OneDesi Girls
My sister’s hand is gentle and steady at my cheek. Even with my eyes closed, I can feel Alina’s gaze on me, studying her handiwork with an artist’s precision.
“Hold still,” Alina says. She sweeps a gold shadow over my lids, the sapphire bangles Nikhil’s mother gave her last night jingling with each movement. She pulls back when she hears me sniffle. “What’s wrong?”
I shake my head, pressing the corner of my chunni to each eye to capture escaping tears. “It’s just,” I say, a lump rising in my throat. “You look so pretty, Alina.”
It’s true. When I was younger, and Alina was in high school, I thought my sister had to be the most beautiful woman in the world. Years later, not much has changed. Today, her skin is pink and flushed in a healthy bridal glow, and her dark hair falls down her back in loose, shiny curls, shampoo commercial–style. She’s wearing Mamma’s most expensive and elegant lehenga, a silvery blue set with an intricately embroidered skirt that tapers into a short train at her heels. Swirls of flowery mehndi paint her arms, and her chunni rests gracefully over one shoulder, concealing all but a thin strip of skin above her waist.
Alina smiles. “Thank you,” she says softly. “But you don’t. Not yet,” she teases, tucking a stray piece of hair behind my ear. “So, no more tears, okay? You’re going to ruin all my hard work.”
“Okay.” I give her a watery smile. “No more tears.” Sitting straighter on the bathtub edge, I tilt my face up.
For the next ten minutes, Alina works in silence, pressing foundation and concealer into my skin with a damp sponge, dusting on powders with a large, fluffy brush. Something warm settles in my stomach. It feels like before. Alina, back in the childhood bathroom we used to share, doing my makeup just like she used to for every Diwali, birthday party, middle school dance. It hits me in full force just how terribly I’ve missed this, missed her. Never can I go three years without her again.
“All done,” Alina announces, and I stand up, turning to examine my reflection in the bathroom mirror.
“Oh,” I say a little breathlessly. I look beautiful. My skin is glowing with dewy radiance, my eyes big and bright from expertly applied shadow and liner. I look to Alina in the mirror. “Thank you.”
She squeezes my shoulder. “You look like a princess, Arya.”
The compliment makes me smile. I adjust my chunni, trying and failing to prevent it from bunching at my shoulder. “Which princess?”
“Jasmine?” Alina offers, and I wrinkle my nose.
“I’m in pink, not blue,” I point out. I open the wooden drawer under the sink, searching for a safety pin to fasten my chunni to my blouse. I find one underneath some hair elastics and hand it to Alina.
She secures it in one smooth motion. “A Bollywood star, then. Kareena Kapoor in ‘Bole Chudiyan.’”
I raise my eyebrows, surprised and flattered. “That’s a very high compliment.”
“I’m feeling generous.” She grins at me, and I wrap my arms around her waist tightly, kissing her cheek.
“Let’s go get you hitched,” I say, then stop, correcting myself. “Engaged, I mean. Officially, anyway.”
Today is Alina’s Roka ceremony, a Hindu pre-wedding event that formally acknowledges Alina and Nikhil’s engagement. The shaadi is still a few months away, but Alina and Nikhil will exchange rings today, and the families will exchange gifts. Mamma insisted on following traditions to a T. Alina protested at first, but I know she loves the attention and extravagance that comes with Mamma’s way.
When we walk out of the bathroom, we find Mamma waiting for us in the hallway. She’s wearing a gold sari and deep red lipstick, the picture of elegance.
My mother is very beautiful. Her beauty has faded with time, but not because of age. Her eyes have lost their gleam. Frown lines crease her forehead. She doesn’t smile anymore, not unless we have company. This is how I know her now. Proud, regal, and sad.
She gives the two of us a once-over, and her lack of criticism signals approval.
“Chalo,” she says, tilting her head to the staircase. “Guests are waiting.”
* * *
“I cannot believe,” Lisa begins, pushing a lock of ginger hair out of her eye, “that there is all this fuss going on, and it’s not even the main event.”
