Chapter 11

Text exchange between Akila, Khajee, and Louise—after Kaalia hangs up

Khajee: She sounded better at the end

Louise: she always sounds better when she knows we’re coming

Akila: How many days until we land?

Louise: twenty-one

Akila: I’ve already started packing

Khajee: Same

Louise: same

Louise: don’t tell her anything else. let her have the anticipation.

Akila: Agreed

Khajee: Agreed

Khajee: also I think something is happening with Roman

Louise: something has been happening with Roman since the carnival

Khajee: Since BEFORE the carnival if you count the search history

Akila: What search history

Louise: …we’ll tell you on the plane

***

My waking mind was plagued with thoughts of Roman for the rest of the week. Years passed between Wednesday and Sunday. Each day felt like an agonizing, slow-motion swirl of reality. I would have asked Jazmine for some of her leafy greens if I thought that might make the days go by faster. But I worried it would just make me more anxious. 

By the time the Sunday morning sun broke on the horizon, I was already awake. I dragged my luggage onto my porch in New Jersey and waited three hours for Roman’s car to come pick me up. 

Khajee, Akila, and Louise had wished me goodbye two nights ago. They’d offered to sleepover last night, too, but I’d told them I needed a night alone. I wasn’t sure what sleeping arrangements would look like in India. And I wanted, at least, this one night of complete privacy. To think. To wonder. To plot out every possible scenario that might play out during the trip. 

Bloom Press had also thrown Roman and I a goodbye party. Layli and Iseul had given me a small gift—a barely-there, rhinestone-studded black bikini in a mini Victoria’s Secret shopping bag.

“Wear this to the beach at least once,” Layli said, patting my shoulder, as if it was a T-shirt or a pair of basketball shorts.

“But, seriously, call us whenever.” Iseul hugged me tightly. “I know we bet on you, but you’ve been here for almost two months. We’re friends, for real. If you ever need reassurance, I’ll be there for you.” 

Layli appeared to be putting on a more stoic air. “I’ll be there for you too.” Her lips quivered. She glanced at Iseul and added, “This feels like we’re sending our baby to school or something.” 

“It does, doesn’t it?” Iseul said. They both enveloped me in a double hug and squeezed. “Don’t forget about us, okay? We’ll be here when you get back. Tell us everything. Promise.”

“I promise,” I said. “And please tell me the office drama too. I heard Moya and Camilla have something going on.” Moya had been broken up with recently and her ex-girlfriend also worked in the office. The reasons she’d cited had been “having feelings for my ex.” We were all firmly on Moya’s side and rooting for this new potential romance.

They promised they would, and then made me promise again I would wear the bikini to the beach at least once. 

I’d promised while swearing to myself I would find a loophole. 

Maybe I would just never go to the beach. Or I’d go to the beach in the middle of the night when no one would see me. Or, when my friends visited me, I could make them take me to a beach as far away as possible and wear it. Or I could break the sanctity of the promise and just lie. 

Either way, I was not going to wear that tiny bikini around Roman. I could tell just from looking at it that it would cover my chest halfheartedly and cover my lower half even less than that. In no world, dimension, or astral realm could I wear that around my boss.

Remembering the goodbyes made me feel teary. But then the car Roman had sent arrived exactly at nine and the chauffeur—a white butch lesbian in her late thirties—carried my fifty-pound luggage single-handedly to the car. I followed in her wake. I had no time to feel wistful after that. 

The chauffeur introduced herself to me as Max. She talked to me the whole ride, simultaneously breaking every speeding limit, and delivered me to JFK airport with record timing.

During this trip, under no pressure whatsoever, I confessed my crush on Roman and all my fears about it. As we were both employed by her, I felt a kinship with Max. She told me she had also had a crush on Roman ten years ago but was now happily married to her wife, and Roman had been a bridesmaid at the wedding.

“I wouldn’t trade my wife for anything. But Roman’s something else. Words can’t describe that woman,” Max said. “I don’t blame you.” 

I also told Max about my tense experiences with her, those almost-moments where it felt like we might have kissed or she might like me back. And I told her about Jazmine’s warning, which unfortunately still slipped into my thoughts from time to time.

“I’ll ask around the lesbian scene for you,” Max promised. “But don’t worry about that. Focus on what you know. What I know is that woman’s going to change the world. I’m just happy to be along for the ride. Literally.”

