His Karma – By Khushi T. Saha
HIS KARMA
BY KHUSHI T. SAHA
LOS ANGELES
A SENIOR CLASS TRIP
Secrets. Every good Indian daughter has them. Sometimes they’re tiny and can stay hidden, locked inside for no one to find. But once in a while, they’re so big that hiding them becomes a series of even more secrets.
Kareena Sharma would know. She hid a few things from her parents.
The good doctor, Dr. Sanjay Sharma, Greenwich Memorial’s leading cardiologist, and his wife, Leela Sharma, head pharmacist, also at Greenwich Memorial, were happily in the dark, and that’s how Kareena wanted it.
They’d find her secrets disturbing. They’d find her disturbing.
And the consequences would suck. They might ship her off to India to live with her nani (grandmother).
She’d learn how to cook rice properly and visit the temple multiple times a day to pray for her mushkil (difficult) soul.
But Kareena wasn’t going to let that happen.
She’d do her best to keep her parents from knowing. They wouldn’t understand.
But Kareena knew, and it felt like riding a tilt-a-wheel with her heart racing—her excitement morphing to dread, then back to excitement. It was kind of exhausting, but not in the worst way because parts of it were awesome.
Here’s what she faced: First, as a senior who’d been busting her butt in school since she could hold a pencil, Kareena was not going to be her 2006 graduating class’s valedictorian.
Nope. Her best friend Sheila Patel would hold that title at Greenwich Preparatory Academy.
It’d been a matter of a half point on their final GPAs, and Sheila eeked past Kareena.
Kareena was happy for Sheila. She was her best friend.
But being second best (as in now, class salutatorian) wasn’t something the Sharmas would be excited about.
Ok, eventually they’d be proud, but only after the light in their eyes died, and their smiles fell in disappointment.
Her mother would suck her teeth in frustration and say under her breath, “Those damn Patels.” Then force a smile and follow up with, “But, Beta , salutatorian is an achievement, too. We’re so proud of you!
” Simultaneously, her father would mutter about clearing things up with the headmaster (her father always needed time to adjust to new things), and Kareena would have to explain about the GPA half point difference.
Then they’d hug her and suggest they go to TCBY (Kareena’s favorite) after dinner to celebrate.
Her younger sister, Reyana, would either a) try to duck out of it, citing ‘homework’ as an excuse, when really she was sneaking out to meet her friends (at fifteen she was about three times as bold as Kareena ever would be) or b) go and sit in the back of their mother’s Volvo station wagon with Kareena, whining about the additives in frozen yogurt.
Kareena, knowing she’d disappointed her parents, would tell her to shut up and enjoy the white chocolate mousse, or she’d throw her out of the car because she was a dumb know-it-all.
Then their dad would harshly say, “ Chup (quiet).” Everyone would sulk in silence until they got to the yogurt shop and excitedly picked what they wanted (ironically, Reya usually ended up with the largest size loaded with toppings).
The second secret Kareena harbored was so enormous she was convinced she’d be labeled something worse than mushkil by her parents and any others who found out in their Indian community.
The problem was, this secret was a compulsion she couldn’t stop, not right now anyway, when she felt so deeply entrenched and …
hooked. It made her do questionable things—which a good Indian daughter going to Columbia University in the fall, who’d surely be a cardiologist like her father (that was another of her secrets by the way: she didn’t want to be a cardiologist), and would one day marry the man her parents chose for her, shouldn’t be doing.
See, the second secret wasn’t a thing or a situation she could talk through with her parents.
No, the second secret was a person. A boy.
A very cute, half-white, half-Indian boy whom her parents knew of, but didn’t approve of—either as a friend, and surely not as a boyfriend (that terminology didn’t exist in their vernacular).
And currently, this boy—this oh-so-handsome, but not for her for so many reasons other than her parents' disapproval—was sitting very close to her, on a lounger by the pool, watching the first hints of the California morning pierce the sky.
His smile was warm, his body even warmer, and she shivered, moving closer to him.
California was funny. Warm in the daytime, but chilly in the early hours.
He lifted his arm to pull her closer and whispered something into her hair about being exactly where he wanted to be, and she sighed in surrender.
