by SJ Sindu
Nisha mouths the lyrics to me, dancing around and around, circling. You keep following me, without asking what I want. But she wants this. Don’t you want to be the one that catches the flowers that fall from my hair?
At the end of the song, the female dancer kisses the hero in front of his family, raising a scandal that moves the plot forward. In our version for the arts festival, Nisha kissed my cheek at the end and walked off the stage. As I stood there pretending to be stunned, the curtain dropped. Fade to black.
I start to remember the movement. I get better as the song progresses, and by the end I’m dancing without watching Nisha for cues. The drums beat louder, and Nisha slows her movement. She stops dancing and circles me. When the song ends she kisses me on the mouth, pulls me down into the grass, and slides my hand up her leg.
“What if someone sees?” I say. But there’s no one around. Cheering floats through the bushes from the game.
She’s wiry and dark under me. Her hair glints with the coppery sky and snakes through the grass in black coils. She throws back her head and mutters to me in Tamil, half-words that scratch and bite at my skin and make me press up against her leg, press press press until I cry into her shoulder and she holds me and kisses me softly on the cheek.
•••
For a whole three hours during the game I haven’t checked my phone, and there are five texts from Amma wondering where I am. Nisha has three missed calls.
“They’re going to be so mad,” she says. She hurriedly pulls on her boots. She swings her purse over her shoulder and smoothes down her dress. “Ready?”
“Why do they want you home?”
“They always want me home.”
“Is that why you stopped dancing? And playing rugby?”
She takes a step toward the field. “They were really mad about the rugby.” She digs up a rock on the ground, rolls her foot on top of it. “But the dancing—it just wasn’t the same with you gone. Plus they said I was too old.”
I touch her waist and she relaxes against me. “You still dance like you used to. Puts me to shame.”
She closes her eyes against the breeze. Her head falls on my shoulder. “I miss you.”
“I’m right here.”
“After—when I’m—you know.”
My feet step away from her and toward the field. I forgot, just for a moment. Misplaced affection. But my heart still beats faster when she grabs my hand and holds it all the way to the field. I still kiss her back when she leans over in the car on the way home. I still tell her I want to see her play rugby.
Nisha wants me to help her dress for her engagement ceremony, which means sitting in the room and watching a makeup artist do her face. She meets me in front of her parents’ house. The driveway is so full with cars that they spill onto the side of the street and in front of mailboxes. Her hair falls wet and stringy around her face. She pushes me inside.
The hollow wood floors echo with brown people talking over each other. Nisha’s parents and extended family cluster around the kitchen island drinking tea. They aren’t dressed yet, but the women are already wearing their gold jewelry.
Nisha pulls me up the stairs, past the walls crowded with JC Penney family portraits. The stairwell seems to tilt into the middle as if weighed down by the clutter. We climb past the massive picture of a twelve-year-old Nisha holding a lit bronze lamp at her puberty ceremony, her hair done up with purple carnations that match her lipstick—that was the first time I’d ever seen her in a saree or wearing makeup, and I thought she looked like a movie star. Nisha’s room is exactly as I remember it. She’s never decorated it beyond the two framed photos of herself as a baby and the stuffed animals twined into the curls of her wrought-iron bed. A box fan hums from her dresser.
“The makeup lady’s on her way.” She sits on the edge of the bed. Six yards of sherbet-orange silk ripples next to her. The afternoon light bleaches the waves where they crest. Gold embroidery shines like fish in the thread.
She stands up, slips off her shirt and threads her arms through the saree blouse. “Can you help?”
I hook the back of her blouse together and tie the strings. The neck is cut deep, exposing her spine. She bends back. My fingers brush her skin.
“I can’t believe this is happening,” she says. She steps out of her jeans and ties the cotton underskirt around her waist. Her smile shows her whitened teeth, long and evenly spaced thanks to years of braces. She has her blue contacts in, the ones that make her eyes look glassy like a doll’s.
