Читать книгу Under the Moonlit Sky - Nav K. Gill - Страница 7

I felt a tingle go down my spine. Am I sweating? If so, can he tell? His scent was getting stronger. It was a mix of leather and the fruity shampoo he used in his hair. Usually his fruity smell was the butt of my jokes whenever I was close to him. But this moment was different. He was closer now . . . much closer. He looked me dead in the eyes, oh, with those gorgeous blue eyes. He brought his left arm to the small of my back and pulled me closer.

“Johnny!” I gasped.

“Esha, I’ve wanted this for a long time now.”

My heart was beating rapidly. As he leaned in, I held my breath. I couldn’t function well enough to breathe. This was Johnny! My friend, but also the guy I had been crushing on for a very long time. He came closer and closer, and I could feel him breathing now . . . here it goes . . . and . . .

“ESHA! Hey! There you are! It’s our song! Come on!” Johnny and I almost tripped over ourselves. A blonde girl in a leather jacket, fishnet stockings and a black skirt, the ultimate Madonna groupie, was standing in the doorway.

“Mandy, wait!” I protested as she grabbed hold of my arm and pulled me away. Johnny looked on in confusion. It was too late, and the moment was lost.

Mandy pulled me along a hallway filled with guys and gals who were either busy with a bottle or busy with each other. I could hear the beat pumping now as she pulled me into the large living room that we had transformed into a makeshift dance floor.

“Mandy, do you realize what you just interrupted?”

“Oh, don’t worry, you got all summer to get hot and heavy with Johnny Boy. Tonight you party with the girls! Hey, Jason! Put it up! Esha’s here!”

“No problem, Mandy, this one’s for you girls! Enjoy!” As Jason began to spin Cyndi Lauper’s current hit, Mandy and I joined our girlfriends on the dance floor.

“Girls, here it comes . . . get ready for the chorus!” Mandy yelled as she threw her hands up into the air.

“Girls just wanna have fuh-un . . . whoa-o-o . . .”

“Esha! SHOTS!” Mandy yelled as she grabbed my arm for a second time.

“No, Mandy! I think I’m good for the rest of the night.”

“Oh, stop complaining,” said Carrie, the sweetest and usually most level-headed girl from our group. “We’ve graduated university! We’re finally done with exams, studying and all of that stress. Come on! Celebrate! We don’t know when we’ll be able to party like this again.”

“Carrie, we party every weekend!” I pointed out.

“Pleeeeeeease,” pleaded Reet. Throughout my whole life, Reet had been my only friend from another Punjabi family. She was stuck in the same tug-of-war as I was between our parents and our lifestyles.

“Reet! What happened to your shoes? And you’re soaking wet!” I cried out. Reet was standing on her tiptoes with her legs crossed at the ankles, as if she were hoping that no one would notice her bare feet. Her tank and skirt were drenched, and her hair was a tangled ball of wet curls. The three of us stared at Reet from head to toe before bursting into laughter.

“Honestly, Reet, what the hell did you do now?” Mandy laughed.

“Nothing, really . . . Well, Chase was chasing me—”

“Ooooo, Chase was chasing you!” we teased in unison.

“Oh, stop it! But really, so Chase and I were just joking around outside by the water, and we sorta ran into the water, and then a wave came . . . and . . . when I ran out . . . I was . . . slipper-less,” Reet said, shrugging.

“You sure you were only slipper-less?” Mandy said as we all continued to laugh.

Reet’s predicament didn’t surprise us. She was known to get herself into tricky situations that were embarrassing for her but absolutely hilarious for us. Chase, her boyfriend of one year, had quickly grown accustomed to her unpredictable behaviour. From sleeping in on exam day to driving off with her soda can still on top of her car, it could be anything, but definitely worth a laugh. That was our Reet.

“Oh, shut up! Now, people, can we continue with our shots?” Reet demanded.

“Oh, right! Esha, come on!” Mandy said, quickly shifting her focus to me. All three pouted on cue. Together they made puppies look like bulldogs.

