by Nisha Sharma
“Obviously not, since you’ve walked inside and there is no smoke,” Radha said.
“Fine.” Sujata turned to leave.
“Mom, wait.”
She eyed Radha with a cool disinterest. “What is it?”
“I’m sorry for yelling at you last week. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“Does that mean you’re going to start rehearsing for your Winter Showcase performance?”
“No. I’m not going to perform.”
Sujata dropped her bag on one of the island stools. “If you’re not going to perform, then you won’t be completing the prerequisites for your grade. That means I’m not going to pay for college, and you’ll have to go back to Chicago with your dad. That was the deal.”
“No, Mom. The deal was that I do whatever is expected of me to achieve good grades and put in the effort to get into competitive shape again. I spoke with the director today. I don’t have to perform in order to meet all the prerequisites for the dance track. There is another option.”
Radha’s mother gaped at her. “You cannot make those decisions on your own!”
“I’m almost eighteen. I can definitely make those decisions on my own. Instead of performing at the Winter Showcase, I’ll be choreographing the Bollywood Beats dance-team number.” She crossed her arms over her chest and waited for the explosion, for the judgment and belittling that were sure to come.
“Choreograph a Bollywood dance team?” Her voice started to climb until she was practically screeching. “You’re going to throw away your classical dance education for that kind of mutilated dance garbage?”
“It’s a great opportunity. It’s just as good as performing. I’m in dance school, and I’m keeping my grades up. I’m putting in the effort.”
“This is manipulation, Radha. This was not our deal.”
“First of all, you’re the one who manipulated me. You knew about the Winter Showcase and didn’t bother mentioning it. And second, it is part of our deal.”
Radha pulled out a piece of paper with her mother’s signature on it, which she’d been saving for this exact moment. “I have the original and a copy I can email to you. This is exactly why I wanted it in writing. You laughed at me for typing up our agreement, but I knew something like this would happen. It says right here that all I have to do is put in the effort, get good grades, and complete all my requirements for the academy dance track. It says nothing about performing. You can’t pretend that our conversation never happened like you always do.”
“So that’s it. You’re throwing away years of competitions because you refuse to get on a stage. You know the best cure for your stage fright is to perform, right? It’s like you’re purposely sabotaging yourself. For what reason? Are you trying to punish me?” Her eyes filled with tears, and Radha felt her own burn in her throat. She hated hurting her mother, but she couldn’t dance like a puppet anymore. She couldn’t be the person that her peers referred to as cardboard.
“This is completely my choice,” Radha said. She hid her trembling hands and hoped that her voice wouldn’t shake too. “I’m making the best of the situation.”
Sujata grabbed her purse. “I’m so disappointed in you. I’ll be having a conversation with the director myself.”
It wasn’t until her mother had left that Radha let the first tear fall. She covered her face with her hands and leaned her elbows on the counter. She knew that her mother loved her in her own way, but sometimes it felt like she only cared about Radha if she was dancing.
Radha leaned against the counter and gave in to the sadness. Pressing a palm against her mouth to muffle the sound of her sobs, she let go.
A few moments later, when her head was clear, and after she blew her nose, she walked over to the sink and splashed cold water on her face. She then went back to her books. Even though the hurt sat in her chest like a weight, she had to ignore it. She had more important things to do.
Like figure out how to make ghee.
She was about to text her father, when she remembered he’d suggested she talk to her cousin Simran.
Simran. They hadn’t talked in five years. Simran was twenty-six now, and she posted pictures of her wedding and her baby on social media all the time. The idea of contacting her for a recipe felt odd, but Radha didn’t really have any other options. At least not if she wanted to make it just like her grandfather used to.
Logging on to one of her social sites, she found Simran’s profile. Her picture was that of a happy, cherubic baby with a full head of jet-black hair and a smudge of kajal eyeliner at his hairline. The last post was about an upcoming Durga Puja sale at the family dhaba. Their grandfather’s dhaba.
Without second-guessing herself, Radha sent Simran a quick message.
Hey Simran,
I hope you’re doing well. Congratulations again on the baby! He looks so cute. I’m sorry I’ve been out of touch for the last few years. I have been dancing, and then…well, I’m sure Dad must’ve told your dad what happened. Anyway. I’m trying to learn how to cook. I got Dada’s recipe book, and I’m starting easy. With ghee. The problem is, I burn it all the time. I tried to lower the heat, but then it doesn’t do anything for over an hour. Dad said you may know what to do since you’re a ghee master.
Thanks in advance,
Radha
Radha closed the site and was about to review the next recipe in the book when her computer pinged with a video call.
Video call from Simran Desai Walia
It was her cousin. Who did that? Who randomly video-called someone without any warning whatsoever? Was this an Indian thing?
She had to pick up. It would look super rude if she ignored the call, especially after she’d just sent a message. She brushed under her eyes to make sure her short crying jag hadn’t smudged any mascara, and then answered.
A glowing face, masked in black-framed glasses and surrounded by a cloud of hair, filled the screen. Radha could see the head of a baby resting against her cousin’s shoulder.
