him to mention that my parents would be staying with me instead. Vivek Jijaji has been quite generous — he and Jyoti Didi’s (female cousin) home in beautiful, upscale Vasant Vihar has been turned into a revolving door of visiting relatives. But he did chuckle when I mentioned the state of my flat: no beds, no nothing.

So after hanging up the phone, I hopped out the door and snagged an autorickshaw. Time to fly over to Sarojini Nagar Market and let the mad bargaining begin. Foldable floor mattresses? 800 rupees for two. Blankets? Few hundred for a pair. Pillows? Pillow cases? Bedsheets? 70 rupees, 75 rupees, 100 rupees.

One stuffed autorickshaw ride later, I’m back at my apartment. Sure, my room needs a paint job. Sure, I still have no shelves. But now there are cozy Indian-style floor mattresses to fall asleep on.

The next night, a symphony begins. I sit up and look over at my dad — mattress #3. How could he be snoring when he’s sleeping on his side? Then, I lean a little closer to mattress #2. It’s my mom. She’s the one who is snoring.

Darkness, a suitcase key, a hand inside the luggage. I find my bag of disposable earplugs, and I pop them in. It’s wonderful to have a New Delhi slumber party with my parents. All of us are tucked in and absolutely adorable. The symphony continues, and I’m afraid it might be a long night. But I love my parents, and I’m happy that they are here.