Incense and Sensibility

by Sonali Dev

  Vansh had been on a video call with them for hours this past week, and he was getting home tomorrow to focus on it. The brat was a genius when it came to seeing things no one else did. He also understood social media outreach and had come up with some interesting ways to overlay their message on top of their opponent’s.

  “I think we made good progress,” Yash said. “We’ll pick this up tomorrow.” He thought about warning Rico about the breakup, but he wanted to be fair and talk to Naina first about how to make the announcement. They’d still have time to come up with a damage control plan.

  Rico stood. “Ashna was right about Vansh. He’s brighter than the rest of you.”

  “He knows it too,” Yash said with equal parts fondness and frustration. If Vansh only focused, he’d have done great things by now.

  Then again, for the first time in his life Yash wasn’t jealous of his brother’s ability to not care about doing great things and putting himself before everyone else.

  “Wait until he gets here and you see the worshipful raptures Ashna and the rest of the family go into,” Yash said, smiling. “It’s a full-fledged love fest.”

  “Even more than with you?”

  “Me? Hah, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet, buddy.”

  “Oh joy!” Rico laughed. “Right. I’m off. Call if you need to talk about anything. Anything at all, okay?” He waited for a reaction from Yash, which Yash worked hard to withhold from him.

  Finally, the man left.

  Naina should be back from Nepal by now. She hadn’t called or texted. They still hadn’t spoken since the engagement debacle. Yash had moved back into his apartment. The family had backed off. There was far too much going on with the election to spend time on a drama they saw as ongoing.

  Ma had sent him one message saying she was there when he was ready to talk.

  Oh, Ma, you have no idea.

  Then she had reverted to her usual chatty messages about how well he was doing in his appearances and interviews, along with specifics of what messaging she thought resonated. Suggestions for what to focus on, along with technique, pauses, and eye contact. It was her area of expertise, the craft of communicating through body language. “Still too much touching of your hair. Looks fidgety and un-leader-like.”

  Well, Ma, you shouldn’t have touched our hair so much when we were little. Now we can’t stop doing that to self-soothe. Naturally, he didn’t say that to her. He just worked hard to remember not to touch his hair when he was on camera or at a podium.

  On his way to the car he tried again to call Naina and didn’t get an answer.

  She’s angry, he told himself. He knew what was coming wouldn’t be easy. Naina was going to take the brunt of it, and he wished he could save her that. Needing to be with India wasn’t a choice anymore, it had become him. All of him.

  Just looking at her name on his phone made wild wanting twist through him. His finger hovered over the name, stroking the air between him and the sound of her voice.

  The hope in her eyes when he’d left her was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. He wanted to see it again. He wanted to feel the way he felt only in her presence for the rest of his life.

  Just as he was about to call her and tell her that he was on his way, his phone rang.

  “Yash?”

  “Arzu? Are you crying? What’s wrong?”

  Even as he asked, he knew nothing was wrong, because he had never heard Arzu cry, let alone with quite so much abandon.

  The smile in her voice was as clear as her sobs. “Can you come to the hospital? Someone here wants to see you.”

  He was in his car and driving before he was even off the phone. Abdul had regained consciousness. Everything was going to be all right.

  The first person he called was India. “Abdul woke up.”

  “Oh, Yash.” Her smile was filled with all the relief and joy he was feeling, and he could see it, even though she wasn’t near him, where she should be. “Will you call me when you get there and let me know everything?”

  “Yes. We have so much to talk about.” I love you. He didn’t say it. It felt too casual to say it over the phone. His mind flew into the future, where they would have this: I love you’s uttered like simple words. Not words that made him feel unhinged with the weight and wonder of them.

  She stayed on the phone. Happiness filling the silence as he raced down the freeway.

  “You should call your family,” she said finally, knowing he’d called her first. Caring that he told everyone else.

  “Yes, ma’am.” But she didn’t hang up and for a few minutes he just listened to her breathing coming through his car speakers, and soaked up what that felt like. “India?” He loved saying her name.

