Chapter 14

Excerpt from Decolonizing the Literary Imagination: Reparations, Restitution, and the Politics of Anglophone Fiction—Kaalia’s dissertation draft

[338] Priya Banerjee said I was in love with my boss in front of my boss. This has nothing to do with literary reparations. I am including it for the historical record.

***

After the way the morning had started, I decided to wear the bikini Layli and Iseul had gifted me underneath my clothes: a halter top with a plunging neckline and a low-waisted, embroidered, flowery skirt. If we had one day left in this beautiful, sunny place, I was going to embrace it. And fulfill my promise to my coworkers who were also becoming my real friends.

Speaking of friends, I hoped Akila, Khajee, and Louise could get a refund on their trip to India to visit me if they had already booked it.

After taking a taxi from Priya’s now-evil fortress, Roman and I found ourselves in the crowded, aromatic streets of Chalai Bazaar. People bargained for gold and antique statues and lush, wine-dark fabrics. Shops wafted sticks of incense, competing smells that clung to tablecloths and trinkets. And then there were spices, as colourful as the rainbow, satisfyingly spread over large plates. But even the chatter and the clinking of trinkets were nothing compared to the music. Musicians played the Chenda drum, the Elathalam, the Kombu. Occasionally, a shirtless man would blow on the Kuzhal. The beat was loud and rhythmic, accentuated by the low, powerful banging of the drums.

I felt as though I had been put in a trance. Drawn to the stalls with glinting gold jewelry, I brushed my fingers just above rings and necklaces and earrings, like a witch sensing the aura within the metal. Roman glanced at my hand then my face, and began laughing. 

“What?” I scowled.

We had been mostly quiet till now. Our conversation was limited to: “I’ll get a taxi” and “Let’s go in this direction.” After Priya and Roman’s argument this morning, the car ride to the city had been understandably quiet. Then, as we’d begun roaming the market, it had been simply too noisy for us to speak. 

I doubted Roman heard me. She was probably reading my lips. I knew this because I couldn’t hear a word from her mouth. And, since I couldn’t read lips very well, didn’t understand what she was laughing about.

I wanted to be angry. Our last actual conversation had been us yelling at each other over a Google calendar. And then Priya had publicly announced I was in love with her. 

What if the fact that we hadn’t really talked since was because Roman was avoiding me? 

What if she thought I was obsessed with her? What if she were planning ways to reject me and fire me? 

I wanted to tell her Priya was crazy and I would never and could never be in love with her. I wanted to break down and cry because Priya was a little bit right.

Still, even though she hadn’t felt like it since we’d set foot in Kerala, Roman was my boss. I had to be professional. I had to act like none of this bothered me.

So Priya Banerjee had said I was in love with her. So what? She was insane; she had talked down to Roman, as if Roman wasn’t . . . Roman. Beautiful, driven, assertive Roman Alvarez. Which was besides the point. The point was: if, in the case Roman wasn’t talking to me because she thought Priya Banerjee was right and I was in love with her, then Roman had to be the one to tell me so herself.

The most likely case was that Roman and I hadn’t spoken for a reasonable amount of time, considering our jet-lagged arrival and our host’s ranting and our time in the noisy market. Roman was not angry, not avoiding me, and definitely not giving me silent treatment. The reason I even thought this was simply because of my frighteningly stalkerish, cartoon-hearts-popping-out-of-my-eyes crush on my boss. Who was my boss. Who was much older than me. Who probably considered me an employee she occasionally flirted with. Not someone who felt about me the way I felt about her.

“What did you say?” I yelled. I couldn’t hear my own voice over the music. 

Roman shook her head. She took my hand and pointed me toward a market table I hadn’t seen yet. I followed, feeling like I was floating through the crowd, as dazed as if I had been possessed. My eyes landed on what Roman had been pointing to almost immediately. A yellow-gold necklace and earring set, crafted with fine Bengal filigree, as intricate as if a deity herself had sewn it. The earrings were chandbalis, large yet perfectly delicate. Tiny drops of gold burst from half-moon crescents, petals unfurling like miniature dahlia flowers. The necklace was Jadau-style, with uncut diamonds, pearls, and gemstones glittering in the dainty golden base. The result was a thick but painfully detailed cluster of lotus-like gold enamel and pink sapphire.

