The Henna Wars

by Adiba Jaigirdar

  “You can’t use my Instagram for this. But … I can help you out with yours. You could start a new one for this whole business you’re going to have. You could share it with Chaewon and Jess. That’ll be better. More professional,” Priti adds after a moment of silence.

  It’s a compromise I’m willing to make, so I nod.

  “You’ll have to come up with a name, though,” she says. She’s already typing away on her phone.

  “Who are you texting?” I make a swipe for her phone. She extends it out of reach.

  “Your business partners, Chaewon and Jess, of course,” she says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

  “Of course? How do you even have their phone numbers?” Even though Chaewon, Jess, and I have been friends for the past few years, we aren’t exactly joined at the hips. It’s strange to think of my little sister having a texting relationship with them.

  “We have a group chat. We need a way to vent about you,” Priti says, still holding her phone away from me.

  “Priti!” I exclaim.

  She faces her phone toward me. “You sent them a text through my phone that one time. I’m just asking them if it’s okay for me to set up an Instagram account for you guys. We don’t really talk about you.”

  For a moment there, I really feared that they did.

  “What did they say?” I ask, instead of admitting my own naiveté.

  “Nothing, they’re not texting back. Maybe we should wait a while to set this up?”

  I know waiting and asking them would be the right thing to do, but I also know that the sooner we can start getting publicity for this, the better.

  “Let’s set up a preliminary name. Then we can change it, right?”

  “Right,” Priti agrees. “Nishat’s Mehndi?”

  I wrinkle up my nose. “That’s a little cheesy, isn’t it? And it’s not just mine.”

  “But it’s a preliminary name. And it’s cute, if a little cheesy.”

  I think about it for a second. It does say exactly what it is; who is applying the henna. So I say yes and Priti does her magic and sets up the account.

  Afterwards, she turns on all the lights in her room and holds her henna-decked hand out for me.

  “You’ve got to take the photo if we’re using my hand,” she says, nodding at her phone.

  “But … I’m no good at taking photos,” I remind her. “Remember that time we ran into Niall Horan and all I managed to do was take a blurry photo where you can barely make him out?”

  “Don’t remind me …” She held a grudge over that for ages. Anybody would have done the same. But that’s how bad I am at taking photos—even the thought of proving to everyone that we had randomly bumped into Niall Horan didn’t make me any better. Or maybe it made me worse.

  I pick up the phone and click a few quick photos. When I show them to Priti, she frowns.

  “I think you have like tone deafness but for photography,” she says. “Picture blindness.”

  “Wouldn’t that just be blindness?”

  “Picture askew-ness?”

  “Okay, I have picture askew-ness.” I smile and thrust the phone out for her. “Your turn?”

  She shakes her head. “You have to do it if we’re going to get a decent picture.” That feels like a total paradox. “Look, just hold it straight and … try not to move.”

  It’s easier said than done. I try to take a few more pictures. They don’t come out perfect, but Priti smiles when she sees them this time.

  “I can work with this.” She clicks out of the camera and into the Instagram app. A few minutes later, she shows me the finished product. She’s changed the lighting so it looks brighter. The design stands out against everything else, stark and intricate and … dare I say it, kind of beautiful.

  I try to tell myself that pride is a sin, but I can’t help the glowing feeling growing inside of me. I should be able to feel proud once in a while, right? Is that not something you earn after a whole lifetime of insecurity and secrets?

  “Post it.” I watch as she hits the button and turns to give me a wide grin.

  “I guess we’re open for business.”

  I feel a flutter in the pit of my stomach. I don’t know if it’s fear or excitement, good or bad, but I find myself not caring for the first time ever.

  I wake up the next morning with all the fluttery feelings gone from my stomach. Instead, they’re replaced by a hole; it’s a type of panic I haven’t felt in a long time. My mind conjures the worst-case scenarios: nobody liked our Instagram post, or they all commented on how horrible my designs are.