I grin at her over a tall glass of mango lassi. The ceremony concluded just moments ago, and now I’m sitting next to Lisa Greenfield, my best friend since fourth grade. She’s wearing a borrowed lehenga of mine, a teal piece that looks bright against her pale skin and is slightly too long for her even though she’s in heels. We’re on the bench by my papa’s flower garden, sipping our drinks and watching guests dance to loud, joyful Bollywood remixes.
“It wouldn’t be a Khanna wedding without the fuss,” I remind Lisa. Last year, I took Lisa with me to my cousin’s wedding, where the groom arrived at the venue on a grand white horse.
“True,” she says, smiling. “But I won’t ever understand it. My parents got married at city hall. Then they got divorced like the rest of America just fine.” I swat her lightly on the shoulder, and she giggles. “I’m joking. It was a really beautiful, really emotional ceremony.”
“It was,” I say softly. Alina and Nikhil had both been teary-eyed as they exchanged rings, and Papa had been openly sobbing for the duration of the Roka.
Lisa sips her mango lassi quietly, and I use the moment to take in the scene around us. It took several hours of hard work, but our backyard has never looked more enchanting. Red rose petals litter the walkways and strings of twinkling fairy lights line our fence. The lanterns I helped Nikhil hang from the magnolia trees last night glint gold in the fading sun. The sky is a hazy indigo, hovering between day and night, and wisps of white cloud float up above us.
Lisa nudges my shoulder. “Where’s Andy?” she asks casually.
There’s a pause. “I think he’s still inside,” I say carefully. “He came in late, so he’s probably getting food. He should be out soon.”
Andy Bishop, a boy well known for his chronic lateness, is the third member of our trio. He moved to town in early middle school, when Lisa and I were already close, and the three of us became best friends after a fateful English project grouped us together. He and Lisa started going out last winter, after years of a drawn-out will-they-won’t-they courtship. Just three weeks ago, they broke up. I still don’t know the details of their split.
“I’ll admit,” I start when Lisa doesn’t say anything, “I feel a little like the child of recently divorced parents. I’ve been dividing my time between you. Today will be the first time we’re all together in weeks.”
“Trust me, not a comparable situation,” Lisa says, holding up a finger. “But yes, I know things are weird right now. It’s going to take time to get back to normal.”
I nod like I understand, but I can’t help the worry churning in my stomach. Senior year starts in a few days, and I don’t want to begin my last year of high school without both my best friends at my side.
“But it’ll get back to normal. Eventually,” Lisa continues. “I know it. We were friends before we were anything else.”
“You’re really doing well, then?” I ask tentatively, twisting a strand of hair behind my ear. “With the breakup?”
I don’t get to hear her response, because Andy slides into the seat next to me, his plate laden with samosas, pakoras, and other savory snacks. He looks handsome; the navy-gold kurta Nikhil lent him for the occasion suits his dark skin.
“Hey, Lisa. Arya.” His voice is gentle. Lisa gives him a half wave that is so awkward, it makes me cringe.
“You’re late,” I say, desperate to move past any weirdness.
“Traffic was crazy,” he says, shaking his head. “You wouldn’t believe.”
“You live two blocks away, Andy,” I remind him. “So, no, I don’t believe.”
He grins brightly. “I promise I won’t be late to the real wedding.” He raises three fingers Scout’s honor–style.
“Knowing you, you’d probably be late to your own wedding,” I joke, and it’s in that moment I become supremely aware that I am sandwiched between two recent exes. Lisa slurps her drink loudly in the pause that follows.
“Probably,” Andy says lightly.
“Can you believe we’re going to be seniors soon?” I say to change the subject. “I mean, summer’s practically over.” I pause for effect. “Winter is coming.”
“Ugh,” Andy says at the same time Lisa groans, “Worst joke ever.”
They start to laugh, and even though it’s at my expense, I can’t help the feeling of warmth that settles over me because they are laughing together.
“I’m serious,” I say, nudging them both. “It’s kind of scary. Our last year of high school.”
“It’s going to be an exciting last year for me,” Lisa says joyfully. “I’ve waited to captain since freshman year.”
Lisa is the new captain of our girls’ varsity basketball team. I’m not a big sports person, but I’ve never missed one of her home games. She is our school’s starting point guard and pure magic on the court.