Once we parked and gathered my things, and Max had opened the trunk and pulled out my suitcase, she clapped my shoulder.

“You remind me of her a little,” she said, looking down at me. She appeared to be around six feet tall. “Roman. You have the same . . . I don’t know. It’s that look in your eyes. Determined.” She shrugged. “Or maybe you guys are just equally beautiful women.” She lifted my suitcase onto the landing for me as if it weighed the same amount as an apple. “Have a good trip. I’m probably going to be the one to pick you up from the airport when you get back—tell me about it on the ride home.” 

I recognized Roman from behind, making her way to the security checkpoint, and tapped her shoulder. She whirled around with something poised in her hand. Then lowered it when she realized it was me.

A stunningly beautiful grin split her mouth. She’d worn the lip ring—it glinted soft gold in the morning light. And her face was so—so—overwhelmingly, unabashedly happy to see me. My entire body warmed. One touch from her and I might explode into a thousand star-coloured fireworks. 

Then she hugged me. I didn’t explode, strangely, but I was certain I had become an unattractive shade of red everywhere. 

“I’m so glad to see you,” she said. “Was the ride okay? How was Max?” 

“Max was so sweet,” I said, helplessly flustered. “You’re so sweet. Um, everything was good.” 

“I’m so happy to hear that.” She grabbed my suitcase for me and began rolling it to the bag check-in line. I jogged after her, taken aback. 

“I can do that! You don’t have to—” 

“Ridiculous,” Roman said, looking back at me only to grin. “Of course I’ll take care of you.” 

Don’t read into that, don’t read into that . . . 

I couldn’t believe how beautiful Roman looked in ordinary travel clothing. She wore light grey sweatpants, a navy blue knitted cardigan, and a cropped white tank top. Don’t look down, don’t look down. . . . Waist beads glinted on her stomach to her hips, all the chunky jewelry on her wrists and chest glinting too, noisily chiming in symphony.

Distracted repeating my mantra, I didn’t notice Roman had successfully checked my bag in for me and pulled us into the security line. The line was much shorter than I’d ever seen it, until I realized we were in some kind of fast-lane, premium thing. 

Once we got to security, they had us stand in a glass dome and spread our arms. I passed through relatively quickly. But Roman’s started blaring. 

She stepped out from the dome and a security guard waved a wand over her limbs. She didn’t look fazed. In fact, she pulled out three hidden pocket knives from her sleeve, ankle, and hip. 

“Sorry, forgot about those ones,” she said. 

They confiscated the knives and let her pass. The only explanation she gave was: “I’m a Black woman in America.” 

This display only made me more attracted to her. Wordless, she joined me and we found our terminal. Getting on the plane went smoothly after that. We boarded only for me to find out we were in first-class. If I hadn’t been wet already, I would’ve been dripping then. My limited experience with airplanes made me feel so claustrophobic, caged between people with a dwindling supply of air. But first-class removed all of that fear.

Roman and I were given plush, spacious seats next to each other, with earbuds to watch a movie and the equivalent of a flat-screen TV in front of us.

“Wow,” I said. It was all I could think. 

“It’s an eighteen hour flight,” Roman explained. “I figured we’d need as much comfort as possible.”

My flights to Sri Lanka had been nothing like this. I was suddenly so thankful for Roman I grabbed her hand and laced our fingers together. “Thank you,” I whispered. “Thank you.” 

“Of course,” she said. 

I let our fingers unlace. Her hand slipped from mine. 

“I might sleep,” I said. “I won’t be much company for these next few hours. I was up late and I woke up at six. But I like watching something to fall asleep, if that’s okay with you.” 

Roman grinned. The plane rumbled, slowly stirring into motion. “Let’s watch a movie then,” she said. “To fall asleep. Your pick.” 

The plane had risen thousands of feet into the air before I decided on Coco. Then the flight attendants brought us pillows and blankets. I snuggled into mine, laid my head against the window (Roman had given me the better seat), and curled my legs up.

I woke up only once during this five-hour period of nap time. A flight attendant rolled a trolley past us and my eyes fluttered and blinked open. The window had become soft and lush and warm. The view was also no longer the blue sky but a solid-coloured shade of grey punctured by oddly spotlight-shaped circles. I didn’t think much of it. My eyes closed again. 

