A Holly Jolly Diwali

by Sonya Lalli

  I pointed to my disastrous self. “Me? So hot.”

  “I think so.”

  My face burned. Thank god I had dark skin and my cheeks never colored.

  “Nothing wrong with having a solid life plan,” he said. “It’s good, in fact. But you can take a break sometimes, Niki. For, you know, some fun.”

  I stared down at my food. These words were sounding all too familiar, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear them again, and from a total stranger.

  “Sake?”

  I looked up. The waiter had appeared, and when Raj ordered a whole bottle, my heart thumped in my chest.

  “What are you doing?”

  Raj’s eyes sparkled. “We’re taking a break.”

  CHAPTER 3

  After the second bottle of sake, we were both certifiably drunk and ready to go to a bar. There was only one problem. It was 4 p.m. on a Wednesday.

  “Should we go back to my place?” Raj asked, as we were both furiously scrolling through our phone for options.

  “Sure,” I retorted. “Do you have a condom?”

  Raj didn’t respond, and I fleetingly worried he wouldn’t find my joke funny. Or worse. Think I was serious. But when I looked up, he was smiling over at me fondly. I couldn’t tell if we were digging each other or if the alcohol just made it seem that way.

  “We could just stay here,” I said. The waiter looked over at us. We were smack in between the lunch and dinner rush, and the only customers still here. “Beer?” I mouthed at him.

  The waiter laughed and then gave me the thumbs-up.

  “We’re sorted,” I said, looking back to Raj. “The bar will come to us.”

  “If we tip generously, do you think they’ll turn down the lights and turn up the music?” Raj grimaced. “Well, not this music.”

  I scrunched up my nose. Taylor Swift wasn’t everyone’s cup of tea, and decidedly mainstream, but I respected her talent and actually really loved this song.

  “We can have a dance party,” I said finally. My words came out heavy and slow. “We can get wild.”

  “Do you consider a dance party wild?” Raj asked me. Beneath the table, I felt his foot against my calf.

  “Depends on who I’m dancing with.”

  “I went to a full moon party in Thailand. That was pretty wild.” Raj smiled to himself, at whatever memory had just popped into his mind. “What’s the craziest thing you’ve ever done?”

  I shrugged, trying and failing to think of a single story. Like many college kids, I’d been to my fair share of parties. I danced and sometimes I even drank a little too much, and on the very rare occasion, I even smoked a joint.

  But to be honest, that was about it. I’d had fun, but it was wholesome fun, and in every single situation, I always had a safe ride home back to my parents’ house. I said no when a flirty guy wanted to hook up or asked me out on a date, because if I couldn’t see him instantly as a potential long-term partner, then what was the point?

  I said no when friends rented a house together over in Wallingford and offered me a room, or invited me along on a trip, so I could finish paying off my loans and start saving for a down payment. I even said no when Diya, one of my favorite people in the entire world, told me she was getting married.

  Our beer had arrived, and I took a long swig.

  “One of my best friends is getting married soon,” I said. My head had started spinning. “Her name is Diya. We were inseparable in college.”

  Raj spread his arm along the back of the booth. He looked a little drunk himself. “Oh yeah?”

  “She’s amazing. I miss her so much.” I ran my fingers through my hair. “She grew up in Mumbai, and moved back there after graduation. She’s having this big fat Indian wedding soon, and I’m not going to be there.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I said no,” I said, my head bobbing around in a haze. “But I should have said yes, Raj. I should have done something wild and said yes.”

  “Yeah, but why—”

  “Because . . .”

  Because my company was notoriously stingy with vacation days in the months leading up to Christmas. Because after a twelve-year relationship, Diya and Mihir had a very short engagement and gave us less than six months’ notice. Because flights to India were expensive. Because . . . a lot of reasons that didn’t seem so rational or compelling anymore.

  “You could still go to that wedding, Niki.” Everything was so fuzzy it was as if he were speaking to me through a glass divider. “It’s never too late. Call your friend. Ask her if you can still come.”

  The beer was causing a new, second wave of inebriation, one that I could feel cascading through my limbs and into the very tips of my fingers.

  “Take a break, Niki,” Raj said. I felt his hand squeezing mine on the table. “Go have some fun. Your life will still be waiting for you when you get back.”

  I looked down at our hands, intertwined on the table. Even though my nervous system was registering the touch, the temperature of his skin, I could barely feel him.

  Jasmine said yes to everything, and I always said no. Maybe that was the problem. Maybe Raj was right, and sometimes I needed to take a break.

  Sometimes I needed to say yes.

  On an impulse, I grabbed my phone and called Diya. I had no idea what time it was in Mumbai and doubted she would pick up, but right there and then, I decided that if she answered and said it was not too late for me to RSVP, then I’d go. I had the time. And because of the severance pay that Oliver said would be landing in my bank account later today, I had the money, too.

  “Hello?”

  She answered on the fifth ring and sounded as groggy as I was feeling.

  “Sorry,” I said. “What time is it there?”

  “Niki?” Diya paused. “Nearly five in the morning.”

  I shook my head. “Sorry—”

  “What is it?” She interrupted. “Are you OK, girl?”

