A Holly Jolly Diwali

by Sonya Lalli

  “Well, it’s delicious,” I said, smiling at both of them. I had promised Jasmine I would try, too, and was determined to hold up my end of the bargain.

  My phone buzzed beside me on the table, and my muscles tensed when I saw the caller display.

  “Who is it?” she asked.

  I held up the phone.

  “Rajandeep Singh Sahota,” she read slowly, and a beat later, her eyes brightened. “Oh, him. Answer it!”

  “We’re eating dinner—”

  Jasmine grabbed the phone from my hand and set it to speakerphone.

  “Hello?” Raj’s voice blared through my phone, and I kicked Jasmine hard under the table as Brian voluntarily took his plate into the bedroom.

  “Hey,” I said finally. My voice was weird, so I cleared my throat. “Hey, Raj.”

  Jasmine rolled her eyes at my tone, and I had to press my hand over my mouth to keep from giggling.

  “Did I catch you at a bad time?”

  “Not at all,” I managed to say. I paused, composing myself. “Having dinner with my sister. What are you up to?”

  “Oh, you know,” he answered. “I’m just in my car, listening to a power ballad, wondering why you never called me. Again.”

  “Poor you.” I raised one eyebrow at Jasmine, who was devouring her salmon and nodding approvingly. “Sounds like you’re having a terrible night.”

  “It could get better.”

  “Could it?”

  Raj laughed. “I went into the hospital just now thinking I was on call, and turns out, I’m not. I have the night off.”

  “Lucky you.”

  “I’ll be lucky if you meet me for a drink.”

  I bit down on my bottom lip. I was smiling. I was flirting. For the first time in weeks, I wasn’t feeling out-of-my-mind depressed. It had been three days since I’d run into Raj at the tapas bar, and although I hadn’t felt ready to make a move back toward the dating world, now that I was talking to him, I was kind of . . . excited.

  I glanced up at Jasmine, for permission. She was nodding at me like a crazy person, and making rather lewd gestures with her hands. I grinned.

  “Where and when?” I said slowly, into the phone.

  “Michael’s on Fifth,” Raj answered. “Give me an hour?”

  “Michael’s on Fifth,” I repeated. I’d been to that bar before, but only once; it was a little too swanky for my taste. “Well, if you’re lucky, I’ll see you there in an hour.”

  I ended the call without saying another word and immediately started shoveling the rest of my dinner into my mouth. It would take me about twenty minutes to drive there, and I knew Jasmine would insist on an exhaustive grooming routine before she let me out of her sight. I was barely wearing any makeup, and I’d borrowed Mom’s middle-aged-woman-looking cardigan for the interview.

  “So,” I heard Jasmine say, and I looked up from my dinner. “Since when did you learn how to flirt?”

  “I learned from the best,” I winked, my mouth full of food.

  “You’ll need to brush your teeth,” Jasmine said dryly. “We have an extra toothbrush somewhere. Brian’s teriyaki always makes my breath stink.”

  I finished chewing, studying Jasmine’s face. “I don’t have to go. I’m really enjoying our dinner . . .”

  “Right,” she smirked, lowering her voice. “It sucks. You’ll be doing me a favor if you leave.”

  I couldn’t tell if she wanted me to go or if subconsciously she needed me to stay. “Jasmine—”

  “Please. Go.” She smiled. “Go figure things out with Rajandeep.” She glanced through the doorway to the bedroom. The door was ajar, and on the other side, we could just hear the distinctive, whiny noises of some video game. “You and I both need to figure a few things out.”

  * * *

  • • •

  One hour and thirteen minutes later, I walked into Michael’s on Fifth and spotted Raj in one of the booths. I had swapped out Mom’s cardigan for one of Jasmine’s funky tops and was wearing lipstick about two shades darker than I usually wore, my big sister’s signature Mac shade, Viva Glam. I smiled brightly and pulled back my shoulders when he caught sight of me, trying to look the part of Confident Girl Goes on a Second Date, when really my insides were squirming.

