by Ellen Oh
—Aisha Saeed
Girls Who Twirl and Other Dangers
Preeti Chhibber
There are three reasons I know fall is awesome: the most anticipated Bollywood movies are always on a fall release schedule, my mom starts practicing her delicious party dishes, and it means it’s time for Navrātri! One of the absolute best things about Hinduism is that we have hundreds of thousands of gods. That might sound weird, but what it really means is that any given day can be a literal holy day and cause for celebration. And tonight? Tonight was finally Navrātri. My favorite. My friends and I were just one short car ride away from dancing until our feet fell off.
“Jaya, remind me again why this is happening in a gym?”
Jessica, Nirali, and I were squished in the backseat of my parents’ (very sensible) Toyota on our way to the function. Unlike Diwāli, Navrātri wasn’t covered in the average world-history class, and so Jess had a lot of questions.
“I wish there was a more interesting answer, but really that gym is the only space big enough for the entire Indian Association.”
“We’re actually lucky we don’t have to drive an hour. Families come from all over since our IA is so big. But, I’m definitely not into how overcrowded it is.” Nirali rolled her eyes.
“What Nirali’s really saying is that only having one celebration means Dinesh might show up and he is—”
“The worst. Pompous, rude, thinks he can dance so much better than everyone.” As Nirali’s voice got louder and louder, my dad caught my eye in the rearview mirror.
“Sab kuch theek hai, betiya?”
“Everything’s fine, Dad! Nirali’s just really excited.” A sharp elbow jabbed in my side. “Hey! Ow! Come on, that story is so old that you’ve turned him into a mythical beast at this point.”
“I was traumatized! When we were ten he stepped on my lenghā, and it came off and I did a half turn in my choli and underwear before I realized!”
“And then he never came back, so why would he be there tonight?”
Nirali just rolled her eyes again and turned to look out the window.
Ever the peacemaker, Jess brought the subject back to the matter at hand, “So, Navrātri. Is there a TV movie I can watch that will explain the meaning of the holiday to me using two very attractive, but relatable, leads?”
My mom turned in her seat. “No, but I think there was a miniseries in the nineteen-eighties.” She looked back at my dad. “Rahul, serial thā nā?”
“Woh Mahābārata serial ke jaise . . .” My dad was clearly only sort of paying attention. It didn’t matter that he’d made this drive four hours earlier to drop off a million pounds of rice that I had helped my mother cook: he still got nervous about missing turns after it got dark.
“Chalo, I can tell you, it starts with the demon tyrant, Mahishāsur, half man, half buffalo. . . .” My mom loved telling these stories, but they had a tendency to go very, very long.
“Falu Auntie, we’re going to be there in five minutes. I don’t know if we have time to hear the whole story of Mā Durgā before we get there. I wouldn’t want Jessica to hear a rushed version.” Nirali managed to waylay my mom without being rude about it. I squeezed her hand. If my mom had started telling the story, we’d have been stuck in the parking lot of the school until she was finished. Which would be a travesty. My bangles were chum-chum-ing against my wrist as if anticipating the drumbeat inside the gym.
“Acchā, you’re right. Jessica, I’ll tell you when we get inside.”
“Bet you wish there was a made-for-TV movie, now, don’t you?” I whispered to her.
“Aa gaye!” my dad exclaimed as he pulled the car into a parking spot. We were out the door and halfway to the entrance before he’d even turned the engine off. Nirali let out a whoop.
“It’s time for garbā!”
For the first time in a long time, Mahishāsur sensed a presence behind him. He’d been in a stance of meditation for years, paying homage to Brahmā ji. He balanced on one foot with the sole of the other pressed against his knee, and his hands clasped over his head. But he was not tired, he was exhilarated.
