Born Confused (26 page)

And it made sense, this story. And after he told it, it was funny, but I felt we might have gone there together. He looked familiar now, but in a different way. The way my mother’s melody had been familiar; the way the music had spoken to me, even the first time I’d ever heard it.

—You’ve got something special going on with your pictures, Dimple, he said as if in conclusion to all that.

I wanted to believe him.

—You haven’t even seen them, I said.

—I’ve seen you taking them—right here, tonight. And, well,
I’ve seen a couple of them already. But I guess those were…maybe from a different phase, from the looks of what you’re going for now. I mean,
technically
they were right on—

—Huh?

What was he talking about? No one had been in my darkening room.

—You know, in your house. In the foyer.

My mind was drawing a blank. There weren’t any photos in the foyer. There were just those…frames…

—Get out! I said, a shrouded corner of my mind instantly clearing. So he had just been trying to make me feel good! I explained to him what that had all been about, and we shared a laugh, which felt even better.

—So you see, you really
haven’t
seen any of my photos.

—You haven’t invited me, he said.

—I just don’t know if they’re…Well, they mean something to me, but I don’t know if they’re really…you know. Any good.

He paused, pensive.

—You can’t let your fear stop you, he said then.—You have to let it move you and move beyond it. Sometimes the most natural things, the things that don’t seem risky, are the most supernatural; they sneak up on you. You keep taking pictures and one day you might see something that surprises you.

He lay his unfurled palm there on the bar, and my fingers uncurled, too.

—That’s what I love about clubs, he went on.—It’s the same thing, but amplified. It’s all about the dynamic—music plays the people and people play the music; you take a picture, it tells you a story. You’re not alone. Your story, our families. It’s yours, it’s mine.

I was overwhelmed by it all. This network of connection, bringing together all these seemingly disparate things with an underlying
logic that made sense even though I would be hard put to explain it: my mother’s lullaby, my father’s good-dream face, all the tears, the unbound laughter, the space between things, the undrunk tea; Dadaji on the lens’s far side. And now the two of us, Manhattan, past midnight, and no question the most amazing conversation of my life.

—It even feels like our past is here tonight, I whispered. I felt I could really talk to him.

—Maybe the future, too, he whispered back.—You’re an amazing woman, Dimple. I can really talk to you.

My breath caught in my throat. Woman? That was something. And the other part. It was as if we were reading each other’s minds. Was it all written, as my mother always insisted?

—Karsh, I said.—Do you believe in destiny?

—I think it’s all there, if that’s what you mean, he said.—But that doesn’t mean you can’t revise, rewrite, bring the bass up. You’ve got to believe in both—fate works best in retrospect, right? Give it your best shot and only then what is meant to be will be.

—With your collaboration, you mean.

—You’ve got to believe that, or why even get out of bed in the morning? he said. His hand was so close to mine it hurt.—Nothing’s static. Just look out there, at the dance floor. Even the lines in your palm—they don’t stay the same.

And then he took my hand ever so gently, but the touch went deep. He turned it over, gazing into it. The mingled heat of our skins felt strangely comforting.

And then we weren’t even speaking, just staring at each other, and it was still the most amazing conversation of my entire life. His eyes were swimmingly close. So close I could see myself in them.

—Your destiny’s not some elusive thing, Dimple, he said finally.—It could be staring you right in the face.

—Hey there! a breathless voice called out.

We both jerked up, hands dropping apart before they’d truly touched, as if we’d been doing something wrong. Gwyn stood there, staring from the edge of the dance floor. The music heaved like a buried heart, and her boys were blurry in the distance. She’d fixed the dupatta over her hair, its ends trailing a veil unraveled as she moved towards us. And the way she moved towards us, flicking on and off in the strobing light, was like a mirage, an apparition—there in a blast of lightning, ever present in the darkness in its wake.

It was only a moment, the locked eyes between them, but it stung a little. We’d been having such an incredible conversation and it was all down the drain now, like an idea for a poem you catch in bed—you promise yourself you’ll remember, sing yourself to sleep with it, and then wake to find you didn’t clasp it close enough and it stayed in your dream and now you’re not there anymore and you might never have the same dream again. Gwyn was a walking waking call, a harsh reality check. But that conversation with Karsh—I wouldn’t forget it.

