27. Aarti
AARTI
After Noa leaves my place, I slip on some sweats and open my bedroom door, expecting Diti to pounce. You little minx! Who was that? What kind of fuckgirl activities are you getting up to now?
But all I find is her, passed out on the couch, hand in a bowl of now-congealed macaroni and cheese.
I grab a towel from the kitchen and dampen it.
The cheese is so deeply caked beneath her nails, I can’t help my snort–half-amusement, half-secondhand embarrassment.
She stirs and I remove the last remnants of white cheddar.
“Deets, it’s eleven,” I whisper. She grimaces and groans, curling into herself. “Let’s go.”
But she refuses to move.
This used to be funny. I used to not mind hiding her antics from our parents. But something about this moment strikes a chord in me that rings this is not normal.
But who am I to say what normal is? My life surely isn’t normal by any stretch. I get paid entirely too much money to do weird things with my body on television, not to mention I’m presently having hot and totally boundaryless sex with my co-worker who I first met while in a dumpster.
I tuck her under a fluffy decorative blanket and decide we’ll talk tomorrow.
My phone pings– an email with today’s callsheet. At the top, right under the weather report, my parents’ address is listed. A nervous energy shoots up my core.
Today, during our Scent shoot, Noa will be meeting my parents.
I have never done things conventionally, and today certainly won’t be the day that starts.
I pull up to my parents’ house an hour before the rest of the cast and crew are scheduled to show up. Maa opens the door draped in her favorite sari, an ocean-blue silk one she saves for special occasions.
“I finally get to be a star on television just like you!” she exclaims, beckoning me inside. “Help me make chai.”
Helping her make chai entails me perching on a stool at the counter, while Maa bustles around the kitchen making us tea and telling me all the latest gossip from her book club while I ask follow-up questions at appointed intervals.
I suppose it’s not so different from what I’ll soon be doing on stage every night from behind my legacy desk, and perhaps it’s why I’m so good at it.
She finally settles across from me, pouring steaming chai into two mugs and sliding one in front of me.
“You spoke to Diti?” she asks, and there it is–that tone. The one that says tell me what I want to hear, not what’s true . “Everything is okay now, yes?”
I’ve spent my whole life giving her the answers she wants. Yes, Maa, school is great. Yes, Maa, comedy is just a hobby. Yes, Maa, I’ll find a nice accountant soon.
I can’t do it anymore.
“Maa,” I set down my cup, meeting her eyes. “Something’s not right with Diti. I really think she…”
“What are you saying?” Her voice is soft but quick–I can hear the fear underneath.
The doorbell rings before I can answer.
“That must be Magenta!” Maa says, already standing, moving away from the conversation she doesn’t want to have.
When she opens the door, it’s not Madge, but Noa, holding a bouquet of marigolds and looking adorably nervous in a floral sundress that makes my heart skip a beat.
“Mrs. Nair?” Noa offers the flowers with a shy smile. “I’m Noa. Thank you so much for having me in your home.”
Maa’s entire demeanor shifts. “Oh! Such beautiful flowers! And look at you, what a pretty dress! Please, call me Gita!” She ushers Noa inside, shooting me a look that clearly says why didn’t you tell me she was so lovely?
“Aarti, show her the house while I finish cleaning in here,” Maa commands, retreating to the kitchen. “The cameras will find every speck of dust.”
I know what she’s doing–using Noa as a buffer, a distraction from the conversation about Diti she desperately does not want to have. But I don’t entirely mind her suggestion, either. I look at Noa.
“House tour?” I offer.
“Lead the way.”
I show her the living room with its shrine to Ganesh, the wall of family photos documenting every academic achievement of my sister’s and a singular photo of when my parents came to see a Midnight Live show and didn’t even make it halfway through before they left, nearly asleep.
We climb the stairs, and I pause outside my teenage bedroom.
“Fair warning,” I say, hand on the doorknob. “It’s extremely 2008 in here.”
The room is exactly as I left it–Bollywood posters competing for wall space with Sarah Silverman and Margaret Cho, my debate trophies gathering dust on shelves that also hold my stash of OG Vice magazines stolen from a UCLA dumpster.
“Wow,” Noa says. “You were actually a kid once.”
“Guilty as charged,” I laugh. I watch her explore, trying not to think about how close we are to my dinky twin-size bed and how easy it would be to get horizontal right about now.
Noa turns to me, something tender in her expression. “Thank you for showing me your inner sanctum.”
“There’s one more thing,” I say impulsively. I open my closet door.
She follows me into the walk-in closet, past the kurti my mom still hopes I’ll wear to family functions, past the stack of comedy show flyers I’ve promised myself I’d eventually scrapbook.
“You’re a bit of a packrat, huh–”
I press Noa against the back wall, between my old school uniforms and the jumpsuit I wore to my first open mic, and kiss her like I’ve been dying to since she walked through the door.
She makes a soft sound of surprise before melting into me, hands coming up to tangle in my hair.
“I missed you,” I smile.
“It’s literally been four hours,” she laughs.
“Four hours too long.” I lean in again, ready to melt into each other like we did last night… and this morning.
“Your mom?!” she whispers.
“Is busy downstairs,” I murmur against her neck. “And this closet is very metaphorically appropriate.”
Noa pulls back, her expression tense. “I, uh, need to tell you something.”
The way she says it makes my stomach drop, but I nod for her to continue.
“I kinda got caught this morning… by Aiden.” Her words tumble out.
