The Henna Wars(27)

Priti smiles. “Seems like you’ve planned this out.”

“In depth.”

“Well … Sunny Apu is here.”

I haven’t seen Sunny Apu since her wedding a few weeks ago, even though over the summer we saw each other on an almost daily basis. Bengalis are like moths to a flame during weddings; and if they’re not all gathered together, spending all of their time talking and planning and dancing and singing, does a wedding even take place?

“What’s she doing here?” I peer into the sitting room only to find it deserted.

“She’s in your room …” Priti trails off. She doesn’t meet my eyes, tracing the groves of wood on the floor with her toe instead.

“Priti, what’s going on?”

“She said she wants to talk to you.” Priti shrugs, like she has no idea what’s happening. I know that something else is at play, something that Priti isn’t telling me, but with so many henna tubes weighing me down and Sunny Apu waiting up in my room, I’m not really in the mood to try and wheedle it out of her.

I push past her and up the stairs, henna tubes jiggling in my arms like jelly. When I push open the door of my room with my toe, Sunny Apu is inspecting my bookshelf. She stands up straight as soon as I appear, a practiced smile pasted on her lips.

“Nishat! Assalam Alaikum.”

“Walaikum Salam …” I mumble, tossing the henna tubes on my bed.

“That’s a lot of henna.”

“I’m running a business,” I say, as if that’s an explanation. I know she wants more from the way she arches her eyebrows, but I want to know why the hell she’s here, staring at my bookshelf and smiling at me like I’m a stranger and not someone who stood by her side as she got married.

She gently sits down on my bed, moving a henna tube aside. “Come, sit.”

I frown, because it’s my room and my bed and my right to offer her a seat, but she’s come in here and asserted herself like she’s in charge. But I do as she says, sitting down next to her. There’s enough space between us to fill an ocean.

“How’s school?” Her voice is irritatingly chirpy.

“Fine.”

“What classes are you taking?”

“Sunny Apu … why are you here?”

She sighs. The bed creaks with the weight of it.

“Khala and Khalu spoke to me.” Ah. So that’s what this is about. I’d been wondering if we would ever talk about it straight out; I guess sending in a “relation” who’s not really a relation at all is as straightforward as they’re willing to get. This is a family matter—I am a family matter—but one for them to discuss with the family, not with me.

“I don’t want to—”

“You have to hear me out, Nishat,” she interrupts before I can say anything else. “Khala and Khalu are really worried about you. Even Amma and Abba are worried. They’ve been so upset … and they didn’t even want to tell us, really, but it’s good they shared so that we can help you.”

“I don’t need—”

“You have a problem Nishat, you just don’t realize it. You’ve seen this on TV and in films, and you’ve read about it in your books and—”

“Is that what you were doing? Looking through my books to see if I have any lesbian ones in my collection?” I turn to her with narrowed eyes. She flinches at the word lesbian, like it’s something disgusting instead of just a part of who I am.

“You’re young, you’re confused.”

I shake my head, even though she’s turned away from me and can’t see it.

“I’m not confused.” If I was, I would have never put myself through this scrutiny and judgement. This silence.

“Girls like you aren’t … aren’t …” She trails off like the word lesbian is too much for her to handle. Like her lips can’t shape it.

“They are. I am.”

“You’re Muslim.”

I snort. “That’s not how it works, Sunny Apu.”

“Muslims aren’t gay,” she whispers, like this is a hard and fast rule. She’s still turned away from me, looking out the window like the outside world will have some solution to my lesbian problem. I would laugh if this weren’t such a ridiculous claim. Because of course Muslims can be gay. How can anyone even think otherwise? The two aren’t mutually exclusive. I am living, breathing proof.

“Sunny Apu, you don’t even pray namaz,” I say instead, because it seems like a more palpable bridge to build. “When was the last time you even went to the mosque? Or just prayed?”

She frowns, like she’s thinking really hard about this. If you have to think that hard about the last time you prayed to Allah, I don’t think you get to hate gay people on the basis of God.

“That’s not important,” she says finally. “What’s important is that this … this is a sickness and—” I shoot up from the bed, feeling the blood rush to my head so fast that I stumble.

“I think you should leave.”

“But—”

“Please leave.” I want to say more. To scream, shout. Tell her that everything—every single thing—she has to say about my sexuality is hypocritical. Judgmental lies based on nothing. That she has no business coming to my room and telling me that I have a sickness. But I don’t. The words clog up my throat and I realize that they wouldn’t make a difference anyway.