  “I was just about to give up on you,” Raj said as I sat down opposite him.

  “Traffic.” I pulled off my coat. “Everyone must have a Christmas party to get to.”

  Raj flagged down our server, and I ordered a cocktail off the menu. I was feeling better than I had since I left Goa, and as the tingle of prosecco and Aperol warmed my cheeks and released the tension in my chest, I found myself having a good time. No. A wonderful time.

  Sam who? I felt like shouting it out loud, although that would have been weird because I was in public and on a date with someone else. With someone who realistically could be a part of my life. Raj was outgoing and sweet, and there was a touch of something wild about him that gave the impression we’d never run out of things to talk about.

  Sam lived in India. He was in the past. And this flirty, handsome, parental-approved guy here in Seattle could be in my future. Right?

  After our second round of drinks, I was bursting and excused myself to the restroom, and took the opportunity to apply a bit more lipstick and return Jasmine’s text checking in on me. I replied with a handful of select emojis and then left the restroom.

  But when I fully pushed open the door, something made me linger in the entranceway. Raj was still at the booth, facing away from me, and our server was back even though she’d only just checked on us five minutes earlier.

  It was clear they were flirting, the way she was smiling and twirling her hair. I couldn’t see Raj’s face, but when he turned his head, I caught sight of his profile and that toothy, slightly drunk-looking grin of his.

  I didn’t want to jump to conclusions, and I was about to brush it off and make my way back to the table, but then the waiter placed something on the table.

  My eyes narrowed. It wasn’t the bill. It was too small. It was a business card. She was giving him her phone number. Raj studied it for a moment, and when he slipped it into his jacket pocket, everything fell into place and hit me over the head like a frying pan.

  All night, I’d thought it was dorky, even cute, the way he always seemed to be looking off into space, distracted by his own thoughts, when now it was fairly evident his eyes wandered every time our server was nearby.

  I inhaled sharply, as bits and pieces of information, red flags, and outright warnings all came rushing back.

  Our first date, he’d been a relentless flirt, gotten me drunk at the sushi bar, and invited me back to his place. Twice. I thought he’d been joking, but maybe he wasn’t; he’d been trying to take a sad, vulnerable, and very drunk girl home. And now that I thought about it, Raj had stopped texting me back in India only after I started to show more interest and messaged him back more quickly. Even the tapas bar where I’d run into him days earlier was a notorious place to pick up people. And what was it Masooma had said about him?

  Guys like that need to make the first move.

  Guys like that. I laughed, shaking my head. Even Masooma had seen right through him, and she’d known him for about five minutes.

  Our server had her legs pressed against the table, and when Raj started stroking her inner thigh, I backtracked into the restroom, my jaw hanging open, and went to stand over the sink.

  I evaluated myself in the mirror, top to toe, wondering how on earth I could have been so naive. I’d assumed that Gaurav would automatically be a good boyfriend because he was a harmless, nerdy Indian boy. That Sam was an insincere player—when he was anything but that—just because he was a musician. And later, that it was rational to move mountains to be with him without exploring any of our other options.

  And just n
ow, I’d assumed that Raj might be interested in settling down just because our families had introduced us. Without knowing anything beyond Raj’s ability to check a few of the right boxes, I’d been on the verge of getting carried away on a fantasy all over again.

  “I like this place,” I said to Raj, after giving him another three minutes to feel up our server. She’d returned to her post behind the bar, and I quickly glanced in her direction. “Do you come here often?”

  “Not often, no.” Raj smiled vaguely. He took another sip of his martini, studying me. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m perfect.”

  He bit his lower lip. “You are.”

  I beamed at him, but inside I was gagging.

  “How about a third round?” Raj asked. He’d finished his martini, and I was on the dredges of my second drink, a beer. I picked up my glass and downed the last of it.

