A Holly Jolly Diwali

by Sonya Lalli

  “Does he?” I said flatly.

  “Have you . . .” She trailed off, and I bit my lip to keep from smiling. Mom attempting not to interfere with my life was rather entertaining to watch.

  “Have I what?”

  “Niki, you know what I’m asking—”

  “Mom, leave her alone, would you?”

  I smiled at the sound of Jasmine’s voice just outside the room and looked over just in time to see her throw herself through the doorway. It had been a few weeks since we’d seen each other, and I was hoping she’d come say goodbye before I left for Mumbai.

  “It looks like a tornado passed through here,” she said, looking around my room. Indeed, there were clothes, jewelry, and odds and ends everywhere, only a fraction of which had actually ended up in the suitcase. “Ooh, what’s that?” She reached for the canary yellow sari, and then held it against herself in the mirror.

  “Damn, this is my color.” She turned to Mom. “Can I have it?”

  “No.” I laughed. “It’s mine.”

  “Actually, it’s mine. Niki is borrowing it and then giving it straight back.” Mom grabbed the sari from Jasmine and tucked it back in the bag. “Have you eaten?”

  “Sort of,” she answered. “I had a bag of chips in the car—”

  “That’s not dinner,” Mom said flatly.

  “It has the same amount of calories, though.”

  Mom turned to me, her eyebrows raised, but all I could do was shrug. When I was feeling lazy and my parents weren’t home, I’d also been known to eat an entire bag of chips instead of dinner.

  Mom went downstairs mumbling about nutrition and promises to return with leftover subji, and I watched Jasmine rummage through my things. She stopped beneath the window at my full-sized electronic keyboard. It was dusty AF, and I winced as she plopped down on the stool and started banging away on the keys.

  “Can you not?”

  “Well, you’re not playing.”

  As Jasmine played “Chopsticks,” I crawled up from the floor to the bed and curled myself into a sideways fetal position. A minute later, she stopped playing and flopped down next to me.

  “So, what’s new?”

  “You know what’s new.”

  “Yeah,” she giggled. “You’re going to India. And you’re dating an Indian doctor all of a sudden. Way to show me up.”

  “It’s not exactly hard.” I nestled into her, her chest rising and falling as she laughed. “And we’ve only been on one date, remember?”

  “Want to talk about it?” she asked, and I shook my head.

  “Not much to say. I’ll see him when I’m back.” I paused. I could hear Mom and Dad banging around in the kitchen downstairs warming up Jasmine’s dinner, and I knew we had only another minute together, just the two of us. “Any advice for traveling?”

  “I brought you my plane pack,” she answered. “It’s downstairs. Don’t lose it.”

  I laughed, remembering the dorky purple fanny pack she took on all of her travels abroad, full of everything from pressure socks to ginger chews, which helped with upset stomachs and nausea, to a deck of Uno cards.

  “Thanks.” I breathed in and got a whiff of the weird organic shampoo she used.

  Jasmine went quiet, and when I looked up at her, she was studying me like a chemistry textbook—a high school subject both of us nearly failed. Her jaw was tense.

  “What?”

  “I’m worried about you.”

  I guffawed. Mom and Dad had said the exact same thing.

  “Is everything OK?” She paused. “Planning an overseas trip on two days’ notice is very unlike you—”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Well, being me hasn’t exactly worked out, has it?”

  She reached her hand out and started petting my hair like I was a cat. It was kind of weird, but she did it all the time, and I’d actually grown to find it comforting.

  “I’m really sorry you got laid off,” she said. Her voice was small, but I knew she felt terrible. That was the thing with Jasmine. She was wildly unpredictable, but she was incredibly genuine, so when she said something you knew she meant it.

  I wrapped my arms around her, cuddling up the way we used to when we were kids. “I’m sorry, too.”

  “Why?”

  I shrugged. I still felt horrible for bad-mouthing her to Raj during our date.