“Uhh . . . okay . . . okay, OKAY! Bring it on! Why the hell not?” I conceded.

“YES!!!!”

Mandy placed a tray full of dirty whiskey shots in front of us, while I tried not to think about the insanely huge headache I was definitely going to have the next morning.

“What should we toast to?” Carrie asked in her usual soft tone.

“Esha?” Mandy raised her eyebrows at me.

“Um, okay, how about to living life on the edge and never forgetting your girls.”

“Cheers!” We all tipped our heads back and downed the shots. I closed my eyes as the golden liquid burned through my body. I basked in the immediate warmth it offered, something I couldn’t find anywhere else.

“Okay, enough of this. Let’s go party it up on the dance floor, ladies. Follow me!” Mandy proclaimed as she led the way back there.

It was quite crowded now. Everyone was making their way into the centre of the room. We were hitting the three a.m. mark, which meant that everyone was pretty much drunk or high. School was done, summer was starting. A whole new path stood out before us. We were young, and we wanted to party and let loose. Sensing this feeling, Jason chose to feed the crowd what it was yearning for, the hottest track of the year, “Thriller” by Michael Jackson.

I became lost in the music. People around me were letting go, singing along with the song, being free and just simply moving to the music. For a short while on the dancefloor, you can actually convince yourself that you don’t have a care in the world. You’re numb to pain, you forget your troubles, and there are no parents, no pressures, no family concerns or secrets. We all understood each other once we were on that dance floor together. We were all there for the same reason—we needed to be free. This was what parents didn’t get. They didn’t understand the inspiration and the comfort of being around people who were at the same level as us. We all shared the same uncertainties about life, and we were all trying to find a way to stall the process of having to grow up. Right then, none of it mattered; not my frustrations about my mother’s weaknesses, and especially not my father’s behaviour. That night I was free.

“Eshaaa! Wake up! It’s almost noon!” My mother’s voice startled me from my drunken sleep.

“Stop bugging meeeee!” I yelled as I toppled to the floor of my bedroom. My nose was flat against my rug, which from this angle looked like it needed a good vacuuming. Right now, my only concern was my throbbing headache. “Oh man, this is gonna hurt,” I said, holding my head as I looked up at my bed. It seemed I had been sleeping on the very edge. I guessed I’d been too out of it last night to see where I’d landed. My room was just as I had left it. The numerous outfits I had tried on last night were still strewn across the floor and over the desk, which sat across from my bed. Sunlight poured in from the many windows that lined my L-shaped room. I had graciously been given the best bedroom at the back of the house, with my sister’s old room situated across the hall from me. Each morning I rose out of bed to the scenic view of the mountains, and in summer the clear blue sky and the bright sun. Normally it was a welcome view to begin a fresh new day. Today, however, the bright sunlight only worsened my headache.

Lying on the floor of my room, I could still hear my mother venting her frustration downstairs as she prepared lunch. She was complaining, as usual, about the young generation growing up in the West and breaking away from Indian culture and traditions.

“What is it with these kids these days?” she complained. “Why are they always after ruining the peace and happiness of their mothers? Stay out all night and then don’t wake up in the morning. What is this nonsense? In my days, and in my Punjab, we girls would never ever think of doing such things! And now look at these new-age girls! Waheguru, forgive me. My child has lost her way!”

Why must these Indian women always yell?

My mother was very much a typical Punjabi mother living in the West: overbearing, talking non-stop about the way things had been in the old days in India, and above all else, constantly trying to force her children to conform to the “Indian” way of life. I fought back nausea each time she insisted on drawing comparisons with me.

Every morning on her way to work, she would stop off at the local Sikh temple, called a Gurdwara. This was her daily routine, and of course she had done her best to force me to adopt this particular ritual, but I had happily resisted with equal force. Eventually, however, she had given up. I think she was finally reaching the point of exhaustion in her efforts to change me. Yet the loud wake-up calls persisted, and I didn’t expect those to go away any time soon. To be honest, I understood that as a mother, she was full of love and just wanted the best for her kids. What that precisely entailed was where we differed in our opinions.

