Maybe, like Normal Prom, I’d built up a much more glamorous image in my head of what it would be like zooming through the streets of Fresno on the back of a motorcycle: the freedom of being on the open road, a fresh breeze gently caressing my skin. Instead, I’m getting hot, smog-filled air slapping me in the face, my brain filled with constant thoughts of death by splattering. I didn’t think the ride would be this bumpy. My ass feels like it’s been repeatedly kneaded.
We park in a tiny open space near the fence to the backyard. There are four cars already parked out front. The entire neighborhood is composed mostly of Mexicans, Punjabis, and Hmong, so it gets super loud on the weekends and random evenings when people just want to have an impromptu party or get-together.
I really don’t want to be at the house because of the barsi. Death anniversary. It’s going to be so weird. I’m just hoping I can stealthily sneak in, get Dafydd, and sneak out, undetected. But mostly I just don’t want to be reminded of Goldy for so much sustained time. That’s literally what a barsi is, a remembrance. They’re going to be serving Goldy’s favorite foods, like muttar paneer, and because this is Mama and Papa we’re talking about, people will be reciting and singing poems, making overly dramatic speeches about the amazing Goldy Gill. I really don’t want to explain my face to anyone. Mama and Papa have seen it, of course. She touched my face with sadness and Papa muttered “Fittey mooh,” then threw a chappal at my bedroom door. But since those first reactions, they’ve mostly said nothing. Biji’s only reaction was to say nothing too, but it’s a different non-judgy way of saying nothing.
The sounds of the barsi are slightly muffled from this side of the house. It’s dark now and beautiful, the sky filled with stars and constellations, and on clear evenings, the moon looks so close, you could jump up and take a great big bite out of it. When I was six or seven, me and Goldy and Papa would hang out on his lawn mower tractor—you know, for the half an acre of garden in the back—and it would be such a thrill feeling the ground beneath us vibrate, listening to Papa talk about how amazing soil is over the loudness of it all.
Mindii hoists herself off the bike in one smooth motion. Her dress is unsullied, not one speck of dust on it. I get off the bike clumsily, my shoes covered in dirt, the bottom of my rented pants dusty. I take a step and realize a pebble has made its way into my sock. A mosquito comes and bites me on my hand and another one gets me right on the forehead. I can feel the bites swelling slightly. Mosquitos, fruit flies, bees, annoying house flies. Goldy rarely got bit when he’d go outside. Me, I’m a sweaty, swelling mess.
“So,” Mindii says. “What’s the plan?”
I pause to take off my shoe and remove the offending stone, then look up at the sky, hoping for some divine intervention. A bolt of lightning, a flood, a bunch of scary-ass birds prophesizing the end of times.
“You know we don’t really have to go through with this.” I straighten up and dust myself off, a futile effort since the entire area is dirt and dust. It’s like trying to stay clean in a mine. “We c-could just say we tried to get D-Dafydd. Also, my parents are very traditional. It will bring great dishonor on my family if anyone sees me bring a girl in the house,” I say somberly. “Could get very tense.”
There is silence as the weight of this fills the air.
She starts laughing riotously. She has to grab my shoulder to keep from falling over. It’s kind of offensive. I mean, sure, nobody’s going to arranged-marriage me or bust out swords, and neither Papa or Mama is going to disown me for bringing a girl to the house. Or for anything, really. But still, Mindii could act a little concerned. Because I’m not entirely wrong.
Papa’s already embarrassed enough, between my very public love of crochet and Goldy’s very public alcoholism (and yes, for Papa these offenses are equally embarrassing). We’ve got a big family, and everyone’s probably here, all the thayas and bhuas and chachas and mamas. How am I supposed to explain Mindii’s presence to everyone related to me by blood, not to mention the family friends who have inserted themselves into our lives so we have to call them auntie and uncle?
“Fine. Let’s go. If I get sent to work at a call center in Jalandhar tonight, this is on your head.”
“Just make sure there’s mango lassi at the wedding reception. I mean, we’re here to pick up your cosplay so you can play in a Brambleberry tribute heavy metal band at a Snollygoster-themed party. I don’t think I’m going to be the biggest threat to tradition in this house tonight.”