“Radha?” Simran said in a low voice. “Is that really you?”
Radha nodded. “Hi,” she said softly. “Isn’t it like three something in the morning over there?”
Simran responded in Punjabi. “Sahil has an ear infection, so he’s not sleeping well. I was so surprised by your message that I had to connect immediately. My goodness, look at you! You have grown so much since the last time we spoke. Your father sends pictures, but in most of them you’re all dolled up from dance. The real you is beautiful!”
“Uh, thanks. H-how are you?”
“Wadiya, bahot wadiya. Kiddan?”
I’m great. Absolutely great. How are you?
“Vadiya.” Radha picked up her seltzer and took a sip. She saw Simran’s response.
“What?”
“Is that bottled water? Isn’t it time for some chai?”
Radha laughed. “If I knew how to make chai, then yeah. Dad gave me Dadaji’s recipe for it, but there are a ton of things that go into a pot of boiling water, and I feel like I’m going to get something wrong.”
“Ah. The infamous recipe notebook. Your father sold his half of the dhaba for that notebook.”
It was Radha’s turn to be shocked. “What? Why?”
She saw the hesitation in Simran’s face.
“Please. I’d like to know.”
“When Dadaji died,” Simran started, “he parceled equal shares of the restaurant to my father and yours. But your mother didn’t want to move to Punjab. Chicago was where she had studied, and that’s where she wanted to work. She was also expecting you at that time.”
“What did Dad do?”
“He chose Chicago over returning to India, but he asked for the original copy of Dadaji’s famous recipe book. He said, even then,
that he might want to give it to you one day. Over the years, every time he came to visit, he said he made the best choice.”
Radha rubbed her sweaty palms against her jeans. Her father had sacrificed his legacy, and her mother had broken his heart. Radha hadn’t helped matters by choosing to leave for Jersey too. Hopefully he could see that in her own way she was trying to make up for lost time.
“Thanks for telling me,” Radha said. “I didn’t know.”
“Well, now you do. Have you made anything so far from the book?”
Radha shrugged. “Not really. I figured out how to set up my spice tin. I did blitz together garam masala in a blender. I’m trying to work my way up to the difficult recipes, but I can’t even make ghee yet. I keep burning it.”
“Medium heat for twenty minutes, then you watch it for another ten minutes on low. The minute it looks golden, you shut the heat off.”
“Oh. Really? That’s it?”
“That’s it. You could triple-strain it through a cheesecloth if you really burned it, but that takes forever. Just make it again, and salvage whatever you can.”
“Wow. Thank you. Really, that’s so helpful. Hey, Simran? Can I ask you a question? If you know the answer.”
“Bolo,” she said. “Speak so I can then ask you questions.”
“Why did we lose touch? I know you were busy getting married and stuff, and me with my dance…but you never called me, either.” Radha had some thoughts as to why Simran hadn’t bothered.
Radha was just a dancer without a personality.
She’d had nothing but kathak for years.
She’d been too busy performing to connect with the people in her life.
“What are you asking?” Simran said with a scrunched-up expression. “We have always been friends. You just were very busy, so it’s taken some time for us to get together and talk like this.”
The answer was sweet and, honestly, the answer she would expect from her Punjabi cousin. “Well, I’m not really performing anymore, so I have time. I know that you still have the baby, but can we try to do this more?”
“Of course! Call me anytime, and I’ll SMS you. Okay?”
“Okay. Simran, that is…really nice.”
“It’s good to see you, Cousin-sister. We can make more of an effort now.”
Effort. There was that word again. “Yes. I would like that.”
“Acha, now my turn.” Simran adjusted the sleeping baby in her arms and leaned closer to the monitor so her eyes took up most of the screen. “My friend who has been with me since the fifth standard moved to New Jersey after marriage. She’s visiting her parents and will be going home next week. Do you want me to send anything from here? Masala for your cooking? Clothes?”
“Uh, sure,” Radha said. “To the masala, anyway. Whatever was used in Dada’s recipes for the dhaba. As for clothes, I don’t really have any events coming up, but I appreciate the offer. Let me know if you want anything from here the next time your friend visits India. I’ll send something…for the—for the baby.”
Her cousin had a baby, and she’d never sent anything, she thought.
“Yes! I will give you my list too. Okay, now tell me more, chutki.”
Radha muffled her laugh so she wouldn’t wake the baby. She liked that Simran had used the endearment for the youngest girl in the family, the same her father used. “Well, I’m working on choreographing a group Bollywood dance routine.”
“Oh!” Simran’s eyes widened, and she wiggled closer, baby in arm, to lean toward the screen again. “I love Bollywood dancing. Tell me. Do you have Indian boys in your group?”
Radha felt her cheeks heat. “Sure. The captain of the team is a boy, actually. He’s really nice. Jai is also super smart, but complicated.”
“Jai? I want all the details,” Simran replied. “Is he Punjabi?”
“Uh, half, I think. His dad is Gujarati.”