  “You said your boss is a nice guy, right?” Jasmine smiled. “He’ll write you a good ref—”

  “Let’s not talk about me,” I interrupted, forcing out a smile. “How are you? What are you working on these days? I really liked that video you posted this morning.”

  “You mean the talking fish with the beanie?”

  I nodded, even though I’d been thinking about something else. “What was that about?”

  “Oh!” Jasmine beamed. “Well, the city is launching an environmental justice campaign in public schools this spring. And they hired us to animate a video for it!”

  I swallowed hard. “Really?”

  “Yeah! It’s so cool. Right now, we’re still in the planning stages. We’re working with a bunch of producers and scriptwriters, and we’ll have to make sure it’s super shareable and social media friendly, you know? Like, it would be so great if we could get it trending as some sort of TikTok challenge . . .”

  I listened to her talk about the video until my parents came up with dinner, and Mom and I resumed packing while Jasmine ate noisily on my bed.

  Jasmine had a job she was passionate about. A boyfriend she loved, even though the rest of us didn’t. She was happy and free and comfortable in her own skin and—

  I stopped myself before that very unflattering train of thought could run away again.

  I loved Jasmine more than anything, honestly. I didn’t actually begrudge her happiness. I just wished that I had managed to find some happiness, too.

  CHAPTER 5

  Even though I’d made the plans, secured a visa, packed, and said all my goodbyes, it didn’t really hit me that I was going to India until twelve hours later, when I found myself at the very back of the biggest jumbo jet I’d ever been on.

  I’d never traveled alone before, let alone gone on an international flight that took me to the other side of the Pacific Ocean, but I was prepared. I had Jasmine’s fully stocked plane pack and snacks galore, and had downloaded the entire discography of Lady Gaga, Kendrick Lamar, and Metric to keep me occupied if I found myself awake and bored on the fourteen-hour flight to New Delhi.

  I glanced around at the nearby passengers. Everyone seemed to be playing with the screen on the headrest in front of them. Curious, I spent the rest of the boarding period scrolling through the in-flight entertainment options, quietly fist-pumping when I discovered it had the first few seasons of Sex and the City.

  Plugging in my earphones, I picked one of my favorite episodes and happily sank into my seat. I was very aware the show hadn’t aged well, and Mr. Big was a big dick that Carrie shouldn’t have pined over, but I still loved it. Years ago, when Mom and Dad were asleep, Jasmine and I would sneak down to the living room and binge episodes until we got caught.

  I settled in, barely even registering when the plane took off as I watched Carrie sneak away from her friends to go over to Big’s apartment and then throw her arms around him in a passionate embrace.

  My eyelids felt heavy as my daydreams merged with the show. Kissing her deeply, he steered her toward the bedroom. I squirmed in my seat, imagining someone’s arms around me like that. Peeling off my dress—couture, of course—twisting my ponytail into a knot as he pulled me closer to him.

  For a moment I thought that, maybe, it could be Raj. I blinked, but his face disappeared; it wasn’t him.

  No. It was someone else, a man I’d never met but who conveniently had the looks and general sex god aura of Chris Hemsworth and Riz Ahmed c
ombined. My breathing turned shallow as I imagined us together, rolling around, our limbs intertwined, his mouth wet against my neck . . .

  Niki, I love you, baby.

  Oh, Chris/Riz, I want you—

  I felt something shift next to me. I blinked, trying to ignore the passenger next to me and stay focused on the moment. But they moved again, and hesitantly, I glanced their way only to discover my immediate neighbor was about eight years old.

  And he was watching Carrie and Mr. Big seriously get it on.

  I panicked, pressing my hand against the screen. Still, between my fingers, I could see their limbs moving. Damp, bare skin. I tugged out my earphones and fumbled with the control buttons, sighing in relief when I finally managed to get the show turned off.

  “You shouldn’t be watching that,” I stammered. My face was hot, and I was too embarrassed to look at the kid. “Where are your parents?”

  “Up there. We couldn’t get any seats together.” He gestured vaguely toward the front of the plane. “Where’s your husband?”

  “I don’t have a husband.”

