Chapter 22 Lusty Month of March
I don’t manage to access any other visions for the next several days as I wait for Asmodeus or Muya to resurface.
By Friday, the day of the fundraiser, I’m panicking.
The forecast predicts temperatures in the high sixties for the next week, the last of Forty Days.
The weather really hates us. Violence always increases with the temperature, and I am certain we will also have demons to contend with.
Our social worker quit, so I’ve been doing part of her job in a more official capacity.
But since I’m not a social worker and can’t actually provide any psychological evaluation or guidance, I mostly just sit with patients who need company.
And while I’ve used my magic to help patients and fight Asmodeus before, it’s not really an option right now.
Every time I reach for it, I feel exhausted—whatever I did to him during our last encounter also wiped a lot of my power.
Though I’ve watched as those before me creatively bettered their respective situations, even if I could reach my magic, I can think of no way for it to save the clinic.
So I stew and worry. The only bright spot is Shreya, who has started texting me daily.
She’s going to be at the fundraiser and has taken it upon herself to make plans to guilt specific uncles into donating, which makes me smile if nothing else.
That night, Aai and Rima Aunty come to pick me up. They put food in my fridge, dress me in an outfit of their choosing, Western this time, and then Rima Aunty applies makeup to my face while Aai does my hair.
“Am I being set up for a surprise arranged marriage?” I joke, but they don’t respond. The tension is thick after I ran out of Aai’s house, and while I’ve been responding to Aai’s check-ins multiple times a day, I haven’t yet been able to dispel the frostiness.
We pull up in the mandir parking lot, and I sigh.
Of course they planned on ambushing me by bringing me to the temple.
I go inside and slip off my shoes, shivering as my bare feet make contact with the cold marble tile.
I try to walk as quickly as is respectful, reciting the appropriate prayers at lightning speed.
Somewhere along the way, though, as I do my pradakshina, the smell of incense and the quiet murmurs around me cause my shoulders to drop.
This is such a simple way for me to make Aai happy.
And that should matter to me. I can do this for her.
I sit cross-legged on the women’s side without complaining about the gender segregation, and wait for as long as Aai and Rima Aunty take to finish up.
Aai smiles as we leave and squeezes my hand.
It’s only when we get to the party that I wonder how Aai pulled this off so quickly.
A month’s worth of planning in, what, under a week?
At the Bhats’ place, a banner in the foyer reads “Rogers Park Health Center,” and another under it says “Donate Now!” There are QR codes, boxes for checks, and plenty of glitzy guests mingling.
Most are desi folks, but surprisingly not all.
“How…?” I don’t even know how to frame the question.
Aai smiles. “You go work the crowd. The Bhats owe me for quite a bit, as it turns out.”
“What do you have on them?”
Aai shoots me a mysterious look. “Let me have my secrets, yes?” She gives me a little push, and I plaster on a smile.
“Namaskar, aunty! My name is Nisha. I work at the clinic. I would be happy to tell you more about it.”
The aunty in question gives me a once-over and replies, “Yes, the Bhats did not give much information. Just said it was urgent. Between us, they are very liberal, don’t you think? Parading all this around… it is not very savory.”
I literally just said I worked there, but if she wants to gossip, I can work with that. “We provide a lot of different types of services to recent immigrants. We help with prenatal care for women who have just come over.”
“That’s good,” she says approvingly. I can see her reevaluating, so I decide to lay it on a bit thicker.
“Lately, these other people have been trying to shut us down. A lot of them still believe all those stereotypes about Indians—they think our patients are coming in to get sex-selectives. That is why we need help with funding.”
“They do not understand our culture,” the aunty says angrily. “As if! We are not backward, they are!”
“Exactly, aunty ji.”
The evening passes in a blur. Some folks are excited about the cause and just want to hear stories that make them feel even better about their contributions.
I don’t mind it at all, because they are all that stands between us and closure.
Not everyone can work on the front lines of every fight for justice, but the fact that they still care enough to help almost makes me cry after the month we’ve had.
