by Sonya Lalli
I have another acronym for you.
I looked down as he texted me, my breath baited as I waited for Sam’s next message.
YOLO
At some point during the evening, my mood had turned for the better. I’d left the weight of the day behind me and immersed myself in the spirit of celebration. The party. The present.
But what was the present? Why allow myself to get carried away with something that could never last into the future?
You only live once.
I thought about saying yes to the date, and then I thought about saying no. And then I thought about making a joke that, actually, according to both of our religions, we didn’t only live once; we could be reincarnated.
Before I’d made up my mind one way or another, the group finished up dinner, and I was whisked away to the bar, the dance floor, and then to attend to Diya, who had gotten overwhelmed by the attention and drunk a little too much. At the end of the night, when it was only the younger guests left at the party, I found Sam lingering in the foyer, waiting for me. I froze midstep, my stomach dropping at the sight of him.
“Niki!”
I tore my eyes away from Sam and toward Mihir’s best man, who had called out my name. He and his wife were piling into a taxi.
“Aren’t we staying at the same hotel?”
I bit my lip, nodding. I remembered seeing them in the lobby.
“Then we’ll take you back!” his wife exclaimed. “Are you ready to go?”
I shifted my weight between my heels. My feet hurt, and my head was starting to pound from lack of water or sleep or maybe both. I didn’t know if I was ready for a date with Sam, and what that would mean, but I knew that I was in no state to decide.
I smiled in thanks, walking toward the taxi, and right before I stepped inside, I turned around.
Sam had disappeared.
CHAPTER 15
When I got back to the hotel, I threw myself on the bed, too lazy to take off my lengha first. I opened the message app on my phone. Sam hadn’t texted me again, and it was no wonder. He’d asked me on a date, and not only did I not give him an answer; he’d seen me leave without trying to say goodbye.
I wasn’t an experienced dater, but I was proficient enough to know the ball was firmly in my court. If I wanted to go on that date, I needed to make the next move.
I rolled onto my back, stuffing a pillow beneath my head. In my very sheltered love life, I’d never made a “move” on anyone, and as I thought about what to do, I realized I needed an outside perspective. From someone with lots of dating experience.
“Go for Jasmine!”
My sister answered the video call on the first ring. She was at her tiny kitchen table, where she sat when working from home, and still in her pajamas. She grinned at the sight of me.
“Are you wearing makeup?”
“I just got home from the sangeet.” I laughed.
“Well, you look nice. Let me see your full outfit.”
I complied, holding my phone out to show her.
“Is that mine?”
I shook my head, just as I realized that it was indeed hers. Right. Jasmine had bought it to wear to the Sharma wedding over the summer. Not me. I’d worn the silvery green thing that went out of fashion like two days later.
“It’s fine,” she said blandly. “Just give me Mom’s yellow sari when you get home, OK? Brian’s work Christmas party is black tie this year, so I gotta dress up.”
I nodded, trying not to roll my eyes. Brian. Ugh.
“So,” Jasmine said, pressing a mug of coffee to her lips. “What’s up?”
“Well, I wanted to take you up on your offer.” I paused. “To talk—”
“About that doctor?”
I squirmed. “No . . .”
I got nervous and started stalling, and thank god Jasmine didn’t have any pressing deadlines that morning, because it took her a good half hour to drag it out of me. Not just what was and wasn’t going on with Sam, but the full backstory, too. How I’d gotten drunk with Raj on our first date, and even though I hadn’t heard from him in a while, he’d said he wanted to see me when I got back to Seattle. How I’d literally fallen (in a pool) meeting the hottest, sweetest, and most charming musician, Sam from the Band, a guy I could have literally copied and pasted from my wildest fantasy.
How I couldn’t stop thinking about him and was very tempted to text him right now and tell him as much.
The conversation made me want to dunk my head under cold water, but I think Jasmine really enjoyed me coming to her for once with a problem, something that I didn’t already have the answer for. She listened to me patiently, tapping a ballpoint pen against her laminate table. After I was done babbling, she took a deep breath and leaned toward the screen.
“Niki,” she said tentatively. “The answer is very simple.”
I held my breath, ready for her version of the answer.
“Yeah?”
“I think you should walk away from Sam.”
Wait, what? Jasmine wanted me to . . . walk away?
“Not because of Raj. You don’t owe him anything . . . His family is probably setting him up with other girls, too, you know.”
Jasmine droned on as my stomach bottomed out at the thought of saying no to Sam. At the realization that her advice wasn’t what I wanted to hear.
“You’ve only been on one date,” continued Jasmine. “And you said it yourself—he’s been too busy to text you back—”
“This isn’t about Raj,” I interrupted. “This is about Sam. And I like him, Jasmine. So why exactly should I walk away from him?”
Jasmine smirked. “You called me hoping I would encourage you to go have dinner with Sam, didn’t you? Have a fling on your little ‘break’?”
“No,” I insisted. “I—”
“You totally did!” She laughed. “It’s fine. I get it. Sure, maybe I’m the type to have a fling on vacation, but you aren’t, Niki. You’re going to catch feelings.”
“I am not!”
