by Nisha Sharma
The work was grueling, and Winnie had no idea how her parents did everything so tirelessly. They were old, and they still had more energy than she did. Her excuses about having to do homework and college-application essays fell on deaf ears. She had to help. Her back ached as she finished setting the last of the statues on the coffee table at her father’s instruction.
“We are done here,” he said, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. He rested his hands on his hips and stretched to the side. “Now all we have to do is get dressed. People will be here soon. See if there is anything else to do before you get changed.”
Winnie stifled her groan. “Fine. I’ll check with Nani and Ma.” She followed the sound of arguing into the kitchen. Her mother and grandmother were standing at the stove, nudging each other over for more space. Her mother was rolling dough while her grandmother made comments about technique. Winnie would’ve helped if she didn’t have a history of setting things on fire. She was useless in the kitchen and her family knew it.
“The puris aren’t big enough.”
“Muma, they’re fine.”
“I’ve seen your fat friends. You need to make them bigger.”
“My friends are not all fat, and this is fine.”
Nani and Ma had been working for days making dry chole and puris. Huge silver pots sat on the stove with the small chickpeas cooking over a slow heat. The front burners each held a wok filled with oil, which sizzled every time a small, flat, circular piece of dough slid into the hot liquid. After the dough puffed into a bubble, Nani pinched the corner with tongs, flipped it over, then tossed it into the disposable serving tray on the counter next to her.
“Are you guys almost done? I’m starving.”
“You cannot eat until after the pooja,” her mom said. “It’s only a few hours, Winnie. Drink some water.”
“We still have to heat the tari aloo and the halwa,” Nani said. Just the mention of the potato curry and the sweet dessert made Winnie’s mouth water.
“Oh God, Muma,” her mother said. “Move! I can do this faster by myself. People will be here soon.”
“No, you can’t, because the oil is too hot. You’ll burn yourself.”
“Muma, I’m almost fifty. I’ve been having my own pooja and making puris for more than twenty years. I can handle the hot oil!”
They continued to work in tandem even as they yelled at each other. Winnie took a bottle of water from the fridge and escaped to her room. She figured they would’ve said something if they’d needed her.
Winnie grabbed her phone off her bedside table and hopped onto her bed. She was about to check her messages when Raj’s face popped up on the screen. She debated letting it go to voice mail, but after four rings she caved.
“What?” she said.
“Still mad?”
“Raj, my personal life is no longer your business.”
“I’m sorry. Really. I’m still getting used to us not being together, even if it’s only temporary.”
“I’m hanging up.”
“No, wait,” he said. “It’s about the film festival. I wanted to let you know that Gurinder approved the master-class idea. She loves it and is willing to work with whatever schedule we set. We just have to let her know in advance.”
She vaulted up in bed. “What? For real?”
“Yup. Now you have to convince the Princeton faculty to like it.”
“Holy baby—holy crap!” She squealed and bounced on her bed. “Raj! This is awesome. If Mr. Reece sees this as initiative, maybe he’ll let us both lead the festival again.” Her mind raced as she thought about all the possibilities for the master class and festival.
“Yeah, Reece knows this has been your thing from the get-go, so I think you have a good chance.”
“Really? I’m still annoyed about homecoming, but thank you for this. When I didn’t hear from you, I thought you were going to just take it over.”
“Come on, I’m not that big of a jerk,” he said. “I had to wait for the right time. Now you can take credit for all the work you’ve been putting in on the fund-raiser dance, too.”
The fund-raiser. That was another thing Winnie was trying to squeeze into her schedule. “I don’t know how to thank you for this.”
“You could go out with me. You know. Like old times. Then I could really apologize.”
“Nope. Sorry. It’s not going to happen.”
“It was worth a shot,” he said. Voices echoed in the background, and Raj murmured something in response before saying, “I gotta go. I miss you. Let me know if you need any help with talking to the Princeton faculty, but I know you got this.”
“Definitely. Thanks again!”
“Bye,” he said, and hung up.
Winnie looked over at the bracelet sitting on top of her dresser. One thing was for sure: he was trying to make things work. That didn’t mean she had to give him a chance, though. Destiny or not.
She hoped.
Bridget pushed open her bedroom door and flung her arms wide. “Make me Indian beautiful,” she said.
“I can definitely do that,” Winnie said with a laugh. Thoughts of Raj took a backseat as Winnie grinned at her best friend.
“Dress-up montage!” they yelled.
For the next half hour, Winnie and Bridget tried on most of the clothes in Winnie’s closet. Finally Bridget settled on a bright lemon-and-pink salwar kameez, while Winnie chose an outfit her grandmother bought her last Diwali.
“Wow, are you going to add bling to that?” Bridget asked when Winnie pressed the hanger to her collarbone to check the length.
“Probably some jhumkas. Why, does it need more?” The tunic had a square neckline and fit her to mid-thigh. The balloon pants were pleated in the front and cinched at her ankles. The entire outfit was royal blue with a continuous gold embroidered border, and it came with a sheer lime-green chuni that draped over her shoulder.
