The Henna Wars

by Adiba Jaigirdar

  I sigh. Even though most of my anger has subsided now that Priti is here, I still feel it simmering inside me.

  “I spoke to Flávia.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “She was just … I just … I tried to explain to her, you know? About the whole henna thing? But she just didn’t get it. And she was so … condescending about it as well.”

  “What did she say?”

  “Something about how art doesn’t have any arbitrary boundaries, so, because henna is art, she can do whatever she wants. She said that I’m just afraid of competing with her and—hey! She was there when they were saying all of that stuff about me, right? She knew why I left.”

  But Priti shakes her head. “I think she left around the same time you did. Chyna was kind of mad about it.”

  “Maybe we shouldn’t go to parties anymore,” I suggest. “We’re not the best at them.”

  Priti scoffs. “We’re great at parties. Other people are bad at them. They’re the problem.”

  “Yeah, I guess that’s true. We’re pretty great.”

  “We’re fantastic.” Priti agrees with a smile.

  The rest of Saturday passes by without incident. Priti spends a lot of time holed up in her room, studying for an upcoming math test. I want to talk to her more about what happened with Ali, but I’m afraid of making her upset again. Priti is definitely not someone who is prone to crying, so seeing her like that this morning has me shaken.

  I spend a lot of time taking test photos of henna designs to put up on my Instagram page. I wonder if it’ll get the same pull as Flávia’s if I do a henna design on Jess and put that up on my page. Jess and Chaewon haven’t said much about the Instagram page, but I’m sure I can convince Jess to hand model for pictures.

  Ms. Montgomery wants to see our business plans on Monday to help us get started as soon as possible so I’m feeling extra nervous. I need everything to be perfect.

  On Sunday morning Priti knocks on my door, which is a surprise in and of itself. Priti and I are not the type of sisters who knock on each other’s doors and respect each other’s privacy. We barge into each other’s rooms (and lives) without a second thought.

  “Ammu wants to talk to you,” she says, cracking the door open and peeking through.

  “She wants to talk … to me?”

  “To you. That’s what I said.”

  “To me? Are you sure?”

  “She said, ‘Can you tell Nishat to come over?’” Priti’s trying to be all light-hearted and charming, but I can see from the way her eyes roam around the room, never landing on me, that she’s just as nervous as I am. Ammu and I have barely spoken since I came out to her. She hasn’t even looked me in the eye since that fateful day. What could she want with me now?

  “Did she say what she wanted to talk about?” My mind is running through a million worst-case scenarios. My palms are sweaty, my heart is as fast as a hummingbird’s, and I’m pretty sure I’m shaking. What if this is it? The end? What if they’re done skirting around the topic and now they want to do something drastic? I can’t stop thinking about all of the gay people thrown out of their homes.

  Priti shakes her head, her eyes finally landing on me. She gulps and it makes me gulp.

  “She just said to call you. She’s in her room. Do you … do you want me to come?”

  I mumble, “no,” even though I want to say yes, yes, a thousand times yes. But if Ammu does want to do something drastic, I don’t want Priti to sit there and take it all in.

  “I’ll be okay.” I try to make my voice as reassuring as I can, but it still wavers. Pushing past Priti, I walk toward Ammu and Abbu’s room. It feels like the longest walk ever, even though the corridor takes only a few steps to cross. I actually begin to pray during the walk. Which is probably hypocritical, but I don’t care. I keep thinking, Ya Allah, if you are there please please please please please let my parents still love me.

  “Ummm …” I poke my head through the door. Ammu is sitting on her bed and there’s a half-knitted scarf in front of her that she’s slowly stitching together. She looks up at me for only a moment before bowing her head again. Like she can’t look at me for too long.

  She reaches out her hand and pats the empty space beside her. “Come, sit.”

