Born Confused (23 page)

And when my eyes had runged back down, Sabina was before us, behind the bar. She was in a mirrored tank that flickered as she moved. When she reached up for a gold-capped bottle I was stunned to see tufts of hair under her arms, like grass pushing up through cracks in the pavement.

—Hey, you! I said as she uncapped the liquid into a swanky triangle glass on the bar.—What are you doing back there?

—Bungee jumping, said Sabina, winking and setting our bags behind the bar.—Whaddaya think I’m doing back here?

The straight swift bangs and the rest of her locks were tucked under a bandana that glowed ultraviolet in the nightclub light. She appeared much softer this way, her forehead rounding up and neck long and free.

—Did you have trouble getting in? she asked, raising her arms again to put the bottle back. There was something almost pubic about the hair there.—Kavita’s coming by later to help when it gets crazy, but you know what a workaholic she is.

—No trouble at all, said Gwyn. She lowered her voice.—Um, Sabina, just FYI—I think you forgot to shave.

—I didn’t forget to shave, Gwyn. I am fully aware of my underarm hair. I don’t believe in shaving. It’s not natural.

I wondered if she’d revise her thoughts if she’d been one of those girls who’d grown unfortunately into a hirsute upper lip, like Jimmy (Trilok) Singh’s mother, who was a sort of Charlie Chaplin of Indian women. But then maybe Sikhs were used to lots of hair; I could only imagine the uncut quantity of it under those turbans. In any case I was pretty amazed at Sabina’s reaction; sometimes I didn’t
shave either, but then I never went sleeveless. None of these concerns were applicable to Gwyn, who didn’t seem to grow body hair.

—Not that many people, huh? I said, changing the subject and pulling up a stool. Gwyn thanked me and sat down on it. I pulled up another one.

—Are you kidding? said Sabina.—This is early, honey. You just stick around till it gets rolling and you won’t be able to see your way out of here.

It was early? By this time any school dance would be long over, the parking lot full of parents honking like herds of leery geese. I’d thought we were arriving fashionably late.

—I didn’t realize you meant bartending when you said you were working the event, I said.

—Well, turns out that means a few freebies for you two.

—What’s that back there? I asked, indicating another fish tank, but this one flowing with nearly infrared liquid; a ladle bobbed in it like a lifeboat.

—Delhi Bellies, a special punch invented just for Desicreate.

—Delhi? Is that punch, like, an Indian specialty? asked Gwyn. She looked unsure now of her pink drink in its inverted-isosceles glass.

—All punch is an Indian specialty, said Sabina.—The word comes from
panch,
which means
five
in Hindi, because it used to have five ingredients.

She went on to explain how the English were introduced to it in colonial India and grew addicted. Good thing we hadn’t asked her what the meaning of life was or we’d be here till the cows came home—which in Manhattan is no meager amount of time.

—Who can resist after an intro like that? I said.—I’ll have one of those.

Sabina smiled approvingly and fished out the lifeboat.

—We’ve come a long way, baby—the colonized have
punched
out the colonizers! Independence reclaimed!

I didn’t realize it was all that; I just liked the color, the same way I knew Gwyn liked the pink. But I knew when to hold my tongue.

She went off to take care of business at the other end of the bar. Gwyn air-clinked my glass so as not to spill.

—To a night to remember! she said.

—I’ll drink to that, I said.

We looked out to the dance floor. Simmering strands were taking over the slow spill of the songs, and more and more people were beginning to gravitate there, to flow in from the street and into the beat-steeped room.

—God, Indian guys rock my world, sighed Gwyn, stirring her drink flurriedly, eyes whisking the place.—There are so many hot tamales here. Did you see that one?

In the vicinity of where she was gesturing now with her brows was a brown-skinned orange-teed guy with teapot ears and a nose that seemed like it had dropped on his face from a great height rather than grown organically from it, but I couldn’t see behind him.

—The guy in the orange is blocking my view.

—That’s the one I mean!

—Oh.

—What do you mean
Oh?
You can’t be so blind. Can’t you pick out even one dude you find shagadelic? I could hang here 24/7 and never stop feasting my eyes.