A few are more wary of supporting an abortion clinic but feel pressured by the Bhats’ social influence, especially when they have to explain their positions to me.
Before, I might have condemned them as fence-sitters and moralizers, but now I see the shades of gray and appreciate their help.
They’re not bad people—to have their own qualms about abortion but look past them for the welfare of the larger population is maybe even an act of true goodness.
The smile on my face becomes more and more genuine.
I talk to an uncle who lives in the area, whose son runs a business on Devon Avenue.
I talk to an ajji who babysat me when I was very small, though I don’t remember her, and after I touch her feet, she pinches my cheeks and says she’s proud of me.
I talk to a couple I’ve seen at other Bhat parties who inform me that their daughter is a doctor in California who provides abortions.
At one point, I find myself on autopilot, starting my pitch to none other than Geeta.
“You’re doing amazing,” Geeta says. “I hear all the time about how indispensable you are at the clinic. Great work.”
It’s such a silly, meaningless platitude, but I let myself feel good about it anyway. Across the room, I see Dr. Bhat talking to someone animatedly and accepting a check. Miracles will never cease.
“This is a lovely event,” Dr. Levy says. I whirl around to see her grinning at me. She’s wearing a powder-blue suit and looks absolutely lovely.
“Is it enough?” I ask, because I suddenly feel small. The place has gotten more crowded since I got here, but it’s no Art Institute fundraiser.
Dr. Levy’s smile smooths into a look of understanding. She takes my hands in hers. “I’ve asked myself that every day of my life.”
“I didn’t mean you—”
“Of course not. You think everyone is doing a good job but you.” My mouth falls open.
She laughs, then squeezes my hands like she is trying to show me something.
“Sometimes I worry that I’m only treating the symptoms, instead of finding a cure.
I’ve made my peace with it. We are doing something that helps people.
Have you ever heard the saying, ‘Whoever saves a life has saved the whole world’?
Overwrought, perhaps, but our work has saved more than one life. That’s what I tell myself.”
“It doesn’t feel like enough.”
“It never will,” she says frankly. “It isn’t a bad thing to never be completely satisfied, so long as you can find a little peace.”
I close my eyes, because I can’t bear to witness any more of this earnestness, when I sense Aaron beside me. I open my eyes to see him offering me a plate.
“You look great,” Aaron says, and Dr. Levy laughs as if we weren’t just discussing the source of my all-consuming depression.
“I’ll leave you kids to it,” she says.
“Thank you.” It’s wholly inadequate for her perhaps life-changing words, but it’s all I can manage.
Aaron offers me his arm. I study him, looking for any evidence that he’s been sabotaging our clinic or working alongside demons, but my brain goes fuzzy at the sight of him in a tux.
I slip my hand onto his arm, and we head back into the crowd.
As the evening wears on, Geeta comes by to let me and Aaron know that we’ve received enough donations to fix the damage to the administrative wing and fund operations for three months.
Apparently that means that Geeta can use her money to make a substantial donation to the alderman instead of rebuilding the clinic, taking care of yet another thorn in our sides.
It’s almost too good to believe, but as I look around and spot doctors and bankers and engineers, it makes sense.
We’ve been building generational capital, but we haven’t used it for this type of collective action before.
I know there are plenty of problems in our community, and in who gets to build that kind of capital, but tonight all I feel is pride.
Aaron and I are still arm in arm, our eyes occasionally meeting before one of us glances away.
At some point, I look down to find that we’ve switched to holding hands, although I can’t remember when or how that could have happened.
It’s bizarre, but I’m more curious about the crowd.
Aunties gazing adoringly at their husbands—and each other?
An older couple kissing in the corner? For Indians at a public function, that might as well be third base.
Aaron follows my gaze and giggles, and I join him.
His hand brushes the skin on my upper arm and heat pools low in my belly.
I’ve never felt this kind of romance-book physical attraction before, not even to Aaron, and it feels wrong in my body.
