Dil or No Dil

by Suleikha Snyder

  Arnav felt a red veil of anger fall in front of his eyes, like a matador’s flag in front of a bull. He stepped forward, the steam between his ears ready to push out several choice words in Tiya’s defense. But then one of the other women made a tsk-ing sound with her tongue. “Chee!” she chided her cruel friends. “What’s wrong with being a lesbian? Nothing! My sister is gay. She runs an outreach program in Kolkata, remember?” Clearly this was a discussion they’d had many times before. “Leave Tiya alone. Her tattoos look lovely. And who cares if she is not married? I am not married. Do you tease me behind my back also?”

  Indira and the others lowered their gazes. Someone murmured, “Sorry, Anu. You’re right.”

  Anu. He took another look at the woman with new eyes. A dark-skinned beauty in a deep blue sari. Her long hair fell her to her waist in a thick braid. She swiftly turned the catty corner to more positive chatter, and the golden bell-shaped earrings she wore swung back and forth.

  Arnav made a mental note to tell Barun Sen about her. The young engineer had only been in the States a few years. He was a good man. But he was lonely and needed a lively friend―a woman unafraid to bring him out of his shell or speak her mind to others.

  The matchmaking plot was at the top of his mind as he went to check on his pals in the kitchen…for, of course, he didn’t dare spare a thought for anything else. Like how furious he’d been to hear Tiya maligned. Or how he’d wanted to tell those bitchy gossips that she was beautiful just the way she was. No. Arnav focused on bee-lining to where Barun was battering eggplant slices in besan flour.

  The lunch rush was scheduled to begin in one hour, after the wrap-up of morning pushpanjali and arathi. Most of the vegetarian dishes had been prepared beforehand, but they were frying the bhaja on site and making the khichuri fresh. So, he tried to be helpful, rather than a hindrance, as he described the outspoken blue-sari girl to his occupied young friend.

  “She’s perfect for you, yaar. I’m telling you. She’s amazing.”

  “Arnav-da!” The tips of Barun’s ears went red, and he almost splattered his entire shirtfront with batter as he fumbled and waved his hands. “Leave it! It’s not necessary!”

  No way. Now that he had a bone to chew on―and something to distract himself with―he was going to gnaw on it until he could get Barun an introduction to Anu. “Arré, what else is Durga Puja for? Creating friendships, na?”

  “Creating food,” Karthik interrupted from the stainless-steel stovetops. He gestured for Arnav to come in his direction. “Come be useful. We need at least two more cookpots.”

  It was at that minute that Tiya popped into the kitchen. Draped in silk and gold. Her face devoid of any makeup except kajal on her beautiful eyes. Her lipstick had likely long since worn away as she flew all over the puja proceedings, seeing where she could be of help.

  The whole morning, he’d kept out of her sphere, only allowed himself the briefest of glances. Of course, they would eventually come face to face. Even in a sprawling school teeming with hundreds of people. And, of course, she would look as lovely as one of Durga’s handmaidens.

  When her gaze landed upon him, Arnav did what any sensible man would do.

  He went looking for cookpots.

  Chapter Seven

  Tiya stormed into the storage room after Arnav, practically kicking the door shut behind them and tripping on her sari in the process. “What is wrong with you?” she demanded as he reached atop a wire shelf for a giant steel pot.

  “Nothing is wrong.” He didn’t look at her. Just like he’d been not looking at her all morning. His profile was harsh and his jaw locked tight. “There is a lot to do.” His shoulders bunched under his beige panjabi shirt as he pulled the pot down to a lower shelf and investigated for other items. “I am busy.”

  “No, you’re rude.” After checking her out so thoroughly last night. Making her feel sexy and wanted. Not that this was her first Rejection Rodeo. She had a good twenty years of “It’s not you, it’s me!” conversations and breakup texts to draw from for reference.

  “Rude?” he scoffed, finding the colanders entirely too fascinating. “I’m not rude, Tiya. Don’t be dramatic. It’s been a very hectic day, na?”

  “I get it,” she assured with a curt nod. “Last night was a fluke, and you regret it. I’m not the kind of woman you normally hit on. But that doesn’t mean you get to treat me like dirt the next day. Man up. Quit the silent treatment. I won’t hold it against you, Uncle.” Sure, it was petty to tack that on, but Tiya figured she had a right to be petty after his display of attitude.

