She frowns, before casting a glance over her shoulder. “I don’t know if you’re going to have a choice, Apujan. Ammu and Abbu are here.”
“What?”
When I look up and follow her gaze, I can make out my parents weaving their way through the crowd, sticking out like sore thumbs. Ammu is wearing a green and red saree, one that I’ve only ever seen her wear on Noboborsho, the Bengali New Year. Abbu has opted to go traditional too, with a collared off-white Panjabi with a subtle black and gold design along the edges. They both look far too fancy for a regular school function; I can see some of the other kids, anda lotof the other parents looking at them with raised eyebrows.
If this was any other day, I might be embarrassed, but right now I actually feel a swell of pride and joy. Their fancy outfits are an obvious show of support.
They stop in front of my stall with frowns on their lips and exchange a quick glance with each other. Speaking in that unique, exclusive language they’ve always had.
“What’s this?” Ammu asks. “This is your stall?”
I know she doesn’t mean it as an insult, but I wince.
“It’s …” I’m not sure how to string the words together to tell them what happened, but before I can try, Priti chimes in.
“Somebody destroyed it!”
“What?” Abbu asks, one eyebrow raised.
I shoot Priti a glare. “I came back from lunch and all my stuff was … gone.”
Abbu and Ammu share another look. Then, to my surprise, Ammu steps forward and plops herself down on the chair I have set up for customers. She looks small and uncomfortable—like she really, really doesn’t belong, especially in her saree.
“Well?” She looks up at me. “Aren’t you going to do my mehndi?”
I grab one of the only henna tubes that hasn’t been slashed and begin to weave henna patterns into her hands while Abbu goes for a stroll around the hall with Priti.
“I’ll scope out the competition!” Priti says with a little too much delight in her voice, while Abbu shakes his head, like he’s not quite sure how he got stuck with her.
“Does this happen often?” Ammu asks after so much time has passed that I’m drawing flowers at the edge of her fingertips, and her palm and forearm are already covered in henna.
“Henna?” I look up to see her staring at me a little too intently.
“No, not henna.” She nods at my bare table. “The thing that happened to your stall.”
“Oh.” I take hold of her palm again and draw a flower on the tip of her ring finger. “Notthisspecifically.”
“But other things?”
“Sometimes, yeah.” I feel the prick of tears in my eyes and blink them back. I don’t want to be having this conversation with anyone, least of all Ammu when it finally seems like we’re reconciling our relationship in some way.
Silence hangs between us until I finally finish her henna. Then she stares at her hands like it’s the first time she’s seeing them.
“You know your Nanu will try to make a museum out of your henna designs when she sees your handiwork, right?”
I bite down a smile, but I can’t help the way warmth spreads all over me.
“You like it?” I ask.
“It’s beautiful,” Ammu says.
I’m somewhere between relief and sadness when the day finally comes to an end and I can pack up my things and head home.
“You know, the other businesses aren’t as original as yours,” Abbu tells me in the car, between Rabindranath sangits.
“And not as talented either,” Ammu adds with a nod toward Abbu.
“They’re obviously very jealous of you to have done what they did,” Priti says, crossing her arms over her chest and looking out the window. She’s probably talking about Ali. But I doubt any of it was because of jealousy.
