by Sonya Lalli
“Who are you looking at?”
I shrugged.
“It’s embarrassing, isn’t it?” Shay said after a moment. “The way some of them are acting.”
“And what are we supposed to do? Do we accept them for how they are, and blame it on their upbringing? Appreciate everything that’s good”—I turned back to Shay—“and try and not focus on the bad?”
“I guess so, yeah”—she pushed her hair out of her eyes—“but I don’t know, Raina. I don’t know if I have an answer for that.”
There was good and bad, light and dark—yin and yang—to everything, wasn’t there? Their homophobia, their reluctance to accept what they didn’t understand—wasn’t that just a relic of tradition? Something bound to be trampled on over time?
I heard Shay sigh, and I glanced back at her.
“I don’t know if I’ve ever explicitly said it to you—if I’ve ever said—but I’m sorry for the way my mother has treated you and your nani.”
“I brought it on myself, didn’t I?”
Shay crossed her arms, and I knew exactly what she was about to say. “Depesh didn’t.”
* * *
I found him at the farthest table in the cafeteria. His hair was greasy, and he had dark rings under his eyes. He was staring out the window—a dark sliver peeking out into the parking lot—and he didn’t see me until I was right next to him.
“Mind if I join?”
He shook his head and dropped his legs off the chair. I sat down, and he leaned in, hunched over the table. His eyes and the tip of his nose were red.
“How are you doing?”
He didn’t answer, smiled halfheartedly at the table.
“Your mom can go home tomorrow,” I said. “Have you heard? She’s completely fine.”
He wouldn’t meet my eye.
“Depesh, what are you thinking?” I whispered. “You can tell me.”
“I don’t know, Raina.” He sighed—an exasperated, frustrated sigh. “My mom is in hospital, she has a disease that one day might actually kill her, I’m in the middle of writing final exams—and all I can think about right now is a guy.” He shrugged. “A guy.”
“You met someone?”
He nodded.
I smiled and poked him in the arm. He didn’t look up, and I kept poking him until he smiled, too.
“Tell me about him.” I leaned back in my chair. “But only if you want.”
“His name is Caleb, and we met in Human Biology a while ago . . . He’s one of the friends I told you about.”
“So he’s a friend?”
Depesh smiled, shaking his head. “Not anymore. Yesterday, we”—Depesh paused—“Raina, I’m falling for him. I want to be with him.”
“Depo, you can be with him.”
“No.” He shook his head. “I can’t. Not the same way everyone else is.”
“What do you mean?”
“I want to hold his hand. Like, I want to show him the house I grew up in—and bring him as my date to—I don’t know, Thanksgiving dinner with my family. I’ll never be able to do any of that stuff.”
“You don’t know that . . . Remember what Zoey said?” I sat up straighter in my chair. “You have to work up to telling your parents, work yourself up to it. Besides Caleb, you’ve talked to people, right? You told me some of your new friends know now?”
Depesh nodded.
“And how was that?”
He shrugged. “It was fine. They were great about it. But my parents, Ma is sick, and—and—”
“Your mom is getting the treatment she needs. She’s getting stronger overall.” I leaned in closer. “There’s never going to be a right time, Depesh. If you want to come out to them, then—”
“They think I’m some kind of dream child, Raina. They respect me and love me, and rely on me—how am I supposed to take that away?” Depesh shook his head. “Raina, you think Auntie Sarla is bad. You should have heard what they said about you.”
I pressed my lips together.
“They are who they are, and if they can’t—or won’t—change, how are they ever going to look at me the same again?”
A strange silence passed between us, and I became conscious of the wind-like rustling in the vent along the wall; a vacuum roaring faintly in another wing of the hospital.
“When I was younger—maybe you were too young to remember—but you should have seen the way people used to look at me when I was little, before my mother moved out. You should have seen how they looked at my whole family.” My breath caught. “Do you know she was sixteen when I was born?”
He shook his head.
“And do you remember Vikram Prasad’s wedding, about ten years ago?”
Again, he shook his head.
“Half his family didn’t show up for the wedding because he didn’t marry a Hindu.”
“Really?”
I nodded. “And now? I’m all grown up, and does anyone care about how I was born? Does Auntie Sarla—does anyone in our community—care that Shay is marrying a white Catholic guy?”
He shook his head. “No. They don’t.”
“A lot of them are behind the times. It’s going to be hard for the first person to do anything different.” I smiled. “But as much as Auntie Sarla—as much as everyone—talks shit, and bickers, they stick together. Yes, they’re judgmental—and yes, it’s fucking frustrating when they don’t see things the way we do, but this community is a family, and it’s always stuck together.”
I heard him swallow.
“And whether your parents kick you out, cut you off, cry, scream, disown you—they’re still your family. And they’re still going to love you.”
He nodded.
“If you tell them, it’s going to be hard, Depesh. I’m sorry that I can’t change that for you. But—but you’re brave enough to be that person, okay? I know you. I know that you’re the one who’s supposed to do this.”
“You did it, Raina—you’re doing it now.”