  He recoiled. A colander tumbled to the concrete floor with a clang. He said something too soft for her to hear. So, she closed the few feet between them, crowding him against the shelves like he’d done with her yesterday against the wall. “What was that? I didn’t catch it.”

  He looked at her then. Actually looked at her. Not through her. And his eyes were dangerously dark. “Don’t call me ‘Uncle.’ I’m not your uncle.”

  Oh, this was even more rude. Because it wasn’t a demand. It was a what-if and a might-be, wrapped in anger and rolled in indignation. “Then what are you?” she asked. “What do you want to be?” Her pulse leapt. Her limbs felt heavy, weighted down in layers of suddenly, achingly, sensual folds of parrot-colored silk.

  What was Arnav playing at? And would he let her in the game? Tiya didn’t dare speculate, or hope, so she just stood still as he processed her questions. She tried not to linger on the dark brown skin of his bared throat and the gold chain gleaming against it. She’d had a terrible crush on him for years and never once believed it would all come down to this.

  Minutes ticked by with them breathing in concert. Indistinct noises from the kitchens registered in the back of her mind, but she pushed them away. Waiting. She wasn’t sure what she expected, but it wasn’t his hands. Gentle. Tentative. Cradling her face. And it wasn’t more breath, sharp and shuddering. Or the lightest brush of his lips against hers, as if he was wary of anything that could be labeled a real kiss.

  Heat spread through her anyway. From the press of his palms. From the tenderness of his not-quite kiss. From the inches still between them that begged to be deleted. “Oh, fuck it,” she said, slipping her arms around his neck and arching up to claim his mouth. Nothing tentative. Nothing at all gentle or wary. Tiya just let herself take. His full lips. His tongue.

  Her sari felt thin, insubstantial. Like tissue paper. And she might as well have been naked in his arms. More than a decade of attraction and fantasy…and a few seconds of the real thing blew the top off her head. Arnav’s hands slid to her shoulders and then to her bare midriff. Slow start forgotten, he met her kisses with equal fervor and pulled her hips flush against his.

  “Tiya…” Was it relief in his voice? Desperation? Need?

  They crashed against the shelf, topping more kitchenware. Fuck it, she thought again, clutching the back of his head and tunneling her fingers through his thick hair. He rose to her challenge, angling his kisses, palming her ass through layers of silk and her cotton petticoat.

  If not for the sudden rattling of the doorknob, the thumps on the door, Tiya could’ve done this all day. Just stood here. Kissing Arnav Biswas. But the knob did rattle, and the volunteers on kitchen duty did knock and call through the door, a volley of “Arré!” and “Ki holo?” So, they pulled apart like two magnets being forced to act against their polarity.

  Fuck. Damn. All the swear words she knew in every language. Tiya didn’t want to put an end to this…not when it had just started. But she forced herself across the small storage room in a few quick steps, fixing the mussed aanchal of her sari with one hand and opening the door with the other. A lie, faux-frazzled and bullshit reassuring, about not knowing the door was locked, was already out of her lips. But she was all-too aware of Arnav still behind her. His arms full of cookware. His incendiary gaze raking her from head to toe.

  Still, Tiya swept through the industrial kitchen like she hadn’t just
had one of the most profound experiences of her life. She couldn’t look behind her, couldn’t arouse curiosity, the Orpheus to Arnav’s Eurydice. This was insane. Kissing a man in the middle of puja. Kissing him in the middle of puja. Of all the reckless―amazing, soul-stealing―things to do. But she couldn’t blame herself. Even as she went back toward the gym, where so many pious people were feeling the glory of the goddess. She was feeling the glory of lust. Passion. Possibility. She hadn’t invented the chemistry between her and Arnav. There was no way to feign that he hadn’t initiated that kiss.

  There was also no way to follow it through. Ugh.

  She’d stashed her purse in the Student Activities ticket booth being used for registration. Mostly so she wouldn’t be glued to her phone throughout the day, scrolling social media instead of interacting with actual people. Given the intensity of her interaction with one Arnav Biswas in the kitchen, she figured a quick texting binge was warranted. When she retrieved her cell, a slew of new messages was waiting.

