‘OK, OK!’ I say before I can change my mind.
Tanvi lets out a whoop, hands me the underskirt and matching blouse for the sari and ushers me to the bathroom to change, remembering just in time to duck in there ahead of me to cover the mirror with a towel.
‘No peeking!’ she says with a stern wag of the finger before leaving the room.
I shiver as I step out of my jeans and top and change into the underskirt and blouse. What am I doing? I’m supposed to be keeping my head down tonight, not playing dress-up. And yet, there’s something oddly thrilling about the swish of unfamiliar material against my legs and the weight of mascara on my lashes. I swallow my doubt and head back to the bedroom.
I’m surprised by just how long the sari itself takes to put on. Prisha’s brow is furrowed with deep concentration as she makes her way around my body, tucking and pleating and pinning, the expanse of material gradually getting shorter and shorter. My attempts at checking my reflection in the mirror are thwarted by Tanvi’s insistence that we do a ‘grand reveal’ at the very last moment.
‘Tanvi!’ a voice yells up the stairs.
‘I’ll be right back,’ she says, bolting out of the room and thundering down the stairs.
Prisha shakes her head and laughs. ‘That girl has enough energy to power an entire village, I swear.’
I nod in agreement. I swear I wouldn’t be surprised to discover Tanvi is half-human, half-Duracell bunny.
‘She talks about you loads, you know,’ Prisha says, as she continues to work on the sari.
‘She does?’ I ask doubtfully. I’m still baffled by why Tanvi seems to like me so much. We’re like chalk and cheese in almost every possible way.
‘Oh yeah,’ Prisha says. ‘It’s all Ro this and Ro that.’
‘Wow, sorry. That must be so boring for you.’
‘Not at all! It’s nice she’s found someone she gets on with so well. Especially after the few years she’s had. She’s still quite fragile under that cheerful facade of hers.’
My eyes fall on the picture of Tanvi in hospital looking frail but happy. They drift to the numerous photos of her and the girl with the nose piercing. I notice details I hadn’t registered the first time round – the dimple in the girl’s left cheek, the fact she has blue eyes, the mole next to her right eyebrow. The whole time, I’m asking myself the same question, over and over. Why isn’t she here tonight instead of me?
I glance down at Prisha. She must know who the girl in the photos is. I want to ask her about her, but I feel too shy and by the time I’ve plucked up the courage, Tanvi returns.
Five minutes later, I’m standing in the centre of the room with my eyes closed.
In unison, Tanvi and Prisha count down from three. I peel my eyes open one by one and look in the mirror.
I blink, my cheeks growing hot as I study my reflection.
Instead of its usual frizzy plait, my hair falls in smooth, glossy waves, and my complexion appears clear and even under the expertly applied layers of make-up. It’s the sari that makes the biggest difference though. My wardrobe consists almost entirely of black, grey and navy, clothes carefully selected to help me fade as far into the background as possible. The rich purple sari does the exact opposite and I have no idea how I feel about it.
‘Say something then!’ Tanvi says, shaking my arm. ‘Do you love it?’
‘I don’t know,’ I say truthfully, still trying to get my head around the idea that the girl in the mirror is actually me. ‘I don’t usually wear make-up and stuff. And are you sure I don’t just look like a massive bar of Dairy Milk?’
‘No!’ Prisha and Tanvi cry, laughing.
‘You look fab-u-lous,’ Prisha says. ‘And I’m not just being biased.’
‘You look awesome,’ Tanvi adds. ‘And should basically wear nothing but purple from this day forward.’
In all the excitement, I realize I haven’t thanked Prisha.
‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘That was a lot of work.’
‘You’re very welcome,’ Prisha replies, patting me on the shoulder. ‘And no work at all. I have to say, you’re a much easier subject than this one’ – she jerks her head in Tanvi’s direction – ‘who’s a right fidgeter.’
‘Oi!’ Tanvi says.
Prisha blows her a kiss.
The doorbell downstairs rings and Tanvi lets out an excited squeal. ‘C’mon, I want to introduce you to everyone,’ she says, taking my hand. ‘Coming, Prisha?’
