Read Online The Hindi-Bindi Club by Monica Pradhan - Free Book Online Page A

breath. “If only life was that simple. Good and bad. Right and wrong. Friend and foe. You still see the world through rose-tinted glasses. Your lenses haven’t cracked yet.”
    “Every major religion—well, except Buddhism—every major religion has violent extremists. Hindus, Muslims, Sikhs, Jews, Christians—”
    “Some more than others.”
    “Even so, it doesn’t mean everyone is. Most aren’t, and I refuse to punish people for crimes they didn’t commit.”
    “Humph.” She flicked her gaze to the ceiling where a fan revolved in lazy circles, its pace slow like everything else in Goa. “If we’d raised you here, it would be different. I could forbid you from seeing this boy, and you’d obey my wishes without question, without argument.” She raised an eyebrow to punctuate: “
Grown-up
or not.”
    I bit my lip to keep from smiling.
    “Good Indian girls don’t date, you know.”
    “Actually, they do these days. Riya-
didi
says—”
    “Riya-
didi
is not your mother,” she snapped. “
I
raised you.
I
am responsible for you.
I
am the one who looks bad when people talk, if you cause a scandal. Your actions reflect on
me
.”
    I lowered my head. “I’m sorry, Mom.”
    “I am, too.” She sat beside me, squeezed me so tightly I couldn’t breathe, and pressed a series of kisses to my temple. “My
beta
.” She prattled nonsense Punjabi terms of endearment. “I love you
sooo
much. You know that, don’t you?”
    “Umm-hmm.”
    “Good.” She let up on the bear hug. “I forbid you from seeing him again.”
    “What?”
I leapt from the couch and pivoted on my heel.
    “You heard me.”
    “But you can’t—! I’m in
college
. I’m legally an adult. You can’t
ground
me!”
    She crossed her arms, stuck out her chin. “I just did.”

    “A rsallan deserves an explanation,” I said to Riya-
didi
. I had told her only that my mom flipped out and forbade me from seeing him. Riya seemed to understand without my elaboration. “I can’t just drop off the face of the planet without a word.”
    “I don’t know…If your mum finds out…”
    She didn’t need to finish. I didn’t want to contemplate what would happen if my mother learned I betrayed her trust and went to see Arsallan, even if it was to say good-bye. I wished I had his room number. I tried to return his call, but there were too many Khans registered at his hotel, so many the operator flat out refused to connect me with even one random room.
    “Will you go? Please,
Didi
. Please find him for me?”
    She wrinkled her nose, clearly uncomfortable with the idea, but nodded. “Better me than you. But I don’t know what to say.”
    “I’ll write a letter. If you could just give it to him and get me his contact information…?” At her nod, I hugged her.
    The letter took seven crumpled drafts, because I kept tap-dancing around the truth. I was too ashamed. I didn’t want to divulge the ugly words that echoed in my head.
    My mother is prejudiced.
    My mother is prejudiced.
    My mother is prejudiced.
    Finally, I opted for the lie: My family schedule had grown too busy for me to see him during the final days of our holiday. I apologized, expressed my deepest regrets that I couldn’t say good-bye in person, thanked him for his friendship, told him I would never forget him and the wonderful times we shared, and closed with: “Please keep in touch. Love, Preity.” I gave my college dorm address.
    Riya scoped his hotel lobby for hours, but he never showed. Nor did she spot him at our favorite
chai
shop or any of the other places we’d frequented. “Sorry,” she said. “I’ll try to find his address and post your letter when I get back home.”
    Then, the day before we departed, I received a package at the front desk: Arsallan’s handcrafted storybook. I searched for a letter or a note or his contact information, but came up empty.
    I tore up my first letter and wrote another, better one, in which I poured out my eighteen-year-old heart.