“Mahishāsur.” A thousand voices at once called to him, and he turned. Before him was Lord Brahmā, his four faces looking out and seeing all of the universe. As was told, in his four hands he held a lotus, the holy Vedas, a ladle, and a mālā. An unearthly glow surrounded his head, so bright it was nearly blinding. Mahishāsur couldn’t tell if it was coming from within Brahmā or from some other source in the sky, but it made discerning Brahmā’s features difficult. “You have performed tapas in my name and I have heard.” Mahishāsur waited; his moment was coming. “I grant you one boon.” A line of sweat dripped down Mahishāsur’s snout. He slowly lowered his leg. The cloth of his dhoti nearly disintegrated at the movement; it had turned threadbare and now hung loose at his hips. He brought his folded hands down to his chest and bowed in pranāma to Brahmā.
“Namaskār, Bhagwān,” he greeted the god. “I wish only for one thing.”
“Ask.” Brahmā minced no words. Mahishāsur had prayed to him for a thousand years, and Brahmā was bound to comply.
“Immortality.” Had the god been human, Mahishāsur was sure he would have balked at such an outlandish demand. Instead, Brahmā paused and considered.
“I cannot offer you immortality. All things must end; such is the law of creation. But I will grant that no man or god will be able to kill you.”
As Brahmā spoke, the power infused Mahishāsur’s very blood. He was unkillable. The world would be his.
He turned a sinister eye to Brahmā.
Heaven would be his.
Jess, Nirali, and I walked through the gym door to a huge pile of sandals and ballet flats, and the gigantic basketball sneakers that were the preferred footwear of Indian boys. Random uncles and aunties milled about, chatting and chaat-ing. The thrum of the dhol and feet hitting the floor in beat with the music drifted through the door to the court.
Nirali and I slipped our sandals off and hid them toward the back of the pile. Jess pulled at the edges of her borrowed salwār, watching us.
“Don’t stretch my top!” Nirali said. “Just go with it; your shoes’ll be fine.” She gave Jess a tiny shove forward. Jess gave us both a major side-eye, but threw her shoes down with ours anyway.
“If anyone takes them, you have to tell my mom what happened.”
“Jess, in, like, four seconds you’re not going to care about your shoes!” I linked arms and pulled her through the doors to the basketball courts.
Inside was a blur of color and sound. Dupatte were flying and lenghe were blooming. The band on the opposite end of the court was still on baa-rhythm, slow enough that all the grandmas could dance a few rounds. The circles of people dancing weren’t quite at that so-fast-it’s-kind-of-scary-but-in-a-good-way speed I loved. But each ring was just moving a little faster than the one outside it.
Little kids were running around on the outskirts, and along the tucked-in bleachers, folding chairs had been set up in lieu of pulling the seats out. Older men and women sat there watching the makeshift dance floor. My parents joined in with a few of their friends on the far end of the court. At the center of it all was a ceramic statue of the goddess Durgā—the legendary badass we were here to celebrate—on a pedestal, surrounded by prayer accoutrements. I lingered on her face, the kohl-lined eyes and her knowing smile. I had the strangest sensation that she was looking back at me like I was her daughter, telling me to have the night of my life celebrating her victory.
“Wow.” Jess had stopped cold. I shook myself and grinned at her.
“Let’s hop in!”
We wove our way through other groups to the rim of the outermost ring of dancers, kids from school closer to the center, while their moms (with a few dads now and then) were on the outside.
“Wait for a break in the line. And don’t worry if we get separated, it happens.”
Just then, an auntie in a green sari danced by, maki
ng a space big enough for three people to jump in.
“Go, go, go!”
The beat was starting to pick up, and our turns moved a little bit quicker every couple of rotations. The intricate mirror work along the bottom of my skirt weighed the lenghā down enough that it stayed low while I twirled, a dizzying array of blacks and greens and reds. Nirali led our trio, her dupattā flying behind her. Jessica followed, only slightly awkward. And then me. The auntie behind me fell farther away as the drums sped up and we moved faster. My feet pounded against the floor in rhythm to the band, dum-dumadum-dum-dumadum, but I wanted more.
I watched for a break in the circle at the center, closest to Mā Durgā’s murti. The steps there were far more complicated than what we were doing. And way more fun. The dancers turned and jumped and swapped places, with their arms going around and over their heads. The boys and their giant leaps forward, the girls lower to the ground but moving and jumping just as far and just as fast, swirling in tandem under the watchful eye of the goddess.