‘In a minute. I’m milking this downtime all I can get right now. Just don’t tell your brother.’ She winks and lies down on Tanvi’s bed, crossing her legs at the ankle, resting her hands on her stomach and closing her eyes.
‘Ready?’ Tanvi asks, tugging on my arm.
I’m not entirely sure, but I nod and follow anyway.
25
I pause at the top of the stairs, gripped by nerves, the swell of voices coming from downstairs making my belly swoop. Prisha has lent me a pair of glittery sandals to wear. The heel is only small but I still feel wobbly and uncertain in them.
I feel Tanvi’s breath on my neck. ‘You look great,’ she whispers, prodding me gently in the ribs.
A part of me knows she’s right. Another part wants to hide in the bedroom until the party is over. I know I can’t though. Prisha has gone to far too much trouble for me to back out now.
My hands trembling, I gather the folds of the sari in my left hand, grasping the bannister with my right. For a sliver of a moment, I’m so overwhelmed by it all, I’m scared I might cry.
Stop being so silly, I scold myself, my fingernails digging into the wooden rail. It’s just a bit of make-up and a fancy outfit.
Only it’s not, I know it’s not. I’ve never been the centre of attention like this and I have no idea how I’m supposed to act.
I take a deep breath and follow Tanvi. I put one foot in front of the other. And again. And again. Until I’m almost at the bottom of the stairs.
Just below me, four members of Tanvi’s extended family are giving Tanvi’s dad their coats.
‘Is that Ro?’ he asks, squinting up at me. ‘I didn’t recognize you there.’
The group’s heads twist towards us and my cheeks grow even hotter under my powdered cheeks.
‘Everyone,’ Tanvi says, reaching across and taking my sweaty hand. ‘This is my best friend, Ro.’
Best friend. She says it so easily, so proudly, entirely without hesitation or self-consciousness. ‘Ro, this is my auntie Preti, my uncle Raj, and my cousins, Kamla and Krish.’
‘Hi,’ I say, pulling myself together just in time.
‘Nice sari,’ Kamla, a girl of around nineteen, says.
‘It’s not mine,’ I blurt, instantly feeling stupid.
‘It’s Prisha’s,’ Tanvi supplies. ‘Doesn’t Ro look awesome in it?’
Although Kamla says ‘totally’ and nods enthusiastically, I still feel awkward, folding my arms to cover up my exposed strip of bare stomach.
Tanvi leads me through into the living room, now packed full of people – aunts and uncles and cousins and grandparents and family friends and neighbours, every sofa cushion and arm taken, kids on laps or perched on cushions on the floor like frogs on lily pads.
Tanvi parades me around the room, again introducing me as her ‘best friend’ with the same ease and confidence as before. I keep waiting for someone to laugh or make a face at my appearance, but everyone is friendly and welcoming, even Tanvi’s brother Devin, who Tanvi promised me was a ‘miserable poo bum’. Just like Prisha, they all seem to know exactly who I am, asking unprompted questions about school and the choir and even my upcoming audition. My voice still shaking a little, I answer them politely, taking care to keep my answers brief and to the point. By the time we’ve made a complete circuit of the living room, I’ve managed to relax a little.
Formal introductions over, Tanvi and I stick our heads in the kitchen, observing the various dishes bubbling away on the stove and marvelling at the dozen
s of boxes of sweets the family have been given as Diwali gifts. After that, we visit the home temple on the landing, where I hover at Tanvi’s side as she bows her head and prays.
The dinner table (made up of various different tables pushed together, all covered with a giant paper tablecloth) is so long it extends from the dining room right through into the adjoining living room, the seating a mismatched assortment of traditional dining-room chairs, patio furniture and several office chairs on wheels.
I watch, mesmerized, as the table fills up with steaming hot dishes of food – rice and curries and dahls and chutneys. Tanvi loads up my plate until it’s so heavy I can barely lift it.
The eating portion of the evening goes on for what seem like hours, every single dish delicious and packed full of flavour. The conversation is loud and chaotic, jokes and conversations shooting across the table in a mixture of English and Hindi, Tanvi translating where necessary. As I eat, I keep catching sight of my reflection in the patio doors, and every time it takes a split second to twig the girl with the gleaming hair and kohl-rimmed eyes is actually me.
