A Holly Jolly Diwali

by Sonya Lalli

  “It’s weird, right?”

  “I don’t know.” I swallowed hard, the tears threatening to spill. “Is it?”

  “We’re not married, Niki.”

  “Yeah . . .” I trailed off.

  But one day we’re going to be.

  “The last few months have just been a lot,” he said, after a few moments slipped by. “Like, a lot a lot.”

  I nodded. Sara’s engagement had been a whirlwind.

  “So maybe you shouldn’t come tomorrow.”

  My body shivered as something deep and dark unleashed inside of me. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t even speak.

  “You understand, right?”

  “No, I don’t understand. What . . .” I was panicking. I was falling through the air. “Why? What are you talking about?”

  “You’ve been so intense lately, Niki,” he said quietly. “It’s too much—”

  “Too much for you that I helped your family organize that goddamn wedding?”

  I didn’t raise my voice often. Gaurav said it didn’t suit me. But maybe, really, it didn’t suit him. And as Gaurav looked at me with a facial expression I was becoming all too familiar with—disdain—it occurred to me that I didn’t like who I was when we were in the same room. A woman who made herself quieter and smaller, even submissive. A woman who was made to feel bad for needing him to be a better boyfriend, for expecting . . . respect.

  “If I don’t come tomorrow,” I said, my voice solid, “everyone is going to think we’ve broken up. Is that what you want?”

  Gaurav looked at me, and a part of me wished I hadn’t pressed him about the dishes. That I could curl into a ball, nestle myself close, and we could forget this whole conversation.

  “Is that what you want?” I repeated.

  I loved Gaurav, and I had been willing to stick it out. God knows why, I had been prepared to make the sacrifice.

  And right then, Gaurav finally made it clear to me that he was not.

  CHAPTER 32

  We can talk about it if you want.”

  Diya crawled into bed beside me. I was in their honeymoon suite bed back at Bardez, and Mihir, the thoughtful husband that he was, had gone for a walk to give us some alone time.

  “I thought you wanted to stay neutral,” I said. At some point, I’d stopped crying, and now I just felt stupid and numb. Mostly, just plain stupid.

  “I suppose I do, yeah.”

  Diya didn’t prompt me further, and even though I was tempted to talk about what had just happened, I didn’t want to put Diya in an awkward position; she was friends with both Sam and me. She was loyal to both of us.

  My mind was spinning a mile a minute; I didn’t understand how I’d ended up here. I’d given myself a brief moment to pause to go off and live my life a little, and what’s the first thing I did? One look from a sexy musician had turned me into my old self, the sort of woman I swore I’d never be again.

  The funny thing was, it took me years after the breakup to fully realize I deserved better. That I devalued myself by staying with Gaurav for so long. But I didn’t have a frame of reference. Beyond a handful of junior high crushes on prepubescent boys, Gaurav was the first guy to really notice me. To think I was different and interesting and charming and all the ways we all want to feel when we’re still figuring ourselves out and just want to feel special.

  Gaurav had ticked every single box, so I hadn’t even thought twice about bringing him home to the family—a nice Sikh boy I’d met at college with a good head on his shoulders who came from a nice family, who at first made me feel like I could be happy and still live the life my parents wanted for me.

  Whenever he came up in conversation, I always told others that I didn’t know why Gaurav ended it. But I did. Gaurav didn’t love me. Regardless of the fact that he was not a good person, truly, he didn’t love me. And I’d wanted our relationship to work out so badly I’d never even noticed.

  “May I say something?” Diya whispered. Softly, she wiped the tears from my cheeks; I hadn’t even noticed I’d started crying again.

  “Sure.”

  “Sam really cares about you.” She paused, my heart sinking into my chest as the tears came faster. “I know him. I can tell he might even love . . .”

  Love me?

  Two hours ago, I would have believed it. Now, it was hard to believe in anything.