“It’s good to see you excited,” I say. I hope I don’t sound bitter. “Are Jesse and Tasha coming today?”
“You should be careful around them.” She walks to the small wooden vanity next to her bed and sits down on its upholstered stool. She smiles and unsmiles in the mirror like she’s practicing. She can smile with her eyes even when she doesn’t mean it. “They could get you into trouble, if your mother sees. I know your parents aren’t as strict, but I still doubt your mother would be happy if she knew.”
The door opens and a woman I don’t know peeks her head in. Her wide face and small, upturned eyes would be friendly if it wasn’t for the heavy makeup she wears.
“Gauri Aunty,” Nisha says. “I’m ready.”
The drape of Gauri Aunty’s churidar hides her curves, but she doesn’t look much older than us. She hauls in a large silver makeup train case.
“Can you get the rest?” She points to the door.
I bring in the two plastic totes just outside the door.
Gauri Aunty combs through Nisha’s hair. “Can you plug in the curling iron and straightener?”
Both the iron and straightener are bright pink. I plug them in behind the bed and let them heat up. Nisha’s saree runs like water under my fingers.
Gauri Aunty straightens and then curls Nisha’s hair. She pins it into a high bun, pulls out three roses from the tiniest cooler I’ve ever seen, and attaches them at the base of Nisha’s neck.
I text Kris: Nisha’s getting all dolled up for the engagement.
You, too?
Fuck no.
Are you helping her get dressed? Sexy time?
I turn the phone off and stuff it back in my pocket.
Gauri Aunty rolls out a makeup brush holder and spreads it on the vanity like a painter would. She unclamps the train case and pulls out drawers of little vials, takes Nisha’s face in hand, spreads this and that on her face, brushes puffed up with powder, shimmering shadows on her eyelids, dark liner around her eyes, a deep stain on her lips. Nisha stands up, and Gauri Aunty helps wrap her saree, pinning it in places where she normally would have tucked the fabric into the petticoat, going for the thinnest silhouette possible.
I’m getting twitchy. I wish I’d brought my sketchbook. I would’ve drawn Nisha getting painted. Instead I drum on my thighs and read the labels on the makeup. Deep Throat, Virgin, Sin, Pop My Cherry, Orgasm. Who names this stuff?
Gauri Aunty jerks her head toward me. “Do you want me to do her, too?”
Nisha looks at me. She’s unrecognizable with all the makeup. She raises her eyebrows like she wants an answer.
“I don’t think so,” I say.
“Do her makeup,” Nisha says.
Gauri Aunty pins jewelry into Nisha’s hair, stacks necklaces on her chest. I know how Nisha feels, so many bobby pins that your head is twice its weight, so much makeup that it’s like looking out of a mask, jewelry on every part of you so that you can’t even move. I had to endure it for my wedding. Then again, it’s Nisha. She probably enjoys the feeling. She looks beautiful enough to make it worth it.
Nisha sits stiffly on the bed and Gauri Aunty turns to me.
“Will this take long?” I say. It’s nearly noon and Nisha still has a one-hour photo session before the ceremony.
“Take your time,” Nisha says.
&nbs
p; Gauri Aunty makes me sit with my back to the mirror as she straightens my hair and puts makeup on my face. Nisha snaps a picture on her phone. When I try to take it away, she holds it beyond my reach and tells me she’s posting it online.
•••
The photos take forever. I’m still in my jeans and T-shirt so I help the thick-spectacled, pushy-voiced photographer set up a portable studio in the den. Nisha sits a full head height below Deepak, even though she’s not much shorter than him. Photo: Nisha with her head on his shoulder. Photo: her hand lies delicately in his. Photo: she looks up at him, in profile. Zoom in on her earrings, on her eyes, on the roses in her hair.
“Smile, smile.” The photographer poses them like dolls. “No, Deepak. You don’t smile. Nisha, smile.” Nisha has always been a good actress.