The set was so beautiful I nearly began crying. I needed it like I needed to breathe. Roman had an incredible eye.

I turned to her, already forming the words to the question: How did you know I would love this? But she was already mouthing the words, five of which were easy enough to read. Would look pretty on you.

“How much—” My voice drowned among the louder, larger voices of men bargaining for their wives. I cleared my throat and raised my voice. “How much does this cost?” 

I tried figuring out how I should bargain. Should I start low? Should I name what I hoped it cost? I would pay a reasonable amount of money for the set. Or an unreasonable amount. But only a little unreasonable. I couldn’t afford too unreasonable.

But the merchant, a small, reedy brown man with a shiny bald head, didn’t even glance my way. Other men wrestled behind me, subtly trying to bump me out of the way. Someone’s fingers made a grasping gesture toward the necklace set I wanted. 

Animal instincts took over. I slammed the stray hand—belonging to a tall, light-skinned older man—and yelled at the merchant, as hard I could, “How much for these?” 

The merchant still didn’t look at me. Mid-conversation with a white-kurta-wearing man, another man shouted (not even as loud as I had) and he began bargaining with him. I balled my fists up like a cartoon bully. Maybe he didn’t take women seriously. 

Before I could lose my temper and possibly end up climbing on top of the table, screeching with demon-like vengeance and rage, Roman pushed a man aside and ended up directly in front of the merchant. 

“How much for that set over there?” She nodded her head in its direction. 

The merchant paid attention to her immediately. It was literal proof Roman had an intense, commanding presence. Something that ordered you to see her, to listen to her.

Despite the vague directions, the merchant seemed to know exactly what she was talking about. Though I’d heard him speak Hindi, Spanish, Tamil, English, and Farsi up to this point, of all languages, Roman began speaking to him in quick, sharp Malayalam. 

Roman could understand Malayalam? Roman could speak Malayalam? I needed to ask her how many languages she knew. Because, as I watched the exchange between her and the merchant, I realized she knew the language well enough to read his lips. 

That, or I needed hearing aids prematurely. How on earth had she fluently learned the language native to Kerala? And how could she read lips so well? 

“It costs six hundred thousand rupees,” Roman told me after a few minutes of bartering in Malayalam. “Check your phone. I don’t know how much that is in USD.”

“Six thousand US dollars,” I said, after inputting the numbers into Google. I was going to faint.

“Do you—” 

“No,” I said, fervently shaking my head. “No, no, no. It’s okay. I can not afford that.” 

“I’ll buy it for you. Consider it a signing bonus.” 

“It’s too late for that. I’ve been working for you for almost two months!” 

“Okay, a summer bonus.” Roman had already begun rummaging in her purse for rupees.

I clutched her forearm, still shaking my head. “Roman. Don’t. Please.” 

Her eyes searched mine. Her face was so close, her full lips and that gold ring just an inch away. It was the only way I could hear her. Or at least that was what I tried telling myself as I tasted her sweat, sweet like incense, maybe patchouli. 

“Please,” I repeated.

Roman barked a few more sentences to the merchant in Malayalam. I had no idea what she could possibly be telling him, considering we were going to leave and never look back. I might have been able to justify six hundred dollars, but not six thousand. Not when I was just settling into newfound financial stability, with a few more years until I had fully paid off my student loans, and with two sets of grandparents I needed to finally visit. Airplane tickets to Sri Lanka alone could be six thousand dollars. I needed to save for that.

I gripped Roman’s arm, worried she might change her mind and try to buy the jewelry for me after all, and dragged us as far through the streets as I could imagine. Roman was still yelling at him as we left, hurling at him what definitely felt like death threats. With her arm completely clutched, I slipped past body after body, between shop after shop, forcing her to follow, until we had lost the merchant far behind. Then I let myself look at other goods, though more wistfully now. The guilt about spending money unnecessarily had taken over.

