by Saumya Dave
“Natasha! Anuj! Dinner!” Mom yells from downstairs.
Anuj opens Natasha’s bedroom door. “Be right there.”
“I don’t want another night of Indian food,” Natasha says. “Let’s head out for the show. We can pick something up on the way.”
“Now?” Anuj looks up from his iPad. “I thought you didn’t have to be there for two hours.”
“I don’t, but I can’t stand being in this house. And I definitely can’t sit across from Mom at the dinner table for another night.”
Anuj shrugs. “It’s not that bad.”
But for Natasha, it really is. Everything seems to bother her these days: not having a job, the patriarchy, her unruly eyebrows. She can’t even distract herself with social media scrolling because everyone else is thriving. Just an hour ago, she saw that Brian Wilkins, who left her in the middle of prom to hook up with the captain of the cheerleading squad, is now an Instagram influencer. Sure, she hasn’t spoken to Brian since prom and should stop hate following him because he’s no longer relevant to her life. But that’s not the point. Because even aside from Brian, so many other people from her high school keep posting pictures of their glittering diamond rings or fancy jobs. And they all seem to be going on beautiful vacations, sipping jewel-toned cocktails, or looking out at some gaping body of water, while she’s struggling and alone. This is not how things were supposed to be when she was twenty-three.
She forces herself to focus. Everyone else’s perfect lives don’t matter. What matters is that she has work to do. She has a life to start building.
From a rumpled stack of clothes in the corner of her closet, Natasha pulls out a pair of ripped jeans and one of Suhani’s black shirts. One of the only perks of being home is that she can steal her sister’s clothes the same way she used to when they were younger.
Mom’s sitting at the dining table when Natasha and Anuj come downstairs. She’s wearing her thick black reading glasses and flipping through an issue of Vogue India: Bridal Edition. An old episode of Seinfeld is on TV. Mom and Dad watched that show all the time when the kids were little. Once, on a family trip to New York City, Mom saw the actor who played George and ran across the street to tell him how much she loved him.
“We’re going out to eat dinner,” Natasha says. “Be back later.”
“Natasha, so nice of you to finally come out of your room. You’re going out again?” Mom looks up from her magazine. A giant photograph of a way-too-thin Indian model wearing a red wedding lehenga and heavy gold jewelry is on the page.
“Yeah, I’ve gotta see my friend in a show.”
“How great that your friends are so important.” Mom raises her eyebrows and mutters some Sanskrit mumbo jumbo about evil spirits and omens. It’s the same stuff she lights incense and does hour-long prayer ceremonies for. “And what’s so wrong with eating dinner with your parents?”
“Nothing’s wrong with that,” Natasha mutters, even though they both know that’s the last thing she wants to do. She won’t admit now (or maybe ever) that a lot of people would love to have dinner with Mom. But they got a different person. They got a funny, charismatic, lighthearted Indian auntie who listens to rap and seems so progressive in her thinking. Natasha’s the only one who gets a critical, moody woman whose words are blades, ready to slice up any self-confidence Natasha has.
“Right,” Mom says. “Just reminding you that this isn’t a hotel, okay? Anyway, Chand called an hour ago and asked that you get in touch with him.”
“For what?”
Chand Uncle, one of their close family friends, always brings his karaoke machine to parties and then belts way too loudly to Bollywood songs from the eighties.
“He might have a temp job in billing for you at his office.”
“I don’t need a job from him!”
“Why? Do you already have one in the works?” Mom asks. “And I mean a real job. Something that gives you money.”
“Not yet. But I’m figuring it out.” Natasha feels like such a loser when she says stuff like that out loud.
She and Mom frown at each other as Anuj clears his throat. She wishes Mom would just say, Okay, I trust you. I understand you’re doing the best you can.
Instead, Mom mutters, “Of course, you always have it all figured out. Why do I even bother?”
“Thanks for the support,” Natasha says.