  My heart is hammering so loudly that I’m surprised Ammu can’t hear it, that it hasn’t somehow burst out of my chest. I gingerly walk to the bed and sit down, peering at her hunched form. It’s the closest I’ve been to her since that day at the breakfast table. She’s just had a shower—I can tell because her hair is still slightly damp and she smells like coconut oil.

  “Did I ever tell you the story of how me and your Abbu met?” she asks. This is the last thing I expected her to ask. I’m so stunned that I only keep staring at her. I want to say something. Words! Where are my words? My tongue is dry and my mind has gone blank.

  Ammu doesn’t need me to prompt her, though. With the knitting needles in her hands weaving up and down on the scarf, she heaves a sigh and starts speaking again.

  “It was summer and I was studying at university. I had traveled up to Dhaka to study, and I was living with your Aarti Khala and Najib Khalu. Your Nanu used to worry about me all the time. She still lived in our house in the village back then, and your Nana was still alive. They would call every day, even if it was just for five minutes, to check up on me specifically. They were worried that, well … what happened would happen. That I would meet someone, fall in love, shame the family.” She pauses and sits up straight.

  For a moment I think she’ll look at me, finally.

  I will her to look at me, but she doesn’t.

  “It wasn’t some big romance or anything,” she continues. “Your Abbu and I shared a class together, so we started talking, even though both of us knew we weren’t supposed to. I wanted to tell your Aarti Khala about it, but I didn’t think she would have understood at the time. I think she would have tried to talk me out of it, and I probably would have let her talk me out of it. So we used to sneak around, knowing that what we were doing was wrong. That your Nana and Nanu would be horrified to know that I had been defying the request they made of me—to not have a romance, not fall in love.”

  “But why?” I croak out. Ammu’s eyes snap to mine. Only for a moment, and then she’s back to looking at her blue and white wool scarf. I wonder who it’s for, if it’s for anyone at all or just something to do while she’s recounting this tale.

  “Because there’s shame in it, Nishat. I didn’t realize it then, everything that your Nana and Nanu had to go through because of my mistake. How they had to listen to people talk about me and what I had done. I brought shame on them. That’s something that lives with you forever, that follows you around no matter where you go.”

  “So you regret it?” I always thought Ammu and Abbu were proud for defying tradition, not ashamed of it. Can you be both proud and ashamed at the same time?

  Ammu shakes her head. “Regret isn’t the right word.”

  “The right word is … ashamed?”

  “For doing that to your grandparents, yes. For tainting our family, yes. Shame runs deep in our lives, Nishat. It can taint you forever. Do you know what people say about us living here? That we moved to a country where people are immoral, where the gays are allowed to marry. Where a gay is the president and—”

  “He’s the prime minister,” I mumble, even though that is definitely not the point and I feel like Ammu is physically stabbing me in the heart with a knife of her own making.

  “That’s a choice we’ve made. We’re living with it. Now, you’ve made a choice—”

  “It’s not a—”

  “And when people find out, that shame is going to be on us, Nishat.” She’s finally looking at me, pleading with me. “Your Abbu and I need you to make a different choice.”

  I swallow down my words about how none of this is a choice. That I can’t change the way that I feel. How do I make her see that? How can she not see that?
/>   “Nishat,” she says, before I can say anything else. She puts aside the half-knit scarf and needles, and wraps her arms around me. This is the first time my mother has touched me in weeks and I flinch even though I don’t want to. Either she doesn’t notice my reaction, or she doesn’t care, because she lays my head down on her shoulder. “Your Abbu and I love you.” That’s all I’ve wanted to hear since I told them the truth. That’s all I’ve ever wanted to hear from them. But not like this. “But that means you have to make the choice to not be … this.”

  This, meaning a lesbian.

  This, meaning the person that I am.

  The choice she wants me to make isn’t between being gay and straight, it’s between them and me. Who do I choose?

  I pull away from her, biting down the tears rising through me like a tidal wave. This time, I’m the one who can’t look her in the eye. If I do, I think I’ll break.

