The Henna Wars

by Adiba Jaigirdar

  “Because of your mom and that side of the family?”

  She pulls at a loose thread in her shirt absentmindedly for a moment. “When I was younger, it didn’t seem like there was a difference between us, really. But the older we get, the more aware I am of just how different we are. And I think … the less aware she is.”

  “Because she’s white and you’re Black?”

  Flávia doesn’t seem taken aback by the bluntness of my question. I know if it was Jess, she’d be annoyed that I was “playing the race card” by bringing up race at all. White people like to pretend that race is only as deep as the color of our skin—maybe because the color of their skin gets them so many benefits.

  But race is so much more than that. Good things and bad things. And when you’re Brown or Black, it shapes you in life. Maybe even more so for Flávia.

  Flávia takes a deep breath and says, “It’s like … I know that I have to be certain things to get by in life. I have to be smart enough and talk a certain way and adapt to what my dad’s family wants. Chyna thinks that’s just who I am. I guess she doesn’t really see the other side of me. Maybe because I don’t show her the other side of me.”

  I want to ask her what exactly she means by that, what the other side of her is, but she shakes her head.

  “Anyway, that’s enough about Chyna. You know, you look nice tonight.” Before I can reply, she reaches out and touches the sheer sleeves of my dress, running her fingers over the cloth.

  My heart is going a mile a minute all of a sudden and I can hear the rush of blood in my ears, drowning out almost everything else.

  “Though I didn’t think this was exactly your style.”

  I shrug, trying to be nonchalant even though I am definitely freaking out inside.

  “It’s a celebration, right?” I say.

  “Right.” She catches my eye. “Well, I like it. And when did you get this?” This time, she reaches over to touch the gold ring jutting out of my nose. It’s the same one I was wearing at Sunny Apu’s wedding. “I don’t remember this from primary school. It suits you.”

  “Thanks.”

  Flávia leans forward so much that our faces are inches apart. And she’s touching me—albeit on the nose, which is weird and not romantic at all, but it’s still making my stomach do somersaults—and I can feel how hot my face has gotten. Just from that single touch that I can barely feel.

  I want to think this is just something girls do—that it means nothing. But I’m one hundred percent sure that the way she’s looking at me is not the way friends look at each other. Her eyes are bright, but hooded. Intense.

  She’s inching forward.

  Is there a heterosexual explanation for why she’s inching forward?

  Her hand drops from my nose, grazes my cheek, and cups my face.

  And then I’m inching forward, though it’s an unconscious decision. My heart is about to burst out of my chest.

  PING!

  Flávia jumps, her head nearly bumping into mine.

  I slide my phone out of my pocket, mumbling apologies and trying to ignore the lump in my throat from the sudden distance between us.

  Priti: How’s the party? Did they eat you alive yet?

  I have never hated Priti as much as I hate her at this exact moment.

  “It’s just my sister.” I type a quick reply and hit send. “Checking on me.”

  Flávia smiles, but there’s a sudden rigidity to it.

  “Why is she checking up on you?”

  “Well, after what happened at the last party …” I know immediately that this was the wrong thing to say.

  “Right.” The smile fades off her lips.

  We sit on the couch for an awkward moment that seems to stretch out forever.

  Then she stands up abruptly.

  “I should probably go. I’m sure Chyna is wondering where I’ve gotten off to.”

  “Sure,” is all I can say as I watch her avoid my gaze.

  I feel my heart sinking as she disappears out the door.

  What just happened?

  17

  ON THE BUS HOME, I CAN’T STOP THINKING ABOUT THAT almost-kiss. It’s the late bus, which is always filled with people who are a bit too drunk and always smells faintly of cheap beer and piss. Tonight is no exception, but I barely notice as I take my seat.

  I can’t stop replaying the party in my head: The feel of Flávia’s hands on my skin. The way she leaned forward. I’m pretty sure I’ve been smiling ear to ear from the moment I left the party.

