Chapter 5 Party Games
It takes the whole five-minute shower for my mind to shift gears from victim of a freaky maybe-anti encounter to party attendee. When I come back out of the bathroom, Aai is inspecting my fridge, rearranging containers to add a few of her own. She turns that same critical eye on me.
“Are you all right? Are you sure that man wasn’t a threat?”
“I’m sure. It happens all the time. He’ll give up now.” I feel steadier, and remind myself that every person in our field has at least one story like this.
Aai studies me, then motions to the lehenga she’s laid out. I realize she’s already in a sari, hair in a bun, makeup done. “Get changed. We have to drive to Naperville.”
I suppress a shudder. Aai raises an eyebrow. “Traffic’s going to be hell. After all, it’s a day that ends in a ‘y.’ ”
She looks instantly annoyed. “If you are able to stay in this job and put up with all these bad people, you can handle some traffic. It’s an auspicious day for the Bhats’ puja.
Don’t insult them and attract bad energy.
And remember, don’t start anything.” I haven’t started anything in two years, but parents always remember you as you were, not as you are.
Besides, she’s a better mom than pretty much anyone else I know.
So I shut up and take the lehenga out of its garment bag.
“Is this…” I start.
Aai smiles. “Yes. I let out the blouse.”
I hug the skirt to my chest. It’s light, lighter than a lehenga like this should be.
Forest green, with gold embroidery down the sides, and a red border with mirrors and sequins.
If I were to wear it, and spin fast enough, the whole dress would flare out.
The border would catch the light, which would transform the hem into a ring of fire, shooting gold sparks up the skirt.
I used to love dancing. I lived to perform, coming alive onstage.
There’s no real reason why I don’t dance anymore.
At least, that’s the lie I like to tell myself.
As I run my hands down the embroidery, I remember what it felt like to be connected with my community, back when it was something I could be a part of without reservation.
Before I grew up, and a religious nationalist was elected, and suddenly my Indian community became a place where uncles made questionable remarks about Muslim people, seemingly at random, and aunties moaned about how oppressed Hindus were in India.
I could see these sentiments had been lurking just under the surface the whole time.
Each of my attempts to voice opposition or even just suggest that there were similarities between US and Indian politics were met with sharp looks from Aai and the constant refrain, “You can’t possibly understand, since you have never lived in India.
” So I pulled away. I stopped dancing as much, stopped attending functions and spending time with my community.
They pulled away from me, too, staying silent and leaving the vulnerable among us exposed.
When I had my accident, the fracture lines severed my connection to them completely.
But putting on a nice dress matters to Aai, the one person I still have in my corner.
And I can tell that my wearing it will make her happy.
I strip down, then tug on the lehenga, which I once painstakingly fitted with elastic so that I wouldn’t have to worry about tying the nadu tightly enough.
Aai hooks the blouse in the back, then safety-pins my dupatta in place. She goes to use the bathroom.
Just once. I spin quickly, closing my eyes, and feel the skirt snap out.
Muscle memory takes over, my weight centered over my left heel as my right foot hits the floor hard.
I do it again. I feel powerful, like someone who might start something—it’s too much.
I tie my hair back in a simple ponytail and grab my purse, busying myself with mundanity and waiting until the brightness of the dance has faded.
There’s no point in reveling in that momentary feeling when it only makes the crash harder.
I can’t change anything. I can’t even change myself. Believing that I can is dangerous.
“By the way,” Aai says when she comes out, carefully not meeting my eyes, “I have something to tell you.” Every single time Aai nervously begins this way, I wonder if she’s finally about to admit that I ruined her life and she wishes she could have gotten an abortion instead of having me out of wedlock.
She’s a good mother—a great mother—so I know she won’t.
And yet, my heart kicks up a gear. “Rima Aunty is in the car.”
“I—what? Who?”
“Rima Iyer.” She says it calmly, as if I haven’t heard her curse this woman’s name for years. Rima Iyer, Aai’s former friend, who stopped associating with us after I got into a fight with her husband.