And yet so good. Before I can get too carried away, a hand clamps mine, nails digging into my skin. I let out a yelp and whirl around.
“Shreya?”
“I thought this was a fundraiser, not an orgy!”
The adrenaline and pain clear away some of my earlier fog.
I take Aaron’s and Shreya’s hands in mine before either can protest, try to avoid the thrill of this skin-to-skin contact, and lift the veil of ignorance.
It’s hard, perhaps harder than it’s ever been, even when I was more inexperienced.
I reach deep into the depleted well of my magic, stretching the muscle as much as I can bear, and at last the spell dissipates, leaving me nauseated about how cozy I’d just been with Aaron. The room is covered in a haze of pink.
“Well, damn,” Shreya says, scanning the crowd.
Aaron whispers to himself, “What the fuck?”
I remember that one of Asmodeus’s many titles is the Lord of Lust—he told me that himself.
I haven’t experienced this side of his powers before, but I know it must be him.
Aaron steps away from me, and I study his face.
He looks confused, and not really like someone whose demonic plans were just foiled.
Shreya whispers, “Am I hallucinating?” I shake my head. “This is—I must be.”
I turn to her, grasping both her hands in mine, and with what little power I have, I scan the crowd for demonic energy.
It doesn’t take me long to find a gleeful-looking man who I can immediately tell is under Asmodeus’s influence.
Thank gods for small miracles. I focus my attention on allowing Shreya to see it, too. When she does, she gasps.
“It’s just like in the books,” she whispers. I can almost see the gears turning in her head as she compares what she’s seeing with our conversation over coffee.
The man approaches us, and I put myself between him and Shreya. Aaron lingers nearby.
“Hello, Nisha,” the man says. I don’t know how to respond, because I’m all too aware that I don’t have enough power to erase Asmodeus’s influence or make him forget me. I’m already struggling just to push away his influence. “I have a message for you.”
“Yes?”
“Let’s discuss outside. It’s a bit stuffy in here.”
“What is Asmodeus’s plan?” I ask, pitching my voice low.
“I’ll tell you outside,” the man says. “Cross my heart.”
He reaches out his hand, and I stare at it. I know I shouldn’t go with him, but maybe outside I can find a way to stop whatever he’s planning, with fewer people caught in the cross fire. I release my hold on Shreya’s hand to reach for his.
Shreya’s punch to his face comes as a surprise to all of us.
His nose audibly crunches as he doubles over in pain.
Before I can react, she grips the man’s shoulders and knees him right in the balls.
As he writhes, I see the haze lift off everyone in the room.
There’s a clamor as the assemblage clears their throats and rearranges their clothing, and everyone’s extreme efforts to studiously ignore their surroundings offer great cover for the demon fight unfolding before me.
I did not know Shreya had it in her. The man whimpering on the ground looks supremely confused, and it appears that whatever tether he previously had to the Lord of Lust is fully severed.
He looks up at Shreya in fear and hobbles quickly out of the room.
“That hurt,” Shreya says as she shakes out her hand. “You’re very lucky, because a lust demon wasn’t going to work on me.”
“You’re taking this surprisingly well.”
“I’m in shock,” she supplies. “I think, though, you owe me an explanation.”
Aaron has melted into the crowd, and I have no desire to follow.
Soon, though, I have to investigate that lead more thoroughly for the sake of the clinic.
If Asmodeus was summoned, it was likely by someone interested in ruining our clinic.
I can’t rule out Aaron. I think suddenly of how he said your clinic when we spoke about Divya.
Not our clinic. Tomorrow I’ll confront him. I have to.
I find a peaceful corner for Shreya and me to talk. After she grabs an ice cream cup to soothe her hand, I fill her in on everything. To her credit, she takes it all in stride, even the ending: Asmodeus is still alive and kicking, Muya’s at large, and my magic is pretty much gone.
“I believe you,” she says, and her words are so sweet that tears prick my eyes. “You… we can figure it out.”