The Henna Wars

by Adiba Jaigirdar

  I’m too tired.

  An entire hour has passed by the time Priti barges into my room. It’s strange, because if things were the other way around I would already be in Priti’s room, asking her to fill me in on all of the details. Instead, I’ve just been sitting alone in my bed, going over henna designs and stewing in my own misery.

  When I look up at her though, I realize why she is only entering my room now. She has her hair up in a bun, prepared to get ready for tonight’s party, and a nervous smile on her lips.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” she asks, but I already know that she doesn’t really want to talk about it. She’s already in the headspace of the party and hanging out with Ali.

  I shrug. “I’m okay.”

  “Sure?”

  I wonder how much of Ammu and Sunny Apu’s conversation she heard; she’s an expert eavesdropper, very light on her feet. But if she did hear their conversation, she doesn’t say anything about it.

  “Well, do you want to come with me to Chyna’s birthday party tonight?” she asks after a moment of silence. The smile on her face has disappeared and she’s staring intently at the carpet.

  Chyna’s birthday party is the last place I want to go. And it’s the last place I want Priti to go as well.

  “I thought you were going with Ali?”

  “I am.”

  “So what do you need me for?”

  She shrugs. “I just thought … it’ll be better than you hanging around here all evening by yourself.”

  “I have things to do, you know,” I say, even though that’s a lie. I’m probably going to spend the night watching something cheesy on Netflix, trying not to think about the fact that nobody in my family can look me in the eye anymore.

  “This will be fun!” She’s smiling again but there’s something in her eyes, her tone, that tells me maybe she’s not as invested in this party as she would have me believe. Maybe this is Priti asking for a helping hand. If she goes to the party with only Ali as company, will she be safe? What if Chyna decides it’s the perfect time to say more horrible things? At least in school Priti and I always have each other. We might not be in the same year, but we’re always within reach, and we always have each other’s backs.

  “Okay.” I sigh.

  12

  I KNOW I’M NOT GOING TO LIKE THIS PARTY EVEN BEFORE we step inside. There’s music blasting so loud that I can feel the walls and the ground shaking, and even through that I can hear laughter and screaming.

  Priti rings the bell and we stand on the doorstep, waiting. I wonder if it’s in vain. I mean, how could anybody have heard the bell through this blaring music? Priti is shivering beside me from the cold air. She’s wearing a thin, pink dress that doesn’t even reach her knees. I smile, smug that I decided to dress more casually in jeans and a black sweater.

  Surprisingly, after we ring the bell for the second time, an excited Chyna opens the door. A shadow passes over her face when she sees us, but she quickly reverts back to being upbeat.

  “Hey!” Her eyes shift from Priti to me. “You … brought your sister.”

  “Is that … okay?” Priti asks. As if there’s anything to be said about it now when I’m already on her doorstep. Not that I would put it past Chyna to suggest leaving me out in the cold.

  But she doesn’t. She smiles. Her pretty red lips look like blood against her pale skin.

  “Of course. Nesha, right?” She asks it like she hasn’t spent the last three years spreading racist rumors about me around the school. Like we weren’t friends once.

  “Nishat.” I give her a smile of my own, but it probably doesn’t look very friendly.

  “Come on in.” She opens the door wider and allows the two of us to step inside.

  “Happy birthday!” Priti says brightly once Chyna has closed the door behind her. She thrusts a pretty floral bag at Chyna and throws her arms around her neck. It’s an awkward, uncomfortable hug; even before Chyna and Priti disentangle from each other I wonder what exactly Priti was thinking.

  Chyna smiles. “Thanks. I think Ali is around here somewhere. The kitchen, maybe.”

  “Great, I’m going to go … find her.” Priti gives me a look, her eyebrows raised asking if I’m joining her as she turns around. I’m about to follow but Chyna says, “nice sweater,” and I stop.

  I look down at my plain black sweater and smile.

  “Thanks.” I’m not sure if she’s being serious or mocking.