  “Can I go?” I manage to ask.

  “Think about it, Nishat.”

  “Can I—” I’m already standing up, but Ammu grabs hold of my hand, jerking me back.

  “Have you …” She takes a deep breath. “You haven’t … with a girl …”

  I shake my head frantically while pulling her fingers off of mine. Though at this stage, I’ll say anything just to get away.

  “Good,” she says. “Good.” That’s the word that follows me out of her bedroom and into mine.

  Priti is sitting on my bed, scrolling through her phone. Her head snaps up the moment I enter, but I don’t have the energy or the words to talk to her. I just collapse on the bed and let the waves of misery crash through me.

  Priti must lay down next to me, because next thing I know, her arm is wrapped around me. The two of us lie there on my bed for what feels like hours, me with tears dripping down my cheek and nose and chin, her rubbing soothing circles into my back.

  When my tears finally run dry, Priti turns to face me with a frown on her lips.

  “Can I ask you something, Apujan?”

  “About what Ammu said?”

  “No …” She trails off. “About … you. Why did you … I mean … what made you tell them? You could have kept it a secret, right? It wouldn’t have made a difference. It’s not like you’re with someone.”

  I don’t know where to begin or how to explain it. I’m not sure if I really understand it myself. But I’m also not sure if I regret it, after everything.

  “It was because of Sunny Apu’s wedding.”

  “Because …?”

  “Because of the way they looked. Happy. Like … you know, they couldn’t wait until that was you and me. Like … I don’t know, like they had these dreams for us. And I knew that I couldn’t give them that. I know that. I just … I’d rather they knew. Sooner, rather than later.”

  “If you give them time …” Priti starts again. The same old mantra. But I’m not sure if time is what they need. If time will make any difference at all.

  “At least they have you,” I say. “They get to be proud of you. You bring home the good grades and one day you’ll marry a guy that they approve of.”

  “How do you know they’ll approve of him?”

  “Because he’ll be a guy, at least.”

  She smiles at that. “He could be an awful guy.”

  “I bet he will be. And they’ll still like him better than anyone I bring home. If I’m even allowed to bring someone home,” I say it jokingly, but there’s a sad truth to it.

  “I love you, you know?” Priti says after a moment of silence passes between us. “Like … if I had to choose between an awful guy that Ammu and Abbu approved of and you, I would choose you every time.”

  “I don’t think you’ll feel that way forever.”

  “I will.” Priti nods very solemnly. “I promise to love you the most, no matter what. Even when we’re old and disheveled and dying and you’re somehow more annoying than you already are, I’ll still love you.”

  I reach over and wrap my arms around her. At least I’ll always have Priti.

  As I’m getting ready for bed on Sunday night, my phone beeps with a message.

  You bought out all of the henna from Shahi Raj?

  She doesn’t sign the message off with her name, but I know it’s Flávia. I wonder how she got my phone number. It had to be from Chyna, and I’m not sure exactly how I feel about that.

  I type back quickly, I need it for my business

  Flávia: Every single tube?

  Me: Yes, I’m planning to make a profit, I don’t know about you.

  Flávia is typing …

  She types for a long time. I wait with my phone in my hand, my heart beating fast. Finally, after what feels like hours, a new message pops up.

  Flávia: I thought you were the kind of person who would play fair but I guess I misjudged you.

  Flávia: Game on

  It feels like someone has lodged a rock in my throat. She misjudged me? How can you misjudge someone who you barely know?

  My fingers type out a reply almost of their own accord. My words are more confident than I’m feeling.

  May the best woman win.

  14

  ON MONDAY MORNING I HAVE A RENEWED PURPOSE. IF Ammu and Abbu aren’t going to accept me, that’s fine. If the girl I have a crush on is going to compete against me using my own culture, that’s fine too. But I’m tired of being ashamed. My choice is clearly laid out in front of me. I’m going to choose me. And I’m going to beat Flávia.