She sidled up next to me on the barstool, nearly knocking me and my bag off in the process (fortunately my elbow crooks are a highly developed part of my body and I caught it before it slipped to the floor). Funny how such a slight frame could take up so much space.

I reverted to looking down into my punch glass, which kept inexplicably refilling. I was lifting it to my lips when Gwyn dunked her head in and took a noisy slurp, as if at a trough.

—I’m parched—I haven’t danced this much in at least a couple weeks! she cried.—Claude, I love this place! I’m having the time of my life. Aren’t you having the time of your life?

She gestured off into the dance floor distance.

—This DJ rocks! I swear I’m gonna have to hire him for a party one of these days.

—He’s a she, said Karsh, smiling and gesturing directly up into the rafters, that veranda wrapping around the clubland sky.—DJ Tamasha. She’s a friend of mine.

—I’m Gwyn, by the way, Gwyn said, extending her hand. Her eyes hadn’t vacated his face for one moment. Had she given up blinking for Lent already?—Gwyn Sexton.

—And I’m Karsh, said Karsh, with that half-twist smile.—Karsh Kapoor.

A cloud blew through her eyes. Then she snapped her fingers and it cleared.

—Karsh? Karsh Kapoor? she cried.—Oh you’re
Karsh
Karsh. Karsh
um
. Yeah, you’re famous already. Dimple told me what a disaster that whole meeting was!

She said it cheerfully, as if this were the best of all possible greetings. Karsh looked at me. I wanted to drop through a crack in the floor. I remembered how casually I’d told her she could have him that night she’d slept over—as if he were even mine to give. She must have figured he was fair game.

—What was it you said again exactly? Gwyn said, almost to herself, my glass now in her hand as if it had never been in mine. She noddingly guffawed, remembering.—Yeah, yeah—that it was a total
Titanic.

Taxi!

Karsh’s half-twist slipped slightly. But if it was a hurt or offended look, it was gone in a matter of seconds and would have been hard to read anyways since his face was just a sliver away from all sorts of emotions all the time: Anger, pride, laughter, compassion all seemed to coexist in glowering glowing harmony there, like the music that was playing now, an ethereal she-angel voice gliding thrummily over moody beats and unsettling sitars, making you feel two things at once, more than two things.

The next three seconds felt like three years.

—I didn’t say that exactly, I said, trying to give Gwyn a big-toe tap on the ankle.

—Oh, right, you didn’t say that, she said, merrily twirling an ice cube with her pinky. Okay, better late than never; at least she’d caught the code.—You said it was like
Titanic
without the
romance.
That’s right. I knew I was forgetting something. Isn’t that funny? And what was it? You had a great line—oh! You’d rather pick the eggs, no, the lint out of your toes…

This time I kicked her, which resulted in my knocking myself off the stool.

—…than continue this conversation, I said.

Karsh smiled to himself but he didn’t look so happy; he spun his bottle slowly between his hands.

—Nothing personal, Gwyn said, finally catching on.—It’s just an expression. And anyways, thank Maude it’s over; now you’re both free to do what you want to do, not what your parents say.

—Yeah, said Karsh.—Thank Maude it’s over.

—Um, yeah, I said.—We’re free. Look, I’m sorry I said that.

—It’s all right, he said, still turning the bottle.

—I didn’t mean it.

—You don’t mean what you say?

—Oh, Dimple always says what she means, said Gwyn, rushing clumsily to my defense.—You can count on her. Anyways, I’m free, too. Though my kind of freedom was a harder one to come by than yours, I’m guessing.

—How so? asked Karsh.

—Well, this guy I was seeing, you know, he totally screwed me over for some chickadee who talks about herself like she’s someone else. What’s up with that? I mean, she calls herself by her own name and everything. Anyways. He told me we were just friends, and I
thought, man, if you do what you did with me with all your friends, then I’m looking for an enemy next time around. This all fresh off the press, pretty much.

I stood like a small fool between them, the two on their barstool thrones above me. Gwyn settled comfortably into the seat, Indian style. She caught all the light and he was aglow in it already and the stools coalesced into darkness; it looked like the two of them were levitating, practitioners of some particularly advanced form of meditation, or drinking.