  “Yash?”

  “I can’t wait to see you again.”

  “I know exactly how you feel. Now go.”

  This time he listened. Then he called Nisha and asked her to let the family know. He’d work on the public statement himself, after talking to Arzu and seeing how she wanted it handled. Abdul was awake and Yash had never felt more happy to be alive.

  Abdul was holding Arzu’s hand, his baby girl tucked in next to him. His parents sat by him, rubbing his feet with their hands.

  “Boss!” Abdul’s smile was so vibrant that Yash almost forgot that they weren’t backstage waiting to go out and campaign. He almost forgot that nearly two months of Abdul’s life had been lost.

  “She’s gorgeous, isn’t she?” the proud father said.

  “Totally. Takes after her mother.”

  That made Abdul laugh, a deep belly laugh that made the hope already filling Yash swell to bursting.

  Abdul’s mother picked up a bright red box of Turkish delight and offered it to Yash. He took one. “Thank you.”

  The darned thing was so delicious, and he was feeling so heady, that he asked her if he could have another piece.

  She handed him the box. “It’s a day for celebration, have it all.”

  “Obviously, you don’t know Yash, Ammi,” Abdul said. “Because he will eat the entire box.”

  “Damn straight!” Yash said.

  Abdul’s mother patted Yash’s arm. “I always trust a man who loves his sweets.” Then Abdul’s parents left to go home and get some rest. He’d woken up late last night, and they’d chosen to take the initial hours to themselves. Yash understood that.

  For the next half hour, Arzu and Yash filled Abdul in, and played with Naaz, who was more cheery and alert than Yash had ever seen her. It was as if she knew her life had fallen back on its rails and that she was going to know her father’s love. Or maybe children reflected the world around them and this was the first day that the adults around her were not weighed down with sadness.

  The doctors came in and gave them an update. Abdul’s scans and tests were perfectly normal. A miracle. He’d be free to go home in a matter of days. He was going to need some rehabilitative therapy to get back to normal, but he would get back to his usual healthy self soon.

  “I heard your new bodyguard is a woman,” Abdul said with a smile. “Arzu tells me she’s totally badass.” He stroked his little girl’s head with a crooked finger, all the tenderness in the universe in that gesture.

  “What can I say, I’m a lucky guy when it comes to my security detail.”

  “Naaz has a role model. She can follow in her abbu’s footsteps, inshallah!”

  “Hey! Naaz is going to chart her own footsteps,” Arzu said.

  “You’re only saying that because her abbu gave you the scare of your life,” Abdul said.

  “Her abbu almost killed her ammi with his heroics.”

  “You find my heroics hot, admit it. Look at your face, you’re proud of me.”

  Their eyes locked and it was a beautiful thing. “Mostly I was just missing your arrogance.” But her lips curved and she dropped a kiss on his cheek. “Since Yash is here and I know you’re dying to ask him about the campaign, I’ll go grab myself some coffee. Yash, would you like som
e?”

  “Thanks. Do you want me to get it?”

  “Nah, I need to stretch my legs.”

  Abdul watched her leave. “My ammi said that Arzu didn’t leave the hospital the entire time I was here.”

  “She’s fierce. You’re a lucky guy.”

  “I know. I’m also lucky to be alive. We both are.”

  “Abdul . . . I don’t know how to say this without it sounding completely and entirely insufficient. Thank you. I owe you my life. I’m so very sorry for what I put you through, put your family through.”

  “You didn’t put my family through that. The bastard who shot me—shot you—he did that. They hate us. They don’t want us here. This is our home. You and I, we were born here. We love this country. We deserve to have it love us back. They don’t care. They only care about their bullshit definition of patriotism that requires you to be white. Arzu tells me you’re leading in the polls. They probably hate that.”

  Yeah, well, they were in luck, because his poll numbers were about to plummet.