  I walk from the bus stop to the school with a renewed fervor. If Priti notices it, she doesn’t say anything, but she does look at me skeptically before waving goodbye and heading off toward her locker.

  “I have a plan for how to beat Flávia and Chyna.” It’s the first thing I say to Jess and Chaewon, who are huddled together by our lockers, speaking in hushed whispers.

  “Well, good morning to you too.” Jess turns to me with a smile.

  “And what are you talking about?” Chaewon adds.

  “You didn’t see?” I’m already slipping my phone out of my bag and flicking to Flávia’s Instagram page. I thrust it in front of their faces. The page is filled with pictures of henna. Different designs, different people. How does she already know so many people at this school?

  “Oh.” Jess peers closer at the photos, like she’s trying to take in all of the intricacies of the henna designs, every pixel of the pictures. “Did you know?”

  “Of course I didn’t know. If I had known, I would have said something.”

  “Well, I thought she was your friend?” Chaewon says, unhelpfully.

  “I knew her in primary school, but barely. I don’t know her.”

  “Well …”

  Jess and Chaewon share a look that is full of … something. Some meaning or some history. The kind of look Priti and I share sometimes. Or Ammu and Abbu share all the time.

  “We’ve been talking this weekend, you know? About the business project,” Jess says.

  “Competition.” I correct her.

  “The business competition, right. And we were thinking … maybe the henna thing isn’t the best way to go. And with this, Flávia or whatever, doing the same thing, I think it means we should try something else.”

  I take a step back and study them. Chaewon is fidgeting with the collar of her shirt and Jess is looking everywhere but in my eyes. They must have been discussing this for some time. They just decided not to clue me in.

  “What’s wrong with the henna business?”

  “It’s just …” Jess looks to Chaewon as if asking for help. “We don’t really feel involved. Your sister set up the Instagram page over the weekend when we weren’t there to help. And you even named the business after yourself. This feels like your thing, not ours.”

  “It can be all of our thing,” I insist.

  “But it isn’t, is it?”

  “And we don’t want to do the same thing as someone else,” Chaewon chimes in with a smile. Classic Chaewon, but for once her swee
tness rubs me the wrong way. Like she’s being fake and charming to get her way, not just because of who she is. “We should try and work together to find something we’re all interested in. That nobody else has done. Jess and I have a few ideas.”

  I laugh. I can’t help it, it just bursts out of me. But it’s not humorous or light-hearted. It’s harsh and not like a laugh at all.

  “Of course you’ve already talked about it. I’m sure you already know exactly what business idea you want for the competition, and no matter what I say or think, the two of you will get your way anyway.”

  Jess frowns. “That’s not fair. We’re a democracy.”

  “Except, you two are basically the same person.” I wave my hands over them as if there could be any mistake who exactly I’m talking about.

  “We’re not—” Chaewon starts, but she’s cut off by the loud sound of the bell going off. It’s the warning bell, which indicates that we still have a few minutes to make our way to class.

  “We can talk about this later,” Jess says. Before I have a chance to respond, she grabs hold of Chaewon’s hand and drags her away. They steal one last glance at me, like I’m someone they’ve never seen before.

  I spend the whole day trying to decide what I want to tell Chaewon and Jess. Or rather, how I can convince them that we need to beat Flávia. That we need to run a henna business. That I need this.

  But how can I do all of that without telling them why? How can I convince them that right now, the business competition, the henna, the urge to win, is the only thing keeping me going? That it’s the only solid thing in my life right now? When everything else feels up in the air, out of control?

  I can’t say any of those things. So at lunch I settle for approaching them with my brightest (fakest) smile and two of the finest chocolate bars you can purchase at the school’s tuck shop.

  “Hey.” I sit down, offering them the bars. They accept, sharing a bewildered look but peeling the wrappers off and beginning to nibble at the ends anyway.

  “Look, I’m sorry about earlier.” I say. “I was just … upset.”