—Man, that’s rough, Karsh was saying sympathetically.

—Oh, I don’t want to get into it, said Gwyn, as if that prelude had been the epitome of discreet. She waved my empty glass towards the bar.—Sabina, honey, could you fill ‘er up?

When the drink bobbed towards us, Gwyn straightened.

—To freedom, she declared, lifting the glass and mapping a little cosmopolitanation all over my right shoulder.

—To freedom, said Karsh, quietly raising his bottle.

But I didn’t want it anymore. Freedom suddenly felt like a lonely thing, an empty house. In any case I didn’t have anything to toast with so I supposed it didn’t matter.

—Dimple! cried Gwyn, noting my empty hands just as she set down the empty glass.—Oh no, did you want it? Well, you weren’t drinking it, right? You were just kind of looking at it…

—I’m fine.

—Cool, she said, turning promptly back to Karsh.

—You know, you sure don’t look like
Titanic
without the romance to me! she giggled.—Sort of the other way around.

How was it that she could already have developed a thing for him? Rebound? Revenge? But for what? Nothing made sense, but her crush was clear as the glass. I was surprised to find myself both irritated and terrified by this; why should I care? I decided long be
fore he wasn’t for me, right? That I’d never be Indian enough for a boy like him?

And then, to my horror:

—You know, Karsh, it’s funny we haven’t met before, because it’s actually already public information that you belong to me.

—And how is that? Karsh asked.

And she launched then and there into the Behind the Music about her run-in with Dylan and his 212 lovergirl.

—…and then to get back at him Dimple told him I was already with someone—and I became your girlfriend! she concluded.—So that’s what Dickland and Julian think now, except I don’t know if Dickland is buying it one hundred percent.

—Hmm, interesting, said Karsh.—And who’s Julian?

—Dimple’s boy.

—He is so not! I cried indignantly.

—What’s your problem? Gwyn replied coolly.—Correct me if I’m wrong, but that’s all you wanted a few days ago—and now you won’t give him the time of day?

—Gwyn, it’s not.
We’re
not. I mean, what are you—?

—Speaking of the time of day, Karsh suddenly interjected, glancing at his watch.—It is just about that time of night that I think I’ve got to be making my move.

—You gonna turn into a pumpkin or something? said Gwyn.

—More like a coachman—can I offer you a lift? I’m heading back to Jersey if you are.

I didn’t know whom that was aimed at, as he was bending down to pick up his box as he spoke. I was about to tell him we were staying with Kavita and Sabina—who were both heading in our direction, engaged in some kind of race to wipe down the bar as they approached—but Gwyn jumped in.

—I would love a ride, she said.

—But we’re—

—Sorry, Dimple, I forgot, she said.—I’ve got to get home tonight. I thought I told you.

I don’t know why, but I didn’t want to let them go. What if he told her the Pondicherry story? Or called
her
a woman?

Kavita was scanning one face to another. Finally she spoke.

—Actually, yes, it’s time you got home, too, Dimple, isn’t it?

She was a genius.

—Thank you, Karsh, then I’m not having to drive them, she continued, pocketing an Oscar as far as I was concerned.—I’m a little tipsy, to be honest, and so is Sabz.

—I am? said Sabina. Kavita must have pinched her from behind the bar because she started.
—Whoa!
I mean, I
am.

It was decided. If it were a choice between three being a crowd or two being company, I would have to vote for the former. The idea of leaving Karsh in Gwyn’s hands was too distressing somehow.

—Thanks, Kavita, I whispered as we got up to go.

—Go get ‘em, cowgirl, she said with a wink.

When we hit the sidewalk, I realized I’d better phone my parents to avoid having a squad team circling my house moments after my unheralded break-in.

—Can you guys hold on a sec? I said.—I’ve got to make a quick call.

—Checking in with Mommy and Daddy? said Gwyn sweetly, producing her mini-mobile and my umbilical cord in one go.

—Five—yeah, yeah, I know.

—No, you’re one now, she said.—I did a little spring-cleaning—in with the new! Karsh, what’s your number while we’re at it?