“My cosplay has a name. Dafydd. And the musical subgenre is called Bramble-core,” I snap.
She’s already walked over to the Raat di Rani plant, with its gorgeous tubular white flowers cascading up the fence.
“What’s that aroma?” Mindii says. I’m trying to strategize the best way to sneak into the back of the house, toward the craft room.
“Aroma?” I say, distracted.
“Yeah. You know, smell?”
“I friggin’ know what aroma means!” I say sharply. “Sunny can spell. Sunny know big words.” I immediately bite my tongue because I don’t know the English word for the plant the aroma is coming from.
“It’s called Raat di Raani. The English word is . . . uh . . . Queen of the Night,” I say, literally translating the Punjabi phrase Mama uses.
She pauses to look at the tiny white flowers and takes a deep inhale. “Night-blooming jasmine. I’d know the smell anywhere,” Mindii says. “My niam tais—my grandma—used to grow it and would make me a small necklace with it every Hmong New Year.”
I glance over at her and breathe in the jasmine too. “How do you pronounce the Hmong word for grandma? Is it nitai?” I venture, attempting to mimic the pronunciation.
“Na-tai,” she says slowly.
“Na-tai,” I repeat.
She nods her head, but I already know it’s not quite right.
We walk along the perimeter of the fence and enter through the side. I open up my pouch and take out the keys.
Inside, we walk past the sunroom, where all three of us—Mama, Biji, and me—sit and gossip and crochet. Sometimes aunties or relatives come here during birthdays or on Diwali and Bandi Chhor and Vaisakhi and, well, any reason to knit or crochet and talk smack while the men watch cricket or football or play cards, which used to turn into whiskey and poetry sessions.
When Goldy came back from rehab his third and what ended up being his final time, we were all determined to make sure he didn’t fuck up. Papa emptied out the whole house of alcohol, and I really thought it would fix things. I monitored Goldy like a hawk to make sure he didn’t even think of drinking. I still remember the autopsy report we received weeks after he died. Most of the words were gibberish, like cyanosis, lung bases, alveolar space. But then there were little spots of normal English: “he voluntarily consumed alcohol,” and “alcohol toxicity.” Like yes I understand it’s a disease, but man–it’s hard to really feel that when the word voluntarily is stuck in my head.
Biji’s bed is here too. My parents tried really hard to get Biji to sleep in an actual room, but she enjoys being close to an open window and in a wide-open room. So the sunroom is her room.
The lights are all on, but Biji is most likely outside, hanging with all the old people or sitting around listening to the poetry.
We go down the narrow hallway and Mindii pauses in front of the door to my room and the crafting area. She briefly looks at the wooden sign that says “Loom the Fandom,” and the photo of yarn taped underneath. “This has to be your room,” Mindii says, posters of colorful yarn, a giant poster of Kajol and Shah Rukh Khan from Kuch Kuch Hota Hai on the wall. “I like this movie,” she says. “I used to watch it with my niam tais all the time.”
I have so many questions, starting with her knowing one of the major films of the 1990s Hindi film industry.
But then I scramble toward my desk to hide the stack of books on alcoholism that I just don’t have the energy to move. Thankfully she changes the subject and brings up my other great love: indoor gardening.
“So. Gardening, huh?” she says, which is a nice way to comment on the mess. Herbs and flowers are scattered everywhere, in bottles, tin cans. There are clothes all over the floor, even though there’s a laundry bin right there. A record player sits on a table in the corner, with vinyls of Punjabi songs—many of them glorifying “manly” consumption of alcohol; it’s kinda unavoidable—Star Wars and Other Galactic Funk, a ton of limited edition Bramble-core metal, and some regular metal bands I’ve picked up over the years.
“I dabble,” I say as she looks around.
“Every apartment we’ve ever had,” she says, “we always planted things. It all goes in our food. My niam tais”—she pauses—“hustled big-time to get seeds and cuttings of things from the old country. I still don’t know what they’re called in English. We use a thousand herbs for our chicken soup, and you can find all of them in our garden. Even Si Toj. Fun fact about Si Toj: It’s used to induce menstruation. Me and my sisters use it all the time. Great for regulating flow too. Menstrual flow.”