“You don’t think we are supporting you? You’re staying here, aren’t you? Do you even understand how lucky you are to have a place to live and eat and have everything taken care of for you?”
“Trust me, this is not ideal for me,” Natasha says, raising her voice.
“Ah, not ideal for you. I’m so glad we uprooted our lives and moved to America so our children could go to bars and party with their friends.” Mom says this as she faces the kitchen. She does this a lot: makes dramatic statements that seem directed to nobody on the surface but are really supposed to be a jab at Natasha. Maybe she got this habit from her career onstage.
“Wow, another guilt trip about how I’m not good enough!” Natasha says. “I’m so sorry you couldn’t be an actress because you had to move here, but if we could go, like, a week without hearing about your sacrifices, that’d be great.”
Mom looks at Anuj for support. “You’re going, too?”
Anuj shrugs his shoulders and hesitates for a second. “Don’t worry, Mom. We won’t be too late.”
Mom’s nostrils flare. “So, anyway, ho—”
“We have to go. C’mon. Now,” Natasha interrupts before Anuj can suggest they change the subject or, worse, talk things out.
Two hours later, Anuj is all set up in the front row to record Natasha’s first ever performance.
Natasha rushes backstage, where she’s directed to a cramped, dark waiting room that reeks of sweat and cheap beer. Her head is starting to pound from the four tequila shots she downed after she and Anuj ate at Bartaco. Ten other comedians are lingering in the hallway. A few seem as nervous as she feels, but some of the others have an aloof air about them that comes off as confidence in this type of situation. She’s the only woman of color back here. Typical.
“Uh, I think you spilled something on your shirt,” a thin brunette stage assistant says as she points to Natasha’s chest.
“Shit.” A streak of guacamole and salsa is across her left boob. “It’s my sister’s shirt. She’s going to freak out.”
The stage assistant nods and gives Natasha a sympathetic look as if she understands that Suhani is an uptight perfectionist.
Natasha hears the audience roaring with laughter at the current comedian. Great. Of course she’s after someone amazing. She grabs a paper towel. The food comes off, but there’s still a large wet circle outlining her boob.
“Perfect,” she says. “I look like I’m breastfeeding. Why the fuck does it have to be my sister’s shirt? And why doesn’t she ever spill anything? It just makes the rest of us look bad.”
“Ha,” the assistant offers. “I have a sister with a shirt, too, if you know what I mean.”
“Oh, I definitely know what you mean,” Natasha says. “And I’m glad I’m not the only one.”
She makes her way to the cracked, rusty mirror in the back of the room. She once saw Tina Fey pump herself up in front of a mirror during an episode of 30 Rock, and since then, she does the same before anything that sends her anxiety into overdrive.
“You’ve got this,” she tells her reflection. “Just get out there and do you. Don’t think about your competition. This is your moment.”
Granted, she didn’t think her moment would be in a place that has crushed peanuts and crumpled wet beer-bottle labels on the floor, but it’s still her first time to show what she can do, and that counts for something.
Natasha’s phone lights up with a text from Suhani. It’s a GIF of Amy Poehler doing a peace sign.
> The assistant taps her shoulder. “Are you ready?”
“Yup.” Natasha takes deep breaths and hopes they slow her heart down.
“Next, we have Natasha Joshi,” a chubby thirtysomething guy says in a monotone voice.
Good, he got her name right. The Joshi children were used to people assuming their first name was “Josh.” Every time Natasha was called to the principal’s office, a hesitant voice on the intercom would say something along the lines of, “Uh, Josh Natasha, the principal needs to see you.”
“Please remember to make as much noise as possible,” Monotonous Guy continues. “This will help our judges pick the four contestants that will move to the next round. The contestants will be picked later this week, so make sure to follow us on Instagram and Twitter if you don’t already. Now, without further ado, let’s bring out Natasha Joshi.”
There’s a soft ripple of applause and then a murmur from the audience.
