The Rearranged Life (17 page)

Just as I mull this over, a wad of flour hits me between the eyes, making them tear up. Cries of “Oh no!” (my mom), and “Nishanth!” (his mom), tongue clucking (Sejal’s mom, because the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree), and “Ooh!” (Sejal, Indrani, and Anisha) sound out around the kitchen.

“Oops.” Nishanth feigns an accident.

“You. Are. So. Dead.” I take off around the island in the middle of the kitchen. Nishanth jogs a few paces ahead of me.

“You looked so serious, I had to break the tension!” he insists, pleased with himself.

“I’m going to break your face, jerk!” I squeal. Tears still run down my cheeks.

Our fathers rush in. The looks on their faces tell me they were expecting an epic tragedy, but they find our mothers trying to calm the situation, with equally loud shouts of “Nishanth! Sit down!” and “Nithya, leave him alone!” Anisha, Indrani, and Sejal are amidst a raging fit of giggles, amplified by the high ceilings in the kitchen. By this point, I aim a ladle of
bhoondi
, formerly sitting in a bowl to be turned in
laddoos
. Nishanth stands in front of our fathers, arms out and ready for a confrontation.

“Nithya!” My mother warns me with a tone of urgency I haven’t heard since I was five and about to walk into traffic.

I fire, my arm creating the best kind of catapult. Nishanth ducks.

The skittering, crunchy pieces hit Aditya Uncle’s pristine white shirt.

The room goes silent in a millisecond. Not even the dust in the air moves. I freeze, mouth open. A random sizzle from the paratha on the stove resounds through the hush as my ladle wilts into a white surrender flag. Aditya Uncle looks at his shirt, then at me. Ten seconds pass where no one breathes.
I am a dead duck.

Then he fishes some of the bhoondi out of his pocket, gives my dad a polite pat on the back that I am sure is a precursor to telling his old friend he is never coming back to the Kolluri house, and that he had more faith in his buddy to raise daughters, not animals.

“Well… what is it they say? If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.” He smirks before rubbing a handful of tiny sweet morsels into my shocked father’s hair.

f you hadn’t been so serious, I wouldn’t have tried to lighten the mood,” Nishanth argues as I concentrate on rubbing out a curry stain from the kitchen wall.

“You couldn’t have told a joke?” I incredulously ask, and the glint in his eyes confirms he was looking for mischief.

“You didn’t have to come at me with a monster spoon of food!”

“This is
your
fault. Don’t turn it around.” I point at him with a withered paper towel. Our parents have taken a walk, giving an hour to clean up the war zone.

“You hit my dad with bhoondi.” He tries to remain serious, but bursts out laughing in the middle of his sentence, likely replaying my moment of mortification in his mind. He sounds like he can’t believe it happened. Neither can I.

“Who are you, Jackie Chan? Who ducks like that? You should have taken the hit!”

“You both suck. You’re twenty-two and twenty-four and here we are, cleaning up what’s left of a food fight.” Anisha chimes in from scrubbing the floor. Her tone makes it clear the underclassmen at her high school have more maturity in their little toe than we’ve displayed.

“And what’s left of your dignity,” mutters Indrani, too mature for her age and above this ruckus.

It might be the grumbling teenagers. Maybe it’s the combined embarrassment and relief that Aditya Uncle didn’t kill me. I start to giggle and Nishanth joins in, belly-busting, stomachache-inducing, on-the-floor hysterical laughter that has tears streaming down our faces. There doesn’t need to be a reason. It may even be the loss of one at this point. All I know is an uncharacteristically silent-until-now Sejal joins in, and even Anisha and Indrani aren’t immune.

After three hours, because IST (Indian Standard Time) never allows for punctuality, we finally settle around our formal dining table for dinner. Showered and dressed like humans again, we are caught up in the buzz of conversation. Every now and then, my mother gives me the
you are so dead for behaving that way
look, but when Madhu Aunty coos that I look beautiful in my
salwar kurta
(that my mom insisted I wear), Amma smiles like I’ve been her angel the whole time. My father clears his throat; it takes a minute for the loud chatter to simmer down.

“Well…”

Is he going to make a toast?
This is new.

“I am not one for this speech business. But I did want to say we should start a new tradition now that we have been reunited with old friends. I, for one, am very thankful that you all are here and we have such wonderful company to keep. You are like family–so here’s to new relationships and old ones!” My dad raises his glass of sparkling cider, and we all follow.

“Hear, hear!” Aditya Uncle cheers. “I agree, Venkata… You have hit the nail on the head. It is rare to have old friendships pick up where they leave off. It has been twenty-two years, yet it feels like we are still sitting around our old smelly apartments at UCLA with toddlers around our knees. That is something I cherish and am very thankful for as well!”

Our mothers repeat similar sentiments about love and loyalty and how friends can become family. Amma glances at me and for a millisecond, the look of longing to really have Nishanth’s family become ours is apparent, but then it is gone in a flash. Next, it is Nishanth’s turn. He raises his glass.

