The Knockout

by Sajni Patel

  Coach had said, “You’re going to fall many times, but if you don’t try at least one more time, then you won’t know how it feels to stand.”

  I took in a long breath and closed my eyes, pretending to be standing in the ring with the weight of the world lost on me. That was how it felt almost every time. Nerves? Sure. Scared? Sometimes. Hurt? Probably. But other problems vanished. Maybe that was why I lost myself in the sport just to deal with reality. Maybe that was why I kept going even though I wasn’t sure if my parents could scrape up the rest of the money. Maybe that was why I hadn’t told Coach the possibility of not going. I needed the ring the way a bird needed the sky. It was freedom, even if temporarily.

  Are you going to Holi tonight?

  I lay flat on my stomach in bed and dangled my arms over the edge so that the phone grazed the floor. Parties made my skin crawl, especially festivities involving large numbers of people. Mama had brought out the suitcase, the one filled to the brim with kurta pajamas and salwar kameez with a few saris and chaniya cholis. In case I wanted to go.

  I chewed on my lip and shut my eyes. I’d thrown my entire soul into the gym yesterday and today, and it took more of a beating than my shins (poor, bruised shins).

  My parents would love to see you, Amit texted.

  Yeah, right.

  Serious. They said they hadn’t seen you since you were a kid and went to mandir with your parents. I don’t remember you. Do you remember me?

  No. I didn’t remember much about mandir, if anything, except dance classes with Rayna and Saanvi. I did have fun with them.

  How long ago were you last at mandir, anyway?

  God, think when I was 9 maybe. Yeah, about 8 yrs ago.

  You haven’t gone in that long?

  You think everyone goes to church??

  After a long pause that consisted of me restlessly tapping my fingers on the screen without the bubble with the dot, dot, dot popping up to indicate that I was typing, he texted.

  I’m wearing all white.

  That’s dumb, I replied quickly, unable to help myself.

  Genius, really.

  It’ll get wasted with color.

  That’s what bleach is for. Can’t use bleach on a colored shirt to get the rang out.

  Rang?

  Rang. Rung. Gulal. Whatever the colored powders are called. I dunno. I just throw them.

  LOL.

  Most people wear old jeans and a shirt they don’t mind tossing away. But wear whatever you have that you don’t mind getting color wasted.

  I giggled, imagining my shirt getting wasted off variously bright colored powders, and dragged my feet to the suitcase. I figured it might be fun to get dressed up a little, and maybe an old kurti or salwar kameez wasn’t what most people considered getting dressed up, but it was for me. A short burst of giddiness hit me as I rummaged through the suitcase, but I didn’t find anything white. There was an abundance of red, wine, gold, yellow, green, blue, purple, and pink. No black. No white.

  “Are you going to Holi?” Mama asked from the doorway, her expression pleasantly surprised.

  “I think so. Do you remember . . . hold on.” I text-asked Amit what his parents’ names were. “Do you remember Raju Uncle and Manesha Auntie? They have a son in my grade, Amit.”

  She looked off into the corner as she mulled over the names. “It’s been so long. Are they from mandir?”

  “They go to mandir. He says that his parents remember us.”

  “Oh. Too bad I don’t remember them. Are you texting boys, Kareena?”

  I tucked my phone into my pocket and tried to evade her question. How did I tattle on myself just now? “So not the point.”

  “Hmm, I think it is. That phone isn’t for you to text boys with.”

  “I know. My teacher assigned me to tutor him for class. We had to exchange numbers. He’s texting because he and his parents invited us to Holi and he wants to know if we’re going.”

  “As you know, Papa can’t be around large crowds, plus all the music and dance, it’s too much for him.”

  “I know,” I said in a small, sad voice. “What about you?”

  “I’m just too tired from working. What little time I have, I want to spend with you and Papa.”

  “I won’t go then.”