  “Remember how you were telling me not to freeze my eggs simply because I am afraid of the astrologer’s prediction?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, do not give up so quickly because you are afraid. Sam’s life is messy right now. He is confused—”

  “Understood,” I interrupted, smiling and trying to change the mood. I wiped my nose with my sleeve. “I think we need to go back to Switzerland.”

  Diya stroked my hair, and after Mihir came back from his walk, the three of us watched reruns of The Big Bang Theory, and I tried not to cling onto her words.

  Maybe Sam loved me, too. Maybe Sam was confused. Deep down, I wanted to let her say it out loud. And I wanted to believe it.

  But even more, I didn’t want to get my heart broken again.

  CHAPTER 33

  Niki?”

  I groaned at the sound of Mom’s voice, rolling away from the door. Had I been sleeping? My mind felt foggy.

  “Niki, aaja!” Mom bellowed again. Her voice was closer now, as if she’d left the kitchen and was now standing at the bottom of the stairs. My eyes closed, I could practically see her standing there with her hands on her hips, tapping a slipper. “Get up, you lazy girl! You can’t sleep all day.”

  “Coming,” I croaked.

  I glanced at my alarm clock. It was past 6 p.m., three hours since I’d come upstairs to take a nap and ten hours since my flight had touched down in Seattle. I chugged the glass of water sitting on my nightstand and then threw my legs over the side of the bed, half surprised when my bare foot felt carpet and not the cold linoleum or hardwood flooring I’d gotten used to in India.

  Everything and nothing were familiar to me in Punjab. I’d never explored the city of Amritsar or prayed at the humblingly beautiful Golden Temple, but somehow, it felt like I’d been there before. Although I’d never met in person the dozens of aunts, uncles, cousins, and other relatives, whether we were talking over cha or on a road trip through the farming communities where our ancestors had lived, it felt like I had known them my whole life.

  I still didn’t speak the language, and I’d never truly be “Indian,” but over the course of the week, I started realizing that I was OK with that. I was happy with who I’d grown up to be, even if it meant I sometimes felt disconnected from my roots or confused about what label I should use. And I shouldn’t have been reluctant to go to India because I was afraid of what I would see.

  Because I loved every minute of my visit to Punjab.

  Well, every minute I wasn’t crying over Sam.

  The last week had been a roller coaster, intense highs and lows, periods of overwhelming happiness while I was hanging out with my family, and moments of utter despair whenever I was left alone with my thoughts.

  Sam had tried to call me once. I’d been meeting a few of my younger second cousins, and because they only had an hour before they had to go back to school, I declined the call, expecting that he’d follow up with a voice mail or at least a text.

  But he didn’t. Clearly, he had nothing to say to me. And I had nothing left to say to him.

  I shampooed my hair, body clenched and trying to breathe through it, doing my best not to cry. In the hot stream, I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, willing him to leave me alone. To leave me in peace. It would take me a while. But I knew I would get there. I’d pushed my way through heartbreak before.

  After showering, I threw on a pair of old leggings and a UW sweatshirt, and then pulled my wet hair into a to
pknot. I’d been away for nearly a month, and it felt good to be home, to come barreling down the stairs and find my parents cooking together in the kitchen.

  “Hey, Dad.”

  He looked up from the cutting board, a huge grin spreading across his face. While Mom had worked from home that day so she could pick me up from the airport, I hadn’t seen Dad yet, who was still in his work clothes and looked like he’d just gotten home.

  “Niki,” he said as I rounded the kitchen island to give him a hug. “You look terrible.”

  “Hey,” I whined. “Rude.”

  “You are looking dehydrated from your long flight is what I mean, beti. Have some water.”

  “I just did.”

  “Have some more.”

  I withdrew from the hug, and when Dad poured me another glass of water from the tap, I obediently drank the whole thing.

  “Hungry? Do you want snack before dinner?” Mom asked. She was kneading aata with her right hand and texting with two clean fingers on her left.

  “Not really. My body clock is all over the place.”

  “Your father is making jackfruit curry tonight. Let’s see how it turns out.”