She talks to me throughout the shoot. Deepak watches her and wipes sweat from his forehead with a cotton handkerchief. I watch her, too, her mouth and two perfect rows of teeth, whitened and gleaming under the bright lights, framed by maroon lips. Photo: Deepak lifts her face with a finger under her chin. Photo: she looks up at him adoringly. Photo: pitiful freak watching the girl she loves get married. Photo: two adoring best friends laughing about boys. Photo: the bride looks sad when she thinks no one is looking. Photo: composed, scripted. The real story lies in between the pigments.
•••
Nisha’s parents rent out the first floor of a gilded, carpeted hotel. White linens blanket everything like a fine dusting of snow. Giant crystal chandeliers twinkle from the arched ceilings. By the time I get there, the guests have already started to arrive, swishing their saree pleats around their glittery stilettos. It makes me think of Bollywood movies, of curvy, milk-skinned heroines and men who never take no for an answer.
My flask lies warm and full on my skin, tucked into the waistband of my saree.
I find Jesse and Tasha milling around near the mango lassi table, dressed in slacks and bow ties and looking both enthralled and confused. They smile when they see me.
“You look nice. I think we’re underdressed.” Tasha wipes at her suit vest and fixes her polka-dot pocket square.
“I’m paying for it. This saree is itchy as hell. And I have lipstick on.” At least Kris isn’t here to hold me tight to his side, to flirt with me when he thinks everyone is watching. I wonder if Tasha and Jesse even know I’m married.
Amma and Grandmother arrive just in time for the ceremony. Amma doesn’t come to most Sri Lankan functions. She says she likes to avoid the gossip—she’s only one of four divorced women in the Boston Tamil community, so gossip trails after her. She usually pretends to be sick, or says she has to work. When she can’t get out of important functions, she comes late and leaves early and tries not to talk to many people.
She looks in my direction and I turn away. She’s probably already accounted for how many people have noticed me standing with Jesse and Tasha. American friends are okay, but not if they wear men’s clothes. I’m surprised Nisha even invited them.
“How are you handling all this?” Jesse asks.
I don’t like her look of pity. I take a glass of mango lassi so I have something to hold onto.
“Leave her alone,” Tasha says.
“This isn’t fair,” Jesse says. “You know that.”
People turn around to look.
“This is Nisha’s choice,” Tasha whispers.
“I can’t believe she’d choose this. Not Nisha.”
“I’m fine,” I say. “Seriously.” They both look skeptical. “I brought a flask.”
Tasha snorts into her lassi.
“You brought a flask to an engagement?”
“Yes, I fucking brought a flask. Every man here brought a flask to this engagement. Do you want some or not?”
We find an unused room and pass the flask around. I take more than my share. It’s my fucking flask. We wander over to the official drink table with the sodas and pour some for ourselves. The whiskey works its way through my system. The drink chills my fingers. I hold the plastic cup to my forehead and let the cool seep in. Nisha won’t want Gauri Aunty’s makeup melting off my face before the ceremony even starts.
“Lucky!”
Laila Aunty’s thin frame pushes someone aside to come stand next to me. Her smile is too bright, her makeup too vivid. “These are your friends?” She looks from me to Jesse to Tasha, her smile now permanently marring her face.
I introduce them. “They’re Nisha’s friends.”
Laila Aunty asks Jesse and Tasha what they do, where they live, what they studied in school. She nods back and forth, her smile never wavering from her face. When she leaves, Tasha elbows me.
“Are we only Nisha’s friends?”
The lights dim before I can answer, and the ceremony starts. Deepak’s parents and Nisha’s parents gather around a covered table set up at one end of the ballroom. A three-tier cream cake stands on one end, and a man in a traditional veshti sarong stands at the other. The unbleached white cotton of his veshti and kurta shirt looks crisp and starched against his dark skin. He places a marriage certificate in front of him, in between six trays covered with gold and red fabric.
Nisha and Deepak walk up the aisle in the middle of the room. Her saree twirls around her as she walks, the embroidered stones splitting light like shattered glass. In person, Deepak looks even more puffed up with air.