“Hey, Kaalia,” Roman said. Her voice seemed to be coming from somewhere above me. I nestled more deeply into the warmth of the glass window. Who knew those could be so soft, so firm yet pillowy? Maybe the glass in first-class was just better quality than the glass in economy . . . 

“Kaalia,” Roman whispered again. A hand touched my shoulder. Soothing me, bracing me. “Kaalia, wake up. I think you should eat.” 

The thought of food was the only thing that roused me awake. My eyes opened. Roman was directly above me for some reason. Why was she on the ceiling? As pieces of reality clicked into place, I realized two things immediately: Roman was not on the ceiling and I was not leaning on the window. 

My head was in Roman’s lap. 

And then I realized two more things: one of Roman’s hands was on my shoulder. The other was in my hair, gently stroking my curls. The touch felt relaxing, familiar . . . as if she had been doing it for hours while I’d been sleeping. 

I sat up so fast I nearly crashed into the TV. 

“Oh, my God, I’m so sorry,” I said. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to—I know that’s not—I feel terrible—” 

“It’s okay,” she interrupted. Was I mistaken or did her cheeks seem a little red? “Kaalia, are you hungry? There’s food. I woke you up because it’s been almost six hours and I think you should eat.” 

“I’m starving,” I said, glad for this topic switch.

I lifted a hand to my cheek, feeling the sleep-warmth and the engraved prints from the texture of her sweatpants. I had been in her lap. I had nestled into her thighs and her big, soft hips. 

The flight attendant had been only a few rows behind us. Roman had given us perfect timing. Once she arrived, we were able to order food for both of us. She passed us meatballs and rice, and a packaged brownie.

“This is seasoned like white people food,” Roman said around a mouthful of rice.

The sting of my embarrassment (I’d been sleeping on her lap) was still so strong that I laughed harder than I should have. “Isn’t there a fact that your sense of taste is worse when you’re at such a high altitude?” 

“That’s probably true. But are you really going to argue with me that a white person seasoned this, though?”

I tried a bite of rice. “Fine. No.” Something occurred to me. “What was that weapon you had in your hand earlier?”

“The knives?”

“No, before that. When I tapped you from behind and you raised something at me. It wasn’t the shape of your knives.” 

“Oh, fox spray.” 

“Like in Zootopia?”

“No,” Roman said, glancing around the plane as if someone might hear. “For foxes. You know how foxes are.” 

“How many foxes do you run into in New York City?” 

“Plenty,” Roman said meaningfully.

“You are paranoid, aren’t you?” I said, remembering the first time I’d met her. I was only half-joking—I knew she had every right to be paranoid. “You were ready to bludgeon me to death with a paper weight that day.” 

She knew immediately what I was talking about. “I’m more of a Malcolm X woman than a Martin Luther King woman, if you know what I mean. The opposite of a pacifist, whatever that’s called.” 

“A terrorist?” One perk of being brown in an extraordinarily racist capitalist society: joking about things white people unwarrantedly insulted us with.

She caught me smiling and lightly hit me. “You know what I’m talking about. If someone tries to hurt me, I’m going to meet them with violence. So, yeah, fox spray. And knives. You don’t agree?” 

“Of course I agree,” I said. “And for that matter I think the framing of violence as uncivilized and barbaric when it’s done by Black and brown people instead of colonial imperial structures makes it so that we’re never able to rebel for fear of how society has so deeply conditioned us.” 

She didn’t blink at this sudden admission. “Make billionaires afraid,” she said without a beat, grinning. 

This—this is what I had wanted with Aleena the other night. I didn’t just want her to listen to me. I wanted her to engage with me, to talk back, to argue with me, to understand me.

“So what you’re trying to tell me,” Roman continued, “is I should be hiring hitmen instead of funding the best lawyers in the world for this lawsuit against New York’s wealthiest.”

“Yes,” I said. “And for that matter, I’m surprised you haven’t.”

“A paper trail like that is always traceable,” Roman said, almost a little mournful. “And I’ve earned a lot of money, but not so much I can make something like that disappear in a fight against billionaires who are likely secretly trillionaires. They can do anything.” 

