Born Confused (21 page)

—Gwyn, you don’t need him, I finally said.

—I know, Dimple, she said.—I don’t need anything, right? I’m an independent woman.

She looked at me a moment as if she wanted to say something, but didn’t, simply turned and leaned her head against the pane.

—Oh, what would you know about it, she sighed.

I still felt the sting of her dismissal as we neared home. We walked down Lancaster Road in an unshared silence, passing the houses of people we’d known since we’d had memories nearly, but they didn’t bring us back to each other.

We turned right at the fork in the road by the Bad Luck House (which was always for sale) and went by her place first. The panes gaped, dilated, and the driveway cut an uninterrupted arc in the grass, bleeding darkly as the day flushed into descent.

—Are you sure you and your mom are meeting tonight? I said.

—She put it in her calendar and everything, said Gwyn. It was a relief to hear her voice again, even stung with sarcasm.—Of course she never
reads
her calendar—it reminds her of all the things
she doesn’t want to deal with. Well, anyways, maybe she’s just late. Come on, I’ll walk you home.

—I can wait here with you if you want, I said.

—No, it’s fine. By the time I get back she’ll be here. I’m sure.

When we got to my driveway a familiar green candy-shell car bubbled over there. Gwyn lit up.

—New wheels, Dimps?

—No, no—I guess my cousin’s here.

—The geekster one you told me always makes fun of you?
In America the girls are talking to the boys in your school, is it?

She said it in the mock Indian accent we put on to imitate my parents sometimes; to tell you the truth, they didn’t even really speak like that, but using it was sometimes somehow still satisfying to me. It bugged me a little whenever Gwyn did it, but then, I had started the whole thing, and it did make me feel she was on my side if, for example, I was complaining about some grievous injustice they’d committed (trying to burn my vintage jeans that time, for example). But right now it just made me feel bad. I’d imitated Kavita in the past, but it didn’t seem so funny anymore. I hadn’t told Gwyn about the photo album or how close to her I’d felt when I called to thank her. We’d spoken over an hour, I don’t even know about what, but when we hung up, the telephone had burned as much as when I used to talk to Gwyn like that, and I felt the hearth of it warming me well after.

—No, not that one, I said.—This one’s really cool.

—So not the premed one, said Gwyn.—Can I meet her? I could use a really cool cousin tonight.

Well, if I couldn’t be of service, maybe Kavita could. We stepped into the house and were turning into the kitchen when a baffling sight met my eyes: My mother was on the counter in lotus position, still-startling titian hair bristling with static electricity, and
was looking ovenwards, throwing out incomprehensible orders with grand flourishes of her arm like a kitchen conductor.

Farther in the room the objects of her commands were two rear ends protruding skyward to high heaven. I couldn’t see the attached persons angling in a downward V to the ground; their faces were blocked behind shuddery thighs, feet and hands flat on the floor in a sinuous sea of spilled dupatta.

I gestured for Gwyn to be quiet. I wanted to see how far they would go with this unusual ceremony. We watched in amazement as my mother commanded them through a full circuit that involved jumping their feet to their hands, doing some kind of bird swoop up with their arms, then going through another squat and jump-back that landed Kavita flat and histrionically on her belly and her blacksatined partner shakily holding in an impressively low push-up position.

—Baapray, yaar, how are you keeping it so long? exclaimed Kavita, rolling onto her side and poking at the tremulous human plank just inches off the floor beside her.

—Stop it! the plank gasped.

—Kavita, that’s cheating, scolded my mother.

Finally the plank landed with a gah-lump and the two of them flumped over onto their backs on the tiles, Kavita clutching her stomach.

—Now
that,
said my mother, evidently pleased with herself.—Is a real surya namaskar. Just repeat those twelve moves for about an hour and you’ll be on your way to a true asana.

—They never do it like that at Crunch, grumbled the plank.

—Why howdy, cowgirl cousin! cried Kavita, finally noticing us. I was really happy to see her, standing now, one leg making a number four with the other and hands in prayer position. A warm feeling filled me like tea.

—It is about time, said my mother.—It’s too bad you weren’t here earlier. I don’t think I’ve had this much fun in—well, I don’t know, really—but we are having fun is what I am saying, heh! Well, hello there, Gwyn—nice to have you home again.