“Ajay can give her a ride,” I say. “Why is she here?”
Ajay Iyer is a cardiologist, but don’t fear, he’s an expert in politics, too.
At parties, he offers gems like, “Muslim people have destroyed India since the time of the Mughals, and now they want preference?” and “These Mexicans are just like Muslims, we need to close the borders to all these me-me-me welfare grabbers.” At some point I very politely informed him that statistics were not on his side, and you would have thought I told him to go fuck himself the way people reacted.
It made me wish I had called him a self-righteous piece of shit and pointed out that he had servants wiping his ass from the day he was born and a mommy and daddy who sponsored his entire education and path to America.
But instead I committed the worse sin of being a young woman who dared to contradict an elder.
Nobody wanted my opinion on the political matters I was informed about.
The gathering went quiet as Ajay’s face grew red and he called out for Aai, to tell her in a whisper meant to be heard by all that perhaps I would benefit from a stronger male influence in my life.
Aai had turned to Rima Aunty, who simply looked away, as though in agreement.
“My daughter does not need a man. She has more morals as a college student than most of the full-grown men here,” Aai snapped back.
At first, gossip about what happened spread like wildfire. But then I had a freak accident, and suddenly the confrontation was forgotten by all but a few. Rima Iyer never called Aai back, never apologized, and loudly left any event to which we showed up.
“That swine Ajay… apparently something happened between her and his mother, and he slapped her. She came to me this afternoon, crying. I could not turn her away.”
“She has plenty of vapid little friends to help her out, Aai. You always tell me not to be a bleeding heart, so take your own advice. Besides, she’ll be back by his side tomorrow.”
“She’s the one who insists on going to the party without him,” Aai says. “I think she wants to snub him, turn her nose up. I warned her, but…”
“What?” I ask, because I recognize Aai’s expression and just know she already has regrets. “Let me guess. She said something horrible about Muslim people for no reason at all and then insisted that the enlightened Hindus at the function would rally around her?”
“Nisha, she’s gone through a hard time. Don’t be so harsh.” Aai’s lips press into a thin line and I know I’m close to the truth. “Get in the car. And be polite. I know you don’t like her, but she’s gone through terrible things. I want you to be the bigger person.”
I don’t have it in me to fight Rima Aunty, but the principle of the thing still compels me to say, “It’s wrong to entertain bigots.”
“Don’t turn this into a philosophical argument,” Aai snaps, and I can tell I’ve reached the end of her patience.
She’s had a trying day, and I’m being a bitch.
I feel a surge of contrition, and she sighs.
“Arguing with her right now will only make her spiral. When bad things happen to difficult people, it doesn’t change the badness of what happened.
Perhaps this will be a time for her to grow, yes? ”
“If she’s going to take your help, she’ll definitely have to change,” I say, bumping my shoulder against hers so she knows it’s a compliment.
Aai shakes her head. “Get in the car. You know how I feel about traffic.”
Rima Aunty sits stiffly in the back seat, which is surprisingly considerate of her.
I can’t see any marks on her face, but a man like Ajay Iyer would be careful not to hurt a woman where it could be seen.
I brace myself for the usual, You look healthy—translation, You’ve gained weight—but she just looks me up and down and says, “Nice lehenga.”
“Thanks, aunty. How are you?”
She snorts but doesn’t say anything. She probably doesn’t want to spill her guts to a girl she has long thought of as roadside trash.
On the other hand, perhaps there should be an enemy-of-my-enemy attitude here.
Aai drives through traffic like a woman possessed, cursing out the drivers ahead of us.
We’ll be late, but so will everyone else.
Who even holds a party post-satyanarayan puja, and who does it three weeks before Holi instead of in the fall?
It’s a nice touch, I guess, to distribute the prasad from the ceremony to friends, but usually the puja is a household affair, so the Bhats really are using it as an excuse to host a party on some random Thursday.
Aai says that the Bhats aren’t all bad, but she’s never explained how she met them in the first place other than to mention how they “owe” her.