  “I saw your new Instagram account. About your henna business?”

  I sigh.

  “You’re not going to do better than us, you know. Flávia is the best artist in our entire school. You really think you can beat her? You don’t even take art as a subject anymore.”

  I dropped the subject after First Year, opting for Home Economics and Business instead. Art, at least the form of it we learned in school, was definitely not my forte. But henna isn’t a form of art we learned in school. It’s something I’ve been brought up with, and I’m not about to back down just because Chyna thinks she and Flávia have some form of claim over it.

  “We’ll see,” I say with the politest smile I can muster.

  Chyna smiles back before sauntering off toward one of the rooms with music blasting from it, leaving me alone in the empty hallway. I take a deep breath and lean back against the off-white wall.

  Chyna’s house is not like I imagined it. It’s sparse and clean and empty, or at least this part of it is. It barely looks lived in. It’s so vastly different from our house, which is brimming with things: knick-knacks and photos, old toys that Priti and I used to play with years ago but are too sentimental to throw out, and the things we always pick up when we go to Bangladesh—a silver rickshaw, a wooden baby taxi, stitched dolls of brides and grooms, a dhol, a latim. So many things sprawling and spreading everywhere.

  I take another deep breath and walk toward the door Priti disappeared through. The brightly lit kitchen is already filled with people chatting and eating and drinking. A few of them look up as I enter. I recognize most of them from school, but not all of them. They don’t seem bothered by the presence of someone new. Priti and Ali are in the corner, their heads bowed together.

  I hesitate for a moment, wondering if I should interrupt whatever conversation they’re in the middle of. Then I remember that if it wasn’t for Priti, I would be home in bed right now, wearing my PJs and binge-watching a show on Netflix. I march right over.

  “Hey!”

  They break apart and turn to me, Ali with a frown on her lips and Priti looking sheepish.

  “Hey Nishat.” Ali’s pale red hair, which is usually straight, is falling in curls around her face. It looks almost exactly like Priti’s. I wonder if they planned this, or if they’re so close that these things simply happen. Like they have some kind of telepathy going on.

  “Most of your classmates are in the sitting room, I think?” Ali says.

  I know a brush off when I hear one, but I still glance at Priti, wondering if she’ll ask me to stay. After all, she asked me to come. But she says nothing. She doesn’t even look at me; she just stares at the ground. At her pretty pink shoes and the cream-colored tiles.

  “I guess I’ll head over there, then,” I mumble, turning away. I feel a hole opening up inside me. I wouldn’t have come to this party if I’d known this was how things were going to go.

  I guess I shouldn’t be totally surprised though. Ali and Priti might be best friends, but Ali’s never been my biggest fan. I always chalked it up to jealousy; Priti and I are close, obviously, and in the teen scheme of things—where you need that one BFF, the one you share half a heart necklace with—I’m Ali’s competition. If I’m honest, maybe I’m a little jealous of Ali too.

  Slipping away, I peek through a crack in the door of the sitting room. It’s much fuller than the kitchen. I recognize more girls from school, but there are still so many who aren’t familiar to me; they must be from other schools, I’m guessing. And then there are all t
he boys, with pimples all over their cheeks and foreheads and AXE body spray so strong that my nostrils are overpowered from outside the room.

  I spot Flávia and Chyna in a corner with a group of boys. Flávia is looking at one tall guy with messy blonde hair with particular interest. She has an arm on his shoulder and is listening to him speak intently, though how she can hear him over the persistent thump thump thump of the music is beyond me.

  I can’t help it; I feel my stomach drop even though my little crush on Flávia is supposed to have disappeared. I guess it’s not that simple to get over someone. I still have a thing for Taylor Swift, after all—even though I hate all of her white feminism nonsense.

  Maybe this is good for me. Flávia is not only okay with stealing my henna ideas, she’s also not interested in me. She’s interested in a gangly, pimply lad who is definitely not in her league. I guess I shouldn’t judge, because I’m not in her league either.

