The Henna Wars

by Adiba Jaigirdar

  But then she says, “I think it was hard for my mom.” She’s looking down at the ground, toeing the dirt with the soles of the regulation black shoes that we all wear as part of our school uniform. “She came here when she was younger, and fell in love with my dad, and she thought that was it. She’d made it. She says Brazil isn’t always an easy place to be in, even though she misses it. After the divorce, I think she just wanted to go somewhere where the fact that her goals had fallen apart didn’t stare her in the face.”

  “Oh,” is all I can say. I don’t know why, but I’d never attributed Flávia leaving to something to do with her mom, even though obviously I heard about the divorce. We were a small class so nothing was kept under wraps for too long.

  Flávia’s lips quirk into something resembling a smile. “You know, she actually wanted to take me and my sister back to Brazil.”

  “Wow.”

  “I was all for it.”

  “Really?” I can’t help the fact that my voice rises an octave. It’s just that I’m not sure if I would want to go back to Bangladesh permanently, or even semi-permanently. Aside from the fact that being gay there is punishable by death, I’m also not sure where I would even fit in. I don’t fit in here, but would I fit in there any better? I don’t think so. I’ve already lost most of my Bengali, and when I sometimes talk to my cousins from there, it seems like the differences between us are akash patal—like the sky and earth.

  “I’ve only been there when I was young and I barely remember it,” Flávia says. “I thought … it would be good. A way for me to actually learn about where I’m from, and brush up on my Portuguese.” She sighs. “But … it didn’t really work out. I don’t think my mom was ready to go back, and she says we have more opportunities here.”

  It’s funny that Flávia and I are from such different parts of the world but our parents have the same philosophy. They shifted us halfway across the world, risking our culture, putting us in the middle of two nations and giving us an identity crisis, all because they believe it gives us more opportunities. It’s strange to think about how much our parents really sacrifice for us. But then, I’m stuck on the fact that Ammu and Abbu can leave their entire world behind, yet they can’t pause for a moment and consider who I am. How can they sacrifice everything for me and Priti, but they can’t sacrifice their closed view of sexuality to accept me as I am?

  “Well … I’m glad that you’re back,” I say. It’s not like I pined after Flávia all these years, considering I didn’t even realize that I had a crush on her way back then, but … having her here feels weird, in a nice way. She’s changed so much—from her height to her hair (which she used to always straighten and put up in a ponytail), and just the way she carries herself—but then there are so many things that seem the same. She still has that warmth about her that she did in primary school, and a smile that could make anyone melt.

  Flávia turns to me with that smile playing at her lips once more. “Yeah, I’m pretty glad to be back too,” she says, holding my gaze for a long moment.

  We’re interrupted by the rushing sound of the bus zooming up, and I have to leap out of my seat to hold my hand out. If I miss this bus, I’ll have to wait a whole hour to catch the next one.

  Flávia stands as the bus pulls up. “I’ll see you later, Nishat,” she says, and she steps away from the bus stop and toward the traffic lights with the zebra crossing.

  “Wait … you’re not getting the bus?”

  “Nope!” Flávia shoots me a grin. I want to ask her why she decided to stay and talk to me, but the driver is already glaring at me and I know if I don’t hop on now, he’ll close the doors and pull away.

  So I step inside, swipe my card and hurry to the window. As I watch Flávia walk away, her curls bouncing in the wind behind her, I can’t help the flutter of butterflies in my stomach.

  8

  “WHAT’S THAT?” PRITI ASKS LATER, AFTER BARGING INTO my room when she gets home from after-school study.

  “It’s a form.”

  “Well, I can see that.” Priti reaches over and tries to grab the piece of paper out of my hands. “But … what’s … it … for?” She stops her attempts to frown at me. “And why won’t you let me look at it?”

  “Remind me when this became your business?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

  She lets out a huffy breath and slumps back onto my bed. “Fine, don’t tell me. See if I care.”

  I laugh and sidle closer to her, poking her in the ribs until she giggles. Priti is still the most ticklish person I know.