After a few half-hearted passes at saree fabrics and juttis, neither Roman nor I seemed to have the spirit to keep shopping. Or maybe that was just the bleak memory of this morning, finally settling in. As the sun sank lower in the sky, we decided to find food and somewhere to sit. We ended up at a restaurant with red-and-gold walls and vines climbing up the stairs.

For the first time since we’d arrived at the Bazaar, the world hushed. I could hear myself think. 

Roman ordered food for us while I sat at our table fanning myself with the menu. Without seeing it, I knew for certain my hair had become a giant cloud of frizz in the humidity. And we hadn’t gone swimming, so my tiny bikini clung to my skin with sticky sweat. I was exhausted, hungry, and mourning the necklace and earring set I couldn’t buy. Without food, I would be evil in about five minutes.

That five minutes vanished when Roman appeared back at the table and said, “They said the food will take around thirty minutes. Is that good with you?” 

I felt myself growing. My body expanded to increasingly abnormal sizes, so fast I didn’t have time to react. My head touched the ceiling. Concrete crumbled as I broke through. I was the size of Godzilla, or maybe King Kong at least. I towered over the city, the market, the beach. I began roaring, so loud it rippled outward past me in a circle that yanked the trees from their roots. Buildings went concave. People screamed and fled in terror. 

“Kaalia?” 

Eyes painfully dry, I blinked. I had been staring blankly at Roman for a minute. She waved a hand in front of my face, looking concerned.

“What?”

“Thirty minutes for the food. Is that fine?” 

“It’s fine.”

“Are you fine?” Roman pulled out the chair beside me instead of across. 

“I’m fine too.” 

“Okay, because you had that look on your face . . .”

I swivelled to glare at her. “What look?”

Roman swallowed, as if she were afraid of me. “That one you get before lunchtime when you start getting hungry . . .”

“Oh. That look.” Maybe my face hadn’t been blank after all. That was mortifying. I had probably been staring at my boss like a crazed, depraved, opportunistic cannibal. “Sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for. We’re travelling together. It happens.” 

The waiter set down two ice-cold waters in front of us. I began drinking like a woman who had been left for dead in the desert. So she had travelled with other people before. She was used to this. The ups and downs of going somewhere unfamiliar with a colleague.

I swallowed. Wiped my mouth. Exhaled. Nothing to lose. “Who else have you travelled with?”

Roman still seemed concerned. “Jazmine. Why? I don’t usually let my colleagues come with me. It’s been years now.” 

I sank down into my chair. “Why?” 

“People react more positively to me when I’m alone. A lot of these writers are reclusive—shy. They feel more comfortable when it’s just me there.”

Then why did you bring me? I wanted to ask.

Jazmine’s voice echoed in my ears like a menacing desi ghost: She won’t let you love her . . . not for long . . . she has a type for girls who look like you . . . and, by the way, everyone hates you and is also mad at you . . .

“Were you and Jazmine ever . . .” My voice trailed off. I couldn’t finish the question. I regretted even asking.

“Ever what?”

Might as well say it. “Dating. Together. I don’t know.” 

Roman blinked at me. “What? No. Of course not. I don’t date people from work.” 

People from work. Was that all I was to her? Just a person from work?

I needed to get it together. And look on the bright side. Jazmine wasn’t her ex after all. The heat—the heat was probably getting to me. I fanned myself harder.

“Has something like this ever happened before? Like with Priya, I mean. I know you said you’ve never not gotten a deal. But has anyone ever been—I don’t know. Has someone ever exploded at you before? Can we recover from this?” 

“Sometimes.” Roman swirled her water thoughtfully. “But it’s never so personal. Usually people are upset at systemic injustices. Priya seemed . . . I don’t know, like she was angry with me specifically. Or maybe it just felt that way.” She sighed into her hands. “I don’t know. I’m not good with confrontation with people I admire. And I admire Priya. Her work is—she’s beautiful. I don’t want to lose this.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t personal. Aadhya said she’s normally always angry.” 

“I know. It’s just . . . a lot of what Priya said is true.” 

“A lot of what you said is true, too.” 

