The Rearranged Life (5 page)

y run is shorter than usual the morning of the exam–three miles and only about a half-hour long including stretches. I need to get into my exam mindset. Sophia always makes fun of my methods. She thinks I approach tests with a military frame of mind. She’s probably right. When I get back to the apartment, I move aside some furniture in the living room and take thirty minutes to do some yoga. It is 6:30, and I have plenty of time to go through my routine before I head off to class.

Yoga is one of the things that my mother instilled in me. When I was younger and bouncing off the walls, she would call me down to the basement to practice. I whined and made faces about wanting to be outside, running around and playing on the swings. Instead, she patiently taught me various poses. The memory is imbued with fondness.

“Someday, kanna, I won’t be here. When I am not, you can do this and think of me.”

“Amma, you will always be here.” In my seven-year old innocence, I couldn’t understand that every day I grew, she was getting older, too.

She’d smile, charmed by my childhood-tinged lack of awareness, and continue to encourage me to stick it out. In my teens, I’d roll my eyes, but secretly enjoy the time with my mom when it wasn’t cool to do so. And she’d utilize those mornings to tell me Indian myths and inform me about the powers our long hours of contortions give one’s body.

“Yoga allows you to control yourself, Nithya. It is important to realize God is taking care of you, and it is up to you to tailor your behavior to grow closer to him or her.”

Now when I do yoga on my own, usually before tests, the control over my body and my mind washes over me. My mother pumps through my veins. And she was right: I feel closer to God, who I believe is out there.

Meditating makes me hyper-aware of every small sound in the vicinity. The generators run behind our building, a low whirr always in the background, but amplified in the quiet of the early morning. Sophia rolls over in bed and eventually climbs out of it, the floorboards creaking even under her light 125-pound frame. She’s checking her e-mail now–the keystrokes so distinct, it’s as if she is clicking the keys next to my ear. Traffic on College Avenue, the early commuters making their way to work, echoes on the street. My heart, beating slowly and rhythmically as my measured breaths whoosh in and out, creates miniscule vibrations in my body. I have complete control and no control at all. It is an incredible feeling. A full breakfast before my walk to class caps my routine.

“You have an hour to take this exam. If you have a hat, turn it backward, and if you have a question, just raise your hand. Good luck.”

Exam packets make their way down the two aisles dividing the room. As James passes me the stack coming our way, we mouth “good luck” at the same time and stifle laughs. Staring at the test as if daring it to try and take me down, I silently say a quick prayer to Ganesha, the way my dad taught me when I was faced with my first spelling bee.

He told me whenever I had a test in life, worshipping Lord Ganesha would help me pass with flying colors. Being a literal child, a habit developed of praying before every test. Now, here I am at twenty-one, still doing the same thing. I take a deep breath and open the packet. Here goes nothing.

Forty-five minutes later, my answers have been checked twice and I am confident with what I’ve done. I have gone through each question slowly, using every test-taking strategy in my arsenal. James is penciling in the multiple-choice section on my left. A brief glance at the packet makes me consider triple checking, but my gut says I have done all I can. I shove my pencil and calculator into their special slots in my backpack and grab my exam packet and answer sheet. As I shuffle behind James to exit our aisle, a burst of bravery comes out of nowhere, and I give his shoulder a quick squeeze as reassurance he didn’t ask for. The grateful look he gives me makes me feel like it was worth it.

I was afraid James would stay connected to that awful night forever, and I would never be able to think of him without reliving waking up in a stranger’s apartment full of fear. But no, only five short days, and it’s all James, and the way he doesn’t take things too seriously, and can laugh at my idiocy without it feeling like it’s at my expense. It’s impossible to feel as though the cheating and drugging have any bearing on how we interact now. We even have an inside joke already, and I’m filled with an unexplainable giddiness when he imitates my tigress look or whispers, “Did you get that or do I need to give you my notes again?” during lecture. I don’t see him as my savior. There is no ‘damsel in distress’ syndrome here. He intrigues me.

“Do you want to grab a coffee?” He suggests casually after class on Friday morning.

