CHAPTER 3
ARUSH BAKSHI
The doorto my father’s office shines like it’s glass. In a certain light, I can see my reflection as if I’m looking into a mirror. Right now, it’s bright. The sun is shining in through the windows behind me and bouncing off the shiny door like a prism. I can only see a hint of my reflection.
My skin tone blends in with the wood in the bright daylight to where I can only see my dark eyes, hints of my dark hair as the two-inch braids bleed into the night, and dark, clean-cut beard. I look like a ghost like this. A ghostly image captured in a photo by someone unsuspecting.
Yet, I can see the nerves in my eyes. They’re clear enough that I can see the anxiety as if they’re their own beacon of light.
I take a deep breath and raise my hand to knock. My hand stalls for maybe the dozenth time in the last two days. In those two days, I’ve tried to talk to him no less than twelve times. Twelve! I’m feeling very cowardly right now. I’ve never been scared to talk to my father about anything.
Why does this feel so big? So heavy?
I can’t put this off anymore, though. My plane leaves early in the morning. Now is the time. Time is up. Ihaveto tell him.
One more deep, deep breath to the point where my lungs hurt, and I raise my hand. I’m startled when my phone starts ringing. It’s clutched tightly in my other hand, so I raise it to look. It’s my father.
Is he not in his office? Does he know I’m outside his office door? I glance around before answering the call.
“Dad?”
“Why are you outside my door?”
“How did you know I was here?” I ask, still feeling a little spooked. Has he seen me creeping out here for two days? Ugh.
“I didn’t. I need to speak to you. Come in.”
I nod, though he can’t see it. My phone slips into my pocket as I push his office door open.
My father is a lawyer, a partner of one of the biggest firms in Mumbai. His home office, where he almost always works, looks more like a colorful lounge with cushions and soft fabrics and tchotchkes all over the place,exceptbehind his desk. There’s a bookshelf there filled with leather-bound books. That’s where his web camera points.
I look a lot like my father. We’re the same height, same build. His hair has some gray in it now, and there are smile lines at the corners of his eyes, but I imagine that I’ll look just like him when I’m older. The thought always makes me smile.
Especially because he always has a smile for me.
“Come in. Sit.”
I do as I’m told and pull out one of the chairs across from him.
“Are you familiar with the Sharmas?” he asks.
“Your partner at the firm, right? Daivik?”
He nods. “Yes. He has a son your age. Shivansh.”
“Okay.”
My father’s smile ticks up, and all the blood feels like it drains from my head. The room tilts a little until I force a breath down. Fuck. Oh no.
“We’ve been talking about a partnership between the two of you.”
Here’s the thing: I have a very progressive household. Like, seriously, we’re talking lightyears ahead. I never had to ‘come out.’ That wasn’t a thing. When I started talking about liking boys, everyone just rolled with it. Which is really cool. I’ve had a very unique, wholesome experience.
Insidemy household, that is. The outside world of India isn’t nearly as readily accepting as my family. It’s gotten a lot better in the last couple decades, but there’s still a lot of hate in the world.
The other thing to know is that my family has practiced arranged marriages for many generations. So many. For as far back as we have records on our family.
And the third thing—sexual relations between same-sex individuals is now legal. Woo. But any kind of legal partnership between same-sex individuals isnot. Which is why I’ve always kind of brushed off the idea of an arranged marriage.