  “Have you checked your Instagram yet?” Priti asks when I come down for breakfast. Ammu eyes us both with some disdain.

  “What is this Instagram tinstagram?” she asks with narrowed eyes. The only thing Ammu knows about social media is checking her Facebook for the latest photos from weddings and dawats and who knows what else. Mostly she likes to judge what everyone is wearing, even though she always tells us that we shouldn’t judge people.

  “It’s just social media.” Priti rolls her eyes, even though Ammu definitely won’t know what that is. She narrows her eyes further, like she’s trying to process Priti’s words but it’s taking her a while to get there.

  “You don’t need social media tedia.” There’s a frown on her lips. “Priti, you should be studying for your exams.” She turns her glare to me, like I’m responsible for Priti’s lack of focus—which, I guess I am—and says, “Don’t distract your sister. She needs to study.”

  It’s the most that Ammu has said to me since I came out to her a few weeks ago, and it sends a jolt of pain through me that I hadn’t expected. I guess you never really get used to your parents treating you like you’re worth nothing.

  “I know,” I say, staring down at my shoes at the same time that Priti exclaims, “I can study and do other things at the same time!” Priti’s voice drowns out mine, and I don’t think Ammu hears me at all. She doesn’t say anything else, turning away instead.

  “So, did you?” Priti whispers to me as we’re heading out the door.

  “Huh?” I’m still thinking about the fact that Ammu barely looked at me all through breakfast, like she couldn’t stand to. What am I to her now? A ghost that occupies her house?

  “Your Instagram?” That snaps me out of my thoughts. “Have you checked it?”

  “Not yet.” There’s a hole in my stomach, growing bigger and bigger with every passing second. “Have you? Is it bad? Don’t tell me.”

  Priti pulls out her phone as soon as we’ve boarded the bus and made it through the throngs of people and into a corner. She thrusts the screen in front of my face.

  523 likes. 97 comments.

  “It’s not quite viral. But it’s proven to be pretty popular among the people from school.”

  “We don’t even have five hundred people at school.” Clearly the wrong thing to say because Priti groans.

  “Of course we have five hundred people at school,” she says. “I can’t believe how bad you are at math.”

  I scroll through the comments. Each of them makes my heart beat faster and faster.

  Omg, when are you starting up?

  How much will it cost for one tattoo?

  What other designs do you have?

  So excited!

  So pretty!

  Love it!!!

  I feel elated. Or … I feel like I should feel elated. This is what I wanted. I’ve been anticipating this moment since Priti opened up the Instagram account last night. But with Ammu’s stony silence in the back of my mind, all I can feel is that hole in my heart getting bigger and bigger. I keep scrolling through the comments, reading them over and over and over again, hoping that they’ll somehow fill it.

  My fingers brush against the top of the screen and before I know it I’m on Priti’s Instagram feed. And then I see a photo that makes my heart stop.

  Priti snatches the phone out of my hand before I can stare for too long. She kn
ows me too well. She must have recognized the look on my face.

  “Holy shit.” Her voice is low, but still one of the ladies beside us shoots her a glare that she doesn’t even notice. “I can’t believe her.”

  Priti puts her hand on my shoulder, a calming presence that I can barely feel for once. “Apujan,” she says. “It’s not a big deal. She doesn’t even have as many likes as you.”

  “It’s nicer. So much nicer.”

  “That’s just … she’s used to it, you know. She’s probably been taking pictures of her art for ages. She has hundreds of posts. She has a bigger following than you.” Priti’s voice is gentle and soothing but it doesn’t make me feel better in the slightest. Whatever happiness I’d talked myself into feeling is gone. Disappeared into thin air.

  “She’s going to do better than me,” I say. “She already has a customer base and I have nothing.”

  “It’s not a competition,” Priti says.

  “That’s literally exactly what it is! A competition!”

  “Yes, but—”

  “And she’s going to win.”

  “But is winning really that important?”