After dinner, the guests pile into the living room, collapsing onto the furniture or floor and lamenting over their full bellies.
Tanvi suggests playing Just Dance on the PlayStation.
‘Are you crazy?’ Prisha cries, flopping on the sofa, her kids immediately climbing on her, making her groan in pain as their hands and feet knead her stomach. ‘I can barely breathe, never mind dance.’
‘I’m with Prisha,’ one of Tanvi’s aunts agrees, rubbing her stomach. ‘This food baby needs some serious R&R.’
‘Sing Star?’ Tanvi says hopefully.
‘Can we do that sitting down?’ Prisha asks.
‘Yes.’
‘Sing Star it is, then.’
I help Tanvi set up the PlayStation.
‘Oh God, you’re going to absolutely trounce us all,’ Tanvi says as we kneel on the carpet, untangling wires.
‘Huh?’
‘Have you not played this before?’
I shake my head.
‘Well, it’s a bloody singing game, isn’t it?’ Tanvi says. ‘You’re going to take the entire Shah family to the cleaners!’
‘Speak for yourself!’ Anish pipes up. He has collapsed on the sofa next to Prisha, his head resting on her shoulder. ‘My voice has been compared to Sir Michael Bublé himself.’
‘Oh please,’ Tanvi says. ‘You make Devin sound good.’
Devin throws a scatter cushion at Tanvi’s head. ‘Oi!’ he cries. ‘I heard that!’
‘I wanna hear Ro sing,’ Prisha says.
‘Yeah!’ one of Tanvi’s uncles chimes in. ‘I want to hear this famous voice we’ve heard all about.’
I throw Tanvi a panicked look, weak with relief when she interprets my reaction correctly.
‘Maybe in a bit,’ Tanvi says. ‘Prish, Anish, you want to kick us off?’
Stupidly thankful to have escaped, I sink down on the floor and watch as Anish and Prisha peel themselves off the sofa and giggle their way through a song from a Bollywood film called ‘Kabhi Alvida Naa Kehna’. They’re followed by Tanvi’s auntie Preti utterly mangling ‘Rehab’ by Amy Winehouse, Kamla and Krish hiding their faces in their hands from start to finish; Tanvi’s parents tackling ‘Don’t Go Breaking My Heart’, the two of them painfully out of tune; and Devin and one of his grandfathers honking their way through ‘Hey, Jude’. Even though the singing is universally dreadful, watching everyone having such good fun is infectious, and I can’t help but get swept up by it, laughing along with everyone else from the safety of my spot in the corner.
‘OK, enough of this abuse!’ Anish says, his hands over his ears. ‘Ro? You’re up.’
My eyes widen in alarm. Tucked away in the corner, I assumed I’d been forgotten.
‘I’m fine just listening, thanks,’ I say, hugging my knees to my chest in an attempt to make my body as small as possible.
Everyone roars with laughter as if I’ve just delivered a hilarious punchline.
‘No, really,’ I insist, pressing my back against the wall. Frantically, I look for Tanvi for backup, but she’s on the other side of the living room, talking to one of her grandmothers, oblivious to my predicament.
‘Sorry, Ro, you may be a guest tonight but you don’t get off that easily,’ Anish says. ‘At least not where Sing Star is involved.’
He nods to Devin and one of Tanvi’s uncles and between the three of them they haul me to my feet, their laughter drowning out my desperate protests.
Prisha thrusts a microphone into my hand. ‘Please, Ro,’ she says, her hands pressed together in prayer position. ‘My ears can’t take any more. We need you. Right, Tanvi?’
‘What?’ Tanvi asks, looking up from her conversation with her grandmother.
‘We were just saying it’s time for Ro to show us how it’s done.’
I throw Tanvi another pleading glance, but this time she’s not letting me off the hook. She grabs a controller and starts scrolling through the songs.
I sidle up next to her. ‘But I don’t sing solo,’ I say, my voice wobbly with panic.
‘I know,’ Tanvi says, continuing to scroll. ‘That’s why I’m gonna sing with you.’
‘With me?’
‘Yeah. I’m putting it in competitive mode.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means we both sing the whole song – no solo lines.’
‘Oh.’
Behind us, Devin has started to sing ‘Why Are We Waiting’.