  “No, no. I mean, I’d rather stay home with my family. But you should go. I want you to experience our culture.” She sat on the bed and bent down to run her fingers over the silks and metallic threads. “I feel awful that we didn’t expose you more to other Indians.”

  “I know why and it’s fine. I don’t want to be around judgy people. Too much negativity.”

  She studied the fabrics with a sort of fondness, longing even. I wondered if, aside from the gossip and ridicule, she missed the Indian community. “Not all Indians are the same. I don’t want you to view them so negatively. Maybe things at mandir are different these days. Does Amit know about the Muay Thai?”

  “No.”

  “Oh?”

  “We’re not that close. We just started studying a couple of weeks ago. We don’t hang out outside of school . . . actually, just lunch. That’s when we do our study sessions and we focus on classwork.”

  “I see.”

  “He said most people wear old jeans and shirts they don’t mind throwing away.” Which was basically almost everything I owned. I mean, everything was old, but we took really good care of our clothes. No throwing anything away.

  She picked through the worn clothes and pulled out a dark-blue salwar kameez with matching dupatta. “This is plain, but it will work perfectly for Holi. We won’t worry about any stains. Color your heart out.”

  “Thank you.” I took the knee-length tunic, leggings, and shawl from her.

  “You know? Holi is about color and celebration, but also thanksgiving, gratefulness, forgiveness.”

  “Really? I thought it was just another religious thing.”

  “Not at all. Some of its roots goes back to religion, but it’s mostly about new beginnings. You should have new beginnings. With our culture, our people.”

  “What if they ostracize me for being a fighter? They did that before.” Or worse, what if they said or even implied crap about my parents? There was no returning from that, no redemption.

  She rolled her neck the way Indian moms did, all sass and attitude and a moment of, “Let me tell you something, child . . .”

  “You didn’t need to be friends with girls whose parents stripped away your friendship. How dare they. Who do they think they are, huh? So special?”

  “Mama . . .” I cringed, hating to hear her relive the past. Sure, she had her very strong opinions about my confidence outshining any haters, but maybe she hurt too. Maybe she hurt knowing that others thought less of me. I knew that I hurt, for sure, realizing that those same people disliked her for stupid reasons such as marrying for love, not finishing college, and having a “lesser career” as a secretary opposed to being a doctor.

  “Did I ever try to make those girls think they were any less because they secretly ate meat when their parents wanted them to be religiously vegetarian? Did I end your friendships with them because they were little liars? Or shun their parents for raising something ‘less’ than perfect?”

  “I mean, I did accidentally punch one of them.”

  “An accident, hah. Kids will be kids. It happens. It was because you are supposed to be a lady, reserved, a dancer on the team.”

  “Not a fighter,” I muttered.

  “Don’t let that get to you. You’re a great fighter.”

  “I can take a punch, Mama, and even a beating. But mentally, emotionally? I wish I was that strong.”

  She took my hands in hers, the salwar kameez falling limp beneath our hold. “You’re better than any preconceived prejudice. Holi is a time and event for everyone,
and you deserve to be there if you want. You have the right to attend mandir if you want. If they don’t like it, then they can sit in the corner and shut their roti holes,” she snapped. “And if you want to go to festivities and mandir for anything and they try to scare you or run you off, then I will go with you and they can deal with me.”

  “Wow, Mama. It’s okay.”

  “It is not okay. If they want to talk rubbish about me, then let them. Not everyone who has higher degrees is a good person, and not everyone who has less is unworthy. And, no, I have never and will never regret marrying your Papa. They say the term ‘love marriage’ like we’re living last century in India, as if it’s a crime to marry someone because you’re in love.

  “If they turn that against you, then I won’t stand for it. You are a child. You are my child. I’ve tried to protect you from what I experienced with them, by keeping you away. But what I should’ve done was expose you to them and shown you how to stand up to them, verbally, mentally, emotionally. Not cower or avoid them as if you are doing anything wrong. Do you understand? If you want to go to Holi, then pack your water gun and shoot them all in the faces.”