I believed it. Malcolm X told us we couldn’t have capitalism without racism. Capitalism relied on othering somebody. If it wasn’t race and it wasn’t sexism, it would have been height or wrist size or how high can you jump. Capitalism had people so extraordinarily wealthy they could end world poverty with an eighth of their net value, because it had billions more people struggling to live past a paycheque, and billions more who starved and came closer to death every single day. And then they got those people—the hungriest, the most desperate—to work for two cents an hour twelve hours in a row every single day, wearing adult diapers because if they had to use the bathroom it would take time off work that these billionaires just couldn’t let them have because God forbid they lose five minutes of productivity.

“Roman,” I said, suddenly. 

“Kaalia?” 

Meatballs and rice forgotten, I turned to her. “Make them pay. I don’t care how. Please. Just make them pay.” 

Roman nodded, as if this was something she’d already promised herself a thousand times. “I will.” 

I slouched back into my seat. The anger drained from me; my bones dissolved. I had become a puddle. And I was tired again, but not so tired I could fall asleep. Especially not after I had woken up with my head on Roman’s lap. 

We decided to watch more movies. Wicked (“I heard it was a lesbian movie but I didn’t realize how lesbian”). Parasite (“Maybe class consciousness is possible if enough people watch this”). Bridget Jones’s Diary (“I can’t believe this movie considers 136 pounds fat—eating disorder culture is so inextricably tied with capitalism”). Christy (“They never should have cast that white supremacist Sydney Sweeney to play a cool lesbian”). And The Shining (“They really do kill Black people first in horror movies”). 

I found myself laughing more than I wanted to at our shared commentary. And Roman was just so relentlessly ruthless. Nothing slipped past her attention. If there was a stereotype out there in scholarly discourse for it, she knew it and pointed it out. Talking to her was so much fun. 

The rest of our eighteen hour flight passed so fast I felt oddly disappointed when it was time to leave the plane. I wanted more time with Roman, just like that. Just us. 

But I couldn’t stay disappointed for long. As soon as we got off the plane, the sun washed over me. The same sun in New York, but not. This was my beloved South Asian sun, hot and unashamed, burning gold. My skin ached with the familiar warmth of it.

Palm trees greeted us on our way to the airport. Roman and I said nothing to each other; we communicated through grinning alone. Once we had checked our bags, we found a driver waiting for us. 

KAALIA AND ROMAN, the sign read.

We followed him to the car. The entire ride there, I couldn’t have pulled my gaze away from the window if the driver had put a gun to my head and told me to look at anything else. The ocean glistened in the distance—the real ocean. That wasn’t something you saw everyday in New York. And the roads were lined with palm tree after palm tree, coconuts ripe and split upon the ground like apples at an orchard. Women in long skirts and blouseless sarees and men in flowing pants and long kurtas and tank tops. Little children, bright-eyed and giggling, ran past each other chasing balls. 

I’d never been to Kerala before. Sri Lanka was a different place, a different country, a different scene altogether. But it was closer to me, dearer to me, than the U.S. Of course South Asia wasn’t a monolithic entity; of course there were differences between Indians and Sri Lankans and even among Indians and Sri Lankans themselves. Of course identity wasn’t a stable category. But it meant something to me—our shared relationship to power, the collective brownness of our skin in the face of white supremacy. They were my people all the same as if they were Sri Lankan or even Puerto Rican, and I was theirs.

Roman touched my shoulder. I realized at some point I had begun staring without seeing, lost in my daydreams. The driver had parked. A palace-like house waited in front of us, all gleaming white columns and delicate marble-and-gold detail. The ocean sighed a distance behind it. Palm trees framed either side, and mango trees, too, brimming and bursting with ripe, sweet, yellow fruit. 

I didn’t realize Roman had already left the car until she opened the door on my side for me. She gave me her hand. I let her pull me up. And then, in front of the engraved, swirling-patterned gold door, a young woman appeared. 

“You must be Miss Khan,” Roman said, walking up to her.

Aadhya grinned as brightly as the sun. “I go by my grandmother’s name informally, Banerjee. But please, call me Aadhya. And you’re Roman. Roman Alvarez.” At Roman’s nod, she turned to me. “Then this must be Kaalia Amoretta?” 

I nodded too, and she pulled me into a gigantic hug. She smelled like cinnamon and jasmine. 

“I’m so happy you two are here,” she said, stepping back. “Come, please follow me.” She grabbed both of our hands and led us warmly into her palace-looking home.

*** 

So excited!!! I love you all!!!

Love,
Meera