The Rearranged Life by Annika Sharma

or first kiss. Maybe, just maybe, the end justifies the means.
    Dance performances follow the couple’s first dance: siblings, cousins, and friends have choreographed performances to entertain the crowd. When the music takes up again after dinner, Indrani, Anisha, Sophia, Nishanth, and I are the first on the floor. We all dance, scream the lyrics in each other’s faces, and cheer on the dancers around us. We laugh as drunken guests slip on the wooden floor and act gangster when the rap songs come on, as if we have any idea what it’s like to grow up in the ghetto. Our bodies pour sweat, but we don’t stop. We take shameless selfies of ourselves with my camera. Under the lights, our skin is dewy, our smiles are brilliant, and our photos look full of fun and hope.
    My parents, at a nearby table, surround themselves with family members and Nishanth’s parents. They are the center of attention, completely comfortable. My dad cracks a joke, and everyone around him bursts out in loud hysterics. Tears stream down my mother’s cheeks from her belly-busting giggles. We’ll pull out these pictures a month from now, and us five kids will look like we’ve known each other our entire lives, and our parents, who have, will look complete. James, school, and all the miles of detours my mind has taken lately have vanished.
    In this moment, I don’t care how any of this plays out in my future. I just want this. A big Indian wedding with colors, people I love, and tradition. It’s all I need.



he return to school is like night and day. After the weekend of festivities, loud music, and dancing until the wee hours on Saturday, the Indian girl in me is not ready for the party to end. I listen to Indian music through my headphones on the way to class, and Sophia walks in on me watching a Bollywood movie while I do my traditional Monday night bedroom cleanup. Being around Indians reinvigorates me, and suddenly, I bleed orange, white, and green. The sudden transformation from Indian reception partier to minority student is a reminder of the dichotomous life I live.
    Nishanth and I have kept up a steady stream of texts following the wedding. On Sunday of the wedding weekend, after our families said goodbye in the early morning hours, the messages started flowing back and forth almost immediately. It’s been five days now, and they haven’t stopped. I don’t feel the spark of a relationship… yet. My mom, I suspect, is planning our wedding. I would bet my tuition money that she spent the Friday morning pooja at the temple thanking the gods for granting her a happenstance meeting with old friends who have an eligible son.
    “You text so often!” she said on the phone this morning after she returned from the temple.
    “We’re friends, Amma.”
    “You seem interested… you always tell me you are texting him,” she pressed further. It’s her specialty. She should have been an investigative journalist.
    “Because you always ask, Amma.” I humor her.
    She seems to conveniently put her own spin on things. Whether or not I answer her question doesn’t seem to matter because her wishful thinking is clear.
    The casual remarks began in the car on the way home to Philly Sunday morning after the wedding. It started with, “Madhu and I spoke about…” By dinner on Sunday, before Sophia and I were to catch our bus, she initiated a trip down memory lane when Nanna was around.
    “Do you remember when Madhu, Aditya, and the two of us took Nishanth to Catalina when you were in graduate school?”
    “Of course. Your belly was the size of a beach ball at the time. He was a cute little boy, wanting to ride golf carts around the island all day,” Nanna remarked, passing me some rice.
    “Nishanth used to be fascinated by Nithya when she was born,” Amma told Anisha and Sophia.
    “I don’t know why. She’s kind of a goober now,” Anisha ribbed on me.
    “I didn’t realize we knew each other when we were little.”
    “How did you not