“You’ve already caught them. You’re sick about him.” She pointed at me. “I can see it all over your face.”
“It’s been a long time, Jasmine. Maybe I’m just horny!”
Laughing, Jasmine grabbed her blue-light glasses from offscreen, pushed them up her nose. Suddenly, I was irritated and desperate to end this conversation as soon as possible.
Fun, giggly Jasmine thought she could go around doing whatever she wanted her whole life, and then tell me not to? How was that fair?
* * *
• • •
Jasmine’s stupid voice telling me to “walk away” wouldn’t get out of my head. I heard it while taking off my makeup. While I organized my suitcase and watched reruns of Indian Idol. As I tossed and turned trying to fall asleep, debating whether or not to go on a date with Sam.
In the end, I didn’t text him back. Jasmine planted a seed of doubt, and overnight, it bloomed.
I tried not to think about Sam over the next two days. At Diya’s mehndi party, which was for women and girls only, and where we applied henna to our hands and feet. And then the following day at the haldi, the pooja done ahead of the wedding to purify and bless the happy couple.
I knew Sam was invited to the haldi, and so I mentally prepared myself to see him. He might have lost interest in me after I blew him off, but on the chance he didn’t, what would I say to him? What if he asked me on another date?
I took a seat at the back and watched the ceremony, as Diya and Mihir’s loved ones took turns marking their faces, limbs, and clothing with the potent turmeric paste. It started off serious, but by the end, some of their friends were getting creative with the application, and Diya and Mihir started shrieking in protest—worried that the yellow would stain their skin.
Even though I enjoyed the celebration, my eyes ke
pt involuntarily leaving the happy couple in search of Sam. Sometimes I thought I felt him staring at me, but when I turned to look, it was never him.
Where was he? As one of Diya’s closest friends, he should be here. It was strange that he wasn’t.
I stayed until the very end, and when Sam still didn’t show up, I went back to my hotel room, deflated. I had the whole evening free. Had I been planning to say yes to him in person? To “make a move” and whisk him away for an impromptu dinner date?
Stretching on the floor of my hotel room, I channel surfed until I landed on a Bollywood movie from the early 2000s, one of my favorites, with snowflakes and moonlit walks, featuring Kajol and Shah Rukh Khan. It was romantic and cheesy, and watching it, I physically ached for Sam. For something I would now never get the chance to see through.
Tomorrow was the wedding, and with more than fifteen hundred guests, and the venue as large as Diya had described, I might not even see Sam. And the morning after, bright and early, I was leaving for Amritsar.
CHAPTER 16
The big day finally arrived. I put on some bold eye shadow, a gold lengha that also technically belonged to Jasmine, and my best I-do-not-care-about-Sam smile. I was determined to not allow my lusty little crush to distract me from enjoying Diya’s wedding day.
While Diya and her family got ready, the bridesmaids and I sat around in their hotel suite reminiscing and trading Diya stories. Today was the traditional Hindu wedding ceremony, and so they didn’t have a formal role, nor were they wearing matching outfits. Even though it was superficial, the fact that I wasn’t left out finally made me feel like a real bridesmaid, too, and I even teared up a bit when Diya instructed the photographer to include me in all the bridal party photos.
The wedding was at an outdoor venue with an expansive lawn and gardens, the mandap a glittering sun at its center. As modern as Diya was, she’d opted for more traditional decorations, choosing saffron, white, red, and golden marigold garlands, which cascaded over every inch of the wedding altar.
She looked like a princess up there in her rose gold lengha, a heavy bridal dupatta pinned to her head. Mihir looked handsome, too, but I couldn’t take my eyes off her. I stood up near the front with the wedding party. The pundit spoke in Sanskrit, and even the Hindus among the group didn’t understand the ancient language, but I’d been to enough weddings to understand the intent behind most of the rituals he performed. It was spiritual and beautiful, and as the sky turned to dusk, I felt like I’d been transported into another world.
The ceremony was absolutely magical, and I was so, so happy for my Diya.
After the ceremony, ushers passed out baskets of flower petals to shower the couple with blessings. There were guests everywhere, and by the time I’d lined up and offered my blessings, I had lost track of the rest of the wedding party. I scanned the crowd for a few minutes, and when I couldn’t find any familiar faces, I helped myself to the dinner buffet on the other side of the venue and found an empty seat at a table.
My eating companions were one Dr. Raman Mehta and her husband, Mr. Akshay Mehta; Henry Asquith III, self-proclaimed savant and business partner of Raj’s parents; a stuffy trio of aunties, who smiled at no one and spoke only among themselves; and Mihir’s mother’s new yoga instructor, Blake. A white guy who was wearing a kurta pajama so thin I could see his nipples through it, flip-flops, and a man bun.
Seriously.
Blake dominated the table conversation (for those participating) and told us all about his spiritual journey through Bali, Thailand, and now India, where he’d been living for six months.
He had wise eyes and a voice like a warm bath, so incredibly calming it was as if the words he was actually saying didn’t matter. Which was true. Because Blake—or Yogi Blake, as he requested we call him—was completely full of shit.
I had my spiritual awakening illegally paddle boarding through a nature reserve?