She seemed to be doing just that, looking around ravenously like a kid in a Krispy Kreme when the trays are just coming out of the oven. Or an adult in a Krispy Kreme when the trays are just coming out of the oven.

The dance floor now held a couple dozen Indians and the Pink
Panther guy. Actually, this was a pretty good indication of the overall Indian/non ratio in the club so far. We were definitely in the minority. Gwyn seemed to notice this at about the same time.

—Maude, she whispered.—Looks like we’re nearly the only white people in here!

—Yeah, I was just thinking that, I said. A split second later I wondered if I was the one on glue; it had come out of my mouth so naturally. Gwyn hadn’t even seemed to notice: I was a minority, not a white person.

But the minority was the majority here. Which in fact meant that, here, Gwyn was in the minority. Maybe she was right and this was going to be my scene after all. Not one person had said hola to me. Not one person had said anything, actually, but that suited me just fine. It was a strange revelation, to be brown among the brown. Sure, it had happened in social situations with relatives and family friends, but on those occasions it still seemed we were a tiny ghee-burning coconut-breaking minority tucked away in someone’s kitchen while the whole white world went on outside. And even in those instances I had never felt like my world was necessarily the one inside. And forget India—where I looked like I fit, acted like a tourist, and always wound up utterly lost (except when I’d been with Dadaji).

But here it could be different. This was New York City and the new century; these people were not my relatives and the chicas wore cool shoes. I couldn’t believe I’d thought the place would be full of aunties. The girls here had their own brand of with-it. The boys—I wasn’t sure about the boys. But they couldn’t serve as an ideal for me to aspire to, so it didn’t matter so much. And where was Karsh anyways?

The song playing was one I’d heard a million times on the radio, a number with a rappy outro by that utterly cool chunky deer-eyed
woman whose head nearly comes off in the video and everyone looks caked in mud. But it seemed new again; there was something swirlier and ringier about it here—it was as if just before the heavy beats could sink into your skin they were bristled upwards by singing metallic fingers and sent to roam the air again. It reminded me of volleyball, but in slow motion and silver.

—Come on, Dimple. We’re not gonna get anywhere just sitting here, said Gwyn.—Let’s muster up some attention; you wanna go dance?

—How’s never? I said. The music was pretty cool and seemed to be getting better by the beat; it wasn’t that. It was just—me and dancing. That was something I did in my bedroom alone (rarely). And though the punch was indeed creating a hot spot in my belly, I hadn’t had nearly enough of it to go there. I flagged down Sabina for another glass and looked out to the dance floor trying to imagine me on it. It was like when I tried to imagine me in the world in general; it was much easier to picture these things without me for some reason. Here, too, it was a tough match, unless I emptied the room and did away with the lights and pretended it was closing time.

I watched a few guys out there doing this nonstop shrugging motion with their shoulders and lifting their palms, hands twisting to the beat in a vaguely familiar move. The gesture used for indecisiveness and apathy had never looked so sure. How would I ever work my way into that, for example?

—I mean, check
that
out, Gwyn. That looks like it belongs at an Indian wedding, not a nightclub.

—Dimple, Gwyn scolded me.—You really have to open your mind. You’re so judgmental sometimes. Think of it this way—you might even learn some
new
moves.

—I don’t usually dance, you know that.

—You don’t usually drink, either, and you seem to be adapting
to that new hobby pretty well. Dimple, no one knows you here. You need to get out there and show ‘em what you’ve got.

She looked at me mischievously.

—And then maybe you will be finding a nice Indian boy!

She did it in that mock Indian accent again. She was getting worrisomely good at it.

—Not like these dingbats you’ve been hanging with, she added.—Who don’t deserve the time of day from you even if you’re swimming in the Sea of Swatch, if I may say so. Bobby, Julian—watch out!

I had to smile. I loved when Gwyn dissed people who dissed me. Sometimes she also dissed those who really hadn’t, true. But for the most part her nasty side was a good thing. They say if you don’t have something nice to say about someone you shouldn’t say anything at all and it was perfect, ‘cause with Gwyn she said it all for me.

—Come on, this is your turf. Use it.