Sadly, my older sister had fallen into that trap. She’d grown up making Mom and Dad quite proud. Upon completing her university studies, she’d gone out into the professional world, gotten a good job, then married and settled down, as she was expected to do. I, on the other hand, still carried my dreams of becoming a celebrated athlete. I was a competitive soccer player, and I was quite good. The only problem was that women’s soccer was still struggling to achieve the recognition it deserved. For that reason, I was expected to find a “more suitable” career, according to my parents.

My family had moved out west to British Columbia in the late 1960s, and that is where I was born. Dad had made a good living from working in the mills, and we enjoyed a comfortable life. I had just reached my twenties, and for a tall, slim, dark-haired female, life was just beginning, but every time I stopped to take in the breathtaking view of the Rockies surrounding our small town, I felt suffocated. It was a strange feeling to overlook such a vast, open environment and yet to feel utterly stifled. I blamed the fact that I felt stuck between two cultures: that of the West, where I was born and raised, and the other that of my parents and their conservative cultural ideals. I guess it wasn’t entirely their fault. The Indian community here had made a point of carrying over their Indian culture. The only problem was that they all persisted in shoving it down my throat, and I wasn’t too sure I wanted to accept it. I didn’t feel like I belonged to it.

To my mother’s dismay, I continued to resist their efforts to make me adopt their Sikh identity as well. I always wondered why it was such a big deal to them. After all, it was just another label, one among many, and unfortunately for my parents, it didn’t fit too well in my life. And so every Saturday morning, after a night of partying, I was thrust back into reality with a loud mother who complained relentlessly about my behaviour.

Accepting my fate that morning, I finally pushed myself off the floor and stepped into the bathroom to freshen up. I examined my reflection in the mirror. I was happy with my looks and compliments were never scarce, in fact quite abundant. I was thankful to my parents for that much. I got my large light-brown eyes from my mother and my striking jawline and smile from my father. Whenever I smiled, someone would tell me how much I resembled him.

“Oh my dear, just like her father. Mirror image,” I would hear the group of Punjabi women exclaim whenever they managed to corner me at a family gathering.

I must admit that being reminded of how much I resembled my father did not sit well with me any more. Once upon a time, I would have been overjoyed to receive such a compliment. I would have been proud to carry on any attributes that remotely resembled the strong, dedicated father I knew. Things, however, were different now. And just as our relationship had changed, so too had my level of pride.

At this moment, however, I wasn’t too proud of myself either. As I lowered my gaze, I saw a bright, reddish mark on my neck. “Oh shit . . . a hickey! Shit, it can’t be! Mom’s gonna kill me!”

Before I could figure out how to cover the damn thing, my phone rang. I ran to answer it. It was Carrie.

“Carrie, thank god! Girl, I have a hickey! How do I get rid of it? I don’t even remember getting one!”

“Chill out, Esha!” she laughed. “It’s not a hickey, or at least I don’t think it is, because I never saw you with anyone. It’s probably a bruise.”

“A bruise? From what?”

“You honestly don’t remember? Girlfriend, you decked Skanky Rachel, then she lunged at you.”

“What? Oh shit,” I cried, trying to remember the details.

“You caught her with Johnny. Sorry about that, by the way, but I guess everyone was a tad overboard last night. It was a hell of a party. We gotta hand it to Tiffany. She may be an annoying little rich twit, but she can still throw some crazy parties.”

“Yeah, it was pretty insane. But . . . Johnny . . . I’m sorta remembering it, but everything’s still fuzzy. Maybe it’ll get sorted out later. I just got a crazy headache right now. Gonna go nurse it. I’ll catch you later?”

“Yeah, that’s fine. I just called to remind you of tonight’s plan. We’re meeting at Mandy’s later then heading to the bonfire. Don’t be late!”

“Sounds good, take care,” I replied, hanging up.

Damn that Skanky Rachel. She really couldn’t keep her hands off any guy. I couldn’t believe I’d gotten into it with her, but Johnny had surprised me even more. I’d really thought we had something going, but I guessed I’d been wrong. Though it was funny to think that I must have bruised up Skanky Rachel; funny enough to at least put me in a better mood.

