“If you’re not going, I’m not going.”
Ammu rolls her eyes like she’s tired of our antics.
“You’ll go to the wedding with no henna on your hands then?” she asks with a frown. “You’re bridesmaids, how will you look?”
That’s true. Sunny Apu will have henna spiraling all the way up her arms, and I’m sure the other bridesmaids—whoever they are—will be decked with henna as well. Plus, I don’t think either of us have ever attended an event like this without a full hand of henna.
When we were younger, our Nanu used to spend hours applying intricate, beautiful henna patterns to our palms. But that was years ago, when we lived in Bangladesh. Or when we visited during peak wedding season. Back then, one coat of henna could last us for at least three or four weddings of people we barely knew but were somehow related to.
“I can put henna on us?” I offer with a shrug. Ammu looks at me with narrowed eyes. I don’t know what she sees, but a moment later she nods her head.
“Fine, but make sure it’s nice, okay?” Ammu says. “There are henna tubes in the storeroom. I’m going to your Khala and Khalu’s house.”
Sunny Apu’s parents aren’t really our Khala and Khalu—which are titles usually reserved for your maternal aunt and her husband. But Ammu and Abbu became joined at the hip with them when they moved to Ireland a year ago. They’re the only relatives we have here, even though they’re very, very,verydistantly related to us.
“We should just go to the parlor,” Priti says when we get up the stairs and slip into my room. I grab a bunch of henna tubes, a piece of disposable cloth and my open laptop before spreading it all out on the bed.
“Sit.”
“I’m going first?”
“I can’t go first and then do your henna after. My hands will be all covered.”
She casts a wary glance at the things I’ve laid out on the bed and then up at me.
“You know you don’t have a lot of practice in this, right?”
I know. I definitely know.
I only started practicing henna last year, now that we only see Nanu on Skype every other weekend. It’s something that makes me feel a little more connected to her, even though she’s entire oceans away.
Though my work is nowhere close to Nanu’s, I’ve definitely gotten better. Compared to the lopsided flowers and inconsistent vines I was drawing on Priti’s ankles a few months ago, I’m practically a henna genius.
Priti shifts around on the bed for a frustratingly long time before finally settling in and holding her palm out. I take hold of her bony wrist and rest her entire hand on the old, ratty cloth I laid out on the bed.
“No shaking,” I warn her, taking hold of the tube of henna. With my eyes flickering between my laptop screen and my sister’s outstretched hand, I finally begin my work. I draw half of a flower on one side of Priti’s hand, and if I have to say so myself, it looks pretty good. The half-circle petals are slightly uneven in shape and size, but from a distance they more or less look the same.
“Can you remind me again how Sunny Apu is related to us?” Priti asks. It isn’t that we don’t like Sunny Apu—we definitely do. She’s kind of like a fun, cool cousin who is also a family friend. But ever since her wedding was announced, it’s like she might as well be our sister from the way Khala and Ammu are acting.
I frown. Trying to apply henna to my sister’s hand while explaining complicated family dynamics to her isn’t exactly ideal. But if I don’t keep talking, Priti will get so bored that she’ll definitely start shifting around again. She’s the kind of person who can rarely sit still.
“She’s Ammu’s aunt’s husband’s cousin’s daughter,” I say, drawing a curved line from one of the flower petals all the way up to the tip of Priti’s ring finger.
“Why are Bengali relationships so complicated?”
“Something I ask myself every single day,” I mumble. It comes off a little more bitter than I want it to. I’ve laced it with all of the resentment I’m feeling for Ammu and Abbu. After all, it’s not just Bengali relationships that are complicated, is it? It’s this weird, suffocating culture that tells us exactly who or what we should be. That leaves no room to be anything else.
“Apujan.” Before I know it, Priti is prying the tube of henna out of my fingers. There is a glob of henna on her hand where it’s definitely not meant to be, but I can barely see it through the sudden glaze of tears in front of my eyes.
“Sorry.” I sniff, rubbing my eyes and willing the tears to disappear into nothingness.
“I get it,” Priti offers kindly.
She doesn’t get it at all, and I don’t have the heart to tell her that. I lean over to the box of tissues sitting on the bedside table and pluck one out. I wipe at her hands softly, dabbing so that only the glob of henna and any smudged parts are wiped away while the rest of the design remains untarnished.
“We don’t have to keep—”
“I want to.” I pick up the henna tube again. We both settle into the bed. There is something calming about the henna, something familiar and real andsolid.It makes me forget about everything else, at least for a few minutes.
