Lovetorn by Kavita Daswani Read Free Book Online

feel left out if I’d wanted to. During birthday celebrations and wedding anniversaries, everyone gathered in the big main hall to eat cake that Dadi would order from a local bakery. Even though I saw most of my family members every day, these parties were special.
    Now, next to “excluded,” I wrote a few more words that were hard for me to write. “No plans for Diwali.” The new year, the biggest holiday in India, was around the corner, and nobody was even discussing it—no talk of festivities, fireworks, or gift giving. It was as if it didn’t exist.
    Later that evening I folded laundry with my mother and my father and helped Sangita with her homework.
    “What shall we do for Diwali?” I asked, as if it were a thought that had just that second popped into my head. My mother looked at me coldly.
    “What will we do? We will sit here alone, like we have done every night since your father brought us to this place.” My mother’s mood was off again, as it had been almost constantly since we got here.
    My father stopped what he was doing.
    “Please, Asha, don’t worry. I have been thinking about it. We will celebrate as normal.”
    “How?” my mother demanded. “There is nobody to celebrate with.”
    My father’s voice turned appeasing.
    “We will do prayers at home, like we always do. The girls can buy new clothes. We will visit the temple in the evening. We will connect with people. We will find a community here.”
    I started to feel just a little more hopeful. There was something about anticipating Diwali that always put me in a celebratory mood. Even here, thousands of miles away from the extended family I’d always shared it with, the thought of it stirred some excitement in me.
    I glanced toward my mother, hoping to see even a glimmer of the same anticipation. But instead, she gazed up from a fresh, dry peach towel she had clasped beneath her chin and looked right through me.
    Sangita and I were excited to wake up on Diwali morning. There was an air of newness around us, a sense of possibilities. Our father had even suggested that we take the day off from school. I was tempted—any reason at all not to have to go in!—but Sangita said she didn’t feel right about it, that if it wasn’t technically a holiday, we must proceed as usual. I forced myself to agree with her.
    We said our prayers at our makeshift temple and came running downstairs. “Diwali mubarak !” My father beamed, wishing Sangita and me a “Happy Diwali” with a slight hug and a big smile. He had already spoken to his parents, and Vikram would be calling me soon.
    Our mother was in the kitchen, her back turned to us, stirring something on the stove.
    “Ma, Diwali mubarak !” Sangita and I ran to her, throwing our arms around her waist. She turned around. Her eyes were pink, her nose runny.
    “Happy Diwali to you girls,” she said tearfully, hugging us both. “May God bless and protect you.”
    “Ma, don’t be sad,” I said to her. “It is a beautiful day, and we will make the most of it. Please.”
    She wiped her eyes and blew her nose with her dupatta. She wished us a good day at school and turned back to her cooking.
    At school, the pressure to have a good day felt even more heightened. My grandparents had taught me that how the year begins is how it will go on. As a result, it was crucial that I was, if not exactly thrilled and jubilant, at least not miserable. If I could just get through the day without being teased, humiliated, or poked fun at, then maybe there would be hope for me yet. And it seemed the goddess Laxmi, whose auspices are sought on the day, had listened to me after all: I was left alone. Nobody talked to or befriended me, but they didn’t make fun of me either. It was a small mercy.
    That night when it grew dark outside, my father turned on as many lights as he could, honoring the Diwali tradition of beckoning Laxmi, the goddess of prosperity, into homes. My mother walked around, turning them all