  “Can’t. I’m driving.”

  “What happened to fun Niki from our first date?”

  “The kind that gets drunk on a Wednesday afternoon?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “She’s had a long day, Raj.”

  “You don’t want to make it a bit longer?” He was trying to be seductive, his tongue rolling around in his mouth just a bit too much for comfort. Ten minutes earlier, I would have thought it was a joke, but now I knew he wasn’t kidding.

  I flirted for fun, for laughs. He flirted to get laid.

  When the server brought over our check, I played dumb and reached for the billfold before Raj was able to, reminding him it was my turn, as he’d paid for our lunch date.

  “I’ll get it next time,” Raj said only after our server had taken payment and was out of earshot. “I’m thinking. A heavy red. Dinner.” He paused for effect. “My place for dessert?”

  “Absolutely,” I lied. I now knew what I deserved and what kind of guy deserved me, and Raj was not it. “Sounds like a blast.”

  CHAPTER 36

  I listened to Spotify on the drive home, shuffling through my liked songs, relieved that I’d figured out my pattern of behavior just in time to save myself from Raj. When I was nearly home, “Guess the Star” by Perihelion came on, and even though I was tempted to skip the track, I didn’t.

  Shoegaze music was dream pop, otherworldly, and this song, which Sam wrote, was one of the best I’d ever heard of the genre. My hands trembled on the wheel during Sam’s bass solo whenever I could clearly hear his voice singing in harmony to the lead’s during the chorus, but I pushed through it. I loved his music. And I wanted to get to a point where I could listen to it, or even think of him without feeling sad.

  I wasn’t there yet. Not even close. But one day, I knew I would be.

  I could hear the television on in my parents’ bedroom when I arrived home to a dark house. I was a grown woman, and I didn’t have a curfew, but my parents always waited up for me. They said they couldn’t sleep unless they knew I was home safe.

  I trudged up the stairs and found them both in bed in their pajamas, Dad half asleep with his head lolled to the side while Mom flicked through channels at random. I watched them for a moment before making my presence known, inexplicably happy to see them like this together. To know that, as annoying as it was, they always, always waited up for me.

  “I’m home.”

  Dad snorted himself awake, and they both turned to look at the same time. I came into the room and flopped down on the end of their bed.

  “Fun night?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Did Brian really cook?”

  I nodded, propping myself up on my elbow to face them. “Salmon.”

  “Curry?” Dad mocked.

  I shook my head, smiling. It wasn’t so long ago that Mom and Dad couldn’t even hear Brian’s name without storming out of the room. They’d come so far as immigrants and as parents and as part of a generation who were forced to accept their children’s choices if they wanted to keep them in their lives.

  Why had I always been so desperate to please them? Jasmine was part of the reason. But maybe I was just scared. Maybe I was too afraid to do anything that they didn’t support—music, boys, travel, anything—because what would have happened if it didn’t turn out the way I planned. If I’d laid all my cards on the table—made up my own mind—and I was wrong.

  “I left Jasmine’s around eight,” I said quietly. It was nearly eleven now. “I went out after.”

  “With friends?”

  “With Raj.”

  It was funny watching my parents’ reactions. Dad suddenly was very occupied with wiping down his lenses with the edge of his pajama shirt, while Mom turned off the television and tried not to hyperventilate. I didn’t want to get their hopes up, and so as quickly I could, I told them the truth about what had happened on my date.

  “Badmash,” Mom exclaimed afterward, shaking her head. “How could he do such a thing?”

  “I will alert his parents.” Dad reached for the phone. “Rajandeep cannot get away—”

  “Dad.” I laughed, interrupting him. “You are not calling his parents.”

  “Why not?”

  “For one, it’s none of their business. Two, you don’t even know them. It was his uncle who set us up, wasn’t it?”

  Dad was so upset he’d nearly gone cross-eyed, and he and Mom took turns insulting Raj in both Punjabi and English, using expressions and curse words I wasn’t aware they even knew.