I always do my sun salutations after the sun goes down. Magic mushroom shakes really limber you up . . . ?
Like, what?
“So, how does one train to be a yogi?” I asked after devouring my dinner and having had enough of his crap.
Yogi Blake’s eyes bulged, but he didn’t answer.
“I’m very curious—”
“So, where are you from, Niki?” he interrupted. “Where has your journey taken you?”
“It’s taken me here,” I said stiffly. “All the stars must have aligned.”
“Do you believe in astrology?”
“Do yogis?”
Blake, sorry, Yogi Blake, smiled at me surreptitiously and then glanced up at the sky. “There is so much to see and to learn, to absorb, and we must take it upon ourselves to reflect . . .”
Here we go . . .
“. . . and to balance the ancient wisdom with the knowledge of today’s modern world.”
I smiled at him, pleasantly surprised by the left turn in conversation.
“Like, with science? I agree—”
“Yes, science. Sure. Whatever you want to call it.” Yogi Blake sat forward, his eyes simultaneously piercing and glazed over. “Do you have a telescope?”
I hesitated. “No.”
He stretched his hand toward the sky, as if reaching for something. “I keep mine on the terrace. I go out there every night.”
“Isn’t there too much light pollution in Mumbai to see anything?”
“It depends on what you’re looking for.”
“With a telescope, don’t you look for . . . stars?”
“Can you keep a secret?” he whispered, so the others couldn’t hear. “It’s not all stars up there, Niki.”
I braced myself but still wasn’t fully prepared for the next thing that fell out of his mouth.
“There are UFOs.”
“As in . . . unidentified—”
“Flying objects. Yes. They’re everywhere.” Yogi Blake leaned in, one eyebrow a caterpillar crawling down the side of his face. “They’re watching us—”
“There you are, love.”
I froze hearing Sam’s voice just behind me. A beat later, I felt his hand on my shoulder.
“Shall we go fetch the kids?”
“Yes!” I looked up at him, grinning. “Yes, please.”
“You have children?” Yogi Blake exclaimed. “That’s wonderful. I’ve been thinking about writing a parenting book.”
“Oh, yeah?” I asked, standing up. “How many kids do you have?”
“None,” he answered. “But I was a child once.”
I glanced at Sam, who looked both amused and shocked, and without another word to the “yogi,” I led him away to a different, unoccupied table.
“Thank you,” I said laughing, as we took our seats. “How long were you standing there?”
Sam set down two glass bottles of Limca, which I just noticed he’d been carrying. “Long enough to hear that aliens are watching us.”
“They are watching us, Sam.”
“Oh, I know.” Sam pointed at a group of aunties gawking at us. “See?”
I grinned so hard my face hurt. “Do you know them?”
“No,” he said blandly. “But I’m Aasha’s youngest son. So they know me.”
“It sounds like you have a reputation around here.”
Sam shook his head. “It’s Mom who has the reputation.”
I watched Sam’s strong hands twist off the caps to the Limca bottles, and when he handed me one of them, I took a long, refreshing swig. I didn’t want to feel excited that he’d come looking for me, but I couldn’t help it. My heart was thundering away like a drum line.
“So,” I said, trying to act casual. “Where were you yesterday?”
“Why? Did you miss me?”
“You didn’t skip Diya’s haldi to play hard to get, did you?”
“And
what if I did?”
I raised my eyebrows, unable to tell if he was joking. “But you just couldn’t stay away . . .”
“I could have, but I felt bad you were trapped chatting to that gora.” Sam nodded at the bottles of Limca. “Plus, you looked rather thirsty.”
I laughed, squinting at him. “Did you just tell me I look thirsty?”
Sam picked up the bottle nearest him and sipped from it. “Yes?”
“That’s very rude.”
“How, might I ask?”
“Thirsty means . . . desperate.” I lowered my voice. “Like, I’m thirsty for some action.”
“Are you?”
“No!”
Sam grinned, pulling his chair close to me. “You do realize that by sitting here with me, we’re having dinner together.”
“I already ate dinner. With Yogi Blake. Have you eaten?”
“Yes. But I’ll take what I can get.”
“So maybe you’re the thirsty one.”
Sam held my gaze as he brought his bottle of Limca to his lips. He tilted his head back ever so slightly, the cold lemon-lime liquid falling out of the bottle.
“So thirsty.” I shook my head as I watched him drink. I didn’t mention that I was feeling, uh, a bit parched myself. That he looked so damn good tonight I was mentally relieving him of his clothing.
“I’ve prepared a few talking points,” Sam said, setting down the bottle. “In case conversation during the big date went awry.”
“It’s gone awry,” I said mildly. “What’s the first topic?”
“You, of course.” Sam smiled. “And the fact that you’re a musician.”
My jaw stiffened. Sam had tried to probe the subject a few times on Diwali, but I’d steered the conversation away because I was embarrassed. I used to spend every free hour practicing the piano or loitering in the aisles of HMV or listening to any new-to-me music I could get my hands on. But somewhere along the line, I’d gotten too busy studying or working or bingeing Netflix. I’d let my passion slip away.