  Abdul pushed a button and his bed propped him up to sitting. It felt like a dream to watch him do it even with the white bandage on his neck. “That means you can win. You can beat them. You can make sure our families are safer, prouder, cared-for. I’ve been in the hospital for almost two months. My health insurance doesn’t cover all that. But it covers enough that my family won’t be wiped out.”

  “I’m taking care of your bills. Don’t worry about that. Focus on getting better.”

  “That’s not the point. Not everyone has a grateful boss who’s willing to pay their way. You know what getting sick without a job is like in this country. In our state. We have to do better. You’re going to do better. You cannot lose this election. Whatever happens, you cannot lose this election.”

  “He’s not going to lose.” Arzu came back and handed him his coffee, pausing in her quick, efficient movements to hold Yash’s gaze. “We’re counting on you, Yash. What we just went through, you cannot let that go to waste. We believe in you.”

  “Thanks.” Suddenly Yash couldn’t breathe so well.

  Arzu threw a glance at the monitors Abdul was still hooked up to, making sure all was well, then she picked up the TV remote and raised the volume. “I think you guys want to see this.”

  Abdul’s recovery was already on the news. Arzu and Abdul hadn’t even had a chance to make a statement. Someone from the hospital staff had to have leaked it. There was cheering in the streets. Jubilation.

  “I’m so sorry,” Yash said. “I was going to make a statement after talking to you.”

  Abdul waved away his words. “This is all pretty touching. When does the racist shit start?”

  In keeping with every single piece of coverage about Abdul’s shooting, Naina crying over Yash’s body splashed across the screen. The kick of sickness in the pit of Yash’s stomach would not lessen, no matter how many times he watched it.

  Then it started. Pictures of Abdul in his kufi surrounded by other men in kufis and thobes, which would be great if it hadn’t been followed by stock images of a mosque and stock scenes of prayers. Why was that even part of this story? The anchor started talking about a nurse reporting that Abdul’s wife prayed by his side five times a day. All true, but Arzu hadn’t given them permission to release those private moments. The coverage was invasive, but more than that it smacked of something else Yash knew only too well.

  “Wow they’re othering my being alive. The exotic lens is stunning, isn’t it?” Abdul said.

  Arzu shook her head incredulously. “Gotta love media-wide macroaggression.”

  Neither of them looked surprised.

  During Yash’s early campaigns the media had incessantly talked about Sripore, Hinduism, and South Asian culture. Yash had always been entirely comfortable with his culture, but the constant overlay had felt deliberate in its attempt to set him apart as different, foreign. Finally, Ma and Nisha had beaten them at their own game and flooded them with tours of the estate, the cars, fashion, Yash’s obsession with sports. The Assimilation Offensive they’d called it. Disingenuous as it had felt to Yash, it had worked to sidestep the relatability debate. And it was only as manipulative as what the media had done by focusing so singularly on his cultural roots. He was both those things, American and South Asian, and he had no interest in his identity being leveraged for either entertainment or political gain.

  Now they were doing the same thing to Abdul.

  On the TV, the coverage moved to how people had been leaving flowers and offerings on the soccer field where the shooting had taken place. Vigils had collected there every night. Now there was a crowd thronging the campus.

  “America belongs to all of us,” a young woman in a hijab said, sobbing. An Asian woman hugged her, tears running down her face. “Yash Raje is our governor. Yash Raje is us.” The emotion in her voice was palpable, and the faith in her eyes lodged like a lump in Yash’s throat.

  “Vote!” a group of Black and White students screamed into the camera in one voice. “Integrity, respect, intelligence. That’s the kind of leader we want. Someone who stands by his friends. He makes us feel seen.”

  “The other side is losing its shit right now, isn’t it?” Abdul said.

  Sure enough, the camera panned to a group with Cruz posters. “This is America, not Arabia. One nation under God.” A man waved the American flag.

  “What exactly is Arabia?” Arzu said.

  “Isn’t that the place Peter O’Toole was Lawrence of?”

  They both laughed.