“Ahh. Well, it shouldn’t matter anyway. In India each region is like a different spice tin. We use different spices, but in the end, we’re all using the same dabba. What else, chutki? I have time.”
Chapter Nine
JAI
JAI: Hey, did you tell your mom?
RADHA: Yeah. She’s thinking of ways to send me back to Chicago because she’s being a dance mom.
JAI: Yikes. Do you think you’re going back?
RADHA: Hopefully not. Until then, I’m going to do whatever I can to choreograph this dance. Any chance we can start this Sunday?
JAI: I’m working at the store all day. Want to come over? I may have to stop to help customers, but for the most part, mornings are quiet.
RADHA: Sure. Eleven okay?
JAI: Yeah, sending you the address now.
Since the start of his shift, Jai had been getting ready for Radha’s arrival like an Indian aunty expecting distant relatives for chai. His father had come to visit in the morning and had laughed at Jai as he swept and mopped the floors, cleaned the glass windows, and dusted every exposed surface. Jai even rearranged the hot dogs so that the good ones were the most noticeable in the warmer. After his mom picked up his father, Neil arrived to work the rest of the day shift with him. Thankfully, Neil hadn’t witnessed Jai’s…prep work. He would’ve never let Jai live it down.
Right before Radha was supposed to show up, he managed to calm down enough to complete his AP Calc homework and finish the draft of his admissions essay for Dr. O’Hare’s class. Not that he would submit the essay, but an assignment was an assignment.
He’d just emailed the draft to Dr. O’Hare when a white Audi pulled into the parking lot. Radha tossed her braid over one shoulder and grabbed her leather backpack from the passenger seat. As she strode toward the entrance, Jai rushed to do something, anything that would make him look busy. Unfortunately, his brain wasn’t working as fast as it should’ve been.
“Hi,” he said at her entry, and held up some blank Powerball cards.
“Um, hi there. Are we playing the lottery?”
He looked down at the stack in his hand and shoved them into their container on the countertop. “No. No, not at all. I’m not even supposed to sell those until I turn eighteen. My brother is in the back working on delivery stuff, and he’s the only one who can approve the sale of that, so…yeah.”
“Oh, that’s right. You have two brothers.”
“Yeah. Neil usually does the day shift and Gopal, my oldest brother, does the night shift.”
Radha’s mouth quirked in a half smile. Jai wondered about the flavor of the thin sheen of gloss on her lips.
“Jai?”
“Yeah?”
“We should get started.”
“Right! Yes. Of course.” He rounded the counter, grabbing two folding chairs along the way. He placed them facing each other in the small space next to the employees-only door. “Your mom was cool with you coming today?”
Radha shrugged. “She wasn’t home. Probably went to the office or something. We’ve been avoiding each other.”
“Ah. Sorry.”
“It’s okay. Some things are what they are.”
“Right.” He motioned to the open chairs. “Is this okay? I don’t know how you want to do this. Our last choreographer used to have something ready before the school year even started.”
“We’ll make up for lost time,” Radha said. “I think.”
“Did you get a chance to watch the videos I sent you of our past performances?”
“I did,” Radha said as she sat in one of the chairs. “I watched them all. You guys are good. Really good. But then I watched videos of your competition, and the winners of regionals for the last six years, and they are, unfortunately, better than you.”
Jai winced. Even though he knew she was right, he hated the criticism. “Next time, be a l
ittle gentler when you stab me with the knife.”
Radha took her rose-gold wireless headphones out of her bag. “We have to step into the competitive mindset. I’ve lived with that mindset for most of my life, and I can tell you that it has its advantages.”
“Like what?”
“Like exploring concepts no one else has done.” She opened her laptop and, after a few clicks, handed it over to him, along with the headphones. “Here. When I wasn’t studying the competition, I was making this mix. Give it a listen. I’m a little rusty, but I think it can work.”
Jai fastened the headphones over his ears and pressed play.
Classical North Indian music. Drums. Chimes. Harmonium.
And then…dubstep?
He raised an eyebrow at Radha, watching her now as the music played. His body could feel the beat, his feet itched to dance and move, and then he felt his pulse quicken as the music changed again to classical against a hip-hop beat, and finally reached a crescendo.
Ten minutes and eleven seconds later, Jai handed the headphones back.
“Holy shit.”
She flushed. “Not bad, right?”
“Uh, that was amazing. You did your own mixes?”
“Yeah, my mother made me learn how, because she was worried if we asked anyone else to do it, my music would leak.”
“I can’t say I hate her for it,” Jai said. “The only thing is, it sounds like so much classical.”
Radha shrugged. “What’s the root of Bollywood dance? Classical and folk melded together for the movies. Then hip-hop and contemporary came in later. Now people focus so much on the hip-hop and bhangra that they forget the other roots that made up the art form. Not one performance at regionals in the last three years included classical. Even the Rutgers High all-girls team used contemporary, and they’re the dance team to beat, I think.”
Jai flinched at the mention of his ex’s school. “They do win more than us.”