  “Yum.” I eyed Dad. “Building your repertoire, I see.”

  “My curry is fit for the kings.” Dad winked.

  “Yes, but is it fit for your three queens?” Mom fired back. Smiling to herself, she tucked her phone in the front pocket of her apron and turned fully to the aata. “Jasmine is coming for dinner. She just pulled into the driveway.”

  I could feel a dull headache setting in, my heart rate slowly but steadily rising. Although we fought all the time, Jasmine and I had never sustained an argument for so long, and I wasn’t sure if she had come over tonight to make amends or continue our battle face-to-face.

  When she walked through the door, it hit me how much I’d missed her, how desperate I was to talk to her. She was wearing ripped jeans and a crisp collared shirt beneath an oversized sweater, her medium-length hair tucked neatly beneath a beanie. I held my breath as she greeted Mom and Dad, who were closer to the entranceway, and then watched her make her way toward me.

  She stopped short a foot away, her head cocked to the side as if she was considering both of our next moves. I smiled, shrugging, hoping it was enough, and my heart burst a beat later when Jasmine grinned and threw her arms around me.

  “Oh, thank god you’re not still mad at me,” I said quietly into her hair. “I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s fine.” She pulled away. “I’m sorry about giving you the silent treatment. We both needed to cool off—”

  “What are you two whispering about?” Mom interrupted.

  “Nothing.” Jasmine winked at me. “So, what did I miss? You didn’t start without me, did you, Niki?”

  By the way she looked at me, I knew she was referring to Sam. My stomach bottomed out. I’d told Jasmine I was taking the leap with Sam and would break the news to Mom and Dad as soon as I got home, but because she’d never replied to my messages, I’d never bothered her with the update that I’d been kidding myself, and Sam and I were over.

  “Start what without you? Dad asked.

  “Nothing,” I said.

  “Nothing?”

  I wanted to mouth, “Shut up! I’ll tell you later,” but I could feel Dad’s eyes on me. Instead, I played dumb.

  Nonchalantly, I reached for a banana in the fruit bowl. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Anyway—”

  “Niki,” Jasmine squealed. “I’m talking about Sam!”

  I couldn’t bear the sound of his name, and I started peeling the banana just to give myself something to do, somewhere to look. I bit my lip to keep it from trembling, and I dug my teeth harder and harder into the flesh.

  “What about Sam?” Mom asked.

  “Nothing.” I swallowed hard, trying to keep my voice even. “Drop it—”

  “Come on, just do it now.” Jasmine shook my shoulder. “I’m so excited. They’ll be excited—”

  “Jas,” I warned, glaring at her. “Stop.”

  “Niki, don’t be a baby. “You’re a grown-ass woman. Just—”

  “Can you shut up!”

  “Can you—”

  “Sam and I are over, OK?”

  The stool tipped over behind me as I stood up, and as Jasmine and my parents gawked at me, all I could hear was the steel seat wobbling on its axis against the linoleum.

  “I lied to you,” I said, after I worked up the courage to look over at my parents. “Sam is a close friend of Diya’s, like I said, but Sam is a boy. He’s a musician. We dated while I was on vacation.”

  I paused. I’d been rushing my words, and because I was only going to say this once, I wanted them to hear me.

  “But it’s over, OK? I’m home, and it’s over, and you don’t need to worry about me ever again.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Dinner was . . . tense. Mom and Dad seemed incapable of understanding my subtle hints that I was not ready to talk about what happened and were on my case to “explain myself” until Jasmine not so politely told them to zip it on my behalf. Thank god for my older sister. She lightened the mood by regaling us with stories of her oddball colleagues, and eventually, Mom and Dad unclenched and started pitching in to the conversation, too. They had spontaneously decided to join a bowling league with a few of Mom’s colleagues and invited us to go practice with them sometime, as neither of them had ever gone bowling.