‘We’re picking a song!’ Tanvi shoots back at him over her shoulder. ‘OK, what do you reckon?’ she asks, continuing to scroll through the songs. ‘“Someone Like You”? “Chandelier”? “Let It Go?”’
‘“Let It Go”!’ one of Tanvi’s nephews cries, bouncing up and down on Prisha’s lap, his sparkly green fairy wings flapping in her face.
‘Yeah, “Let It Go”!’ one of Tanvi’s little cousins lisps, her words whistling through the gap where she had no front teeth. ‘Please!’
Within seconds, every small person in the room is chanting ‘Let It Go, Let It Go!’
‘OK, OK!’ Tanvi shouts over them. ‘We get the message.’ She turns to me. ‘That’s cool with you, right?’ She doesn’t exactly wait for my answer, the introduction kicking in just seconds later, turning my stomach to mush.
A hush falls over the room. My legs are shaking the way they did at the Birmingham audition and I’m grateful they’re hidden from view under the sari. I turn my back on the sea of expectant faces and focus on the glowing lyrics on the TV above the fireplace. Maybe, if I keep my eyes glued on the screen and block everyone else out, I can convince myself this is just another practice session with Mr Milford.
With both hands, I lift the microphone to my lips and begin to sing, so quietly I can barely hear myself at first. Tanvi keeps looking at me but I daren’t take my eyes off the screen.
We reach the chorus and the kids join in, their childish voices drowning us out, despite their parents’ desperate shushing. As the noise mounts, I find myself relaxing a little, my grip on the microphone loosening ever so slightly, my legs now stable beneath the folds of Prisha’s purple sari. Tanvi gives me a nudge with her elbow and I risk a glance in her direction. She shoots me a massive grin and I can’t help but match it with a smile of my own.
That’s when it dawns on me. I’m enjoying myself. I’m singing in front of people and I like it.
More than like it. I think I sort of love it.
As the song goes on, the children gradually stop singing and flop on the floor, exhausted by the big notes, and by the final chorus Tanvi has pretty much stopped singing too, her onscreen score plummeting as she steps aside and leaves me to complete the song alone. My initial panic melts away as everyone cheers me on, breaking into noisy applause as I deliver the final line.
‘More, more!’ Anish cries, dropping to his knees and bowing at my feet. ‘We’re not worthy, we’re not worthy!�
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My face is flaming with embarrassment, but I can’t help but giggle at his reaction. It just seems so mad. Is all this fuss really for me?
‘Anyone want to follow that?’ Prisha asks.
‘Hell, no!’ Devin says and everyone laughs.
‘Pardon the pun, but that seems a good note to end on,’ Tanvi’s dad says. ‘Time for fireworks?’
Everyone happily agrees, pulling on coats and shoes and heading out into the garden.
As we huddle on the patio, I’m still buzzing, adrenaline continuing to pump its way around my body. Did I really just do that? While dressed like this? It feels like a weird dream.
I join in with the ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ as explosions of pink and silver and green and gold whizz and splutter above our heads, and as the last firework dissolves in the night sky, my heart wants to burst.
Tanvi’s dad and uncles take a bow and we applaud their prowess. Everyone begins to drift inside apart from me and Tanvi. She produces a box of sweets and we eat them huddled on a bench, a blanket draped over our knees.
‘If I tell you something, will you promise not to tell anyone else?’ Tanvi asks after a bit, powdered sugar clinging to her lips.
‘Of course,’ I say. It’s an easy enough answer to give. Who would I possibly tell?
‘I like someone,’ she says. ‘Someone you know.’
‘Emerson,’ I say without missing a beat.
Tanvi’s face falls. ‘How did you know?’ she cries.
‘You flirt with him every day in registration.’
‘No, I don’t!’
‘Er, yes, you do!’ I say, laughing. Just today they had an ultra-flirty debate about the best horror film ever made.
‘Do I really?’ Tanvi asks.
‘Yes, Tanvi.’
‘Do you think he knows?’
I pretend to think about it for a second.
‘Yes, Tanvi.’
She covers her face with her hands and lets out a groan.
‘He flirts back just as hard,’ I add quickly.
She separates her fingers. ‘He does?’
‘Oh my God, totally.’
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