Bridget’s arm snaked around her waist and squeezed. “No. You’re going to look gorg. I’m wondering what Dev will say when he sees you all traditional. After the game, and the way you guys have been staring at each other all week, everyone knows that you’re together.”
“On Wednesday night, Dev spent his break in the projection room with me. I worked on splicing and we just talked about, I don’t know, everything. It was really, really nice.”
“And even with college applications, school, your blog, and film club, you’re looking happy again, Winnie. That’s awesome.”
Winnie blushed. “Well, today is going to be challenging and not so happy. I’ll be running around with my mom, so if Dev says something to you, let me know.” She slipped tiny gold drop earrings into her earlobes, pushed bracelets onto her wrists, french-braided her hair, and tied it with a matching lime-green tie that had gold beadwork along the edges. She curled tiny strands of hair at her temple to frame her face and helped Bridget do the same.
They stood together in front of the closet’s full-length mirror.
“I think you should selfie, Bridge. For Henry.”
“He’s been texting me. He says he’s coming over tomorrow to watch the six-hour Pride and Prejudice so I can educate him on BBC miniseries.”
Winnie gripped her shoulders. “I want to hear about everything after he leaves.”
“Of course. That goes without saying.”
They opened the bedroom door when they heard the first ring of the doorbell. After that, the rest of the afternoon was a blur. Winnie said hello to all the aunties, uncles, and kids at the front door. She helped serve water, welcomed the priest, who sat next to the makeshift altar, and then when they had to get started, she settled next to her mom, Nani, and dad at the front. Winnie knew that Bridget would take care of Dev when he showed up.
Poojas were such a pain for her…literally. Her foot would fall asleep because she had to sit cross-legged the whole time, and then when she tried to shake her limbs awake, her mother usually shot her a look that could immobilize a crowd in the middle o
f a Holi celebration at a hundred yards.
This pooja was going to be particularly agonizing because it was for her. To her family’s credit, they’d let all the guests think it was a Durga pooja for Navratri, the nine-night festival that started the following week, but Winnie’s mom had made it clear to her that they were praying for her since she was blatantly disregarding her horoscope and Raj.
Out of the corner of her eye, Winnie saw a flash of black. Dev was in jeans and a button-down shirt, leading a woman to a spot in the corner of the room. The older woman had streaks of white hair at her temples, but her wide, moon-shaped face was bright, young, and cheerful. She wore a pale lavender salwar kameez with a chuni draped over her head. It was a distinctly Punjabi style, much like what Winnie’s own mother wore.
Dev’s mom, Winnie thought, as the pandit started a series of really long prayers. Winnie had insisted they be invited. She looked over at them one last time and tried to pray her heart out.
Like some of her Hindu friends, she didn’t really know the exact words, but she’d developed the ability to move her lips in the rhythm of the prayers so it seemed as if she was saying the right verse even when she had no idea what was actually going on. In the movies, whenever there was a pooja scene, the director would focus in on one of the gods and then on the hero or heroine, who would recite an internal monologue about what he or she wished to accomplish. Winnie closed her eyes and tried to be as sincere as possible as she started her internal monologue.
Hey, Durga Ma, I know this pooja is to thank you for being awesome, and I know that my mom is doing this for me. Even though they’re totally weird, please bless my mom and dad for all that they do. Second, thanks for keeping me in the game with this film-festival thing, but can I ask for one teensy thing? I really want Pandit Ohmi’s prediction for my big Bollywood romance to go away. I like Dev, and this prophecy is hanging over my head like a swinging ax. I’ve made up my mind. So if you could help me there, that would be great. Thanks.
Winnie wrapped up her prayer and put on her best pretend face as her family finished up the pooja. She said “swaha” when she was supposed to and threw raw rice into the fire. When her mother and grandmother told her to help pass out the prasad, Winnie tried to maintain her poise, even though she knew Dev was watching her the whole time. The guests were chatting with each other, but there was an odd lull of silence just as her mother said to the priest, “Although we are praying to Durga for Navratri, I want to ask especially for my daughter to find the love that she has been promised in her janampatri. A love that will shower her with more than a silver bracelet.”
The room went silent, and Winnie froze, empty tray in hand, as everyone stared at her. She heard snickers and coughs from behind her and knew that the whole room had heard what her mother said. Horoscopes might have been all the rage in Hinduism, but actually admitting to believing in them was embarrassing.
“I need more of this,” her grandmother said in Hindi from her spot on the floor. She chugged what looked like water from a bottle. Winnie scanned the room to see that everyone was still staring.
Seriously, Durga Ma? Not. Cool. She continued serving food as if nothing had happened, but she really wanted the pooja to be over already.
* * *
—
Right after she finished handing out the prasad, Winnie headed upstairs. She was going into hiding, and she didn’t care if that insulted her family or her parents’ guests. There was a small space between her bed and the wall, the perfect spot for curling into the fetal position, and that was where she intended to stay until she had to drag her butt to school on Monday. Did her mother really have to open her mouth in front of the Indian kids that went to her school? Did she have to talk in front of Dev?
Bridget followed her to her room and tried to coax Winnie back, but Winnie refused. When Bridget mentioned Dev, Winnie felt a twinge of guilt for sure, but she still couldn’t face him.