I swallowed hard, and the guilt tore through me.
“But, maybe you’re right.” He took a deep breath, and looked me right in the eye. “Maybe I can be brave, too.”
TWENTY-THREE
A few days later, I found myself parked outside of Depesh’s house. He was sitting on the front step, elbows on knees. The summer I babysat for him, we used to sit on the porch step of his old house and wait for his parents to come home from the hospital; we’d eat ice cream or grape Popsicles, wash our sticky hands and faces with the garden hose before going back inside. He was a kid then, and now? I got out of the car and walked toward him, hopped over the cracked cement, and realized that he wasn’t a kid anymore. He was going to face the truth about himself to the people he loved; he was going to do what most adults never have the courage to do. What I didn’t have the courage to do.
I sat down beside him. The block was more run-down than it had been the decade before; trees and shrubs overgrown, taking over the sidewalks and fences; graffiti trimming the lampposts and the fire hydrants.
“How did your Chemistry final go?”
“It was good.” He shrugged. “Physics is tomorrow . . . Human Biology the day after that.”
“That sounds heavy . . . Are you sure you’re—”
“I’m ready, Raina. I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.”
Was this the definition of bravery? Someone who didn’t make up excuses, or find reasons to put off the inevitable? A boy—no, a man—who was about to come out to his parents, and stand up for who he was—in the middle of his exams?
“It might even be better this way, right?” He laughed. “They can’t come down on me too hard if I have to study tonight.”
“You know, Depo . . . I’m really proud of you.”
He didn’t reply, and then after a moment, he whispered, “The
y won’t be.”
“No,” I said. “Probably not.” I turned to face him, waited until his eyes met mine. “But you’ll be proud of you.”
“You don’t know that.”
“If you respect yourself, your own choices”—I looked back out toward the road—“isn’t that what matters?”
A group of kids were walking by, drowned in skipping ropes and plastic traffic cones, soccer balls and netting, giggling, stamping across the pavement in a tight pack. They were oblivious in their own happiness. In silence, we watched them pass, and I wondered how many of them would one day have to go through what Depesh was experiencing right now.
As they grew up, as they discovered life in its imperfection, weren’t there greater problems to dwell on, to agonize over? Far greater than fearing the implications of one’s own sexuality. The world was disturbing enough as it was; not just across the world—deserts and oceans away—but right here at home. And before anyone could grow up, grow the courage to change any of it, surely, home was where it had to start.
The kids disappeared around the corner, and after their high-pitched voices faded behind them, I could hear Depesh breathing hard beside me.
“I’ve never disappointed them before, Raina. I’ve never not been what they wanted me to be.”
I turned to him, and steadied his hand in my own. “Who do you want to be, Depesh?”
* * *
It went exactly how one might have expected it to go. Yelling and crying. Complete and unabashed outrage. Depesh defended himself. And when Sharon Auntie didn’t drop dead in front of us, and his father’s yells became hoarser, Depesh suggested that I leave; told me he wanted to handle the rest of it on his own.
It was dark by the time I pulled into the driveway, next to Kris’s car. I turned off the ignition, but my legs and spine were frozen to the seat as I prepared myself to go inside and face Nani. I had made light of something I had no right to joke about. Depesh had come out, and I would tell him the truth next, but first, it was finally time to face Nani honestly.
What would she say? I shook my head. It didn’t matter. I had to face it—I wanted to face it.
It was late, but for some reason, the front door was unlocked. I stepped into the house. The hallway lights were off, the house coated in silence; no television or kettle whistling, or Nani humming or singing or snoring in the background like white noise. All I could hear was the discerning tick of the cuckoo clock as the handle tapped its way around.
I stepped out of my shoes and crept into the living room. It was empty, and as the pale light of the muted television ghosted through the room, I noticed a full mug of tea abandoned on the coffee table.
“Hello?”
I turned, drawn by a noise in the kitchen, a sliver of light beneath the doorway. And when I pushed through, the door swinging wildly open, there they all were sitting at the kitchen table. Space and time, backward and forward; my childhood playing tricks, playing out right in front of me. Nani and Kris in their usual spots, jaws tensed, shoulders slouched. And across from them, seated cross-legged on my chair, there she was.
“Hi, Raindrop.” Chin resting on her palm, Mom grinned at me. “So I hear you’re a lesbian.”
MAY 20, 1996
Nani surprises Raina with all of her favorites: thick yogurt, mango chutney, an aloo paratha with extra butter. Raina sits at the kitchen table eating her breakfast, sipping her glass of apple juice from the table without touching it; her top lip curled over the glass, her greasy hands held up as if in surrender. She eats carefully, tearing a piece of the paratha off with one hand the way Nani taught her, dipping it, and then bringing it slowly to her mouth. She has covered herself with three paper napkins. It is hours until her party, but she is already wearing her new dress. Manavi reappeared with it—a belated Christmas present after a trip to Las Vegas last year—and only now has Raina grown into it. It is lavender, the same shade as the pillows on Raina’s bed, and she admires herself as she chews; the white and violet frills on the cuffs, the hem that skirts around her knees.
