Chapter 6 #2
you a wannabe.
I did both of those things. And the way she said it . . . it makes me feel so small.
When I first moved to America, I faced my share of bullying for being too brown, too modest, too Indian. But then, in high
school, it became cool to be Indian. It became cool to wear sarees for prom, wear jhumkas in place of hoops, throw Holi parties instead of Halloween
parties, and bring lunch boxes full of homemade Indian snacks and delicacies to school.
I can’t remember the exact moment the switch happened, but suddenly, my classmates were fawning over the intricate embroidery
of the kurtas I wore over jeans, voicing how wearing a bindi brought out the brown of my eyes, and in general swooning at
the “exoticism” of it all. And perhaps I was finally beginning to realize that embracing the culture I’d been trying so hard
to leave behind in India was the in thing now.
Is it wrong that I started to appreciate my Desiness only when it was convenient, instead of having embraced it all along? Would it be better to never have embraced it at all?
“Here,” Rudra says, handing me a packet of wet wipes. I blink, staring down at it. I was so lost in my thoughts I didn’t realize
he asked the shopkeeper for it.
“Th-thank you,” I stutter. He stares at my hand as I rip the plastic off the package. When he notices me looking, his gaze
darts away,
“Do you want anything else?” he asks gently.
I look around at the shop. “I’ll have a Frooti, I think.” The shopkeeper hands me a small bottle of cold Frooti. After I pay,
we walk back to his car. “I appreciate you stepping in for me. I didn’t expect you to,” I say.
Rudra shrugs. “She didn’t mean it, though, you know? She doesn’t think any of that.”
“I know. She’s not dense. The opposite, in fact, which is why she knew if she said that, it would hurt me most.” I turn to
him as we reach the car, letting the cold of the bottle soak into my palms. “I don’t blame her. I’m pretty sure everyone feels
the same way about diaspora folk. Even you.”
Rudra pauses with his hand on the door handle. He appears to hesitate for a moment. “I don’t want to lie. I did think of you as a spoiled American kid. But you’re not. Not that my opinion matters.”
I smile. “It doesn’t, but thanks nonetheless.”
“And for the record,” he adds, “I don’t think you try hard to be Indian or any of that.” That almost shyness I saw earlier
skates across his face, coloring his cheeks. “Your Indo-western style’s pretty dope.”
“Thank you,” I say, and bite my lip. Did Rudra Desai just . . . compliment me? “Your style’s pretty dope too.” A small laugh escapes me.
Now, why would you say that?!
Rudra grins. “Thanks. That’s the first time someone’s said that to me.”
Wanting to brush away the fact that I just complimented Rudra Desai’s style, I quickly shift the topic, “Oh, before I forget—I have a playlist. For the road. It’s all Bollywood songs,
though—not sure if that’s your taste. Could I play it?”
“Yeah, of course.” He shrugs. “You could’ve asked before.”
“I didn’t want to impose. You are driving us all the way there, after all.”
As we both get into the car, I mentally let out a sigh of relief, surprised at the turn of events. Rudra is so much nicer
than I thought he would be. I just assumed he’d been brainwashed by Priti into always taking her side, but I won’t forget
the way he stood up for me. My mind takes me back to the moment at the party yesterday when he handed me the water, genuine
concern creasing his face.
I’m touched by his kindness, even if I don’t say it.
“I’ve turned off my Bluetooth,” he says, starting the car. “You can connect yours. It’s, uh . . . Jimi Hendrix’s Groupie.”
I guffaw so loud Priti takes out an earbud, staring at us. “What’s going on?”
“Ignore the name,” Rudra says, rolling his eyes. He starts pulling out of the petrol pump station and turns the knob of the
AC. Thank god, because I’m already starting to sweat. Mumbai is excruciatingly sultry this time of the year. “It used to be
just Jimi Hendrix, but Priti decided to change it. For funsies, in her words.”
“Never say funsies ever again,” Priti says. “You sound like an ass.”
“You can’t gatekeep funsies from me.”
“Watch me.” Priti points her finger at him accusatorily. “And can you blame me? You used to be obsessed with Jimi Hendrix when you started playing the guitar. Like, you would not shut up about how he was the most legendary guitarist of all time.”
For a brief moment, the image of a tween Rudra Desai yapping his head off about his favorite guitarist pops into my mind,
and I have to admit, it’s kind of adorable.
“So if I have this right, you are the aforementioned groupie?” I laugh.
“He is the most legendary guitarist of all time,” Rudra says, resolutely ignoring my question. He drives us back onto the main road.
“Besides, if we were to start unpacking the shit you used to obsess over, Priti, this conservation would never end.”
“Oh, shut up.” Priti turns to me. “Is this your playlist?” Her face changes suddenly, as if she’s just realized who she’s
speaking to. “Oh, wait, I’m not talking to you.”
I ignore her statement and finally click play. At first, I’m annoyed Priti’s still acting like I’m the one that did something wrong, but then Rudra forces her to start navigating, “Dil Dhadakne Do” plays through his terrific speakers, and a calm sets in.
This road trip isn’t off to a great start, but at least I get the sweet relief of AC and have the whole back seat to myself
now.