  The first was from Shauvik Biswas. Heard you saw Dad and Niku already. Awesome!!!!

  Oh, yeah. SO awesome. Tiya snagged an available folding chair and thumbed out a quick reply. Yup. Achievement unlocked. We wish you were here, too. Then she flipped through the other texts. A few group discussions she didn’t need to weigh in on…and, thankfully, a probe from her best friend Liz.

  Surviving Cincy?

  Nooooo, she wrote back. Because Cincy is now an E.M. Forster saga of self-denial.

  You hate Forster. Nora Roberts that shit.

  A laugh bubbled up before she could choke down the impulse. Fortunately, the University of Cincinnati grad students roped into checking names and taking money were too busy with the never-ending flow of guests to notice.

  Nora Roberts isn’t an option, she told Lizzie. And before you say anything, Sylvia Day is even LESS of an option.

  There was little chance of her finding a romance novel “happily ever after” this weekend. And definitely not a “kinky and happy for now.” Fourteen years of wondering and one stolen kiss weren’t what you built a relationship out of. Especially with the burden of cultural disapproval.

  She sighed and stashed her things under the desk once more, murmuring “thank you” to the volunteers she’d disrupted, before she fled back to the gym and Ma Durga.

  Tiya sat down on a rug behind the rows full of worshippers, giving herself a few minutes to chill. Listening to the priest was soothing. Baba had done this once when the community was smaller and Brahmins who knew their ceremonies were thin on the ground. He’d done services for Durga, Saraswati and Narayan. Performed weddings and housewarmings. “So, you’re a preacher’s daughter!” one college boyfriend had declared with glee. Yeah, a preacher’s daughter with all the bad-girl trappings―unless you counted Straight As, graduate degrees, and the constant pull of home.

  She couldn’t screw this up. She didn’t dare. So, she did something unusual for her: She prayed. And when it came time to accept the sweets blessed by the morning puja, she did that, too. As Mom always sternly reminded her, “If you don’t at least taste the prasad, you don’t get the blessings.” The sugary confection crumbled on her tongue, filling her mouth with a burst of cardamom-laced joy. High blood sugar was more likely than blessings, but just this once she wasn’t about to argue with faith.

  Chapter Eight

  Even as Karthik, Sujoy and Barun hovered like protective birds over their in-progress vats of khichuri, Arnav could feel Tiya’s kiss. A half-hour had passed, during which he’d played both kitchen lackey and moral support, and he was still, in part, in that storage room. In her arms.

  He hadn’t been kissed like that in years. Like it was a fire that needed to be tended and stoked. Like it burned. How foolish. How completely stupid. But he could not feel sorry for leaning in. For taking those first tentative sips of her sweet mouth.

  At least not until Uttam-da came in to rally the Food Committee troops. In that moment, he felt like a predator. A betrayer. The elder statesman had been so many things to him. Mentor. Teacher. Friend. When he’d left a bigger biotech company to start his consulting firm, Uttam-da had been his biggest cheerleader―even an early investor. And now Arnav knew what his daughter tasted like. Cardamom, cloves and sugar. A stolen sweet.

  He swallowed, as if the action could cleanse her flavor, and then he glanced back toward the storage room. Perhaps this time it could actually offer escape?

  No. He’d kissed Uttam-da’s only child. The least he could do was meet him like a man. So, he strode between the stainless-steel prep counters and called out a cheerful greeting.

  “Arnav! How goes it?” Uttam-da smiled and grasped his shoulder, the grip weaker than it had been in years past. They talked of minor things for a few moments, rehashing last night and this morning’s efforts. The celebration so far. Talk inevitably turned to their children. “I saw Shainik at the registration desk this morning! Such a bright young man! Has he begun looking at colleges?”

  Colleges. Hai Bhagovan. He instantly felt a little off-kilter. They’d just conquered driving, na? How could it already be time to send another boy off to school? But it was true. Time moved quickly. In just two years, he would be alone in the house. “Northwestern, like his brother,” Arnav managed to say while still processing the facts. “He also likes Ohio State and Miami. But nothing is final. Niku does not even know what he wants to study.”