  I laughed. “You’re so crazy, sometimes, Mama. Oh, my lord.”

  “You know they use water guns, don’t you?”

  “I did not know that.”

  “Challo. Go play Holi, beta, and demolish them.”

  “Water guns, huh?” I muttered as I took the outfit and changed.

  I texted Amit. I’ll be ready in ten minutes.

  Oh, good! I’m already outside your house.

  What the frick? I pulled the curtain aside and peered through the slit where the edge of the fabric barely touched the window frame. Outside my house, on the street adjacent to the short driveway, perched Amit’s dark-green Corolla. His shadow waved. I jammed the curtain back into place and heaved. Could he see me? Did he see me change? Nah. The curtains weren’t that flimsy.

  I rushed into the bathroom and checked out my reflection. The top fit my body just right, not too snug or baggy, and I had room to raise my arms. I smeared on tinted BB cream with my fingers and added a little eyeliner and rose-tinted Chapstick.

  Mama appeared at the doorway with a knock, her hands already moving through my hair. “Do you want me to fix your hair?”

  “It’s fine.”

  “A French braid with a bun at the end? Not fancy but very nice.”

  “Hah,” I agreed.

  As she effortlessly braided my hair from my temple to the shoulder and wrapped the rest into a loose bun, she commented, “He’s very nice.”

  “He’s inside already? I told him ten minutes.”

  “He’s eager. Very cute too. But absolutely no dating.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “Where are his parents?”

  “Maybe they’ll meet us there.”

  Mama walked me to the living room where Amit and Papa chatted in the foyer. Amit wore a white kurta pajama as advertised, with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. The look was incomprehensibly attractive, the way his forearm bulged with every gesture of the hand. Although his clothes were simple, it had fresh creases, the kind that came from brand new clothes from India when they’d been pressed and folded a certain way and inserted into plastic packaging.

  He laughed with Papa, ending, “They hope to see you soon, Uncle.”

  Papa nodded and both turned to me with grins, their faces lit as if this were some bizarre parallel universe and I had just walked down idyllic steps in a fluffy gown for prom.

  “That’s a nice color on you,” Amit commented.

  “You look nice too. Is your outfit new? Or does your mom have super bleach?”

  “It’s new. We always get new clothes for all the celebrations.”

  I subconsciously folded my hands in front of my lap, hiding the faded color and frayed dupatta. “You must have a lot of clothes stacking up in your closet.”

  “No. Most of us at mandir send back suitcases of old clothes to India every year for donation.”

  “Every year? You just wear them once or what?”

  “Usually. You know how Indian style changes fast.”

  Yep. And that made my threads extra old. Must’ve been nice to buy new clothes every month. I’d been wearing the same ones for years.

  “My dad should be around, but it gets packed and dads seem to go off and do their own thing. My mom went early to help with the food. She made barfi.” Which happened to be my all-time favorite sweet. He turned to Mama. “Would you like us to bring you back a plate?”

  “That’s very nice of you. That would be lovely. Thank you.”

  “Of course.”

  “We better get going,” I said, trying to push Amit out the door without actually touching him.

  “Nice meeting you,” he called over his shoulder.

  I ignored my parents’ hopeful, hinting faces as they closed the front door behind us. Seriously, were we in an alternate dimension where my parents liked a boy for me? Or were they hopeful about me fitting into the mandir community?

  Amit’s car beeped as he unlocked it with a handheld key. Fancy. His scent of light cologne swooshed past me as I reached for the door. He grabbed the door handle before I could and opened it for me.

  “I have hands, you know?”

  “It’s not you. I do this for everyone,” he said in all seriousness and with a straight face. He was a Southern gentleman, then.

  I slipped in and he closed the door before jumping into the driver’s seat. The car smelled just like him; a light scent of cinnamon and shampoo and soap and paper. His back seat was covered with notebooks and binders and textbooks.

  “Don’t you have a bedroom for all this stuff?”