  “Do you have a boyfriend?”

  He blinked at me, his eyelashes annoyingly longer than my own.

  “You shouldn’t ask people that,” I replied, eyeing him. “But no. I don’t have a boyfriend.”

  “Is that why you’re watching porn?”

  My mouth dropped.

  Damn it. Maybe the kid was onto something.

  * * *

  • • •

  The kid, Vivek, wasn’t so bad in the end (especially when he was asleep). But for the few hours we were both awake, he let me watch a new Disney movie on his iPad with him, and I shared some of my snacks. We high-fived when we parted ways. He also asked me on a date when we both got back to Seattle. (With the heaviest of hearts, I had to tell him no. I also texted Dad to make sure he knew I was still capable of meeting people in real life, even if they weren’t Matthew McConaughey or of legal age . . .)

  As I went through customs and navigated the massive airport, my head felt foggy. I was both overheated and chilled to the bone, and wandered aimlessly through the terminal while I waited out my layover. My parents had warned me not to drink the water in India, as my stomach wasn’t used to it, and so I cautiously brushed my teeth and washed my face in the restroom with bottled water I bought from a vending machine.

  I slept like a rock on the two-hour flight to Mumbai and woke up feeling slightly refreshed. I picked up my suitcase from baggage claim and, with a spring in my step, made my way outside the terminal.

  I didn’t know what to expect, but what I found outside wasn’t it. The bright sun and humidity. The smog. The sheer noise and volume of people standing outside in the collection area was overwhelming. I felt dread and excitement in equal measure hanging thick in the air like a noxious cloud of emotion. I waited outside, my skin damp beneath my sweatshirt. Should arriving in India have felt like I was coming home?

  Because it didn’t. I’d never even been here.

  * * *

  • • •

  Diya eventually found me at the airport, and we caught up on the drive back to her apartment. Even from the car, I could tell there was a pulse to Mumbai, quick and unpredictable. Until you are stuck in an Indian traffic jam of speeding cars, rickshaws, scooters, and occasional livestock, you can never really know what it’s like.

  The city, or at least the parts I was seeing speeding by in Diya’s red Hyundai, was hard to describe and impossible to compare to anything I had ever seen before. It was a hodgepodge of apartment buildings and shop fronts, markets and thoroughfares, a devastating collision of both unimaginable wealth and poverty.

  “You get used to it,” Diya said at one point, catching me staring at a makeshift shelter by the side of the road. Beneath it were several families, including small children playing in the ditch.

  I didn’t respond, unsure about what to say.

  “Inequality is everywhere, Niki,” Diya continued. “Even in Seattle. Some countries are simply better at hiding it.”

  I smiled weakly. She was right. But it didn’t make it any less difficult to see up close.

  Diya’s family lived in a three-bedroom apartment on the twentieth floor of a high-rise apartment building. She’d moved back in with them after college abroad, and it was wonderful to see her parents after so long. They’d visited Diya at least once a year in Seattle and always took us out to dinner and insisted I call them by their nicknames—Auntie Jo and Uncle Jo. (Their last name was Joshi.) They took me on a tour of the place as lunch was being prepared, and when Uncle Jo caught me admiring the view during the tour, he tracked down a map to orient me.

  They lived in a western suburb called Bandra, neighboring both the ocean and glamorous South Bombay. With a pen, Auntie Jo drew an X through all the places she recommended I visit during my time with them, everything from their favorite Marathi restaurants to Chowpatty Beach to Colaba at the southernmost tip of the peninsula, which still had strong elements of Bombay’s history as a Portuguese colony. I was surprised to see them call their home Bombay instead of Mumbai, even though the name had switched back from the British’s botched pronunciation decades ago. I suppose that’s what they were used to calling it.

  “How was the drive from the airport, Niki?” Uncle Jo asked me after we ate. I was stuffed. Their cook was a lovely woman named Pinky, and she’d prepared a delicious fish curry dish, which we ate with rice. For dessert, Auntie Jo laid out the box of chocolates I’d brought and Mom’s pinni, which I’d given them immediately on arrival and seemed to be a big hit.