  “Stop it!” she says, slapping my hands away until I’m laughing too.

  “Sorry,” I say once we’ve both settled down. “I’ll tell you about the form. I need your help with this anyway.”

  “Maybe I don’t want to help you.” Priti sticks her chin out at me.

  “Do you want me to tickle you again?”

  She shoots me a glare, but mumbles “no,” before quickly leaning toward me to read the form over my shoulder.

  “Business idea?” she asks. “You’re not a business person.”

  “Well, duh. But Ms. Montgomery is setting up this business competition for our class. Basically, we all set up our own businesses, and we have a few weeks to work on it and try to make a profit. The person who does the best job will win a thousand euros, but also it’s going to be a part of our Christmas exam results.”

  “Oh, your first taste of Transition Year. You’re going to be an entrepreneur!” She’s only half serious so I roll my eyes. I don’t see any entrepreneurship in my future.

  “I need ideas!” I say to Priti. Chaewon and Jess have been blowing up our usually dead group chat with all of their ideas. They’ve already eliminated anything related to food because that’ll be too much hassle, and Jess has started to consider how her obsession with video games can be made into a business venture.

  But my well of ideas is dry and I have nothing to contribute to our chat. I want to somehow swoop in with a brilliant idea that makes Chaewon and Jess think I’m a genius, though.

  “You could start a food stall?” Priti suggests.

  “What kind of food would I sell?”

  She shrugs. “You could take some food from the restaurant? Or maybe ask Ammu to cook for you.” She holds one hand out in front of her and, dragging it through the air, says “authentic Bengali food” in a dramatic whisper.

  I start laughing at how ridiculous it sounds and next thing I know Priti’s hitting me over the head with her English textbook.

  “Okay, okay, ow. Sorry.”

  She finally stops and sits back down again, looking mighty proud of herself.

  “English books should not be used in such ways. There’s poetry in there. Very beautiful, gentle poetry.” I rub my head.

  “There’s also all those poems about war. How gentle are those?”

  “Whatever,” I say. “Look, nobody’s going to be interested in authentic Bengali food. For one, they don’t even understand what Bengali means or where Bangladesh is. Secondly, people are just not into South Asian food right now. Dublin is currently all about burritos and donuts. And thirdly, I can’t take food from the restaurant, and if I asked Ammu to cook for my business she would get so mad. Plus, wouldn’t that kind of be like cheating? I’m not really doing it on my own, am I?”

  “I guess not,” Priti says, though she doesn’t sound like she wants to admit it at all. “It’s just … imagine Bengali street food on the streets of Dublin! Yum! It could be the next craze after donuts!”

  It would be pretty cool if the next Irish food trend was South Asian. We’d already more or less flown past the Japanese food trend, and donuts are way past their shelf life. Realistically though, Bengali food is never going to be trendy in the streets here. That much I learned from Chyna, at least.

  “Nobody other than you and me would be able to eat Bengali street food. Plus, can you imagine what Chyna would say if I started selling that?”

  Priti frowns, and
says, “Chyna isn’t that bad.”

  I actually physically recoil from Priti at that. Not intentionally, it’s just an instinct. I look at her with wide eyes. “Chyna ‘your-father’s-restaurant-gives-people-diarrhea’ Quinn isn’t that bad?” I ask.

  Priti sighs, crossing her arms over her chest. “When you say it like that. It’s been like … a long time since everything happened.”

  I narrow my eyes at Priti, before leaning forward and touching her forehead with the back of my hand. “You don’t feel warm, but obviously you’re so feverish that you’re delusional.”

  Priti bats my arm away with a small glare. “I’m not delusional, Apujan. Oh my God. Just … Chyna … invited me and Ali to her birthday party next weekend. It was nice of her to invite us.”

  My eyebrows shoot up. “So … from the fact that you’ve suddenly decided Chyna is your best friend, I guess you’re going?” Priti looks away, like she’s really thinking about it very hard.

  If you have to think about a party that hard, you probably shouldn’t go. Although that’s not worth much coming from someone who never gets invited to parties.