  An altercation broke out between the two groups. The camera lapped it up.

  “Idiots,” Yash muttered.

  Abdul picked up the remote and muted the TV. “They’re not idiots. What they are is dangerous, and they will do anything to make sure you don’t win. Right now I’ll bet it’s killing them that they have nothing on you.”

  “They’re going to have nothing on him,” Arzu said, her fierceness trained on Yash this time. “Yash is the perfect candidate.”

  “She’s right. I can’t wait to get back out there between you and bullets.”

  “Don’t say that,” Yash said. “Don’t say that.”

  “I would, brother. Did you know that when the agency assigned me to you I begged not to be assigned to a politician? I told them to give me an actor instead, at least those guys aren’t lying about lying. Politicians? I had never seen one who wasn’t a liar through and through. Then I met you. At first I just rolled my eyes at you. I thought it was an act. All that sincerity. All that annoying interest.” He stopped to smile.

  “Then I got to know you. You’re the real thing. I believe that with my whole heart. Everyone else is in this for personal gain. You’re here because you put us, the public, before you. I never thought I’d see the day, but finally there’s a public servant who’s here to serve. And you’re going to win.” Abdul’s eyes glittered with purpose, the new hollows beneath them making the impact devastating.

  “And he’s going to change things for those who’ve been waiting for change. You’re the answer to so many people’s prayers,” Arzu said, her conviction matching Abdul’s. She picked up Naaz and pressed her to her heart. “Our children will have a better world. Our pain. Everything we went through, it’s all going to count for something, because you’re going to win, inshallah.”

  YASH’S PHONE HAD been ringing off the hook. He probably had a thousand texts. They sat unopened on his phone in the passenger seat of his car, where he’d been sitting for long enough that he knew he had to move or someone was going to find him. Several of the messages were from India.

  India.

  To be with her he would have to admit to the world that he had lied, for his entire political career. He’d have to break up publicly with someone everyone saw as a loyal girlfriend.

  How had betting it all on telling the truth felt easy just hours ago?

  A man had almost died for him. Hundreds of thousands of young people, people who
felt disenfranchised, othered in their own home, were counting on him. Millions of people who were afraid of falling sick, of losing their homes, of sending their children to school because they might get shot there, of having their planet die, were counting on him. He’d made them a promise. They believed him.

  They believed a liar.

  Pulling the car out of his spot, Yash started to drive.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  India had been waiting for Yash to call, which was a little too terrifyingly déjà vu, no matter how hard she tried not to think of it that way. This was not the same as meeting a man at a wedding, getting lost in him for a day, and jumping straight to planning how many children she’d have with him. Not by a long shot.

  This was knowing someone’s deepest thoughts, being intimate with the fissures that cracked them open, and sharing your own cracks with them. This was about being seen all the way inside, right to where the audacious, incipient germ of hope was hidden. This was dropping armor when spears were raised.

  A sense of disbelief had been nudging at her ever since Yash had told her that he wanted her in his life, that he wanted to be a part of hers. For all the skepticism mixed in with her hope, she didn’t doubt that he meant it, no matter the cost. What scared her was the cost.

  Abdul just woke up, she told herself. Yash has a lot going on. He’ll call as soon as he can.

  Her phone sat silent despite her hundredth demand that it give her something, anything. The front door sounded and Chutney’s tail started to thud against her lap. Lifting her puppy up, she tore down the stairs and stopped short.

  “China?”

  Her sister stood by the door, her glittery pink suitcase standing forlornly by her side. Her always impeccable hair was a mess. Her puffy eyes were shadowed with smudged liner and mascara. She looked completely and utterly devastated.

  “Oh, sweetheart.” India put Chutney down and went to her, even as Chutney raced past her to get to China first.

  Ignoring India completely, China dropped to her knees and let Chutney smother her with kisses. India dropped down next to them. As she let herself drown in Chutney’s frantic love, not a word came out of China. India knew she would say nothing. China tended to lose her words when she was hurting.