A little after Bridget returned downstairs, Winnie heard her bedroom door squeak open, and she hunched her shoulders, hoping that no one would see her.
“Hey,” Dev said.
Winnie popped up from her hiding spot. “What are you doing up here? You can’t be in my room.”
He rolled his eyes and closed the door behind him. “What, because your virtue will be ruined and your family’s name will be tarnished if we’re alone together? Come on, it’s the twenty-first century, Winnie. Besides, both of us are used to people talking about us, right?”
It was her turn to roll her eyes. “Not like this. My mother makes me sound so desperate. Ugh, I hate it. Everyone is whispering about how sorry my situation is.”
If she hadn’t been watching him, she would’ve missed his jaw clenching and his eyes going cold at her words. “I’m used to people talking about me exactly like this,” he said.
Then he glanced at the far wall and did a double take. “Holy shit.” He was across the room, reaching for her movies, before she could straighten her chuni.
“This is unreal,” he said as he scanned the titles from top to bottom. His voice was low, almost reverential, looking at the size of her collection. “Is this all yours? This is so sick. You have the largest Bollywood collection I’ve ever seen!”
Winnie was grateful for the distraction as she checked out the room to make sure she didn’t have anything embarrassing lying around.
“They’re my pride and joy,” she said after tucking a discarded bra under her blanket.
He stopped reading the spines when she reached his side. “Indian clothes look good on you,” he said, brushing the edge of her sleeve.
Winnie felt that weird flutter in her stomach. “Thanks. And thanks for coming. I know it’s all a little awkward.”
He grinned. “My mom doesn’t get out as much as she used to, and it was cool to see her excited to get dressed up and all.” His fingers skimmed over the titles and landed on a copy of the movie Dil To Pagal Hai. He murmured “aha” before pulling the movie off the shelf and holding it up against his chest.
She looked at the cover, and an image of it lying in the dirt flashed in her mind: she’d buried it with Raj’s collection. “It’s stupid. Can we not talk about it?” She went over to the small bench at the end of her bed to sit down.
Dev tossed the DVD back and forth a couple times before sliding it onto the shelf. “I mean, why wouldn’t it be? This dude falls in love with this dancer. She wears a silver bracelet. However, she’s supposed to marry someone else. Love triangle ensues.”
Dev sat down next to her on the bench, elbows braced on his knees, fingers interlinked.
“That’s why you wore the silver bracelet all the time. That was the bracelet Raj gave you,” he said. “Winnie, I hate to sound like a broken record, but you have to admit he does seem to meet all of your prophecy requirements. You may not believe in destiny, but that silver bracelet is hard to argue with.”
She shook her head. “It’s not hard at all.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Raj and I grew up together, remember? Our parents talked about it all the time. It was expected that he would buy me the bracelet at some point. He finally gave it to me when we started fighting last year. It was probably a way to try to keep the link between us when we both knew it was falling apart.”
“But despite the bracelet, the history, his name, you still asked for a break, because he didn’t understand what you wanted to do with your future.”
“Pretty much. Do you know why people love Bollywood movies so much? In general, I mean.”
“Not for their contribution to the cinematic art, for sure.”
She smiled. “There are some amazing movies that defy the Bollywood stereotype, but for the most part, the acting has been criticized as overdramatic, the plotlines sometimes don’t make sense, and there are song-and-dance numbers that have no connection to the story setting.”
“Then why?”
“People love the movies because of the romance, the emo
tion, and the passion the characters feel. It’s easy to get swept up in the magic as long as you have a flexible suspension of disbelief.”
Dev leaned into her arm, and she felt a tingle at the base of her spine from the contact. “That’s for sure,” he said.
“For me, Pandit Ohmi’s prediction means that I’ll have that romance with someone, have that kind of love and passion. But it’s predetermined. Like Bollywood movies. My life is set for me. I’m the heroine and this one particular guy is the hero and I have no choice. When Raj first asked me out, I said yes, because I felt like I was making a conscious decision to accept the prophecy. At least that’s what I told myself.”
“So it was a way to take control of your destiny,” Dev said. “And if you stayed with him and you didn’t act in your best interest, it would be giving in to your destiny.”
“And now I know that if I consciously choose to be with someone because of their name, because of a piece of jewelry that they give me, I’m letting destiny control me, and I can’t have that. As much as I want my prophecy to be true, I want it to be true because I made it happen.”
“Free will. Okay, that makes sense to me.”
Dev wrapped an arm around her shoulder and filled her space like he’d been filling her thoughts.
“When I was fourteen, my dad left us,” he said. “He’d been cheating on my mom with a coworker, and one day he came home and said that she was pregnant and he didn’t want me or my mom anymore. He left everything in the house to us but cleaned out the bank accounts, and then he married this other woman.”
The confession was so unexpected that Winnie didn’t know how to respond. If one of Winnie’s American friends at school had told her the same story, she would have been sympathetic for sure. Dev was an Indian American, though, and because of some archaic cultural traditions, divorce could be considered worse than death. There was a good chance that some people had been cruel. The blunt truth of his life felt like a slap.