  I know Priti agrees with me. There’s no way I’m going to beat Flávia. It doesn’t matter that I have authenticity on my side.

  By the time we make it into school, I’ve already burned Flávia’s photo into my head. I can’t stop seeing it—hands linked together, their henna weaving together like webs. Hand to hand to hand. In a circle. The patterns sharp. All edges. So different from my mandala full of circles and flowers and leaves.

  I jostle open my locker, feeling emptiness growing inside of me, wider and wider with every minute. But I’m not going to break down—not today.

  I catch sight of Flávia out of the corner of my eye. She has her phone open, and I can see the photo splashed colorfully across her screen. There are people gathered around her. Their faces are wide with appreciation and glee. There’s Chyna, and all her friends. I wonder if it’s their hands in the photo, or if it’s other people’s. The hands in the photo are all pale, flushed a light pink—probably from the chill that’s set in.

  “When will you get started for real?” I hear Chyna asking.

  Flávia smiles. “As soon as I get my supplies. I need to make a trip to the Asian shop in town.”

  The Asian shop in town. Like there aren’t multiple, each selling different brands. Some better, some worse. Glitter henna. White henna. Regular henna paste.

  Suddenly, it’s like there’s a light bulb illuminated in my head.

  That’s my advantage. I know henna. Even in the areas I don’t, I know the people who do. There’s no way Flávia is going to take advantage of my culture because of Chyna’s popularity, because she has white friends who’ll make her henna look chic and adaptable to Western culture.

  I might not be able to get Ammu to look me in the eye anymore, but I am going to beat Flávia’s henna business. Come hell or high water.

  11

  BY THE TIME THE WEEKEND ROLLS AROUND, I HAVE A battle plan at the ready. And I haven’t shared it with anyone—not even Priti.

  Saturday afternoon I stroll into the house with an armful of henna tubes, and Priti looks at me with raised eyebrows.

  “Isn’t this a little … ambitious?” she asks.

  I shrug. “Raj Uncle gave me a discount.”

  “Probably because you bought up the entire shop.” She pauses, looks at the smile stretched across my lips, and says, “Why did you go to Raj Uncle’s shop?”

  “Well, I heard Flávia speaking to some of her friends last week. I figure Raj Uncle’s shop is the only one she knows.”

  “So you decided to buy up all of his henna?” Priti’s voice rises by an octave. She rubs the bridge of her nose, the same way that Abbu does when he’s annoyed but doesn’t want to show it by shouting at us. “You know that’s not going to work, right? He’s just going to place another order for more henna. It’s really not that difficult.”

  “I know. I’m not that thick. But it is going to slow things down for her, and by the time she’s figured out that it’s going to take her at least a few days—if not weeks—to get the henna tubes she needs, I’ll hopefully have already taken some of her customers.”

  Priti smiles. “Seems like you’ve planned this out.”

  “In depth.”

  “Well … Sunny Apu is here.”

  I haven’t seen Sunny Apu since her wedding a few weeks ago, even though over the summer we saw each other on an almost daily basis. Bengalis are like moths to a flame during weddings; and if they’re not all gathered together, spending all of their time talking and planning and dancing and singing, does a wedding even take place?

  “What’s she doing here?” I peer into the sitting room only to find it deserted.

  “She’s in your room …” Priti trails off. She doesn’t meet my eyes, tracing the groves of wood on the floor with her toe instead.

  “Priti, what’s going on?”

  “She said she wants to talk to you.” Priti shrugs, like she has no idea what’s happening. I know that something else is at play, something that Priti isn’t telling me, but with so many henna tubes weighing me down and Sunny Apu waiting up in my room, I’m not really in the mood to try and wheedle it out of her.

  I push past her and up the stairs, henna tubes jiggling in my arms like jelly. When I push open the door of my room with my toe, Sunny Apu is inspecting my bookshelf. She stands up straight as soon as I appear, a practiced smile pasted on her lips.

