“You can totally do this, Apujan,” she says. “You’re great at it. I mean … come on, look at all those comments. Some of them even came from Desi people. And they know their henna.”
I smile. “You said it was only okay.”
“Well, someone has to keep your ego in check,” Priti says with a dramatic sigh.
“Well, can I still practice on your hands?” I ask. “And can I use your pictures to advertise?”
“Sure!” Priti’s face breaks out into a huge grin. “And you should start doing your own designs, you know.”
“You think so?”
“Yeah, it’ll make your business so unique, don’t you think?” she asks. “People can get Nishat originals on their hands. They’ll be queuing up in front of your door … or your stall, or whatever.”
I laugh because I can’t imagine anybody wanting a “Nishat original,” but it’s a nice thought, I guess. The kind of thought only my sister could have and be excited about.
But the idea also fills me with a kind of excitement I haven’t felt in a long time. So after shooing Priti off to her bedroom to finish her studies, I settle in with a blank piece of paper and my pencil in hand, trying to put together a henna design from my head.
It’s hours later when I’m finished, and the page in front of me is filled with patterns of flowers, mandalas, and swirls. A mishmash of things that weirdly seem to work.
I pick up my phone from the bedside table and quickly draft a text to Chaewon and Jess about my idea. But my fingers hover over the send button. I read the message over and over again, feeling my heart beat hard in my chest.
What if they hate the idea? What if they reject it?
I delete the text as quickly as I had written it. Instead, I pull up Skype and call Nanu.
She picks up after it rings for a good few minutes, when I’m almost ready to hang up, dejected.
“Nishat?” she asks, her face appearing on screen. She looks tired. There are bags under her eyes and her skin looks blotchy. I realize I must have woken her up; I didn’t even think about the time difference before placing the call.
“Assalam Alaikum,” I say. “Did I wake you? Sorry. I forgot about the time difference.”
She smiles, though it’s a tired sort of smile. I’ve never considered Nanu old before; I mean, yes she’s old. She’s my grandmother. But compared to other grandmothers I’ve seen, with wrinkles all over their faces and walking sticks and everything, I’ve always thought of Nanu as young and healthy. But today, she seems different altogether. Like I’ve caught her in a moment that I’m not really meant to see.
“It’s okay. Is something wrong?”
“No …” I mumble, feeling deflated. I can’t believe I’ve woken Nanu up and made her worry for pretty much nothing. I could have filled her in during the weekend when we can call during regular hours. “Nothing’s wrong. I’m just … I’m starting to make my own henna designs, Nanu. I’m going to start my own business.”
Nanu’s whole face changes at that. She leans closer to the camera.
“Really?” she asks.
I nod, some of my previous excited energy coming back to me. I reach for my notebook and hold it up for her to see the design.
“That’s the first one. I’ve been working on it all evening. What … what do you think?”
Nanu’s eyes roam over the page I’m holding out. I can see her eyes moving, taking in all of it. Slowly and steadily.
“It’s beautiful, Jannu.” Her voice is soft. Quiet. Like she can’t quite believe I’m the one to have done this. “It’s your first one? It’s amazing.”
I feel pride swelling up in my chest.
“You really think so?” My voice is barely more than a whisper.
“It’s so much better than any design I did when I was your age.” She laughs. “Maybe next time you’re here I can show you all of my sketches. I have notebooks full of them.” Nanu has been decorating people’s hands with henna since she was my age. She used to put henna on all of her cousins. After she got married, she applied henna on her new nieces and nephews. I can’t even imagine what her sketch books look like. I can’t even imagine how many she must have.
“Yes! Yes! I’d love that!” I say.
“You know, your Ammu used to be quite good at it, too, once upon a time.”