“I had to tell him. I mean, he suspected ever since that night at his place with Diti, so I wasn’t really telling him anything he didn’t already know, but–” She takes a shaky breath.
“I’m sorry. I know this complicates things for you, and I tried to deflect but he’s my twin and he’s annoyingly perceptive and–”
“Hey.” I reach up to cup her face, thumb stroking across her cheekbone. “Breathe.”
She does, but I can still see the worry there, the way she’s bracing for me to pull away or get upset. And honestly? A big part of me wants to. The familiar panic starts to creep up my spine–another person who knows, another variable I can’t control, another potential way this all falls apart.
But then I look at Noa, at how scared she is of disappointing me.
“Do you trust him?” I ask.
“With my life,” she says without hesitation.
I take a breath, let it out slowly. She trusts her brother, and I trust her judgment.
“Okay,” I say.
“Okay?” The relief in her voice is immediate, but there’s still a lingering uncertainty.
“Okay.” I lean my forehead against hers. “Now what were we doing?”
She pulls me in for a kiss that has me forgetting about nosy brothers entirely.
We kiss until the smell of frying oil forces us apart–a smoke signal that assistance is required and if it is not received voluntarily, Maa will come searching.
We stumble back downstairs, hopefully not looking too disheveled, to find the kitchen transformed into organized chaos.
Madge and the crew have arrived, setting up lights while Maa bustles around with tiny china bowls of syrupy gulab jamun, pressing the warm treats into everyone's hands as she welcomes them into the family home.
Dad, finally back from work at the university, observes from across the room, hands folded in his chair.
It’s the most worn piece of furniture that he refuses to let go of.
As a child, I enjoyed chasing Diti around our old house in a backbend while making throaty demon growls, once causing her to spill an entire styrofoam cup of chaas across the already faded corduroy.
To this day, you can still see the chartreuse Pollockian mess, forever memorialized in the light fabric.
“I held you in this chair when you were one day old,” Dad always says when I offer to buy him a new seat.
“You cannot replace those kinds of memories.”
I grab Noa’s hand and lead her over to my dad. He clocks the grasp and I let go.
“Dad, this is Noa, my… ice cream scientist.”
“So nice to meet you,” she says, offering a handshake.
Dad, always calm amongst the chaos, takes her hand with both of his. “You as well, Noa. How are you doing with all of this?”
“Me? Oh, it’s… I’m all right. It’s a lot. But I’m good.” She shoots me a glance.
“Hmm. Yes, it is a lot, isn’t it?” He leans back into his chair. “You two must always remember to take care of yourselves first, before all of that.” He waves his hand at the hustle and bustle of the kitchen.
Noa nods, thoughtful.
“Tell that to my paycheck,” I finger-gun him. I want to talk with him about what Rosa told us during the Taste shoot, that he always knew I was sneaking out and performing, but I can’t risk breaking down into tears during another segment. I’ll save it for later, in classic Nair family fashion.
Maa beckons us over and we make our way back to the kitchen. Madge gives me a nod as she listens to Syd pitch coverage of the scene. Noa, Maa, and I get mic’d up as Maa mutters to herself.
“ This is how you make a proper samosa!” she says under her breath. Noa and I exchange a glance, trying not to giggle at the lines Maa has clearly written and assigned to herself.
“All right everyone, we’re ready to roll,” Madge says. Sound and camera speed, and Syd calls action.
“Noa, welcome to our home. You’re going to learn to make proper samosas,” Maa says, sounding surprisingly unrehearsed. “But first, you can’t make a samosa without a visit to the garden.”
For the next hour, Maa is in her element. She tours us around the small herb garden in the backyard, plucking some of her favorites as we go. She picks cilantro and mint, rubbing them between her fingers and offering us a sniff.
“Now over here, these I am very proud of,” she says, guiding us to a patch of dirt with small greens protruding from the soil. She pulls a few, revealing potatoes and ginger.
Noa takes a deep breath. “So earthy. Fresh ingredients from your own garden really do make a difference.”
We return inside and Maa takes Noa through her spice collection, allowing her to smell each one individually.
She shows Noa the precise way to fold the samosa dough, the exact temperature for the oil, which aromatics to add when.
I've seen her teach cousins and family friends before, but watching her guide Noa's hands feels different–the way she nods approvingly when Noa asks thoughtful questions, taking time with each answer.
“See how Noa listens?” Maa boasts to the cameras. “This one knows food is about patience.”
“Maa, she’s literally a food scientist.”
“ Diti knows patience. Noa and Diti would make the best samosas,” she says to herself, plating the batch.
A pang of guilt strikes me again as I take a nibble of the savory pastry. Diti should be here.
“You were right, these smell incredible, ” Noa says to me, then catches the slight falter in my expression.
Behind the counter, out of sight of the cameras, Noa’s pinky finger wraps around mine with a little squeeze.
I look down at my samosa, feigning interest in the filling.
Really, I’m trying to contain my emotions, knowing that, despite the absolute chaos that is my life, I have Noa, my little umbrella to shelter me from the storm.
Before Noa leaves, Maa hands her a small, delicately wrapped bouquet–fresh curry, fenugreek, and mint leaves bound together with cinnamon sticks and fennel, their mingled fragrance already escaping the tender bundle.
“This is going straight to the flavor lab,” she beams, and I picture what it would be like to see Noa and Maa collaborate on more dishes. To have her here, part of our world, for good.