  Uttam-da waved his hand, making a dismissive noise. “My Tiya did not know either. Look at her now! Senior editor in publishing!” His parental pride radiated like the sun. “You know, Arnav, some of the other fathers will brag, ‘My son went to Harvard,’ and ‘My daughter is a neurologist.’ I brag that my Tiya Pakhi is happy and independent and secure. And brilliant,” he added. “She made her own way. Just as I did when I came to this country from Jadavpur University in 1962.”

  Arnav smiled. Their mutual alma mater had been one of the first things they bonded over. Unconditional love for their kids was certainly another. “You are a role model, sir,” he said, nudging Uttam-da with his shoulder. “And Tiya has excelled because of you and Ashima-di.”

  She was a lively, intelligent―passionate and sensual―person purely on her own. But he did not think it smart to voice that aloud. Still, her father seemed to zero in on what was left unsaid. Uttam-da’s eyes twinkled. “She is beautiful, too. Any man would be lucky to be her partner in life.”

  Any man. Another man. One who would kiss her and touch her and explore her body. Arnav swallowed a surge of jealousy. “I look forward to dancing at that reception,” he lied. “We’ll have to have a big party.”

  Uttam-da hummed in agreement. “Only the best for my daughter. Whatever she wants. Whatever makes her happy. Whoever makes her happy.”

  That was an important distinction, Arnav knew, as many Indian mothers and fathers did not want a white daughter-in-law or a black son-in-law. But Uttam Chatterjee had been here since the 1960s, facing prejudice when he tried to rent an apartment or shop in a store. He was more liberal than many of his age-mates…or people Arnav’s age, for that matter. Bigotry had no boundaries.

  Shauvik was nearly twenty-one. He’d never brought home a girlfriend. Had never hidden a porno magazine of big-busted women under his mattress. He’d yet to say anything to Arnav or Sumita, but there were little signs that added up. His love of Bollywood films. His appreciation of theater and the ladies of pop music. It was likely that he had an entire life at Northwestern that his parents knew nothing about. No doubt Niku was aware, but his loyalty to his older brother was sacred. And Arnav hoped that, when the time came, Viku would feel comfortable enough to bring the man he loved home to meet his family.

  “All we want is for our children to thrive,” he said to Uttam-da. “That is why we came here. That is why we do this.” He indicated the kitchen they stood in, the puja as a whole.

  The older man nodded vigorously. And he again clapped Arnav on the shoulder―open and affectionate, Uttam-da w
as forever hugging people and shaking hands. “I know you and Tiya will continue these traditions long after her mother and I are gone,” he assured. “I know that your sons will keep their Bengali heritage. That is why we do what we do.”

  And that was what Arnav had to remember today. And tomorrow. And the week after. Not the sweetness of Tiya’s mouth or the softness of her skin. Not the subtle scent of her perfume or how seamlessly they’d fit together.

  But, somehow, even after he left the kitchen and went to the gymnasium for the wrap-up of the morning puja service, Tiya was all that occupied his mind.

  Chapter Nine

  The kids were adorable. They were always adorable. Of course, they’d been extra adorable during the years Tiya had been roped into performing. Her parents had a stack of dusty VHS tapes―that they weren’t allowed to release, on pain of death―featuring her wearing entirely too much eyeliner, with red permanent marker decorating her hands and feet, as she flailed around to beloved Bengali folk songs.

  She’d had trauma flashbacks throughout most of her teens, when she’d mutinously boycotted any further puja participation. College had slowly pulled her back, what with all the Northwestern and Chicago University desi kids involved in Indian student organizations and dance competitions like Fogana. It was hard to turn your back on your heritage when everybody was celebrating the really fun parts. Bollywood movies. Pop culture. Things where boys were involved and you were old enough to appreciate said boys.

  Now, she leaned on the auditorium wall, watching the wobbly dancers and the off-key singers with a nostalgia she probably wouldn’t have had at 19 or 28. It was amazing what another few decades did to you…how it changed your perspective and your priorities. Not that she was raring to have kids. That ship, she was pretty sure, had sailed. But she could appreciate what Mom and Baba had tried to instill in her, and how Arnav wanted to do the same for his boys.