She even thought so! The second Delhi Belly had spread the fire from my stomach into my limbs. And we went out there. As I moved through the body-hot space I pictured it: my legs as two flames and my arms as two more. My body a melting candle, a wishstick, skin of sparklers.

The music had picked up still more and now innumerable arms were in the air shrugging like a wild bird herd with impeccable timing. A lot of guys were boogying, more than the girls it seemed. So far, the ratio factor was an entirely different one in this club: A much higher proportion of the male species seemed to be entering the place. And groups of them were dancing together, actually using their upper bodies. I had seen gaggles of girlfriends doing that—but guys? Never! I mean, I was definitely not drunk enough to use
my
upper body, and I was at least of the correct upper body gender. I don’t know what it was about activating the arms but that was a
whole other level of audacity in dance moves. And these boys had it. There was something simultaneously exciting and arrogant about how comfortable they seemed with their maleness. I hung my head low. Below me a sea of feet stamped and struck and rain-danced and rose to its toes and down. Sneakers and pumps and sandals and chappals and even a set of bare feet. My own peds among them; I began to shuffle them around in the ruby shoes to the choreographed pattern I did best.

But Gwyn. Gwyn went all out. A master assimilator, she warmed up by mimicking the boys around her, shrugging her shoulders and lifting her palms. Combined with her own jiggle hips and flirt-flit lids and sinuous waist whirl, that hair raying like an eclipsing, burning sun, it turned into something new altogether. It wasn’t long before she had an entire crop of dance partners literally lining up to get busy with her.

To their credit they gave her a workout, limboing and lunging and revealing a flexibility that made me wonder whether they did sun salutations daily. It looked like a mating dance between two unlike species, a song of seduction and strutting feathers. I realized suddenly that not only was I not in this fast-forming inner circle, but I’d been pushed from the ring of her admirers entirely.

I knew this wasn’t really couples music per se, but dancing with myself was starting to feel a little less like fiery and a little more like burned. I could see one of the boys peering past the flurry that was Gwyn at me and smiling. I didn’t really want a dance partner, but at the same time I was relieved when I saw him walking over; it would be the lesser of two evils. He leaned into my ear and whispered something, and I was so set on hearing an invitation to conjoin shrugs that it took me a minute to realize what he’d really said.

—Beg your pardon, but are you doing the Electric Slide?

That did it. I signaled Gwyn, who took no notice, and then retreated back to the bar.

I climbed up onto my stool, soles throbbing. I reminded myself of a monkey I’d seen dancing to an accordion on Columbus Avenue and how he’d climbed back onto his perch to go simian again after his street performance. Except the monkey had made money off it.

—What’s wrong with you?

It was Sabina, ladling me up with more Delhi Belly. She tracked my gaze to Gwyn.

—Oh, yeah, that would annoy me, too, she nodded.—I mean, come on, this isn’t an aerobics class. It’s bhangra, for Chrissakes. Look at these guys all licking their chops. But that’s men for you. You can’t live with them, you can’t live with them.

I had to laugh at that one.

—But it shouldn’t bug me, I said, tapping the glass to the whanging bass line.—I should be used to it by now. It’s just that here I thought. I don’t know.

—That you would find yourself.

—Yeah, I said, gazing into Sabina’s sagacious face.—How did you know?

—Been there, done it, she said, to my bewilderment.

—But me, I feel as lost as ever.

More
than ever. I was gesturing too much. My hands felt empty without Chica Tikka; purposeless.

—Crazy as it sounds, Dimple, sometimes you have to get lost to get found, said Sabina.—It’s not such a bad thing, a little confusion. It makes you ask questions.

She saw me glancing over the bar to make sure my bag was okay.

—Uh, sorry if I’m a little paranoid, I said.—It’s just that my camera’s in it.

—Then why the hell aren’t you using it?

—I would love to, Sabina—but I can’t just go out there and start, like, taking
pictures.

—What did you bring it for, then? You know, Kavita showed me some of those pictures you took for your grandfather. You’ve got the eyes. Now keep them on the prize.

I was extremely touched. But not convinced.

—I don’t know where he is.

—Who?

—The prize.

—Not
he. This.