  “I believe in osmosis. It makes me smarter,” he replied.

  “Do you have calculus back there? Maybe I’ll get smarter too.”

  He grinned really hard and peeled onto the street. My house and neighborhood disappeared in the sideview mirror.

  “Thanks for coming,” he said.

  I twiddled my thumbs in my lap, hoping really hard that this wasn’t a mistake. I swore that in the movies this sort of thing almost always led to some huge public fiasco and sent the main character running home crying. “Thanks for nagging me.”

  “What! I did no such thing.”

  “Do they have water guns?” A girl had to protect herself.

  “Yes. Usually the kids use them.” He glanced at me. “Why the sinister look? Are you planning on destroying me with a water gun? Because that means retaliation and I’ll have to snatch one too.”

  “No, no, not you. Okay, well, maybe you too.”

  “What are you plotting?”

  “Oh, don’t worry your pretty little head, darlin’.” This event was hosted by mandir. Which meant Saanvi would probably be there. And while it was a bad idea to punch her in her smug face, ending her with a water gun, and on her turf, nonetheless, was just the sort of thing she deserved.

  “No, seriously. Should I be worried? Are you hatching an evil plan to get back at me for something?”

  “No. I might get you, but I won’t drown you.”

  He side-eyed me at the stoplight. “Are you going after a certain person?”

  “Yes. Saanvi. Are you going to stop me?”

  “Well, this is a celebration, one about new beginnings and forgiveness. Not an opportunity for vengeance.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” I waved off his words. He wasn’t in that restroom with me when Saanvi pushed me over the edge. And he probably wouldn’t even get it. To anyone else, her words weren’t that sharp. But to me, they were devastating. She was . . . oh my god . . . she was my bully. I had a freaking bully. Oh, heck no. Girls in Muay Thai didn’t stand bullies. I crossed my arms and huffed, even more determined to put her in her place.

  “It
’s also a festival of love,” he added, cutting through my thoughts.

  “Say what?”

  “Love of neighbor and family that is. What did Saanvi do to get on your hit list?”

  I glared out the window.

  “Come on, you can tell me.”

  “What if you’re a spy?”

  “For Saanvi?” He laughed. “First of all, I’d already know the story then, at least her side. Second, Saanvi and I are as close as snails and rats.”

  “Which one are you? The snail or the rat?”

  “Now you’re just being mean. You do understand that I can’t allow you to run around with a target on her back, right? This is Holi, not paintball.”

  “How many people will be there?”

  “A few hundred. Why?”

  I grinned. Let him try to stop me in a crowd that big.

  -

  Amit’s guesstimate was not far off. A substantial crowd gathered on the grounds of the mandir with a sprinkling of Americans here and there. Strings of fairy lights were strewn around the temple and trees and bushes. Heart-pounding, upbeat music thrummed through the ground, snaking its way to my soles and seeping into my bones. Extreme, romantic, powerful, exotic, and easily becoming a part of me. It was hard not to be drawn to my culture, to not appreciate the majesty of it.

  There were a lot of people dressed in old jeans and T-shirts, but some were dressed in bright clothes and clouds of rainbow-colored mist sprinkled down from thrown puffs of powder. Two tables at opposite sides of the lawn were covered in steel platters. Each platter held a pile of colored powder: sun yellow, mustard yellow, light orange, burnt orange, bright red, blood red, fuchsia, violet, purple, and midnight blue.

  Where were those water guns, though?

  “My mom wants to say hi.” Amit broke my concentration and led me into the mandir where a smaller crowd stood around centrally located life-size idols clad in silk garments and adorned with marigold strands. Most of the inside group were older: parents and grandparents.

  I followed Amit, although not too closely, to the food tables. An assortment of fried and saucy dishes lined the tables with uncles standing behind them, armed with spoons. At the far end were pots of basmati rice, roti, and parathas. Still, past that, drinks, and at the very end, a smaller table completely covered in plates stacked high with sweets.