“Should be an exciting last year for you too,” Lisa continues, tilting her near-empty glass of mango lassi toward me. “Vice President Khanna.”
“Don’t,” I say, making a sour face at Lisa, because it’s a John Adams–like vice presidency. I only became VP because I lost the presidential election. Dean Merriweather, a soccer player with charisma but zero work ethic, won by six votes. It’s safe to say I am still bitter.
“Stop being negative,” Lisa chastises.
“I am who I am,” I quip, and then we all fall silent. Something like nervousness twists in my stomach. I don’t know how to explain it to them, how much I need this night not to end. Tomorrow, I’ll be worrying about senior year and student council, about my two best friends drifting apart, about Alina getting married and leaving again. Tonight, I can pretend none of that exists.
“Let’s go dance,” I say suddenly, tilting my head toward the makeshift dance floor Papa set up in the center of our backyard. Beneath the darkening sky, guests laugh and sway to the music. Alina’s in the center, dancing with Nikhil, bright and happy.
“What?” Andy says, rightfully incredulous. Never do I volunteer to dance.
“I’m serious,” I say, standing up and smoothing down the skirt of my lehenga.
“I don’t know any of the Bollywood songs,” Lisa points out.
“You’ll learn,” I decide. I slip off my heels and begin walking barefoot toward the dance floor. I glare at Lisa and Andy over my shoulder until they follow me, grumbling. Right then, “Desi Girl” starts to play on the speakers, and Lisa squeals excitedly.
“I do know a Bollywood song!” she exclaims, and I laugh, blowing her a kiss. She shouts the lyrics she knows, pretends to shout the ones she doesn’t. Andy joins in a moment later, and I fill in the gaps in their memories. We shout and sing and dance until the sky turns to night and our feet are sore and aching.
TwoSenior Season
On Monday morning, I have breakfast with Alina and Nikhil. Mamma’s still asleep, and Papa’s already left for work, so it’s only the three of us. Our meal consists of leftovers from the Roka: a microwaved aloo tikki and two barfis each.
“You look nice,” Nikhil tells me as I set my plate on the table. He’s sipping coffee and working away on his laptop. He’s got on a pair of thick, black-rimmed glasses today instead of his usual contacts. “Very first-day-of-school-ready.”
“Thank you,” I say, smiling at him. I’ve kept my makeup simple, and I’m wearing the outfit I picked out weeks ago: a flowy, floral top tucked into a pair of high-waisted shorts.
“Those are my earrings,” Alina protests. She had been leaning against Nikhil’s shoulder, but now she sits up straight, eyes narrowed at the small gold hoops glittering from my ears.
“What’s the point of you being home,” I say, unbothered, “if I can’t steal your things?”
“I’m getting married; that’s the point,” she says with a glare. “Anyway, don’t forget we’re going to the caterer’s this afternoon. Drive straight over after class. I emailed you details last week.”
“I wasn’t going to forget,” I say. I’ve been looking forward to the taste-testing session all weekend. “I’ll be there.”
“Good,” she says. “It’ll just be the two of us, since Papa’s working, and Nikhil needs to drop his parents off at the airport.”
Nikhil’s parents flew to Boston from New Jersey just for the Roka. They’ll be back a couple weeks before the wedding to help with any final preparations, but Nikhil is living with us for the next few months, working from home so he can be involved in each stage of the wedding planning.
I’m glad to have him around. I liked Nikhil the moment I met him, which had never happened with Alina’s previous boyfriends. He and Alina started dating during her sophomore year at Columbia, a few months before she dropped out, and I met him for the first time that spring, on a weekend trip to visit Alina. He was kind, gentler than I expected for someone who loved my fiery sister, and he spoke to me like an equal even though I was an insecure thirteen-year-old. I’ve loved him like a brother ever since.
My brow furrows at Alina’s math. “Just the two of us? What about Mamma?”
Alina picks at her barfi. “What about her?” Her voice is casual, but her mouth is tightening at the corners.
“Alina,” I start. My voice is a warning.
“I don’t see a need for her to be there,” Alina says, voice rising preemptively. “I am totally capable of determining the menu by myself.”
Copyright © 2023 by Arushi Avachat
