Kalindi was “paying” Paul.
After Zeke left last night, Kalindi pulled Rasa aside and said, “Think of it this way, we’re way better off than those devadasi in India. They’re married to the temple and they have to sleep with whoever the priest says. We’re married to Hau’ula, but we get to choose who we sleep with ourselves. And we keep the money we make.” She paused and handed Rasa fifty of the one hundred and fifty Zeke had paid. When Rasa didn’t say anything, Kalindi leaned in and whispered, “Anyway, why get a minimum wage job when your beauty can bring in way more money in an hour?”
Rasa folded the fifty and tucked it into her bra. She didn’t bother to ask why Kalindi got to keep more of the earnings. That was just how it was. When Kalindi made the introductions, she expected Rasa to hand over two thirds of the earnings. Rasa didn’t mind because she made enough from the dates she set up herself to take care of her siblings the way she saw fit.
Last week Rasa handed her mother over two hundred dollars from three dates. Kalindi held it close to her heart and whispered, “My strong black widow-svairini. And only fourteen.”
Rasa didn’t feel much of anything at her mother’s twisted words of affection. She kept herself focused on doing what she had to do.
Money for Ach, Nitya, and Shanti.
Sex for money was fine and dandy for Rasa. But she refused to think this type of life was good for her siblings. There were days when Rasa wished for the luxury of a carefree childhood. To go hang out with girlfriends her own age. Though she didn’t have any. To go to school every day. To do nothing sometimes. These desires strengthened her resolve to make sure her siblings got as much of a happy-go-lucky childhood as possible.
Ach elbowed Rasa.
“What the fuck?” he muttered, his nostrils flaring and his eyes narrowed.
Rasa put her hand on his shoulder. She looked back at Paul’s truck. Her face flushed. She was bent on shielding her siblings from a repeat of last night.
“Ach,” she said, “Go to Kawika’s. I’ll get you later.”
Ach hesitated, frowning. Rasa motioned with her head in the direction of Kawika’s house.
“Ach. Please.”
“Fine,” he hissed before darting away.
Rasa’s face relaxed as she turned to her sisters. “Ok, you munchkins,” she said pinching their cheeks playfully. “Let’s go through the back. Mommy’s busy.” Rasa put her finger to her lips. “Shhhhhh…”
Rasa led the girls around the side. They crept like thieves, pushing away dense, overgrown foliage on their makeshift path. Rasa delighted in the way the ti leaf plants felt cool against her hot skin. The long, flat leaves brushed her arm and reminded her of being on the mountain.
They climbed the two creaky steps to the splintered back door. Rasa pushed it open. They tiptoed to their room.
Rasa nudged the girls to the bed and tucked them in. They fell asleep in no time.
Rasa wasn’t tired, but she didn’t want to think anymore. She pulled out her CD Walkman from under the bed. Nirvana’s Nevermind was in. She inserted her earbuds, then cranked the volume. She skipped ahead to Stay Away. The hard drums followed by the guitar and bass filled her ears. Kurt’s gruff voice joined in. Closing her eyes, she lip-synced.
Seconds later, Paul and her mother cried out in climatic ecstasy, so loud that it seemed to drown out Kurt’s voice. Rasa heard Paul moan again.
Unwanted memories rushed in.
Kalindi’s bedroom.
Kurt’s voice.
Paul’s moan.
Virginity stolen.
Jaya watched his mother fill each of the four stainless steel compartments of the tiffin with the classic components of a Gujarati meal—shaak, dal, bhat, and rotli.
Jayshree scooped pickles into the compartment with the rotli, the finishing touch to the elaborate meal. Her downturned lips and dead eyes made Jaya feel as if his insides were being scooped out like the pickles. He pictured a penny falling in his hollow torso, plinking on its way down the empty frame of his bones and skin.
Jayshree stacked each fragrant compartment in the carrying frame. She sealed the top one with a tight-fitting lid and secured the frame’s clasp.
Jaya recalled how different this lunch ritual had been in Niu Valley. Back then Jayshree whistled and flitted about as she stirred, chopped, and measured everything. It was like watching an Indian version of Disney’s Snow White—she’d clean up the messy home of the seven dwarves, for sure, but then go above and beyond to fix a sumptuous Gujarati meal.
Not so in Kahala. Here she rarely cooked Gujarati food. At the most it was once or twice a year. And always after Kusum foi, Sanjay’s older sister, called. Jaya figured it had something to do with his mother feeling guilted into making tiffins by nosy Kusum, who had no idea what an ass her brother was. At least those were the kinds of things he’d overheard his mother mutter to herself after phone calls with Kusum foi.
Kusum foi had called this morning to congratulate them on Sanjay’s new luxury condo project in Kahuku.
So today, Sanjay-the-ass would get a guilt-inspired tiffin from his wife.
Jaya followed his mother’s slow, automatic movements. He tried to say something nice. “Mom, it smells so good.”
Jayshree didn’t look up.
Would things have been different if they lived in India? Jaya’s imagination of a life in Gujarat was some form of what he’d seen in Bollywood films. Each morning before work and school, Jayshree would happily prepare tiffins for Sanjay and him. She’d fawn over them. She’d hover over him when he did his homework. As for Sanjay, he’d dutifully balance work and home life. No other shenanigans. His parents would tease each other but only because they got along so well. A loving, perfect family.
Just the thought made Jaya feel like he did when he drank a big cup of steamy chai.
In this pretend life in India, things might’ve been ideal. Except that even there his parents wouldn’t have accepted him as their son. In their Gujarati circle, the pressure to conform to gender norms would have been more intense. He guessed roles and expectations were more defined and ingrained in Gujarat.
At least in America he got to express his gender the way he wanted, even if his parents and most of his classmates refused to acknowledge it.
The warmth in Jaya’s body turned into an arctic chill.
“Jaya,” Jayshree said.
“Yeah.”
“Don’t let the tiffin tip over in the car or the dal might leak.”
“But