“I think we’re both right. The contradictions are simultaneous. That’s what’s making it so hard.” Roman sighed and put her face in her hands again. “How can I try to convince her, when sometimes that’s exactly how I feel about what I’m doing? Validating the importance of whiteness as I’m trying to centre brownness and Blackness and Otherness? She’s a brilliant lady. Her poetry is even better. I can’t tell her her way of seeing the world is wrong. It isn’t. And, if anything, mine is the more naive one.”

I gulped down ice-cold water, hoping it would osmosis or equilibrium-balance-whatever my increasingly red-hot cheeks.

“I know what you’re trying to say. I’ve thought about it like that, too. But we can’t just give up. White people really do make up only like fifteen percent of the world’s population. When their system crumbles, as it’s going to with those hillbilly, redneck, decrepit men in power, we can be the ones worldbuilding. All of us together. As naive as that is. And I don’t care how naive it is.” 

Roman didn’t stop staring at me for what felt like an eternity. I lived and died a thousand times in that moment. And in each lifetime, Roman looked at me the same way: dark brown skin seeming to glow, her dark, long-lashed eyes wide. Her gold jewelry—nose ring and earrings and hair charms—glinting like suncatchers, illuminating her with warm, amber sparks. A thousand skies flashed behind her, each one a different world: purple, blue, orange, pink, old, young. As I neared death, her lips split, always the same way, revealing a heartbeat of that sweet, clear smile—the last thing I saw as I died, over and over.

“Thank you, Kaalia,” Roman said at last, resurrecting me into what was probably the real world. “That . . .” She blinked. Was I having a fever dream or did her eyes look glassy? “That meant a lot to me. You.” She inhaled sharply. Her eyes captured mine, so beautiful I forgot to breathe, again. “You mean a lot to me.”

After what my imagination had just put me through, I felt brave enough to ask, “What Priya said. Last night—”

Roman cut me off immediately, waving a hand. “No. You don’t have to explain. Priya was looking to unsettle us. She wanted to poke at something and get a reaction from both of us.” 

I thanked all the gods I could remember from my freshman-year elective theology class. 

“And I’m sorry,” Roman added. “For what I said yesterday. I am your boss and I don’t want to be a dictator-like one. I’ll try being more . . . lenient about my Google calendar. I shouldn’t have . . .” She blew a braid from her face. “It was wrong of me. I was jet-lagged, and irritable—yes, you were right—and I just have this control thing.” 

“A control thing,” I said, raising an eyebrow. “Oh, really?”

“It’s part of what has gotten me so far. I like control. I like doing a good job at things. Mostly it works out for me. When I feel like I’m losing control, or things aren’t going to plan and I won’t get the end result I want, I’m not . . . the nicest person. I’m working on it.” 

“I don’t think I was all that nice either.” 

“No—I like that. I like that you push back. You’re not afraid to argue with me. It’s . . . refreshing.”

You’re so pretty. The words begged to slip from my lips. “So do you have anything else on your calendar for today, control freak?” I teased. I was teasing her—why was I teasing her? I had affectionately labelled her control-freakness as a pet name. Something was wrong with me.

“Only swimming at the beach, but we don’t have to do that if you don’t want. See? Lenience.” 

I had to put a stop to this. I noticed the waitress approaching and tried to focus Roman’s attention on the food instead. If this kept going, it would be undeniably flirting. This meant more to me than it did to her, clearly. I was just some person from work, after all. 

Which I forgot about entirely as the waitress set the food down on the table. Roman had ordered us sadhya, prawn curry, and Malabar parotta: a flaky, buttery, crispy texture. Without waiting for Roman to speak, I resumed my earlier rabid, monstrous form and tore into the food. Each bite tasted like paradise. Like turning over onto your other side when you’re sleeping and it’s the most comfortable position you’ve had all night. Like taking a hot, intensely-pressured shower after you’ve just come inside from a freezing New York winter day. 

In between bites, I regained enough sanity to say, “I would love to go swimming after this.” 

If this were our last day in a tropical paradise, there could be no regrets.

***

Hope everyone is having a good new year so far 🙂

Love,
Meera