There! A spot between a girl from school and a boy I’d never seen before. I jumped into the step in the middle of a turn. The rhythm of the band and the energy in the room swept me into a blast of movement. I caught eyes with the boy midturn and grinned. He smiled back. Oh, wow. He was cute. Garbā and cute boys?
I hopped to the right, turned, and ended up directly in front of him in one of the more complex garbā movements. The lacquered wood floors of the gym gave no traction, and there were blisters forming on my feet, but it didn’t matter. Navrātri was about abandoning ourselves to dance in complete and utter elation.
As the music sped up, more people joined in, creating more circles when they didn’t find one with the steps they wanted. Soon seven circles were going at once, all at different speeds, with different steps. The boy behind me got closer every time he bounded forward. My breath came short.
All of a sudden the dupattā hanging down my back snagged. I stumbled and a body crashed into mine. Oh no. No. Please not him. But of course it was.
Before I could say a word, he shouted, “If you don’t know the steps, you should move to the slow circle on the outside!”
The irritated sneer made him significantly less attractive and way more monstrous. Face aflame, I looked down. His dupattā had tangled up in mine.
“Your scarf is clearly the reason this happened! Calm down.”
Wordlessly, he yanked his scarf out of the tangles and danced around me, pushing me out of the circle. A jerk move from start to finish. I glanced at the statue again, and I swore Mā Durgā’s eyes were flashing in indignation.
“Brahmā ji, Vishnu ji, Shivā ji, he has run us from heaven. He has taken over the earth. What do we do?” Indra and several other deities surrounded the trinity. Vishnu was thoughtful. He glanced at the weapons he held in his two left hands: his mace, Kaumodaki, and the Sudarshana disk. The latter was the most powerful weapon on Earth or in the heavens.
“He cannot be killed by god or man, no matter how powerful the weapon, Vishnu ji.” Brahmā’s voice shook with anger.
“Perhaps not god or man, then.” Shivā toyed with the tail of the snake, Vasuki, wrapped around his neck. “Perhaps someone else.” He grinned, a thought forming as he threw his trident from hand to hand. Indra and the other deities stepped back. The crescent in Shiva ji’s hair shone against the water of the Ganga, freely flowing from the matted bun at the top of his head down to Earth. Brahmā and Vishnu stood on either side of him. If anyone could find a way to defeat Mahishāsur, it would be these three.
“Mahishāsur’s actions are inexcusable.” Vishnu’s voice echoed in the thousands, and a light poured forth from his mouth. Without prodding, Brahmā and Shivā joined their voices to his and, likewise, light from their mouths joined to create a brilliant force. The devas added their energy to the trinity’s, and slowly, the shape of a woman manifested there, in the midst of the three gods: Divine female energy made material. Resplendent in a saffron sari and covered in gleaming gold, she bowed to Brahmā, Vishnu, and Shivā, two of her ten hands clasped in front of her.
“Namaskār.”
“Durgā ji, we’ve called you here to do battle on our behalf. Mahishāsur has taken Earth and Heaven, and he must be stopped.”
Durgā quirked a thick black brow and smiled.
“Then give me your weapons. I will see Mahishāsur finished.”
I wove my way through the circles of dancers to the edges of the court and stood on the sidelines, fuming. How dare that cocky trash boy? He was the one with the stupid scarf that got caught in my dupattā. Now I looked like one of those little kids who tried to jump into steps they weren’t ready for. But really, it wasn’t even about being embarrassed. I knew that in the chaos of the dance only maybe seven people had even noticed. But Navrātri was about joy for the community, not just for one person. And this guy had just spit in the face of that.
“Hey!” As Nirali and Jess wound toward me, I tried to wipe the scowl off my face, but I must not have succeeded. “What’s wrong? Did someone eat all the ras malāi already?”
“What? No. I haven’t even been to see the food line.” I turned back to the melee of dancers. “Do you see that guy? The one in the blue kurtā with the black scarf?” Nirali and Jess both turned in the direction I was pointing. “In the circle closest to the statue? The cute one.” I added that last part begrudgingly. “He’s a complete butt.” That was easier.
“The one with the soft-looking hair?”
