“How areyou? What good news?” Her eyes are bright with hope.
“Well, I got the results from my Junior Cert.”
“Junior Cert?”
“The … O levels?” They’re the equivalent of the Junior Cert in Bangladesh. “I did … well.” Before I can say more, Priti pulls the phone away from me.
“Apujan did amazing!” she exclaims. “She got five A’s!”
“Five A’s! Mashallah!” Nanu says, like five A’s is all she’s ever hoped and prayed for me in life. “Congratulations! Congratulations!”
My cheeks are on fire, but there is also a glow in my chest. It feels warm and nice and fluttery. It means a lot.
After we say our goodbyes to Nanu, Priti throws open my wardrobe and begins to sift through the clothes.
“Looking to borrow something?”
“Uh, no. Finding you the perfect outfit.” She’s smiling secretively and it makes me highly suspicious.
“The perfect outfit for what, exactly?”
“You’ll see.” I’m not sure I want to see, but Priti pulls out a gold and red salwar kameez, with sparkling beads threaded throughout in floral patterns. If it was a little more dazzling, a bit fancier, it could be mistaken for a wedding dress.
“I have to put this on?” I want to be my usual grumpy self about it, but the dress is pretty enough to make me excited.
“Youhaveto put it on.” So I do, curiosity building up inside me the entire time.
“When do I figure out what’s happening?”
“Be patient,” Priti says as she lines my eyes with kohl and paints my lips a dark red. She insists on taking a billion pictures too, with my henna-clad hands laid out in front of me or held out in front of my face. I feel like I’ve stepped into a full-on henna modeling shoot by the time Priti has taken what must be the hundredth photo.
Maybe that’s what this is? Promo!
“Maybe you should be in these photos. If this is going up on my henna Instagram.”
Priti shoots me a playful glare and says, “Do you ever stop thinking about that competition, Apujan? I can’t just want to take some nice photos of you?”
But I doubt Priti just woke up this morning wanting to take some nice photos of me in a fancy kameez and henna. So I’m not exactly surprised when, after our photo shoot, Priti drags me down the stairs to a house that’s filled with Desi Uncles and Aunties who clap their hands and exclaim, “Mashallah! Mashallah!” and offer me flowers and presents and cards.
I blush and say, “Thank you, thank you,” and hope Ammu hasn’t revealed my actual results to these people I barely know.
Even though the dawat is a surprise, a gift to celebrate my Junior Cert results, it feels like anything but as I walk around with a smile glued onto my lips. It makes my cheeks hurt but if I’m not smiling, I’ll probably end up death-glaring at everyone. I have to remind myself that this is just a Bengali thing: instead of celebrating achievements the way you want to, you’re made to strut around in front of people you barely know, like a prize to be shown off.
The only good thing to come of it is the fact that all the Aunties take hold of my and Priti’s hands,oohingandaahingat the henna patterns weaving their way up our arms. They even ask if I’ll do their henna before Eid. I tell them all about the henna business, in the hopes some of them will pay me to get their henna done.
“Looks like you have a businesswoman on your hands, Bhaiya,” one of the Aunties says to Abbu.
“A businesswoman? Nishat has the results to be a doctor, taina?” an Uncle interjects, beaming at me with pride, like a doctor is the only worthwhile profession anyone could hope to have. I give him a tight smile and hope he takes it as a yes and shuts up.
“Kintu women are better as teachers, nah?” one of the other Uncles comments with a solemn nod, like a woman doctor might be a bit too much.
“Doctor, teacher, engineer, our Nishat could be anything she wants to be,” Abbu says, clapping me on the back proudly. It’s the most he’s said to me in weeks, but there’s a plasticity to his smile, a solemnness to his voice.Nishat can be anything she wants to be, except herself.
18
“ARE YOU READY FOR TOMORROW?” PRITI ASKS ME AFTERall the Aunties and Uncles have gone and it’s just me and her. I’m drawing henna designs onto every inch of empty skin that I can find on my body. Flowers and leaves and mandalas—anything and everything I’ve picked up.
“I think so,” I say with a frown, before shaking my head and, in the most confident voice I can muster, saying, “Yes. I’m ready. I’m going to win this whole thing.”
