The Henna Wars(45)

But I doubt Priti just woke up this morning wanting to take some nice photos of me in a fancy kameez and henna. So I’m not exactly surprised when, after our photo shoot, Priti drags me down the stairs to a house that’s filled with Desi Uncles and Aunties who clap their hands and exclaim, “Mashallah! Mashallah!” and offer me flowers and presents and cards.

I blush and say, “Thank you, thank you,” and hope Ammu hasn’t revealed my actual results to these people I barely know.

Even though the dawat is a surprise, a gift to celebrate my Junior Cert results, it feels like anything but as I walk around with a smile glued onto my lips. It makes my cheeks hurt but if I’m not smiling, I’ll probably end up death-glaring at everyone. I have to remind myself that this is just a Bengali thing: instead of celebrating achievements the way you want to, you’re made to strut around in front of people you barely know, like a prize to be shown off.

The only good thing to come of it is the fact that all the Aunties take hold of my and Priti’s hands, oohing and aahing at the henna patterns weaving their way up our arms. They even ask if I’ll do their henna before Eid. I tell them all about the henna business, in the hopes some of them will pay me to get their henna done.

“Looks like you have a businesswoman on your hands, Bhaiya,” one of the Aunties says to Abbu.

“A businesswoman? Nishat has the results to be a doctor, taina?” an Uncle interjects, beaming at me with pride, like a doctor is the only worthwhile profession anyone could hope to have. I give him a tight smile and hope he takes it as a yes and shuts up.

“Kintu women are better as teachers, nah?” one of the other Uncles comments with a solemn nod, like a woman doctor might be a bit too much.

“Doctor, teacher, engineer, our Nishat could be anything she wants to be,” Abbu says, clapping me on the back proudly. It’s the most he’s said to me in weeks, but there’s a plasticity to his smile, a solemnness to his voice. Nishat can be anything she wants to be, except herself.





18

“ARE YOU READY FOR TOMORROW?” PRITI ASKS ME AFTER all the Aunties and Uncles have gone and it’s just me and her. I’m drawing henna designs onto every inch of empty skin that I can find on my body. Flowers and leaves and mandalas—anything and everything I’ve picked up.

“I think so,” I say with a frown, before shaking my head and, in the most confident voice I can muster, saying, “Yes. I’m ready. I’m going to win this whole thing.”

Priti lets out a small laugh. “Wow, this really has all gone to your head.”

“Well, you heard everyone at the dawat today. They all said our henna was great, and they’re all Desi. They know their henna.” It’s true. Since I got the approval of Desi Aunties, I’m set. They’re the true henna connoisseurs.

“That’s true.” Priti settles down on the bed next to me, peering at the designs spreading across my skin. “Do you need, you know, any help?”

I turn to take a long look at her. She’s tapping her bare feet on the floor to a nervous rhythm, and she’s not catching my eye, though it’s under the guise of examining my work.

“Are you procrastinating studying or is there something else?”

She lays herself down on the bed spread-eagle and gazes up at the ceiling. “I hate the Junior Cert.”

I smile. “Well, you have a celebratory dawat to look forward to once you get past it all.” A dawat where everybody debates your future while you linger on the edge, trying to eat the delicious food without attracting too much attention.

“Joy.”

“If you really want to help—”

“Yes, I’ll offer up my skin as sacrifice!” she cries.

I roll my eyes. “I don’t need your sacrificial skin. I need help figuring out a plan to ‘borrow’ Flávia’s henna tubes.”

Priti stills, looking at me with a frown. “Apujan … you aren’t really serious about that.”

“I am. I’m very serious about that.”

“You can’t steal—”

“Am I having déjà vu or did we already have this conversation?”

She stiffens at the interruption. At the sarcastic tone in my voice. Usually, our banter is playful. Back and forth. But this—this feels different. Not the sarcasm or the fact that I’ve interrupted her, but the atmosphere in the room. Like someone has suddenly flicked a switch and changed the energy completely.

“Ammu and Abbu wouldn’t approve of this. It’s not how we were raised. It’s not in our principles to sabotage other people. Look after yourself and what you’re doing and success will follow.” She sounds so holier-than-thou that I roll my eyes. Which is the wrong move, because her frown deepens.

“Ammu and Abbu don’t approve of a lot of things, so forgive me for not using them as the barometer of what I should or shouldn’t do.”

“This is different and it’s—”

“And success won’t follow, because Flávia is trying to undermine everything I do. She’s trying to take this away from me. I’m not going to let her win.”

“I don’t know what she did to you, Apujan, but … you know there are certain things you shouldn’t do to get ahead. It’s better if you just keep your head down and think about your own business, and don’t worry about hers.”