Natasha wipes her slick palms on the sides of her jeans and steps onto the stage. The light is so bright that she can see scuff marks and spots where the polish has worn away. Her stomach does somersaults. A blast of air-conditioning hits her face when she steps in front of the microphone. Luckily, it’s at her height. Even though the room is dark, she can tell that it’s a full house. Fuck. She scans the crowd for Anuj but can’t distinguish him from the other silhouettes in the front row.
“Hi, everyone,” she breathes into the microphone. “Wow, there sure are a lot of people here.”
Silence.
Why did she start with that? She’s supposed to get right into the story of how she got fired. This always happens to her. She thinks she’s going to conquer something, and then, when the moment comes, she freezes. Her brain tries to pull up an image of her notes but comes up blank.
C’mon, c’mon, c’mon. Just say anything.
Seconds pass. There’s just the sound of her breath on the microphone, her pulse in her ears. This is what she gets for procrastinating on rehearsing this routine. She deserves this.
“Say something!” someone hisses from the crowd. Another person cheers in agreement.
Natasha shifts onto the balls of her feet. “So, uh . . . yeah, stuff has changed in my life lately. And by that I mean it’s been a shit week.” Shit. “I, uh, was supposed to be engaged right now.”
A snicker passes through the crowd.
Natasha sighs. “Yeah, me, the sloppy Indian chick with a breastfeeding stain on her shirt actually had a guy. A cute guy.”
She focuses on a forty-year-old white guy in the front. His bushy eyebrows are raised.
“You don’t believe me, do you?” She points to him and his entire table laughs. “Well, it’s true. My cute boyfriend proposed and I said no. Why? Hm. Good question.”
“Woo!” A group of women cheer from the back corner. Natasha makes out a tiara and sash. Ah, a bachelorette party. Perfect.
“I think I see a bride back there.” Natasha shields her eyes with her hand.
Everyone turns to face the bachelorette. Some people clap.
“Yeah. You, the bride. Congratulations. I really mean that. You’re exactly who my family wishes I was,” Natasha says. “Oooh my family. My desi family. They’ve got a lot of opinions about me not being with this guy. But they really don’t know what I was dealing with. We women, we really put up with a lot, am I right? And we do it with a fucking smile!”
And then, because of the alcohol, her nerves, and something else, something that feels bigger than her, Natasha goes into a rant about how sex with Karan had gotten boring, how it was true that guys who were cute weren’t that great in bed, and how she couldn’t see herself just being with this one guy forever.
Cheers pass through the entire crowd. One woman even whistles. Natasha sees two of the women in the bachelorette party stand up and raise their hands in agreement.
A rush of excitement and pure, adrenaline-driven thrill pass through her. Is this how it’s supposed to be? She’s never felt so alive, so connected to something greater than herself. It’s a high that’s bigger than anything she’s experienced before. Every part of her feels like it’s floating.
“I get that I’m the fucked up one here, okay?” Natasha grabs the microphone and paces up and down the stage. “I’m supposed to want this stuff. But it’s complicated. And how do you explain to your boyfriend and your family that you’re just not right in the head? Like, I always assume the worst is going to happen, okay? It comes from this little thing I struggle with called anxiety. Can any of you imagine telling your mom—your Indian, set-in-her-ways mom—that there’s no way you can think about getting married? Because you think too much about everything? Your brain is so fried that even your vibrator isn’t doing it for you? I mean, hello?”
A woman by the bar yells, “Word!” There’s another round of cheers.
Natasha smiles. “And for all you married people, I’m happy for you, but fuck off.”
The rest of Natasha’s segment continues this way, addictive cycles of buildup and catharsis. She feels like she’s watching herself from above the stage.
After all the comedians are done, she goes into the audience to find Anuj. Every few seconds, someone taps her shoulder and tells her she did a great job. Her face starts to hurt from beaming. For the first time in weeks, maybe years, she’s on a high that’s better than any drug she’s ever tried. Maybe things can really turn around. Maybe she didn’t ruin her life after all.