  I slip my phone out of my pocket and open up the text chain between me and Priti. There are a thousand things going through my head, everything rushing together to form a big mush of emotions.

  I type, she almost kissed me!!!!!!!!!!! But once it’s on the phone screen, it feels odd. Like I’m revealing something too intimate. Like I want to keep this just to myself for a little while longer. So I erase the text, put my phone back in my pocket, and stare out the window with a grin pasted on my face. I can see my reflection in the dark tint of the glass, far clearer than the blurry city zooming past. My smile looks kind of manic, but I don’t care. I couldn’t wipe it off of my face if I tried.

  Ammu opens the door with a frown before I can grab the keys from my handbag.

  “Where have you been? It’s almost one o’clock, I’ve been calling you.”

  “Oh … I was … at the party. Remember?” I’m sure I told Ammu about the party, even if it was a mumbled throwaway comment because we can barely be in the same room with each other anymore.

  “Yes, but you shouldn’t have taken the bus to come home. Why didn’t you call us?”

  I shrug, because we both know why I didn’t call. I think she’ll reprimand me some more, that she’ll punish me somehow for coming home on the late bus which, according to her, is “dangerous.” But she just sighs and shuts the door behind me.

  “Where’s Priti?”

  “She’s already asleep,” Ammu says. “It’s really late.”

  “I know … am I not allowed to celebrate my results?”

  Surprisingly, she smiles. Ammu and Abbu haven’t been angry about the results. Maybe they had low expectations, like me being a lesbian means my results matter less, or negates the Asian expectation of getting straight A’s. Or maybe they just had low expectations of me from the start.

  I don’t know whether I should be grateful or annoyed that they haven’t given me a hard time about the results. But they seem kind of … satisfied. Which my parents rarely are.

  “You are allowed to celebrate, shona.” The endearment surprises me. Sends a jolt through me. “I’m … proud of you. You did well.”

  I blink at Ammu like she’s sprouted several tentacles. Honestly, it would be less surprising if she had sprouted several tentacles.

  “You’re …”

  “You’re focusing on your studies. You did well. Just … that’s what you need to keep doing.” She smiles at me, but I read between the lines. You need to keep focusing on your studies and stop being a lesbian. I want to tell her that I didn’t make the choice she thinks I’ve made. That I can never make the choice she thinks I’ve made. But the words won’t come out. Because Ammu said she’s proud of me. She’s actually speaking to me. Having a conversation that’s not about how I’m bringing shame to the family. How I’m wrong. How I need to do better.

  So I just nod and turn away, blinking back tears.

  All of my joy from the party has disappeared as I change into my pajamas and wipe the makeup off of my face. I feel like my heart, which was soaring just moments ago, has been sliced open, and I can only put it together when I make a choice. If I want my family to be my family, if I want my Ammu and Abbu to love me, the choice can’t be Flávia.

  My phone buzzes on my bedside table. Two messages. I bite my lip, wondering if I should click into it. But my heart is already beating a mile a minute and my fingers move of their own accord.

  Flávia: hey

  Flávia: would
it be okay if you maybe don’t mention what happened at the party tonight?

  Flávia is typing …

  Flávia is typing …

  Flávia is typing …

  Flávia: I just got caught off guard

  I stare at the screen for a moment, unsure what exactly is happening. Just an hour ago, I was floating on cloud nine. I felt like the happiest girl in the world. Like everything was going right for once in my life. Now …

  My hand hovers over the on-screen keyboard but I’m not sure what there is to say to that. I’m not sure how she expects me to respond.

  I won’t mention it, I type out, against my better judgment.

  I stare at the message for a second, feeling shame bloom inside me once more. Lately it feels like that’s all I am to everyone—some secret they have to hide away. I thought that coming out to my family, at least, would negate some of the shame.

  I guess I was wrong.

  So I hit send, feeling an emptiness in the pit of my stomach, growing deeper and darker as I stare at my phone. I clasp it so tightly in my hands that my fingers become pale.

  Flávia: thanks

  “Knock, knock!”