—Ah! The famous Gwyn! cried Kavita, extending her hand and falling promptly out of position.

—You’ve heard of me? Gwyn said, giving me an
awww
look.

—If memory serves me correctly, Dimple told me you were like her Sabina. Who is right beside me in tree pose, by the way, putting me to shame!

I gave the arboreal one a quick once-over. She had blue-black hair, layers just going shaggy on her long neck and sideburns swirling alongside multiple hoop earrings. A few punky chunks stuck straight up, as if she’d either just woken up or plugged them in, and a ridge of hacked bangs crossed choppily high her forehead, endowing her with an irked look. She was wearing narrow bookish glasses with rectangular frames; they were a little fogged up, wiped out her eyes.

I namasted her back and she smiled slightly now, mouth delicately lipping nearly up to her beakish nose. Everything about her was thin, save for the mole orbiting above her upper lip: Her batik shirt hung loose upon her, her skirt just below her belly button around which bloomed a deep red tattoo of a lotus, rippling open and closed as she inhaled and exhaled, like a looped time-lapse photograph. Kavita had draped her dupatta around her and she looked like a stern and exquisite bird.

—We’ve heard a lot about you, I said.

—You have?

She was clearly pleased, though it showed less on her minimalist features than it had on Gwyn’s lush expressive face.

—I thought I was going to be kept tucked away in the cupboard
forever, she said, with no accent.—I’ve been dying to meet you and Aunty. And too bad Uncle couldn’t switch his call; I was hoping to say hello to him as well.

—You’re Dimps’s cousin, too? asked Gwyn.

—No, no, I explained.—In India we call everybody aunty and uncle, all friends of the family.

It was actually a wonderful cover-up in case you forgot which ones were related.

—Are you the one having the arranged marriage? Gwyn now blurted out to Kavita, staring at her in fascination.

—No, said Sabina before Kavita’s lips had parted.—That would be her sister being sold off like cattle to the supposed superhero.

—The cow is sacred in India, said my mother solemnly.

—The zero was invented in India, too, said Sabina.

Gwyn broke out laughing.

—No, seriously, said Sabina, poker-faced.—The zero
was
invented in India.

—Well, in any case, said Gwyn.—The way things are going for me, I wish
my
parents would arrange my marriage—but they only specialize in deranged marriages.

—Is there any other kind? Sabina nodded sympathetically, branching out of tree pose and dropping into a chair.—No offense, Aunty.

—Yeah, tell me about it, Gwyn replied, pulling up a chair beside her. She’d sprung back to life and now proceeded to relay the events of the afternoon to her audience, up to and including the part about pretending that Karsh was her new honeypot, which my mother did not seem to find particularly amusing.

—Yes, you need a good Indian boy, she declared from her haughty perch.—Not
Karsh,
mind you. But a good Indian boy nonetheless.

—It’s not true, of course, the part about Karsh, said Gwyn hurriedly, noting my mother’s furrowing brow.—I think it’s
great
about Karsh, the whole meeting thing and all.

—Karsh
is
pretty great, Kavita agreed.

—Whatever, I said.—Even if it were true, it’s fine by me.

—Why can’t you be as receptive as our dear Gwyn here? sighed my mother.—Honest to Prabhu, Gwyn, you are such a good influence on my Dimple.

—Being receptive is good to a point, said Sabina as my mother refurrowed in my direction.—But not when it slips over into being passive. You can’t just sit there and take whatever comes your way. What you need to do first, Gwyn, is address the issue of what kind of people you’re dating and why, instead of accepting the role of victim.

She peered over her glasses, piercing Gwyn’s mesmerized eyes with the pupils that swallowed up almost all of her own iris.

—You have to figure out what you want, set your sights on it, and conquer. We have been oppressed too long. Don’t let anything stand in your way.

—You’re right, I never thought of it that way, said Gwyn finally.—How’d you get so smart? I mean, the way Dimple talks about it, seems people don’t even date in India.

—We’re not in India.

—You’re a genius, Sabz. You must have the coolest boyfriend.