  “We could have sent our driver,” Auntie Jo added. “However, my bullheaded daughter insisted on picking you up herself.”

  I knocked shoulders with Diya, silently thanking her for the hours she’d spent in the car to come get me.

  “The drive was . . .” I hesitated, trying to come up with the right word. “Exciting.”

  “So diplomatic!” Uncle Jo exclaimed. “There is a saying here in India. While driving, all you need is good brakes, a good horn, and good luck!”

  I laughed. Auntie Jo and Diya looked like they’d heard the joke before.

  After lunch, Diya insisted I try to nap, as we’d be out late that night celebrating Diwali. I slept deeply until midafternoon, waking up to Diya and her parents exclaiming loudly in the kitchen over wedding plans, which was only a week away.

  I felt guilty arriving as a houseguest at such an inconvenient time, but when I mentioned this to Diya, she rolled her eyes and told me to “chill,” and that they were excited to have me around to keep the family sane during what promised to be a hectic time. Still, I’d booked myself a room at a hotel for once the wedding festivities commenced, one where a lot of their out-of-town guests were staying.

  I felt like a new woman after showering, and Diya and I got ready together in her room like we did back in college for a night out, sharing makeup, hair products, and Diya’s curling iron while sipping on cold beer as we chatted our faces off. We covered the topics all old friends talk about when they haven’t seen each other in a while. Family and friendship. Love and careers. For about ten minutes, when both of us were feeling particularly existential, we even brushed up on the meaning of life. (And didn’t come to any profound or even sensible conclusions.)

  Even though it stung, it felt good to talk about the layoff and my nervousness about finding a new job, and Diya cathartically vented about how challenging it had been the past six months balancing familial expectations for her traditional Hindu wedding and working seventy hours a week.

  “It’s like my managing partner is waiting for me to screw up or miss a day of work.” Diya stopped abruptly, riffled through her closet until she found the pair of heels she was searching for. “I could not miss even one beat, Niki. Do you know what he said to me when I announced the engagement?”

  I
shook my head, watching her.

  “He did not even congratulate me. He said, ‘When can I expect your notice now that you are taken care of?’ ”

  My jaw dropped. “He said what?”

  “I will show him,” Diya muttered, as she pulled out a pair of nude heels. “Pretty soon, I will be taking his job.”

  I stood up and gave Diya a high five and told her I was proud of her. Even though Diya was privileged, she was still a woman, and sexism cut through everything—class or caste or socioeconomic status—no matter the industry. No matter the country. Back home, tech was notoriously male, and although strides were being taken to make the industry more equitable, there was still a way to go. At my old company, the board of executives that had mandated that ten percent of the company be laid off was made up of one hundred percent men.

  “Bus. I have a few weeks off now,” Diya added. “And I am allowed to be excited for my own damn wedding. Finally.”

  I winked at her. Finally was right. She and Mihir had been together since high school, and long distance at least half of that time. Finally they’d be “allowed” to share a bed or go on vacation together without lying to their parents about how many hotel rooms they were getting.

  “What about you,” Diya said, switching gears. “Do you have further updates on Raj? Have you texted him to say you arrived safely?”

  I shook my head, applying Diya’s cream eye shadow to my lids. I’d checked in with my family, but that was it.

  “Niki,” she warned, causing me to look over. Diya was standing in front of the mirror, adjusting the rose gold dupatta that matched her lengha. “You don’t want this to fizzle out, do you?”

  I hesitated, about to say one thing but then opted on another. “I guess I don’t.”

  “Then text him.” She smiled. “Let him know you are thinking about him.”

  “Now?”

  “Now.”

  I obediently texted Raj and then tossed my phone on the bed. I’d done my hair and makeup and even had jewelry on, but I was still wearing Diya’s bathrobe over my undies. I still hadn’t decided whether or not to wear Mom’s canary yellow sari or my standard black cocktail dress that I’d worn at least fifteen times.