  Finally, by the time we were halfway through a dinner of jackfruit curry, daal, and roti, I felt as if I could open my mouth without bursting into tears or wanting to ram my fist into a concrete wall. Although I’d kept everyone generally updated on my whereabouts, I hadn’t shown them many pictures from Punjab. Hunched over the table, I showed them all the photos I’d taken sightseeing or just hanging out with the relatives, videos from the cooking lesson Dad’s buaji had given me on how to make traditional saag and chole.

  I smiled, remembering them all, so thankful we had that precious time together. Many of my relatives were getting older, and who knew when I’d be able to go again, if ever. Everything happened for a reason. I was meant to be let go from my job. I was meant to go to India and be with Diya and Mihir on their wedding day. And I was meant to meet Sam so I would remember what was important.

  Family.

  It was late by the time we’d all scarfed down a full package of kulfi from the freezer for dessert and tidied the kitchen, and Mom and Dad disappeared upstairs for their nighttime ritual of stretching and watching BBC World News in bed until they fell asleep. But Jasmine lingered, and I appreciated it. I knew she wanted to be around if I was ready and willing to talk.

  “So,” she said, as we cozied beneath a blanket on the couch. We were lying end to end, my toes digging into the minimal flesh on Jasmine’s bony butt. “Do you want to watch something?”

  “Sure.” I yawned. “Mindy?”

  Jasmine laughed. We’d seen every episode of The Mindy Project at least five times. “Again?”

  “Come on. Let me pick.” I pouted, joking. “I’m so sad.”

  “I can tell.”

  I tilted my head up from the headrest to get a good look at her, and I could tell she was trying to figure out how far I wanted to be pushed.

  “Fine,” I sighed. “Just ask.”

  “Can I see a picture?”

  I laughed despite myself. Of course that would be Jasmine’s first question. I scrolled through my camera roll, deciding which one to show her. We’d taken a ton of photos in Goa, just the two of us and with the group, but for whatever reason, the Sam in those photos wasn’t the way I pictured him in my head. I went further back in time to my snapshots in Mumbai and stopped on a selfie Sam and I had taken together the night we met.

  I’d forgotten my phone in Diya’s car,
and Sam had been the one to take the picture, catching me off guard as we sat side by side on the edge of the pool. I was midsentence, my lips in a half smile as I gave him the side-eye, while Sam was grinning ear to ear, his exuberant, happy, full-of-life self.

  I could feel my hand shaking as I handed Jasmine my phone.

  “Oh damn, he’s . . .” She trailed off as she caught my eye. “He’s hideous. You dodged a bullet.”

  At some point, my nose had started running, and I used the sleeve of my sweatshirt to wipe it. “Shut up.”

  “Seriously. Your babies would have looked like little goblins,” Jasmine declared. She tossed the phone on the blanket between us, and it slid off until dropping quietly to the carpet. “He’s absolutely disgusting—”

  “No, he’s not,” I groaned, pressing my hands into my face. “He’s a babe.”

  “A babe who hurt you, so as far as I’m concerned, he has warts on his face, his hair line is prematurely receding, and he has three and a half balls.”

  I choked on a laugh as the tears started to come. As vivid as Jasmine’s loyalty was, hearing her say out loud that Sam had hurt me made it all the more real.

  He had hurt me. The truth of it was very simple.

  “When was that photo taken?”

  “The night we met,” I whispered. I was crying, again, and staring up at the ceiling. “On Diwali.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  It turned out I did want to talk about it, and Jasmine listened to every word, every single detail, over the next half hour, both of us huddled beneath a single blanket, even though there were extras right next to us on the floor.

  “And you were right,” I said, after I told her the part where I’d stormed out. “I caught feelings. I got my heart broken.”

  Jasmine hadn’t said much during my story, and was particularly silent during the part where I’d admitted that for a twenty-four-hour period, I’d actually convinced myself that I was willing to move to London. I lolled my head to the side to get a better look at her. She was sitting upright now, her legs crossed, staring at me. Her face was blank.