  “You know it’s not knocking when you just say the words knock knock, right?”

  “You’re supposed to say who’s there.”

  I turn around in my chair to glare at Priti, who apparently has the same sense of humor as a child in Montessori.

  “Do you want something? I’m kind of busy.” I turn to my desk without waiting for her answer.

  “I’ve been calling you down for breakfast for like the past fifteen minutes. What are you doing?”

  The truth is that I never went to bed last night. I felt too wired, with too many thoughts running through my head. It was overwhelming. Instead of going to bed, I began to pour my heart and soul out in the form of henna patterns.

  There’s something oddly relaxing about the repetitive patterns—the curved lines and circles and the knowledge that this is something that’s mine, something important.

  All of that led to the worst realization of all.

  Last night wasn’t about me and Flávia at all. That almost-kiss had to be about exactly this—getting me freaked out and anxious, and maybe even further infatuated. All so I’d decide to give up, or at the very least be distracted.

  But I’m not going to feel ashamed and heartbroken because Flávia thinks I’m someone she can play with. I won’t give her the satisfaction. So I spent the rest of the night creating more designs for the Monday showcase.

  “I just want to finish these designs. The showcase is getting close,” I say.

  I’m in the middle of drawing a particularly intricate pattern when Priti leans down beside me.

  “Your eyes are all bloodshot, Apujan. Are you okay? Did you get any sleep?”

  “I’m fine, Priti,” I growl. “Can you just leave me alone and let me do this?”

  She purses her lips and crosses her arms over her chest before slipping out the door wordlessly, which is astonishing for Priti, whose favorite thing is annoying me with all her talking.

  But as much as I know I shouldn’t be taking my anger and frustration out on my sister—aka the only person in the world who seems to care about me lately—I can’t seem to help it. So instead of going down to breakfast, or making amends with Priti, I go back to my notebook. My only solace these days.

  Priti and I barely talk the rest of the day on Saturday, but on Sunday morning I’m the one knocking on her door. Priti looks up from her math textbook with a frown on her lips—but she doesn’t look angry at me, really. Just angry at math.

  “Hey,” I say. “I’m sorry … about yesterday.”

  Priti shrugs. “I guess the party wasn’t what you expected it to be?”

  “It could have been better,” I say. I definitely don’t want to rehash how Flávia made a fool out of me to Priti. Not after all of her warnings.

  “Whatever happened—”

  “Isn’t important.” I cut her off and throw my arms around her. It feels good to be so close to somebody who actually loves and understands me.

  “Ammu asked us to Skype Nanu, by the way,” she says when I finally let go of her. “She wants you to give her the good news about your results.”

  “She called it good news?” I balk at the phrase, but Priti nods enthusiastically, a small giggle escaping her.

  “You did well, Apujan. Ammu and Abbu are proud of you.”

  Even though all evidence points to that, it’s difficult to wrap my mind around it.

  “Come on.” Priti slips her phone out of her pocket and clicks into Skype. It’s still early, so it should be late afternoon in Bangladesh. I hope we catch Nanu before her daily nap.

  She picks up after the first ring, as if she has been waiting by the phone for this call. At first we can only see a close-up of her nostrils. Priti and I exchange a glance, trying to stifle our giggles.

  “Nanu, you have to move away from the camera,” Priti says into the phone. “We can’t see your face.”

  Her face gradually comes into focus as the camera moves farther away. It’s still at an angle, but I figure it’s the best we’re going to get.

  “How are you, Jannu?” she asks, a smile wider than the River Shannon stretching across her lips.

  “We’re good, Nanu!” Priti chirps happily. “Apujan is really good, she has good news for you.” Priti aims the phone toward me so that I’m in full view. Heat rises up my cheeks as I awkwardly wave my hands in front of me.

  “Hi, Nanu, how are you?”

  “How are you? What good news?” Her eyes are bright with hope.

  “Well, I got the results from my Junior Cert.”

  “Junior Cert?”