“Oh. That’s grrrreeeaaaat,” I say, nodding as fast as I can to indicate just how cool I am with the words menstruation and flow.
“Okay,” I say, pausing. “I don’t get it.”
“What?”
“All of this,” I say. “This.” I wildly gesture with my hands because I don’t even know how to express what I’m trying to say.
She steps in close. She knows what I’m asking.
“Isn’t it obvious?” she says, looking at me.
I tilt my head.
“I like you. For secret reasons.”
I blink at her. Is this sarcasm? Or what do you call it—being facetious?
I don’t know what to think or feel. Should I laugh?
She starts walking out of the room, toward the craft room.
She already sees the Dafydd cosplay and is heading straight for it. It’s hanging next to the mannequin head I use to size things. Yes, like fake beards.
“This is fucking incredible,” she says, examining the crocheted black-armored vest, chain mail helmet, crocheted beard, a little steam-punk telescope for the eye with a crocheted eye-telescope . . . uh . . . cozy.
“You made this?”
“I did,” I say, happy that she’s excited. “But can we rewind like eight seconds?”
She does a really bad enactment of time reversing.
“To the part where you said you like me. Like . . . like me . . . like a . . . uh . . .”
“Spiky and pungent durian?” she says, smiling.
“Uh,” I say.
“Ngozi mentioned you weren’t coming to the Snollygoster Soiree, so I thought, this guy clearly needs rescuing. And lucky for you, there I was.”
“But it wasn’t just there you was. You came for me.”
“Sometimes people need rescuing. I came to rescue you, Sunny Gill.”
I feel my heart flutter; an awkwardness envelops me.
I must look confused, because then she says, “You don’t recognize me at all, do you?”
Of course I recognize her. “English class? Anime Club? Denny’s? The Snollygoster Soiree? Did I miss something?” I say.
“Comic-Con. My niam tais’s soul had been gone a couple days at that point.” I look at her. Her eyes look far away. That’s such a great way to think about it instead of someone just being dead. “My entire cosplay had come apart. And there you were, with your amazing beard and flowy turban and that funny sign.”
I’m floored. “C-cosplay d-doctor for all your sewing needs. My parents would prefer I fixed humans,” I say.
“Dafydd looked different then,” she said.
“I’ve been cosplaying him a while and keep adding things to make him look more precise.”
The cosplay doctor is arguably the most important person at a con. The person who carries around supplies for when people inevitably tear their dresses, shirts, pants, capes, horns, armor, or their masks come unglued. I have a kit I wish I could fit in a pouch, but sadly I need to bring a furry backpack with pretty much everything needed to fix things.
I don’t know what to say or how to react. Without skipping a beat she changes the subject. “How’d you make the beard?” she says. “It’s so soft.”
“Trick is to use crepe wool,” I mumble.
There are very few people who would have a beard large enough to pull it off without making or buying one. I use crepe wool, which I routinely use to make the hair and beards for my online store. I could do the motions in my sleep: Remove the twine, extend the wool, pull firmly, untwist fiber, cut small pieces, use spirit gum. Poof. Beard.
“So what’s your problem? You got this whole tricked-out cosplay and you’re sitting here wearing a tux and a little while ago you were wasting time at the most boring prom ever.
“Well, let’s see it.”
I slowly put on Dafydd and feel a tingle of joy and sadness. I love Dafydd the character so much because he reminds me of me, but also who I wish I were. I wish I could be confident in exactly who I am, and loyal, and just owning my flaws and virtues. While Dafydd suffers because of his truthfulness, I can’t even be truthful to myself.
I hear slow footsteps and panic. Biji yells, “Kaun ya?” Who’s there. She’s changed into a comfortable salwar kameez to sleep in, and is wearing one of my crocheted Hufflepuff hats. The barsi has just started and Biji loves to socialize, but can only take so much before she needs a break. She needs to recharge, and likes to spend time by herself. She’d been doing self-care before the phrase was even coined.
Biji walks up to where we’re both standing next to the sewing machine.