Her feet do not touch the ground, and she swings them as she eats, kicking a ball across an imaginary field. Raina is only partway through her breakfast when the murmurs from downstairs become louder. Staccato and sharp. She slips quietly off her chair and tiptoes toward the door that leads down to the entertaining room. She slides down onto her knees and presses her ear against the door, trying to make out the sounds.
Before, Kris used to take Raina to her room, turn on the radio. If that wasn’t enough, he’d press her hands over her ears and tell her to keep them like that until they stopped. But these days, Kris is rarely home, so when they yell, Raina tries to listen; she is curious to understand why everyone seems to be so angry all the time. They yell about the mess of long hair Manavi left in the bathtub drain, or the door she slammed too hard, or the boy who dropped her off. About the right way to teach Raina to tie her shoes. Raina listens hard, but this time their voices are too muffled, as if they know she might be listening.
Raina hears a thumping up the stairs, and she bolts back to her seat, reaches for her glass of juice. Manavi swings open the door, followed seconds later by Nani. Manavi crouches down beside Raina and tugs on one of her braids.
“Do you want to go to Wonderland, Raindrop?”
Raina’s eyes widen. “Wonderland?” Her face breaks out into a smile. “Really?”
“Manu . . .”
But Nani stops short when Manavi snaps her head in Nani’s direction.
“Yes, Raindrop.” Manavi turns her head slowly back to Raina, and blows her bangs from her face. “Let’s go. Get your coat.”
“Now?” Raina slumps forward. She wants to go, but not today. Today is her seventh birthday, and there will be a party at the new restaurant. “But there’s going to be a magic show!”
“Raina, come on.” Manavi leans back, balancing on her heels. “I got us tickets for today—”
“Please, Manu.” Nani is now standing at the kitchen sink, her hands leaning against it like she’s trying to catch her breath. She turns to them, and says, “Please, not—”
“I told you they’re only valid for today!”
“Did you even remember it was her party?” Nani’s voice is strained, and Raina looks down. Her eyes start to water when she notices that, despite how careful she’s been, a fat droplet of juice has found its way onto her dress.
“So, are we going?” Manavi snaps. “I don’t have all day.”
Raina’s eyes are locked on the stain, and after a moment, she says, “Can we go tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow?”
“But today is—”
“No, we can’t go tomorrow,” Manavi growls. She stands up in one fluid motion. “I’ll go with my friends.” And with that, she grabs her leather jacket off the hook, and marches out, mumbling inaudibly until the kitchen door bangs heavily behind her.
* * *
The new restaurant is bigger than the last one, Nani says, although to Raina it looks very much the same. Raina and her friends sit around two of the long restaurant tables pushed together. Nani and Nana have decorated them with white plastic tablecloths and gold confetti, pink and purple helium balloons. They have set out supplies like it’s art class—with every color of cardboard construction paper, pipe cleaners and Popsicle sticks, cotton balls and glue. The expensive Magic Markers.
Raina makes her crafts sitting next to a boy from her soccer team, and an Indian girl named Shaylee that Nani keeps inviting to the house. When the magician arrives, they are all herded toward a makeshift stage in the corner. Raina sits at the end of the row, and when the magician makes a rubber duck disappear into a hat, her friends gasp. Raina thinks she knows how he did it: the hat is wide and long, and surely, the duck is being hidden inside; in a secret pocket, perhaps. She thinks about raising her hand, or leaning over and telling Shaylee how it happened,
but she doesn’t want to ruin the trick. So she doesn’t say anything.
Next, the magician pulls out a deck of cards, and Raina blinks hard, trying to memorize the sequence, trying to unlock the secret of this trick, too, when she thinks she hears Manavi’s voice behind her. She turns around, and is excited to see that Manavi has decided to come to her birthday party. Nani is whispering to Manavi, and although Nani is smiling, flicking her eyes toward Auntie Sarla and the other adults at the back, Raina can tell that her nani is angry. After a moment, they go into the kitchen, and silently, swiftly, Raina follows.
Inside, she can hear their voices, and she ducks behind a garbage bin, carefully peers around the side.
“I don’t care—”
“Shh!”
“—what the fuck—they think about me.”
“Manu!”
“And don’t shhh me.” Manavi stamps her foot like a child. She is crying, and her words are slurred. Raina has never seen her like this before; at least, not in the middle of the day.
“There is party happening, nah? Sarla is here. You must settle down.”
“Who cares about Sarla?” She grabs a frying pan from the stove and tosses it between her hands. For a moment, Raina thinks she might hit Nani, swing at her with it like a baseball bat, but after a few catches, Nani lunges for it. She knocks it out of her grasp, and it clambers to the floor. Nani reaches down to get it, one hand on her lower back, and then sets the pan back on the stove.
“Never could let me have a little fun, could you?”
“You’ve been having your fun for a while.”
“It didn’t start out that way. Did it, Ma?” Silence, and then a moment later, Manavi says, “I’m moving out.”
“You’ve been saying for years. Go ahead. Move out.”