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ONE
Remind me to never shave hair off my body three daysbeforea party. Now as I walk into a crowd of people, everything from my legs to the one spot down my butt crack is slow-burning me. Hair follicles crown like devil babies. What I wouldn’t give to sneak off to the bathroom, take off my sari, and scratch them back to hell.
Instead, I’m air-kissing Punjabi cinema (Pollywood) starlets.
That's because being the only daughter of a super famous movie actress in India comes with certain diplomatic duties, and I can’t let annoyance show on my expression, even as the itch sadistically migrates to portions of my body I hadn’t even touched with a razor!
Which is why, as I wave to a film producer across the room, I’m rubbing the palm of my hand into my upper buttock, rather subtly, I’m hoping. Of course, I probably look like I’m cupping a fart. But alas, I must persevere, as this meet-and-greet is a marathon, not a sprint, and I’ve got to smile, hug, and laugh with industry elites and their plus-ones.
My mother is hosting this event at our mansion in celebration of my twenty-sixth birthday, after all.
Not that there are any balloons or signs with my name in this hall of glamourized, too loud, already liquored people to indicate this isspecificallymy party. I mean, sure, a cake will be cut by me at some point tonight, but all Pollywood film parties have cake.
This one is no different from the rest.
Right now, we are at the stage where the host—primarily my mother and somewhat me—flit from one group to another, asking if guests are comfortable and need anything. Soon champagne will be popped. And then, some point later, everyone in the room gathers into a larger group, forcing rivals, ex-lovers, or sworn enemies to come face-to-face. They meet as if their hugging ends poverty, as if their dentist needs free advertising, as if five seconds earlier they weren’t gossiping about who got more work done to their face.
Stepping to the side, I accept a mini crab cake from a wandering server. He asks me if I need anything else. I smile and say no because pictures of me frowning get leaked to the press, especially when they catch my mother’s face in the background. ACTRESS SHREYA CHAHAL’S STRAINED RELATIONSHIP WITH DAUGHTER SETS TONGUES WAGGING. PSYCHOLOGISTS WEIGH IN ON HER SINGLE MOTHER PARENTING.
I kid you not, this headline has gotten enough internet clicks to go front page. Honestly though, I’m lucky because despite the fame that spins around me, I remain my mom’s generic “daughter.” Being known as a real person, Komal Chahal, twenty-six years old with an online arts degree and little to no social media activity, doesn’t excite my mom’s fandom. They don’t care that I spend most of my time at home, that I’m bad at relationships because I can never be sure men want me or an association to my life, and that most of my days feel like copiesof each other. The same breakfasts. The same little routine. The same sense of ennui coming out of not having a real purpose.
Standing straighter, I crane my neck, hoping to find Reena and Nim again. My best friends are lost in the crowd, because I had to abandon them to greet guests. My eyes track unsuccessfully around, lingering briefly over the bodyguards posted by each exit. Men wearing black-on-black suits. Hot, very strong men.
All I should find attractive in a general sense, for who doesn’t enjoy muscled men in standardized uniforms? But none of them should hook my gaze. Or cause blips in my pulse. There should not be the slight hyperventilation of my breathing.
Except, one causes all that.
Those sculpted cheekbones are what first catch the light, but they aren’t the only angles he owns. His jaw, the muscled rippling of his arms, the slanted lines of his shoulders—it all casts sharp shadows. He’s jaw-dropping, carved, and my eyes seek his mouth, as if needing any soft harbour after being whipped around by the rest of him.
There is athleticism in the way he moves. He is silent, capable, stoic, and scans the crowd like a trained expert. As the senior lead, it’s his job to coordinate logistics. For that, he orders his team of guards around like chess pieces on a board. Every perimeter is dynamically patrolled. Usually he watches it all happen from above, standing on the second floor looking down. For some reason, he’s among the throngs of partygoers. And as if he can sense my eyes, they flick over in my direction?—
Huan Li.
Black hair, scruff, and a dimple currently hidden. I know it exists, though. I saw it once, flashing like a lucky star blinking on and off.
Our eyes meet for more languished, longing seconds (on my part), before I quickly jerk my head away. No, I will not admitthe most exquisite man I’ve ever seen is the head of my mother’s security. That's not the kind of honest self-reflection I like to indulge in!
I pull out my phone and send a message to our friend group chat.
KOMAL: Where are you?
Someone approaching calls my name. I look up, then send a much more urgent message.
KOMAL: Find me. Rescue me. Airlift me out.
The actor who walks over is full of so many muscles that his veins look inflamed to me. With expertly waved hair and brilliant teeth, he’s going to be this year’s breakout movie star. Veer Singh, a man ready to feature in wet dreams across the nation.
He looks me over and grins. “Komal, you’ve lost weight.”
This is supposed to be a compliment, and judging by the sparkle in his brown eyes, aflirtycompliment.
“We haven’t seen each other in a while.”Thank you, universe.“I haven’t lost weight.”
I’m the same. Lanky, small breasts, and very comfortable with my body as is.
“No, babe, you look great.”
It takes effort not to grit my teeth. “Never said I didn’t.”