When the man at the table nods, Nisha’s parents give Deepak’s parents three silver trays: one with the sherwani that Deepak will wear for the wedding and the suit that he’ll wear for the reception, one with flowers and fruits, and one with betel leaves, areca nuts, sandalwood paste, and other things I can’t even name. Deepak’s parents give three trays: one with Nisha’s wedding and reception sarees, one with lipstick, eyeliners, and the gold thali kodi, and one with the same assortment of nuts and spices.
After the exchange, the man at the table clears his throat and speaks in Tamil. “This is the engagement of Deepak and Nisha. Their parents have given their blessings with the exchange of gifts. Do you, Deepak, agree to this marriage?”
Deepak holds his own wrist and nods.
I translate quietly for Tasha and Jesse.
“Isn’t it rude to talk?” Tasha asks.
“Not at a brown function.” I’m thankful for the whiskey inside my system. It plants my feet to the floor and keeps me steady. Everything blurs.
“I thought this was an engagement,” Tasha says.
“Sri Lankan engagements mean signing the marriage license.”
“Nisha, do you agree to this marriage?” the man asks.
Tasha whispers in my ear. “So are you two still fucking?”
“Yes,” Nisha says.
The man produces two rings in a red velvet case and holds them out. Deepak takes one and puts it on Nisha’s finger. Nisha puts the other on Deepak’s. The saree creeps up Nisha’s back as she bends down to sign the marriage license.
I step away from Tasha. I know what Amma will say if she sees. I shake my head and hope that Tasha will take that as an answer. My fingertips are expanding at the edges from all the heat in the room.
•••
Dinner is served buffet style. I follow Tasha and Jesse through the line, explaining the dishes as best as I can. Their presence keeps most of the older people away and for that I’m grateful. No one asking me when I’m going to have a kid, when I’m going to become one of them.
Nisha comes and sits with us while we eat at a table by ourselves. Amma’s disappeared but Laila Aunty smiles at us in between bites from a table nearby.
“I’m so tired,” Nisha says. She carefully takes a bite of rice and lentils from her spoon using only her teeth. Her face is shiny with sweat.
Jesse stares at her plate. She’s piled on everything from the buffet, and her plate’s so full that she can’t mix the curries
with the rice. Tasha’s spoon is a blur with the speed of her eating. Nisha’s silence grates at me. She wants me to say something.
“It was great,” I say. “You looked great.”
Nisha squeezes my knee underneath the table and takes another bite from her spoon.
“Thanks for coming,” she says to Tasha and Jesse.
“Wouldn’t miss it.” Jesse digs her spoon directly into the middle of her pile and starts eating.
Tasha says nothing.
Nisha smiles and walks away with her plate.
“I should’ve brought a bigger flask,” I say.
“We’re going to the bars after this,” Tasha says. “You should come.”
“I’m in a saree.”
“And?”
And Amma won’t let me go. I’m sure of it. It’s nine already, and by the time we finish eating and get ready to leave, it’ll be ten. Then there’s getting to the club in Boston, by car and T. We wouldn’t be done until two or three in the morning. Way past my curfew.
“You can stay over at the rugby house,” Tasha says.
“I have to ask my mom.”
If they think that’s weird, they keep it to themselves. Amma’s cornered near the cake table by Laila Aunty. Perfect. Either she’ll say yes, to prove to Laila Aunty that she’s the kind of parent who trusts her kid, or she’ll say no, to prove to Laila Aunty that she isn’t the kind of parent who will neglect the dangers of the night scene. Each would result in a fight.
I walk over like I want a slice of cake. Amma pretends not to see me, but Laila Aunty lets out a high-pitched “Lucky!” and puts an arm around my shoulders. Amma’s pinched face turns toward me.
“Amma, my friends are asking if I want to go to Boston with them.”
“Go to Boston? Why?”
“We’re going to go dancing.”
“When?”
“Now. I’ll stay over at their house and come back in the morning.”
Her nostrils quiver and flare.