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Back The Henna Wars Save as PDF
Chapters (43)
  1. Cover
  2. TheHennaWars
  3. Copyright Notice
  4. Dedication
  5. Content Warning
  6. 1
  7. 2
  8. 3
  9. 4
  10. 5
  11. 6
  12. 7
  13. 8
  14. 9
  15. 10
  16. 11
  17. 12
  18. 13
  19. 14
  20. 15
  21. 16
  22. 17
  23. 18
  24. 19
  25. 20
  26. 21
  27. 22
  28. 23
  29. 24
  30. 25
  31. 26
  32. 27
  33. 28
  34. 29
  35. 30
  36. 31
  37. 32
  38. 33
  39. 34
  40. acknowledgments
  41. about the author
  42. Newsletter Sign-up
  43. Copyright

I blush and say, “Thank you, thank you,” and hope Ammu hasn’t revealed my actual results to these people I barely know.

Even though the dawat is a surprise, a gift to celebrate my Junior Cert results, it feels like anything but as I walk around with a smile glued onto my lips. It makes my cheeks hurt but if I’m not smiling, I’ll probably end up death-glaring at everyone. I have to remind myself that this is just a Bengali thing: instead of celebrating achievements the way you want to, you’re made to strut around in front of people you barely know, like a prize to be shown off.

The only good thing to come of it is the fact that all the Aunties take hold of my and Priti’s hands, oohing and aahing at the henna patterns weaving their way up our arms. They even ask if I’ll do their henna before Eid. I tell them all about the henna business, in the hopes some of them will pay me to get their henna done.

“Looks like you have a businesswoman on your hands, Bhaiya,” one of the Aunties says to Abbu.

“A businesswoman? Nishat has the results to be a doctor, taina?” an Uncle interjects, beaming at me with pride, like a doctor is the only worthwhile profession anyone could hope to have. I give him a tight smile and hope he takes it as a yes and shuts up.

“Kintu women are better as teachers, nah?” one of the other Uncles comments with a solemn nod, like a woman doctor might be a bit too much.

“Doctor, teacher, engineer, our Nishat could be anything she wants to be,” Abbu says, clapping me on the back proudly. It’s the most he’s said to me in weeks, but there’s a plasticity to his smile, a solemnness to his voice. Nishat can be anything she wants to be, except herself.

18

“ARE YOU READY FOR TOMORROW?” PRITI ASKS ME AFTER all the Aunties and Uncles have gone and it’s just me and her. I’m drawing henna designs onto every inch of empty skin that I can find on my body. Flowers and leaves and mandalas—anything and everything I’ve picked up.

“I think so,” I say with a frown, before shaking my head and, in the most confident voice I can muster, saying, “Yes. I’m ready. I’m going to win this whole thing.”

Priti lets out a small laugh. “Wow, this really has all gone to your head.”

“Well, you heard everyone at the dawat today. They all said our henna was great, and they’re all Desi. They know their henna.” It’s true. Since I got the approval of Desi Aunties, I’m set. They’re the true henna connoisseurs.