  I close the door and edge away from the sitting room, trying to get the image of Flávia and that guy out of my head. Even though they weren’t doing anything, there was definitely some kind of attraction. I could see it in the way she was looking at him. The way she was touching him. The way he was looking at her. God, when did I become this girl? Obsessing over someone I never had a shot with anyway?

  I sit down at the bottom of the stairs, halfway between the kitchen and the sitting room, and slip my phone out of my pocket.

  There is still only the single image on my business Instagram. It hasn’t racked up many more likes since that first day—unlike Flávia’s photos. She’s been posting new ones on the daily, all pictures of Chyna and her friends’ hands with henna designs on them. Some pictures show the dark brown henna paste, some the aftermath, when it’s dried to a dark red color.

  I’ve been trying to feel optimistic every time she posts a photo. The more henna she uses up on her friends, the less she’ll have for customers. And I know it will take Raj Uncle at least a little while to get a new shipment in.

  I send a quick text to my group chat with Chaewon and Jess. This is the worst party ever. But of course, all three of us knew it would be. What did I expect?

  They don’t respond, probably too busy living their lives and actually enjoying themselves.

  I consider leaving the party as I scroll through my Instagram feed, barely paying attention to the pictures. Ammu and Abbu said they would swing by to pick us up later, but I’m sure I can just wander around outside until that time comes. We’re in the middle of Dún Laoghaire, one of the poshest neighborhoods in Dublin. I doubt I’ll be in any danger if I wander by myself for a while.

  I’m pulling out my phone to text Priti about leaving, even though I’m still angry with her for bringing me here and abandoning me, when the sitting room door swings open. The loud blare of music that had been drowned out by the closed door spills out again. Along with Flávia.

  I freeze, like that will somehow make me vanish. I’m far enough away that I think she’ll miss me, especially in the dimness of the hallway and with me wearing clothes that don’t exactly make me stand out. But she spots me almost instantly.

  I try to keep my heart from leaping out of my chest at the sight of her face breaking out into a grin, and the way her curls bounce wildly as she hurries over and sits down right next to me on the narrow staircase. I’m too aware of the fact that our arms are pressed together and our legs are touching; I’m so distracted that I must miss the first time she says “hey.”

  “Nishat?”

  “H-hi.” I mumble, looking toward the door and not her.

  This is just infatuation. It’s nothing. It means nothing.

  “I saw you open the door. How come you didn’t come in?”

  I shrug. “There are a lot of people in there.”

  “Well, duh. It’s a party.”

  When I don’t reply, she heaves a sigh.

  “It’s not exactly your type of party, then?”

  “I guess not.”

  “So what is your type of party?”

  I think about it for a moment. I’m not sure if I’ve ever been to my type of party, and really I’m not sure if parties are my thing at all. But if I was going to throw a party there would be real Desi food everywhere. There would be samosas and fuchka and shingara and dal puri and kebabs.

  “There would be better food at my type of party,” I say.

  She laughs. It’s a small and jittery laugh, but still feels too loud in the empty, dimly lit hallway.

  “You’re right. The food here is awful. Though I think there’s talk of pizza, and obviously some birthday cake. There’s even some brigadeiro that I made special for today.” She takes a sip from the plastic cup she’s nursing in her hands.

  “Brigadeiro?”

  She nods. “It’s a Brazilian dessert. You have to try it. We’re going to have it after we cut the cake.”

  “I’m not sure I’ll last that long.”

  “You’re thinking about leaving already?” Her eyebrows shoot up. From where I’m sitting—too close to her—I can make out the dark browns of her eyes and the freckles that are almost hidden away.

  “I don’t really know a lot of people here.”

  “So it’s like me at that wedding.” She smiles. “You kept me company there, I can keep you company here, if you want.” She bumps her knee to mine and it sends a jolt of electricity through me.

  “That’s okay … thanks.” My voice must come out drier than I intend it to, because she frowns.

  “Is something wrong?” she asks.