  “Yeah. I’m fine. Well, actually, I’m drunk. I just got laid off. Which means I can—”

  “Come to the wedding?” Diya squealed. “Don’t toy with me, yeah? Are you really considering attending? I am so sorry you were fired. But I am not that sorry if it means you will be coming.”

  I laughed. “Well, do you even have room to squeeze me in?”

  Diya laughed. “Niki, there will be fifteen hundred people at my wedding. Of course I can squeeze you in! Have you booked a flight?”

  “I’ll book a ticket as soon as I get home,” I said, smiling from ear to ear. “Promise.”

  “Where are you?”

  I looked up. Raj was reclining lazily into the booth. He looked about as drunk as I felt.

  “I’m on a date,” I whispered loudly.

  “A date?” Diya’s voice was so loud I nearly dropped the phone. “Drunk?”

  “Shhh. Yes. It’s a first date. He said I needed to get drunk and take a break from being a cal-cu-la-tor.” I paused, my eyes locked with Raj’s. “It’s going well. Right?”

  Raj winked at me, and then tried to give me a thumbs-up, but his arm was shaking, and it looked more like a hang-low surfer sign.

  “When you sober up,” Diya laughed, “call me. I want all the details. Actually, no. Put your date on the phone. I want to thank him for talking some sense into you.”

  I was too out of it to disagree, and so I tossed Raj my phone. As Diya chatted away, I smiled lazily at him, at the thought of seeing her again so soon.

  “Yes, well, I think so, too,” Raj said when he finally managed to get a word in. “Yes,” he repeated a minute later. “Yes. OK. I’ll tell her.” He laughed again. “OK, nice to meet you, too. You’re welcome. Bye, Diya.”

  Raj hung up the call and then handed me back my phone.

  “What was that all about?” I asked.

  “Diy
a told me to tell you that . . .” He paused. “She likes me for you.”

  I smiled, crossing my arms. Diya was one of those effervescent, delightful people who somehow had the confidence to say anything to anyone.

  “Anything else?”

  “Yeah,” he answered, as I felt his leg rub against mine beneath the table. “That you should come home with me right now.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Ha, ha.”

  The waiter returned, offering us another round of beer, but I knew my limit, and I’d had enough. Raj also declined and then asked for the check, waving me off when I offered to pay for my half.

  “You can treat next time,” he said, reaching for his wallet. “When you’re back from India.”

  I smiled, our eyes locking across the table. There were no butterflies, but that’s because I wasn’t nervous.

  I’d go to India. I’d have a bit of fun. And afterward, my practical, good-Indian-girl life would be right here waiting for me.

  CHAPTER 4

  Mom?”

  She didn’t answer, and I fell back into the soft material of a Kashmiri scarf I definitely wouldn’t need in hot and humid Mumbai. Mom had offered to help me pack, although rather unhelpfully, she’d brought the entire contents of our storage closet up to my bedroom so we could decide, outfit by outfit, what clothes I should take for Diya’s wedding events. I glanced at my alarm clock, sighing. We’d been going at this for three hours, and only half the suitcase was packed.

  “Mom,” I called again, louder this time. “Mom, it’s getting late—”

  “Aacha. I’m here. I’ve found it.” She came into view, her gold-toned evening bag tucked beneath her armpit. But that wasn’t all she had with her: stacked precariously in her arms was a pile of small, paisley-printed boxes.

  I sprung from the floor, lunging for the boxes just as the top few were about to topple over. We managed to get them on the bed without any falling to the ground.

  “Here,” Mom said, handing me the purse. “Don’t lose. It’s my favorite.”

  “Thanks,” I mumbled, gently setting it in the suitcase. “What’s in the boxes?”

  “Pinni.”

  “For?”

  “What do you mean for?” Mom bent down to the floor and started riffling through a heap of saris. “They are for taking with you. No daughter of mine will turn up to a host family empty handed.”

  I groaned. Pinni was a common sweet in Punjab, and my mom made giant batches for every holiday, birthday, or gathering of more than ten people.

  “My suitcase isn’t that big,” I said, careful not to whine. I hated when Mom assumed I’d forget something so obvious. I may not be Indian per se, but I still knew that hospitality was a pillar of our culture. “And besides. I already bought Diya’s family a present.”

  I held up a box of a scent diffuser I’d picked up that morning while running errands at the mall. I’d managed to get a last-minute flight deal for a ticket to Mumbai, but it had only left me with two days to pack and break three pieces of news of various proportions to my family.

  The layoff.

  They were enraged on my behalf, but very supportive.

  I was going to India.

  They were surprised to say the least, but again, very supportive.

  I’d gone on my first date with Rajandeep. I meant, Raj.

  I’d shared this piece of news with them at breakfast that morning using a total of seventeen words, when they both had their mouths full of dalia. Although I yet again anticipated a favorable response, I’d left the kitchen before they could interfere, which Mom had promised they wouldn’t.

  “What is that?” Mom asked, eyeing the gift.

  “It’s a diffuser.” I clicked my tongue as she stared at me blankly. “Mom, we have one.”