She wanted to be there, too. And though he was a secret, and she knew she should feel bad, she felt anything but.
He’d said it was karmic that they’d met last summer. And maybe he was right.
LAST SUMMER
THE JERSEY SHORE
“There’s the newbie—Zayn Stavros-Roy,” her friend, Rekha whisper-squealed, swiftly turning back to them. They huddled on the patio of the beach estate where the annual South Asian Community’s end-of-summer bash was always held.
Each of the four girls arrived, excited with some new kernel of gossip they’d overheard from their parents about the new boy coming to Greenwich Preparatory Academy.
He was a huge deal. Not only was he coming in their last year as seniors (the entire class of seventy had been in school together at GPA since kindergarten), but he was also half-Indian and half-Greek.
Rekha continued to chatter; her boy craziness having sprouted that summer. All they ever heard about lately was her first kiss, her second kiss, and her third kiss (which included tongue).
As the self-proclaimed leader of their little group, Rekha dubbed them “The Ivy” during their freshman year.
Roll-your-eyes-obnoxious, yes, but they’d been at the top of their class academically since middle school, so the name was fitting.
After three years of laser-focused studies peppered with strategic extra-curriculars, all four were applying to Ivy League universities for college.
Part of that laser focus included no funny business with boys.
But now, Rekha’s behavior had done a complete 180. The other girls found it hard to get used to, but with hormones and crushes of their own, their enthusiasm won over.
Kareena looked Rekha up and down, as the petite girl flipped her dyed blond hair over her shoulders and adjusted her halter top.
Their moms had been friends since they were pregnant with them, so she’d known Rekha the longest. Maybe she didn’t know her at all anymore?
Would Rekha give her V-card away this summer?
Their parents didn’t allow dating. So, who would the guy be?
Kareena wouldn’t judge—okay, she might a little.
They were friends, but judging was what they did as a by-product of being South Asian when all you heard growing up were comparisons.
Who had the biggest house? Who had more than one Mercedes?
Whose kids were going to state schools, or, God forbid, community college?
But she wouldn’t judge Rekha harshly. She’d only advise her to be careful, then want all the juicy details.
But, most importantly, they never leaked anything to the parentals. They had a code amongst them.
“That mad one?” Sarah asked, bringing Kareena back to the cacophony of Bollywood music and guests chattering loudly around them.
“Madly cute, you mean,” Kareena’s best friend Sheila commented, having looked up briefly from the game of solitaire on her phone.
Kareena had to see what everyone was talking about, so she glanced over, too.
But after about two seconds, she jerked her head back.
Heat crawled up her face, and she was momentarily disorientated.
Her heart raced at a galloping speed, and if she didn’t rein it in, she might faint …
in a pool of her own drool. Her insides were wobbly and a “mega whoa” escaped her lips, making her friends giggle.
“See, even ‘No Drama-Sharma’ can’t contain herself,” Rekha said with aplomb.
She was right because Zayn Stavros-Roy wasn’t only madly cute, he was insanely hot.
His eyes happened to land on her, and immediately a zing zipped from the base of her spine to the top of her skull.
She shook her head to get rid of the feeling.
Is this what electroshock therapy felt like?
She was a little unsteady on her feet and smoothed her long hair self-consciously, hoping no one noticed.
In that brief moment, she’d glimpsed that he was taller than any eighteen-year-old she’d ever met. His shoulders were wide but hunched just slightly, as if he didn’t want the world to see his height.
The woman standing next to him, gesticulating her arms in a blur of sun-kissed skin and gold bangles, had to be his mom. Her hair was red like his, but lighter, fiery. His was dark auburn, with highlights that shone like burnished copper.
That was all Kareena noticed before their eyes collided, heightening her awareness.
“Why is he so irritated?” she whispered.
“He can’t hear us, Kara,” Sheila said, looking up from her phone again for the briefest of moments. “Dunno. Looks like his mom said something and he is pissed .”
So that was confirmed—she was his mom—the Greek shipping heiress everyone was curious about. Well, she looked the part, with a blue scarf tied chicly around her head, and oversized sunglasses making her appear like one of those glamorous 1960s movie stars.