  “Nishat! Assalam Alaikum.”

  “Walaikum Salam …” I mumble, tossing the henna tubes on my bed.

  “That’s a lot of henna.”

  “I’m running a business,” I say, as if that’s an explanation. I know she wants more from the way she arches her eyebrows, but I want to know why the hell she’s here, staring at my bookshelf and smiling at me like I’m a stranger and not someone who stood by her side as she got married.

  She gently sits down on my bed, moving a henna tube aside. “Come, sit.”

  I frown, because it’s my room and my bed and my right to offer her a seat, but she’s come in here and asserted herself like she’s in charge. But I do as she says, sitting down next to her. There’s enough space between us to fill an ocean.

  “How’s school?” Her voice is irritatingly chirpy.

  “Fine.”

  “What classes are you taking?”

  “Sunny Apu … why are you here?”

  She sighs. The bed creaks with the weight of it.

  “Khala and Khalu spoke to me.” Ah. So that’s what this is about. I’d been wondering if we would ever talk about it straight out; I guess sending in a “relation” who’s not really a relation at all is as straightforward as they’re willing to get. This is a family matter—I am a family matter—but one for them to discuss with the family, not with me.

  “I don’t want to—”

  “You have to hear me out, Nishat,” she interrupts before I can say anything else. “Khala and Khalu are really worried about you. Even Amma and Abba are worried. They’ve been so upset … and they didn’t even want to tell us, really, but it’s good they shared so that we can help you.”

  “I don’t need—”

  “You have a problem Nishat, you just don’t realize it. You’ve seen this on TV and in films, and you’ve read about it in your books and—”

  “Is that what you were doing? Looking through my books to see if I have any lesbian ones in my collection?” I turn to her with narrowed eyes. She flinches at the word lesbian, like it’s something disgusting instead of just a part of who I am.

  “You’re young, you’re confused.”

  I shake my head, even though she’s turned away from me and can’t see it.

  “I’m not confused.” If I was, I would have never put myself through this scrutiny and judgement. This silence.

  “Girls like you aren’t … aren’t …” She trails off like the word lesbian
is too much for her to handle. Like her lips can’t shape it.

  “They are. I am.”

  “You’re Muslim.”

  I snort. “That’s not how it works, Sunny Apu.”

  “Muslims aren’t gay,” she whispers, like this is a hard and fast rule. She’s still turned away from me, looking out the window like the outside world will have some solution to my lesbian problem. I would laugh if this weren’t such a ridiculous claim. Because of course Muslims can be gay. How can anyone even think otherwise? The two aren’t mutually exclusive. I am living, breathing proof.

  “Sunny Apu, you don’t even pray namaz,” I say instead, because it seems like a more palpable bridge to build. “When was the last time you even went to the mosque? Or just prayed?”

  She frowns, like she’s thinking really hard about this. If you have to think that hard about the last time you prayed to Allah, I don’t think you get to hate gay people on the basis of God.

  “That’s not important,” she says finally. “What’s important is that this … this is a sickness and—” I shoot up from the bed, feeling the blood rush to my head so fast that I stumble.

  “I think you should leave.”

  “But—”

  “Please leave.” I want to say more. To scream, shout. Tell her that everything—every single thing—she has to say about my sexuality is hypocritical. Judgmental lies based on nothing. That she has no business coming to my room and telling me that I have a sickness. But I don’t. The words clog up my throat and I realize that they wouldn’t make a difference anyway.

  I just want it to stop.

  She stands up too and turns her whole body toward me. She has only a few inches on me but it feels like she’s towering over me. I realize this is the first time she’s looked at me—like actually looked at me—since I walked into this room. I wait for her to say something more but she doesn’t. Instead, she shakes her head and slips out the door. I can hear the sound of her footsteps descending the stairs, and then Ammu’s murmurs.

  I close my door before I can decipher what they have to say to each other.

  I’m too tired to hear them discuss me. I’m too tired to hear them judge me.