I finally managed to come downstairs while the aroma of my mother’s cooking was still fresh in the air.

“It’s about time, Esha. Are you not hungry?”

“Famished,” I replied, quickly loading up my plate with mom’s homemade yogurt and Indian parotas, which were really just fatter versions of roti jacked up with a lot of margarine. Nothing cured a hangover like my mother’s parotas.

“Esha, my child, you must really not stay out so late at night,” she began. She was warming up to lecture me again. I thought it best to stop her before she got too far.

“Mother, please. Let’s not start this again, okay? I just graduated, so I went out to celebrate a little with friends. I did nothing wrong, so please don’t grill me. Not today,” I pleaded.

“Fine then, if not safeguarding your future, let’s talk about something else,” she said, sounding annoyed.

“Good. Glad to hear you say that. So tell me, what’s on your mind, mother dearest?” I asked between mouthfuls.

“You and your father.”

Oh, how I dreaded this topic, and my loud sigh reflected that. I would rather have listened to another lecture on partying too late. “Mom, you know I have nothing more to say on that subject.”

“But I do, Esha. He is your father, and today we are going to discuss it,” she said, sounding very adamant. I opened my mouth to object, but she held up a hand and continued. “He has worked hard his entire life so that he can give you a life without complaints. He deserves your respect, and I wish that you would show him some.”

“But that’s just it, Mom. I do have complaints against him. Many complaints! He isn’t the man I grew up thinking he was. We’ve lived in ignorance. I’ve lived in ignorance. If I hadn’t found that picture, I probably would have continued to live in ignorance. It’s humiliating, he’s humiliating!”

“Esha! Watch your language! He is your father! Like it or not, that is the truth!”

“No! That is not the truth!” I slammed my fists on the table as I stood up. The anger was rising within me. I could barely control my voice. Just thinking about it made my palms sweaty, my insides jittery. This always happened, and she just could not let it go. Today I had to let my thoughts out. I could not continue with the stress of burying my true feelings. If she insisted on bringing up this subject, then today I was going to give her what she wanted. “The truth, Mother, is something that you know very well, and that I had to find out by sheer coincidence. Apparently, you didn’t find it necessary to fill me in on Daddy’s little secret.”

“Watch what you say!”

“Why? Huh? Why, Mom? What difference does it make? The truth is still what it is. My father still has another family!” I spat the words out. It was revolting to think about, let alone to say it out loud. “So really, it doesn’t matter what I say or how I say it. In fact, let’s just put it out there today. He has us here, while he keeps a wife and son in India! And what drives me insane is that you don’t object to it. Why is that? Why are you quiet about his indecency? I don’t understand why Indian women lack all self-respect!”

Ouch. There it was. Clearly, I had finally managed to hurt my mother’s feelings with my last remarks. Her eyes watered, and she turned away from me. I regretted that remark the moment I let it escape my lips. As much as it pained me to think about what my father had done, a part of me still felt sorry for my mother.

“Esha, enough is enough.” She spoke ever so softly now. “If you knew the whole truth, you would not feel this way. He . . .” She quickly cut herself off, as if she had said something she did not intend.

“What are you talking about? What do you mean by ‘if you knew the whole truth’?” Suddenly my mom’s gaze was concentrated on her hands, and I could see that she was struggling with her thoughts. Yet I still could not calm my own anger. Discussing my father was an explosive issue for me. “I don’t know if I can hear any more. Just leave it alone.”

“This you must, Esha. This you must.” Her voice was almost as low as a whisper now, but she continued. “I have been bound by a promise I made to your father before you were even born. I cannot bear to see your relationship with him deteriorate any further. I cannot bear to hear you say such horrible things about him, treat him with the neglect that you show him every single day then watch him weep at night, unable to correct the image that you have of him. I think that it is time I told you the whole truth.”

I sat back down in my chair and braced myself. My mother’s truth, however, went no further that day, as we were interrupted by the ringing of the telephone.