“Sat Sri Akal, Biji,” I say, and lean in for a big hug. She pauses to look at me and laughs loudly. She always laughs whenever I wear cosplay.
She notices Mindii, but doesn’t ask any questions other than whether we’ve eaten. She stops to adjust her fat brown-rimmed glasses. After crinkling her nose, she squints up at me—she’s pretty short at five feet exactly. She looks at Mindii, and opens her mouth to smile a big gummy smile, her teeth in a glass by the sink. I bend down as her soft bony hand reaches for the top of my head. She pats it. She looks over at Mindii and her eyes light up.
“Pani?” Biji says, looking right at Mindii. Mindii smiles. Biji nods and very slowly heads back down the hall toward her bedroom.
“She asked if you wanted water, but what she’s really asking is if you want ice from her fridge with an ice machine. Yes is the only correct answer, so either way you’re getting ice.”
She comes back to the room, carrying a tray with three glasses filled to the brim with ice. We stand around awkwardly attempting to drink essentially a glass of ice with two teaspoons of water. Every so often, Biji looks intently at Mindii.
Mindii points to the crochet cover for a tissue box, which I’ll be honest, is kinda overkill, and says, “Did you make this? It’s lovely.”
Biji laughs. Then she takes out a bag from under the table and lays out its contents. It contains all kinds of crochet patterns and some phulkari, floral work with intricate motifs and shapes.
“Incredible,” Mindii says. “Can you tell me how this is made?” She looks right at Biji and Biji looks right at her. I like that Mindii isn’t looking at me for help, even though I still need to translate. I tell Biji what Mindii asked and then translate what Biji says, while they just look at each other and talk. I don’t usually see Biji this energized, unless she’s sneakily eating jalebi or dishing out some juicy gossip.
“When I was little, my mother would invite neighbors and relatives to our courtyard and I would join them. That’s how we learned. And we’d sing folk songs. Now it’s difficult. Life is so busy,” she says, waiting for me to translate.
I translate.
Biji continues looking directly at Mindii like I’m not there, and shows her a piece she only shows people she likes. It’s stunning. The stitching is so intricate and delicate, the shapes jagged, handmade.
“Back in the old days,” I translate, “women used to start making these as soon as a daughter was born, creating these majestic, gorgeous phulkaris for dowries.”
“It looks beautiful,” Mindii says. “But screw dowries and bride prices.”
“Yeah, n-no. Word.”
Mindii reaches over and looks at the design, then traces her fingers over it. “The pattern reminds me of what we do in paj ntaub.”
I know the Wikipedia version of what she’s talking about. It’s like how I know about African Americans using quilting techniques in the Underground Railroad, passing down coded messages and family history through shapes and symbols. I find anything involving some kind of thread and needle fascinating.
“What does phulkari mean?” she says.
“Phul means flower. Kari is work. So flower work. Basically, it’s embroidery with all kinds of shapes. Not j-just flowers.”
Mindii’s eyes sparkle. “Get out! That’s just what paj ntaub means. Flower cloth.”
“Pan . . uh,” I say.
“Pan. Dow,” she says slowly.
I attempt to repeat it.
She moves closer to Biji and shows her the bottom of her dress. “I made this with my niam tais.”
Biji looks at it intently.
“There’s all kinds of symbolism in this,” Biji says.
Before I can translate, Mindii looks at her and says, “Embroidery is such a great language.”
Biji offers Mindii a gummy grin. She slowly gets up and takes out another box, and out comes this mesmerizing phulkari work on what looks like a men’s atchkin. I’ve never seen it before. It’s black with a beautiful shape of a peacock on the front, with gold-patterned geometric shapes, dark blue and green silk thread to look like peacock feathers, unfinished gorgeous scenery in the background. Like, truly phenomenal.
“And this,” I continue live-translating, even though I’m a little weirded out, “is for the boy when he gets married. Goldy is always doing things uniquely.” Biji lets out a laugh. I take a breath. Goldy. Maybe it was a slip of the tongue?
“Well, you are amazing . . .” I hear Mindii saying as everything blurs. Biji is in the middle of saying something when I stand up, kiss her on the cheek, and abruptly start walking out of the house.