  “The … O levels?” They’re the equivalent of the Junior Cert in Bangladesh. “I did … well.” Before I can say more, Priti pulls the phone away from me.

  “Apujan did amazing!” she exclaims. “She got five A’s!”

  “Five A’s! Mashallah!” Nanu says, like five A’s is all she’s ever hoped and prayed for me in life. “Congratulations! Congratulations!”

  My cheeks are on fire, but there is also a glow in my chest. It feels warm and nice and fluttery. It means a lot.

  After we say our goodbyes to Nanu, Priti throws open my wardrobe and begins to sift through the clothes.

  “Looking to borrow something?”

  “Uh, no. Finding you the perfect outfit.” She’s smiling secretively and it makes me highly suspicious.

  “The perfect outfit for what, exactly?”

  “You’ll see.” I’m not sure I want to see, but Priti pulls out a gold and red salwar kameez, with sparkling beads threaded throughout in floral patterns. If it was a little more dazzling, a bit fancier, it could be mistaken for a wedding dress.

  “I have to put this on?” I want to be my usual grumpy self about it, but the dress is pretty enough to make me excited.

  “You have to put it on.” So I do, curiosity building up inside me the entire time.

  “When do I figure out what’s happening?”

  “Be patient,” Priti says as she lines my eyes with kohl and paints my lips a dark red. She insists on taking a billion pictures too, with my henna-clad hands laid out in front of me or held out in front of my face. I feel like I’ve stepped into a full-on henna modeling shoot by the time Priti has taken what must be the hundredth photo.

  Maybe that’s what this is? Promo!

  “Maybe you should be in these photos. If this is going up on my henna Instagram.”

  Priti shoots me a playful glare and says, “Do you ever stop thinking about that competition, Apujan? I can’t just want to take some nice photos of you?”

  But I doubt Priti just woke up this morning wanting to take some nice photos of me in a fancy kameez and henna. So I’m not exactly surprised when, after our photo shoot, Priti drags me down the stairs to a house that’s filled with Desi Uncles and Aunties who clap their hands and exclaim, “Mas
hallah! Mashallah!” and offer me flowers and presents and cards.

  I blush and say, “Thank you, thank you,” and hope Ammu hasn’t revealed my actual results to these people I barely know.

  Even though the dawat is a surprise, a gift to celebrate my Junior Cert results, it feels like anything but as I walk around with a smile glued onto my lips. It makes my cheeks hurt but if I’m not smiling, I’ll probably end up death-glaring at everyone. I have to remind myself that this is just a Bengali thing: instead of celebrating achievements the way you want to, you’re made to strut around in front of people you barely know, like a prize to be shown off.

  The only good thing to come of it is the fact that all the Aunties take hold of my and Priti’s hands, oohing and aahing at the henna patterns weaving their way up our arms. They even ask if I’ll do their henna before Eid. I tell them all about the henna business, in the hopes some of them will pay me to get their henna done.

  “Looks like you have a businesswoman on your hands, Bhaiya,” one of the Aunties says to Abbu.

  “A businesswoman? Nishat has the results to be a doctor, taina?” an Uncle interjects, beaming at me with pride, like a doctor is the only worthwhile profession anyone could hope to have. I give him a tight smile and hope he takes it as a yes and shuts up.

  “Kintu women are better as teachers, nah?” one of the other Uncles comments with a solemn nod, like a woman doctor might be a bit too much.

  “Doctor, teacher, engineer, our Nishat could be anything she wants to be,” Abbu says, clapping me on the back proudly. It’s the most he’s said to me in weeks, but there’s a plasticity to his smile, a solemnness to his voice. Nishat can be anything she wants to be, except herself.

  18

  “ARE YOU READY FOR TOMORROW?” PRITI ASKS ME AFTER all the Aunties and Uncles have gone and it’s just me and her. I’m drawing henna designs onto every inch of empty skin that I can find on my body. Flowers and leaves and mandalas—anything and everything I’ve picked up.