  “Give them both gifts. You are arriving just before Diwali, Niki.” She turned back to the saris. “You must bring sweets. It is holiday tradition. And Punjabi sweets won’t be so common in Mumbai. I know they’ll enjoy.”

  “Do I need to bring them eight boxes, though?”

  “You don’t know who else you’ll be meeting. Where else you’ll be staying after the wedding. And you must take some to your buaji and cousins . . .”

  I grimaced. Mom and Dad had convinced me to visit Punjab after the wedding to visit our extended family, but I’d never met any of them in person before and felt strangely resistant to the idea.

  “I was thinking of sending a full dozen, but I ran out of brown sugar.” She tossed me a canary yellow sari. “Hold that up against your face, hah? Let me see what it looks like on you.”

  I sucked in air between my teeth and dug deep for patience. There was no point in arguing with Mom, so obligingly, I held up the sari. Mom’s face instantly lit up.

  “Gorgeous. Absolutely perfect. You must wear on Diwali.”

  I turned to face the mirror. It was true. The contrast of the yellow and my dark skin looked great—all bright colors were my color—but I’d already packed away my standard little black dress for the occasion.

  “Just take it and decide what to wear later,” Mom said, as if she could read my mind. “You don’t even need to wear the matching blouse. All the girls these days just wear bralettes underneath, or those”—she gestured ambiguously to her chest—“those tops. What do you call them? Tunnel tops?”

  “Tube tops?”

  “Hah.”

  I tossed the sari into the suitcase, smiling. “I haven’t owned a tube top in about fifteen years. And when I did, you never let me wear it because it was too revealing.”

  “Well, you’re old enough now. I’m not so worried about you getting pregnant.”

  I laughed. “Were you really that worried?”

  “About you? No. Your sister on the other hand . . .” Mom threw me a side-eye, and we both broke out into a fit of giggles. And as I watched her lovingly sort through outfits, it occurred to me that I wasn’t just going to India but that I was going alone.

  My parents couldn’t afford to bring Jasmine and me with them when we were younger. They didn’t go very often, either, perpetually putting their savings toward their house, children, and building a life in America rather than costly international flights. By the time they could afford the long-promised family trip to Punjab, Jasmine and I didn’t want to go. We were in high school or college by that point, but now I couldn’t remember what was so important that we missed visiting where Mom and Dad came from. And these days, I felt embarrassed about the fact that I was Indian but had never been to the country my family was from. (I also barely understood Punjabi, nor did I speak Hindi or any of the hundreds of languages spoken across the subcontinent.) It was a land of unknowns, a place that in my mind existed in the past, a history book of where our family came from. The thought of facing the place for the first time without my parents was suddenly making my heart race.

  “You should come with me,” I said to Mom, squatting down beside her. “I know Diya would love to have you, too.”

  “I wish I could, beti.” She brushed my cheek. “Celebrating Diwali in India will be a wonderful experience.”

  I smiled, thinking about the way our family celebrated Diwali. Every year, we got together with dozens of other families in the community and set off sparklers and firecrackers, ate, drank, and sometimes even danced until the wee hours of the morning. It was the Festival of Lights—that I knew—but I suddenly realized I didn’t have a clue what the holiday was really about.

  “Mom?” I sat down next to her on the floor, cross-legged. “Embarrassing question . . .”

  “Do you want to have the sex talk?”

  “Mom!” I sputtered.

  “Because we don’t do that in our culture. You know that.” She playfully covered her ears. “So just go about your business in private and don’t be an idiot.”

  I groaned, covering her
mouth with my hands until she laughed. I wondered if joking around like this was her way of trying to get me to talk about Raj, but I decided to brush past the comment.

  “Actually,” I said, “I was curious about Diwali. Why do we celebrate it?”

  Mom gave me a look, and I could tell immediately she didn’t really know, either. Our family was Sikh and went to the gurdwara a few times a year, but my parents had always taken a laissez-faire approach to religion and spirituality. To them, it seemed to be an all-you-can-eat buffet, and they encouraged Jasmine and me to pick and choose whatever we felt was right for us.

  “Do you know why Sikhs celebrate Diwali?” I asked again.

  “Yes,” she said, lines appearing on her forehead. “Of course!”

  “Really?”

  She pursed her lips. “Really . . .”

  We ended up googling it, and apparently, people of the Sikh faith traditionally celebrated Diwali alongside many Hindus, Jains, and Buddhists, but for different reasons.

  Sikhs had originally decorated the Golden Temple in Amritsar with lights to commemorate the release of one of our gurus from prison in the 1600s. Now the holiday had merged into a Christmas-like festivity that transcended religions, cultures, and borders, and was generally a time to get together with family and friends, exchange gifts and sweets. To have an excuse to be together and have a party.

  There was a lot of background information online about how the holiday originated and was celebrated by Hindus, which was a much more ancient religion, but Mom closed the browser before I had a chance to read it closely.

  “Diya’s family is Hindu, hah? Just ask them when you get there,” she said, putting the phone away. “Or you could ask your new friend. He might know.”

  I chuckled softly as I realized, yet again, Mom was trying to change the subject to Raj.

  Mom hummed, avoiding eye contact. “Rajandeep seems like a worldly person . . .”