“Jess!”
“Sorry, sorry, I mean the one with the awful haircut?”
“Thank you. I know you’re lying, but it’s the thought that counts.” The girls were looking at me like I was speaking another language. I filled them in. “And then, he just danced around me, like I wasn’t even there.”
And I had them.
“Are you kidding me? That is so obnoxious!” Nirali stood on her tiptoes to find him again.
He went around the circle one more time. How unfair that he was such a great dancer. If only he would trip. Instead, the girl dancing in front of him missed a turn, tripped, and he twirled right into her, landing a blow on her face. It was like Mā Durgā had heard my pleas but then missed by just a hair. He yelled at the girl, and while his voice didn’t carry over the sounds of the music and conversation around us, it was easy to see the same irritated scowl he’d given me earlier.
“Wow. He just ran right into her and then blamed her for it. What can we do? Do we tell his mom?” Jess asked, and started looking around, as if she could pick the auntie who spawned the dance demon out of all the women standing in the room. “Are we supposed to tell moms at garbā?”
“Oh my God . . .” Nirali was staring at the boy. “Jaya, that’s Dinesh.”
“What?”
Nirali had been telling the Dinesh-at-garbā-stepping-on-her-skirt-ending-in-underwear story for so long that to me he was this faceless monster. I always assumed his family had just moved out of the area or something, but that didn’t make for as good a story.
“I see he hasn’t changed.” The way she was staring, I half expected the point of Nirali’s eyeliner to turn into an actual spear and head straight toward Dinesh’s chest.
“Hmm . . .” The beginnings of an idea were starting to form in my head. “This whole holiday is about good defeating evil, right? Dinesh is not going to magically get what’s coming to him. So, it’s on us. We can finally teach him a lesson for being a crappy kid and for growing up into a crappy fifteen-year-old.” I started walking to the back of the gym, farther away from the dance and the food. Nirali and Jess followed, dodging through the minigroups of people socializing, settling in a quieter spot near the locker rooms. I leaned back against the wall.
“But how is the real question.” Nirali leaned next to me and knocked my shoulder with hers. “I guess we could try and talk to his mom . . . but if she’s anything like I remember, she’s not going to believe us. She probably thinks he’s literally God’s gift, eve
n though it’s more like he’s a human version of a poop emoji.”
“And preferably a ‘how’ that won’t get us in too much trouble, please. I want your parents to let me come to another garbā,” Jess added, glancing back at the action on the dance floor behind us.
“I guess somehow having him end up in his underwear in the middle of the court is out of the question?” Nirali sighed wistfully. I laughed at the mental image of Dinesh scrambling to get his pants up and the nada retied around his waist.
“That might be too hard to pull off, but . . .” I played with the end of my braid while I worked a thought out in my head. “Maybe embarrassment is the best way to do it. His mom won’t listen to us, fine. But if we find a way to make his takedown public so she couldn’t ignore it? You know how it goes, desi-image community mein and all.”
“That’s not a terrible idea.”
“Gee, thanks,” I responded drily.
“No, no, I mean that could work. My mom would murder me if I embarrassed her at Navrātri.” Nirali smiled.
I looked back at the crowds in the gym, hoping for inspiration. People dancing, people at stands waiting to hand out dandiyan for raas, people rushing in and out of the foyer for food. Again, Mā Durgā’s statue pulled my gaze. She shone in the middle of all the dancers. She stood on a pedestal alongside steel plates filled with incense and diyas, kumkum, sindoor, chandan, and haldi powders, with a bowl of rice grains—all the pieces necessary for pre-raas prayers that everyone would participate in. Oh. That was it. “We’re going to make sure Dinesh ruins everything.”
“That sounds hyperbolic.”
I ignored Nirali’s sass to keep us on topic. “When is everyone guaranteed to be paying attention to the same thing during garbā?” I nodded toward the statue.
“During the pujā before raas.” Nirali followed my gaze. “Jaya, you’re a genius.”
“Wait, I don’t get it. Raas is the dance with the sticks, right? What does that have to do with prayer time?” Jess craned her neck to see over the dancers and tried to glean whatever Nirali had seen.