Is he asking me out?
He’s out of your league, and you’re out of your mind,
responds the voice in my head. I want to, but I have an essay for medical school waiting and all the packing to do for my out-of-state trip.
Do the responsible thing, Nithya.

“I wish I could, James. I’m leaving for Jersey in a few hours. My cousin’s wedding.”

“It’s no big deal. Maybe next time,” he offers sweetly before we part ways.

There won’t be a next time. Sejal’s opinion, that Indians shouldn’t date or marry outside our community, isn’t one I wholeheartedly agree with, but it’s also not uncommon. My friends would outwardly say they support me, but I’ve seen the whispers at intermarriages. I don’t hope to become the subject of them. And my family would be talked about, too. Other people can do what they want, but not me. No… I can never date James. There’s too much at stake.

here are bright colors everywhere. People laugh loudly and conversations flow through the air like the fragrances of the thousands of flowers decorating the hall. Everywhere I look, sequins and rhinestones sparkle, sending facets of color shooting across the room. Music plays as a soundtrack to the scene and a melodious voice sings a
ghazal
for the one he adores. Women are wearing their
saris
. The men are in
shalwars
. A decorated horse loiters outside, surrounded by people dancing their way to the entrance.

You would think I was at a circus… or maybe on an LSD trip. I am, in fact, at my cousin Mohini’s wedding. Painstakingly planned over the last six months, it hasn’t technically started yet–but the festivities have been in full swing for the last few hours and have barely begun. Indian weddings are always multiple day events. I came home on Friday afternoon, toting Sophia along as a last-minute addition, and we all drove to New Jersey, where Mohini’s family had a henna-decorating ceremony. I had intricate paisley designs painted onto my hands as Mohini sat like a maharani with two artists on either side diligently working on both of hers. Her designs didn’t just span her palms—they spiraled and curled their way up to her elbows, and her feet were decorated to mid-shin. Friday night included a welcome dinner at the hotel. Saturday morning, at 4:00 a.m., we all woke up for a
pooja
or worship for Mohini’s new life. Nakul, her groom, was busy with his own events in a different part of the hotel. Now, nearly at noon, we are welcoming the groom’s side to the venue officially, via an elaborate parade orchestrated by Mohini’s parents and relatives.

“Nithya, Anisha, Sophia, what are you doing?” My mother’s voice sounds behind me as we dodge the stragglers to get a good seat in the ballroom.

“Trying to ride the horse, Amma, can’t you tell?” Anisha, my little sister, is fluent in sarcasm. I suppose most teenagers are, but Anisha has mastered this art.

Amma looks like she hardly hears her. Her eyes are elsewhere, taking in the details.

“Oh, my gosh, I can’t believe Nakul
rode a horse
!” Sophia exclaims loudly enough for some neighboring aunties to look at us. Her excitement is exactly why I brought her along, and I shrug off the disapproving stares.

Nakul did ride in on the white horse, decorated just as ostentatiously as the wedding hall. He parked the creature outside, looking stiff and distrusting of the animal as his family danced in a processional leading up to the doors. When he hopped off, I was practically blown away by the heaving sigh of relief that escaped him. He really was out of his element, the poor thing, dressed in an exquisitely embroidered
sherwani
, when I’ve only ever seen him in polos and khakis.

“Do you want us to save you seats, Amma?” I point to the row we are about to enter.

“No, kanna, it is okay. I wanted to check on you, that’s all. Your daddy and I will go help Krishna Mavayya and Neelam Atta with anything they need.” She perfunctorily pats me on the arm, frazzled. The bride’s father is her brother, and a state of frenzy is a prerequisite to being on the bride’s side of the wedding.

Now that I think about it, Indian weddings are chaos no matter what side the guests are on. No one sits down, everybody talks throughout the ceremony, and the only people paying attention are the ones at the altar. The music sounds like the musicians each simultaneously play a tune of their own choosing. The food supply is endless, and so is the number of ceremonies.

“So, now is the actual marriage, right?” Anisha verifies. She’s at an age where she’s paying attention. Until now, she used to goof off with friends in the hallways, dashing between servers and relatives, oblivious to the pomp and show.