  I don’t mean to say it, really, but when she asks that question it’s like she opens the floodgates.

  “Yes. You’re starting your own henna business for class.”

  Surprisingly, she smiles.

  “What, you’re afraid of a little friendly competition?”

  “No.” It comes out more defensive than I mean it to. “But … it was my idea. It’s my culture. It’s my thing.”

  “It’s a type of art—that can’t be a person’s thing.” She furrows her eyebrows together like this conversation is too much for her to fathom.

  “It’s not just a type of art. It’s a part of my culture. Just because you went to one wedding that was South Asian, where you didn’t even know anyone, by the way, doesn’t mean you just get to do henna now.”

  “It’s art!” Her voice has risen significantly. “I’m sure watercolor was also part of some particular culture once, but now we all do it. That’s what art is. It doesn’t have arbitrary boundaries.”

  “That’s not how it works. It’s not the same thing.”

  “Is this why you ran off the other day when I showed you my henna tattoo? Because you were annoyed I had, what, borrowed from your culture? You were offended?” She sounds offended at the idea of me being offended.

  “Yes!” I say. “I mean … no. I was upset because … henna is important to me.”

  “How important can it be? You said you only started trying it for the wedding!”

  “That’s just something I said.”

  Flávia shakes her head. “Look, I get that you’re defensive and don’t want to compete and all, but … this is how art works. I think you don’t really get it because you’re not an artist.”

  I have a million thoughts screaming in my head. Nasty thoughts that I have to swallow down because I know I’ll regret voicing them.

  I silently stand instead.

  “I better go.” I half hope Flávia will stop me as I head toward the door, already texting Priti about leaving the party. But she doesn’t. A moment later, I open the front door and step outside into the cold air.

  13

  FLÁVIA’S WORDS RUN THROUGH MY HEAD FOR THE WHOLE night as I toss and turn. I’m still curled up in bed the next morning, seething with anger about all of the things Flávia said, when Priti barges into my room.

  “Thanks for leaving the party in a huff yesterday,” she says with a glare. “Everybody was making fun of you after yo
u left. Somebody said that it was because you’d never seen a boy before so you freaked out.”

  “Oh, hilarious. The Muslim girl has never seen a boy. We’re not even properly practicing. That’s not even good racism.”

  “Racism is never good.”

  “Maybe not good but at least it could be geographically and culturally accurate!”

  Priti slips under the covers, curling up right next to me.

  “Was it that bad?” I ask.

  “It could have been better,” Priti mumbles against my shoulder. “They were saying all of these things about you and asking me ridiculous questions. Like had you really never seen a boy? Is it illegal? Are we going to be married off when we turn eighteen? Did we have to sneak out to even go to the party?”

  “Did Ali stand up for you? She was there, right?”

  “She was too busy being glued to her boyfriend’s face,” Priti says in a small voice. Guilt hits me like a punch in the gut. How could I have just left my sister there to deal with everything and everyone? Just because Flávia made me upset, I abandoned her.

  “Priti …”

  She shrugs, but she’s blinking her eyes a little too rapidly. I wrap my arm around her, and she presses her face into my shoulder harder. I try to ignore the feeling of dampness against my pajama top, and the sound of her whimpering sniffle.

  “It’s … not … a big deal,” she says through choking sobs. Of course it’s a big deal though. How did I miss this, when I’m her older sister? When I’m supposed to always protect her? I’ve been so caught up with my own drama …

  “It’s just because it’s her first boyfriend.” I try to reassure her even though I have no experience in this department. “She’ll come around. You’re her best friend. That’s way more important than some boy.”

  She finally pulls away from me and begins to rub at her eyes.

  “It’s fine. Really. I’m just … getting used to it.” I feel like there’s more to it, something she’s not telling me. But she gives me a watery smile and says, “So why did you leave? I mean, I know you’re a lesbian so boys aren’t exactly your cup of tea, but I’m pretty sure you don’t flee at the sight of one.”