—Well, no, said Sabina, and I couldn’t tell whether it was a sheepish or irritated look that sprouted like a rash on her face. For some reason she burned her eyes into Kavita now and Kavita stared down into her lap. If you ask me it sounded more like she’d just been dumped to have developed such a philosophy. But I wasn’t about to tell her that.

—Well, don’t worry, said Gwyn, leaning over and smoothing
one of Sabina’s electrified locks.—I’m sure there’s someone fabulous just around the corner.

—Oh, I’m sure, said Sabina, pulling the chunk out again. She abruptly stood, hauling up Kavita as if the two were soldered together.

—Anyways, sorry to run out on you women, she said.—But I think Kavita and I really need to push off back to the city. We have a sitar lesson tonight.

—We do? said Kavita.—Oh, we do. But we’ll see you at the Desicreate kickoff next week, no?

—What desecrate kickoff? Gywn asked.

—Dimple didn’t tell you? The NYU party?

—Wow, I completely forgot about it, I said truthfully. It occurred to me that I’d rather stay home and contemplate the missing socks in the dryer than hit the town for a supposedly wild night out (not) with what was sure to be a bunch of aunties and uncles.

—Am I going to have to lasso you in? Kavita grinned. She snapped the dupatta out towards me but Sabina intercepted, hands winged with silk as she caught it and wrapped it around Kavita, pulling the ends around her own back.

—Seems it’s easier to catch the Indian, she said.—Than the cowgirl.

—Don’t you mean South Asian? I said. I wasn’t sure whether I liked Sabina or not. I supposed I did, but she made me edgy. She was a little bossy, but the way her philtrum vanished when she smiled almost made up for it. I’d never seen such short hair on an Indian girl before.

—I like you already, Dimple, said Sabina, as if in reply to my thoughts.

Gwyn and I went out to the driveway to see them off.

—Just one last question! Gwyn cried out as they were unlocking
the car.—Is your nose really pierced or is that one of those magnet things?

—You’ll have to come to NYU and stay with us to find out! smiled Kavita, slamming the door shut.

And they horsepowered off, reversing into the sunset.

Gwyn lingered in the driveway and then suddenly turned to me.

—Can I stay over tonight, Dimple? she asked.

—Won’t your mother…?

—She’s not home.

—But I thought…?

—Can I stay over?

—Of course you can stay, I said. She’d been in such a good mood the last couple of hours I’d nearly forgotten what she’d gone through today.—Should we go to your house and get your stuff?

—I don’t want to go there, she said quickly.—It’s so dark, I don’t know. It’ll seem so empty after all the fun we just had. Can’t I just borrow something?

If I had anything too tight or too long, she’d already taken it. But that wasn’t what mattered tonight.

—No worries, I said.—I think we can definitely rustle something up.

—Thank you, Dimple, she said, putting her arms around me. Her hug had changed, it seemed, gone slower and closer; it was a hug for a boy, and I could smell her fresh-scent deodorant.—It’ll be just like old times.

It was and it wasn’t. It was nice, Gwyn sleeping in the twin bed again. But it was strange, too, to have her back so suddenly. To have
her available. I switched off the light, but I knew she was still awake. I could hear her staring up at the ceiling.

—I can’t believe you’ve been hiding her so long, she said finally.

—Kavita? I haven’t been hiding her, I said.—I only just got back in touch with her myself.

—They’re like princesses, she sighed.—So beautiful, so bright. Did you see how they were all dressed up? Why were they all dressed up?

—That’s just how they dress, I said.

—It was inspiring, I tell you. I’m going to be a princess, too. That’s got to be the secret. How else can you find a prince? I keep ending up with skanks like Dylan. But now I’m going to go out and conquer, like Sabz says. Nothing will stand in my way.
Nothing.

She paused.

—That Karsh guy sounds real nice, actually. I don’t get why you didn’t like him—seems like everyone else does.

—Well, then, take him, he’s yours, I said, and rolled over. I didn’t want to have this conversation again and I pretended to be asleep. It seemed like old times, but I knew better. She’d gone through something, Gwyn. Without me. Whether or not things with Dylan had worked out wasn’t the point; she’d emerged with a focus. I couldn’t figure out what she was focusing on—it was intangible but rising out of the dark, impending, imminent, the silver crystals changed by chemistry and the latent image there, the one you can’t see till the film is developed, till it’s too late to turn away.