  “What if he does this to another girl in our community?” Mom said, still appalled. “We must warn them—”

  “Mom,” I groaned. “They’ll figure it out just like I did, OK? Don’t worry. Lots of guys are dicks—” I grimaced, and avoided eye contact with my dad. I hadn’t said that word in front of him before. “Players, sorry. Lots of men and women can be players. And we can’t warn every girl in the Seattle area that Raj may or may not hit on their server when they leave the table.”

  Mom and Dad were both looking at me long and hard and disturbingly all-knowing.

  “I’m sorry,” Mom said quietly. “I suppose we are not very good matchmakers.”

  “We haven’t had any practice,” Dad joked.

  “It’s OK.” I paused but then decided not to lie and just get this over with. “And I’m sorry I lied to you. I should have told you who Sam really was from the beginning.”

  “It disheartens me that you felt the need to lie to us,” Dad said, after I’d told them the truth about what happened in India, or as close to the truth as I could get. (My parents definitely didn’t want to know how attracted I was to Sam and how my senses went on overload every time he touched me.)

  “I didn’t want you to be disappointed in me,” I answered plainly. “Jasmine gave you such a hard time—”

  “You shouldn’t compare yourself to your sister,” Mom said. “And I shouldn’t have encouraged it. You are both your own women, and you must lead your own lives.”

  “It would have been foolish, though. I was ready to move to London for him.” I laughed at myself, at how ridiculous it sounded when I said it out loud. “I was ready to throw my life away for him.”

  “Did you love him?” Dad asked, and I nodded.

  “I think so.”

  “Well, then.” Dad grimaced. “If this Sam character had been a smart boy and not an idiot for letting you leave”—I laughed—“then how is it you would have been throwing your life away?”

  I shrugged. “You and Mom have had such a solid marriage. I always wanted to live up to you two. To find someone that made sense for the family, who was Sikh, who—”

  “Niki,” Mom interrupted. “Do you really think that your father and I got married because we have the same faith?”

  I paused, looking between the two of them. “Well, wasn’t it?”

  Mom smiled, leaning forward to squeeze my hand. “The fact that w
e are both Sikh, had the same culture—of course it made a few things easier—but it was never the reason we got married.”

  “I married your mother because, as Jasmine likes to say, she is a straight-up hottie!”

  “Dad!” I blushed.

  “And, of course, because I loved her very much,” he finished. “I would have ‘thrown’ my life away for her.”

  Mom smiled at him, and my heart filled with so much love my chest was at risk of ripping right open. I always knew I was lucky to have parents who genuinely loved each other, but I’d always assumed that the love came later. That it wasn’t the foundation of their partnership but a fortunate side effect.

  I supposed, when it came to love, it didn’t really matter who we were and where we came from. The only thing that mattered was that each person made space for and respected the other.

  “Can I ask you guys a question?”

  Mom’s face went red. “Is it the same question Jasmine asked me last week, because I don’t want to discuss—”

  “No,” I said, shaking my head. “Wait, what did she ask you?”

  “Nothing!”

  “Mom—”

  “She asked if your father and I ‘waited’ until marriage, and I told her it was none of her business, so don’t you ask me, either!”

  I laughed at how embarrassed she was, Dad, too, and I shuddered as I realized that her cagey nonanswer was an answer in and of itself.

  “No,” I said, after gaining control of my giggles. “I was not going to ask that.” I paused. “I was going to ask why you never taught us Punjabi.”

  Dad furrowed his bushy brows at me. It was such a simple question, and I wondered then and there why I’d never asked.

  “You always spoke English to us,” I said. “Why? We would have learned it anyway at school.”

  “I’m sorry. We should have,” Dad said finally, glancing at Mom. “We should have taken you to India when you were children, too.”

  “Dad, it’s OK.” I smiled. “We didn’t have enough money—”