Born Confused by Tanuja Desai Hidier Read Free Book Online

mother, and she smiled a little sadly. So Gwyn had been right. I felt ashamed.
    —I’ll put them back, said Gwyn, hurriedly unknotting the red threads. But then very gently my mother touched her wrist.
    —No, leave them on, she said.—You’re right. They shouldn’t be in a drawer. Take them; they look lovely on you. I’m glad someone appreciates them.
    I know this is going to sound crazy, but I wanted them now. I wanted to appreciate them. Gwyn was already hugging my mom.
    —And have fun tonight, said my mother.—How sweet, a slumber party. Just like when you were little girls.
    She looked deeply moved for some reason and I had a mea culpa moment considering the outright mendacity of our alibi: This was hardly a girls-only get-together, and slumber was perhaps last on the list of priorities.
    My mother seemed to have come to, and was now contemplating the fashion spread on my bed.
    —And Dimple, please clean up that mess—what is the point of having closets if you’re unloading everything into plain view?
    Gwyn giggled.
    —Yeah, Dimple, she said.
    After my mom turned back down the hall, Gwyn collected her things and I walked her to the door. On the porch, she stepped into her beaded clogs (whenever she remembered, she tried to participate in our habit of leaving our shoes outside, though when she forgot—like if she was particularly excited about a new pair—or whenany non-Indian forgot, in fact, my mother didn’t seem to mind so much). And finally I asked her the question whose answer I dreaded most:
    —Gwyn, how do you know he’s even going to like me?
    —He’ll like you, she said firmly.—Be yourself and you’ll be fine.
    She hopped off the porch and turned round again.
    —But wear a bindi, she advised.—He’s into the Indian thing.
    —But that’s so not me!
    —Of course that’s you. You’re Indian, are you not? And above all do not forget your new little laminated self—you’ll be needing it tonight, I guarantee you.
    And then she was gone. Her exits were always quick and tidy like this, like an expert criminal’s; her entries, as sudden and inexplicable as an angel’s. Like the first time I met her, all those Christmases ago.
    When we were real little and Mr. Sexton was still “participating” in the household, Gwyn’s family was pretty famous in town. And this was due in no small part to the spectacle they put on at Christmas every year.
    I mean, we got into the holiday spirit, too, particularly the lighttwining, trying out all sorts of annual sound and light experiments (for some reason Indians really like Christmas decor, and not just at Christmas, the more garish the better. Take a look at any Indian restaurant on Sixth Street in Manhattan.). But while the rest of us were pegging multicolored bulbs from Woolworth’s around the house and hanging wreaths—ours fake, “so we wouldn’t have to be killing a real live wreath,” according to my mother—and maybe posing giddy little Mr. and Mrs. Kriss Kringle couples on the porch, the Sextons set up and spotlit massive statues of Joseph, Mary, Jesus, andthe whole holy crew, creating a real-life-sized Nativity scene across their front yard, the three wise men positioned as if they’d just hopped up off the curb and under the weeping cherry. People would drive up and down from all over the county to check out the sight.
    My first memory of Gwyn was during a winter like this. It had been soon after we’d moved here, and I’d gone over with my parents to see what all the fuss was about. My folks were fascinated by the sheer immensity and extravagance of the scene. We’d stayed, staring like the converted, long after the last car had pulled out and night fell heavy and dark as a winter coat upon us. The lights were all off inside the big house, showing off even more the spotlit production on the lawn, the Special Dolls in their yuletiddian Disneyland.
    When we’d turned to go, my father lifted me into his arms; I gazed over his