  “I think so,” she says finally. “I mean … Ali’s going. And it sounds like it’ll be fun … plus!” She suddenly turns to me with a smile and bright eyes. “It’s like … she’s extending a … what’s the word? A hand and—”

  “You forgot the word hand?”

  “Shut up!” She hits me lightly on the shoulder and sits back, the smile still on her face.

  “I just feel like … I don’t know, she’s changed from back then—”

  It wasn’t that long ago.

  “And she’s making an attempt, you know? To make amends. I have to meet her halfway, don’t I? Isn’t that my responsibility?”

  Personally, I think Priti is blathering on about nothing to justify going along with Ali, but I know better than to say that.

  “Did she say she was sorry?” I ask instead.

  “Well, no. But it was a long time ago.”

  “Priti … remember the other day when you told me I should be careful? About the Flávia stuff?”

  “This isn’t the same. It’s completely different.” Her words tumble out so fast that they run into each other.

  “Did you know that Flávia and Chyna are cousins?”

  That seems to stump her because she looks up at me with wide, disbelieving eyes.

  “You’re lying.”

  “I’m not lying, Flávia told me.” Which is obviously the wrong thing to say, because Priti narrows her eyes in a glare.

  “You know that makes it worse, right? You hate Chyna, so by extension shouldn’t you also hate her cousin?”

  “You’re the one going to Chyna’s birthday party.”

  “Yeah, but that’s a party, there’ll be lots of people there. I’m not fantasizing about kissing Chyna.”

  “I’m not fan—”

  “Look, I’m only going because Ali is going, okay? And she’s going because her boyfriend is going and—”

  “You didn’t tell me Ali had a boyfriend,” I say. Her first boyfriend, in fact. Priti looks away, like this isn’t something she wants to discuss any further. She picks up her English book and begins to flick through it like it’s the most exciting thing she’s ever come across.

  “You should have told me. I know it can be weird when—”

  “It’s not weird.” Her voice comes out high-pitched, assuring me that she definitely finds it weird. “I just have to get used to him, is all.”

  I want to say more. I’m the big sister. I’m supposed to offer her words of wisdom. Pass on my knowledge. But it’s not like I’m exactly skilled in this department.

  Instead, I let the silence wash over us, reaching out and grabbing Priti’s phone from beside her. I start to scroll through her phone again. She shoots me a look over the top of her book, and I return it with a cheeky grin. Neither of us comment.

  I’m still scrolling through her photos when Priti shuts her English book again and says in a bright voice, “What about Bengali sweets?”

  “What about them?”

  “You could sell those. That would be fun, right? Jilapis. Mmmmmmm.” Priti might as well have started salivating right there, right then. The look in her eye at the thought of jilapis is totally dreamy.

  “I don’t think so.” I have to stifle a laugh. “Can you imagine the girls at school eating jilapis? They would be turned off just looking at it.”

  “What are you talking about? Jilapis are beautiful. They’re all soft but not too soft. And golden and sweet and yummy and … I really want some now.”

  “And they’re sticky and gooey and some people never want to venture out of their comfort zones. Plus, I can’t make jilapis myself.”

  “Ammu can …” Priti says, before seeing the way I raise my eyebrows at her. She sighs and says, “Okay, I’ll keep thinking about it.”

  “Thank—hey!”

  “What?”

  I perk up until I’m sitting straight and hold out Priti’s phone toward her. There’s a photo that she took of our hands joined together before Sunny Apu’s wedding. We’re both weighed down by rings and bracelets, but the most important feature of the photo is the deep red floral henna weaving up our arms, palms, and fingers.

  “That’s a photo I took?” Priti asks hesitantly.

  “No, not …” I sigh. “The henna!”

  “What about it?”

  “It’s good, isn’t it?”

  “I mean, it’s okay, it’s definitely not the same caliber as Nanu’s but—”

  “That’s what I could do.”

  “What?” Priti’s face is blank as ever. For a smart person, it takes her a very long time to catch on.