“I’m thankful to be here with all of you. It feels like we’ve reunited with relatives, and there isn’t a difference now between friends and family. When you talk about how far we’ve come, it’s proof that we have been lucky to grow up with all of you as our parents and aunties and uncles.” His sincerity touches us all. My mom is ready to dance for joy at the reference to us being like family. So is Madhu Aunty.

“I agree,” Sejal cuts me off as I raise my glass to speak. I roll my eyes, and Nishanth shoots me a sympathetic glance. “We have a really beautiful culture, and you all have shown us how to put each other first. You make it easy to follow in your footsteps.”

Sejal’s sweet words feel like a jab at me. Is she implying I should ignore what I want to put my family first? Or am I just paranoid? Possibilities run through my mind as Anisha and Indrani speak about school and dancing. Finally, everyone looks at me.

“I’m thankful for always being supported,” I finally say. “Every time I’ve made a decision, my parents have trusted me to make the right one. I hope that goes on forever. I hope we can always count on one another.”

There is more meaning behind my toast than anyone realizes as we all clink glasses and wish each other a happy Thanksgiving. Photos of the ballet class I insisted I take with Clara sit in a frame on the counter near the landline. My parents hadn’t asked one question about why ballet and not Bharatanatyam before enrolling me in the only once a week class they could afford at the time. When I changed my mind and decided I wanted to be in a classical Indian dance class instead because ballet took too long to go en pointe, my parents had made me finish the length of the course and then promptly found out from Karishma’s parents who the best dance teachers were in the area. In middle school, I decided that I needed a tutor when I got my first B on an English test–Amma and Nanna found a tutor so quickly, I’ve never gotten below an A- in anything since. My college decisions were the same way.

“Are you sure? U. Penn is an Ivy League.” Amma’s furrowed brow and quiet voice were a signal that she was considering the options, not the reputation.

“It could be good for you to be away from home.” Nanna’s cup of chai had long gone cold as we pored over school pamphlets and various acceptance packages.

“How can you tell our daughter to go away from home?” My mom sounded indignant. It was clear which option she would have chosen, if only for the sake of having me closer.

“She deserves to explore. We need to support her choice so she can see what else the world has to offer. We’ve taught her well,” Nanna said kindly. We set up our visit that night.

Feeling so encouraged for the entirety of my life and suddenly knowing my one rebellious decision to fall for James might be opposed makes me wonder if following the rules all this time was the better way to go. When I think about the times my mother shopped at Wal-Mart for clothes so I could shop at American Eagle, just to keep up with trends in high school, I am a little ashamed at my misplaced priorities. But there’s also a sense of pride at the fact that we’ve stuck together… that we are a family willing to sacrifice for each other. If James and I don’t work out, it’s okay, right? It would be my sacrifice for a change, because they’ve given up everything for me.

Plus… this beauty of our culture is unparalleled in so many ways, and I would lose more of it if I dated James. I’ve already lost enough. Except, I miss James. And this heart full of thanks can’t ignore that.

Black Friday is a study in chaos. Indians are notorious for deals and even pickier when things go on discount sales. Our mothers wander around Macy’s, holding up blouses, clucking their tongues, and exclaiming in Hindi,
This is still overpriced!
and
Arrey, why is this 50% off? It should be 75%! Look at this stitch out of place
. Nishanth, Sejal, and I shadow them, caught up in our own chatter.

“So, about our conversation yesterday…” Sejal begins.

“Not now.” I shoot her a warning glance.

“Am I supposed to leave now? Can I hear this?” Nishanth asks, good-naturedly.

“Tell us what you think…” Sejal proceeds to fill him in on my entire relationship with James. My face turns every shade of red. I don’t want Nishanth to see my reaction. My vulnerability is out in the open.

“Wow, no wonder you got so busy you didn’t text as often. That’s a lot to handle,” Nishanth says at the conclusion of Sejal’s overdramatic, blown-out-of-proportion narrative.

“I was preoccupied.”

“Clearly. Do you want to date him?”

I nod, affirming it for the first time.

“I say she sticks with an Indian guy. It’s easier. They have more in common. Their values are the same. They can have a better…” She goes on, but I cease to listen because as she walks ahead, still nattering.

Nishanth leans over and whispers, “I know one who’d be interested if you change your mind.” By the time his comment registers, he has joined Sejal up ahead.

That night, I can’t sleep. James’ annoyed words,
this isn’t ideal
, play over and over in my mind. Nishanth’s comment about being interested plays between James’. Soon, their voices grow, shouting at each other, and I decide to go downstairs and grab a late-night snack to drown them out. I tiptoe down the stairs and quietly open the fridge, trying not to wake those sleeping above me. Equipped with a glass of chocolate milk, I go sit at the bay window in the living room. The silence calms me, allowing me to put some sense into my thoughts.

I have never had anyone show interest in me before. To have two people vie for me is a change I never saw coming.
The grass is always greener.
I snort, recalling the nights when I’d watch my friends complain about their love lives and wish I had some to think about, too. Now, there are two intelligent, exemplary guys in the picture, and I am lost. On my favorite show,
Friends
, Ross had to come up with a pros and cons list to decide whether he wanted Rachel or Julie. Perhaps I need think one up now, minus getting caught the way Ross did.