Six
Anuj
Anuj uploads Natasha’s stand-up comedy video to her YouTube channel.
Perfect. He was able to lower the sound of cackling from one cluster of people in the audience, so Natasha’s voice is clear and easy to follow. There’s also a filter that gives Natasha a soft glow.
Ha! So much for those two guys in middle school who would push him into his locker and taunt him with questions like, “Yo, Mr. India, are you gonna fix my computer or what?”
If he could go back, he’d say, “Yes, I am, actually. And I’ll fix your printer, too.”
Of course, after Natasha spread a rumor that both of the guys had micropenises, they never bothered Anuj again. But still. How fun would it be to just give them a piece of his mind now?
He watches the video for the hundredth time. When Natasha’s nerves don’t paralyze her, she’s hilarious—and in a universal way on top of that. He used to ask her why she felt the need to react to everything. Now he sees that quality is what makes her so funny. She gives a shit. She’s moved by the world.
People often called her the “difficult” or “problem” child, but Anuj wonders if that’s just code for the child who feels the most in a family.
He gets out of bed and runs to her room. The sound of hip-hop music vibrates through her door, which still has a do not enter sign Natasha got in middle school.
Anuj knocks on the white painted wood. “Natasha? Want to come down?”
They should go downstairs, open a tub of ice cream, and ask Mom and Dad to watch Jeopardy! with them. The ice cream and Jeopardy! combination was a tradition usually reserved for Dad’s post-call days. It never failed to put their parents in a good mood. Or at least, a good enough one, which is a lot considering how often Mom and Natasha have been at each other’s throats lately.
Anuj’s phone buzzes with a text for the third time since they got home.
KARAN: Hey, can we chat sometime? I know things are kind of weird right now but was just wondering if you’re at all free . . .
Ah, the ellipsis. Classic. How is he supposed to respond? His gut tells him to ask Natasha first. But he should say something. Karan’s been like a brother to him for years. He taught Anuj how to play Mario Kart, study for the SATs, pick the right beer. And now Anuj is supposed to act like he’s a stranger?
ANUJ: Hey man, I get that. It’s a little hectic around here so let me keep you post
ed.
He puts his phone on silent and tucks it back into the pocket of his basketball shorts.
“Natasha? You there?” He knocks again.
“I’m not coming down. You go ahead. I’m going to go to bed,” Natasha says a few seconds before she makes the music even louder.
They both know that’s not true. Natasha never sleeps this early. But she’s clearly in her leave-me-alone mode, as Suhani calls it. Funny enough, the first time Anuj heard about Natasha’s leave-me-alone mode was when Suhani left for college and Natasha missed her so much that she locked herself in her room and cried. Mom and Dad told Anuj not to say anything about it but the thing was, he also wanted Suhani back home. He also wanted Mom and Dad to tell him she’d come visit soon. But there was just no space for his reactions when Natasha’s were the focus.
“All right, good night,” Anuj says now.
Mom and Dad are watching one of those black-and-white Bollywood movies. The sounds of sitar and tabla fill the first floor. Mom studies the movies for technique, while Dad usually cries, moved by the long-lost-lovers story lines.
The first time Anuj saw his parents watch a Bollywood movie was when he was in preschool. Mom had gone on one of her drives. Anuj, Natasha, and Suhani sat at the top of the staircase and waited for the headlights of Mom’s car to illuminate the driveway. Hours later, Mom emerged through the door and apologized to Dad. They went into the living room and put on a Bollywood movie as though nothing happened.
Now, Anuj stops in the kitchen, which still smells like the roasted okra and rotli his parents had for dinner. He pops several Goldfish into his mouth, his favorite late-night snack, and then goes toward the living room. Every few seconds, he passes a painting from India of men and women in a circle. Mom bought several of them during a summer trip they took when Anuj was a toddler. Ever since then, he feels like he sees these paintings in every Indian person’s house, these scenes of nocturnal social gatherings, where the women showed a lot of cleavage.