  “The henna!” I exclaim.

  “Yes … it’s nice, but Nanu’s is still miles better.”

  “Oh my God, Priti,” I groan. “I could start a henna design business.”

  “Oh my God.” Her eyes widen as my idea finally dawns on her. “You could do that. The girls at school would kill for that. I mean, did you see the comments that everybody left on my Insta when I put up that photo of my hand?”

  “No?” I just remember the comment Flávia left on the photo from the wedding.

  “Look!” She shoves the phone in my face. I remember when Priti took this photo, though I don’t remember actually seeing the photo itself. It was right after I finished her left palm. The henna paste hadn’t even hardened properly yet.

  I look under the photo. 148 likes. 30 comments.

  “Whoa.”

  “Read the comments!” Priti says. I scroll down.

  Where did you get this done???

  Is there a place in Dublin that does henna designs?

  How much was it?

  Love the design!

  Gorgeous!

  “Priti!” I can feel a huge grin tugging at my lips. “Why didn’t you show me this?”

  “Well, I didn’t want you to get a big head. I mean, the design is only okay.” But she’s grinning too as she puts her phone away.

  “Do you really think I could do it though? I mean, I’ve only been practicing for a little bit. And I’ve only practiced on you and me. What if I mess up?”

  Priti gets a serious look on her face, which causes creases between her eyebrows and makes her nose get all pinched.

  “You can totally do this, Apujan,” she says. “You’re great at it. I mean … come on, look at all those comments. Some of them even came from Desi people. And they know their henna.”

  I smile. “You said it was only okay.”

  “Well, someone has to keep your ego in check,” Priti says with a dramatic sigh.

  “Well, can I still practice on your hands?” I ask. “And can I use your pictures to advertise?”

  “Sure!” Priti’s face breaks out into a huge grin. “And you should start doing your own designs, you know.”

  “You think so?”

  “Yeah, it’ll make your business so unique, don�
��t you think?” she asks. “People can get Nishat originals on their hands. They’ll be queuing up in front of your door … or your stall, or whatever.”

  I laugh because I can’t imagine anybody wanting a “Nishat original,” but it’s a nice thought, I guess. The kind of thought only my sister could have and be excited about.

  But the idea also fills me with a kind of excitement I haven’t felt in a long time. So after shooing Priti off to her bedroom to finish her studies, I settle in with a blank piece of paper and my pencil in hand, trying to put together a henna design from my head.

  It’s hours later when I’m finished, and the page in front of me is filled with patterns of flowers, mandalas, and swirls. A mishmash of things that weirdly seem to work.

  I pick up my phone from the bedside table and quickly draft a text to Chaewon and Jess about my idea. But my fingers hover over the send button. I read the message over and over again, feeling my heart beat hard in my chest.

  What if they hate the idea? What if they reject it?

  I delete the text as quickly as I had written it. Instead, I pull up Skype and call Nanu.

  She picks up after it rings for a good few minutes, when I’m almost ready to hang up, dejected.

  “Nishat?” she asks, her face appearing on screen. She looks tired. There are bags under her eyes and her skin looks blotchy. I realize I must have woken her up; I didn’t even think about the time difference before placing the call.

  “Assalam Alaikum,” I say. “Did I wake you? Sorry. I forgot about the time difference.”

  She smiles, though it’s a tired sort of smile. I’ve never considered Nanu old before; I mean, yes she’s old. She’s my grandmother. But compared to other grandmothers I’ve seen, with wrinkles all over their faces and walking sticks and everything, I’ve always thought of Nanu as young and healthy. But today, she seems different altogether. Like I’ve caught her in a moment that I’m not really meant to see.

  “It’s okay. Is something wrong?”

  “No …” I mumble, feeling deflated. I can’t believe I’ve woken Nanu up and made her worry for pretty much nothing. I could have filled her in during the weekend when we can call during regular hours. “Nothing’s wrong. I’m just … I’m starting to make my own henna designs, Nanu. I’m going to start my own business.”