"That's awesome," Dimple said, looking him up and down in appreciation while also not letting him see just how appreciative she was. He was wearing a tight fitting kurta with his jeans, and every time he swung the gada , she could see his biceps flex through the flimsy material.
• • •
Outside, the air was warmish in spite of the fog, with the faint tang of perfume and cologne as college students made their way off campus to various events. Dimple loved the buzz of energy, a slightly drunken, heady thing. The twinkle of city lights barely broke through the fog, making the air look just gold-hued enough to be magical. She inhaled deeply-and sneezed. Stupid allergies.
"Gods bless you," Rishi said.
Dimple arched an eyebrow. "Gods?"
He nodded sagely. "As a Hindu, I'm a polytheist, as you well know."
Dimple laughed. "Yes, and I also know we still only say ‘God,' not ‘gods.' We still believe Brahma is the supreme creator."
Rishi smiled, a sneaky little thing that darted out before he could stop it. "You got me. It's my version of microaggressing back on people."
"Explain."
"So, okay. This is how it works in the US : In the spring we're constantly subjected to bunnies and eggs wherever we go, signifying Christ's resurrection. Then right around October we begin to see pine trees and nativity scenes and laughing fat white men everywhere. Christian iconography is all over the place, constantly in our faces, even in casual conversation. This is the bible of comic book artists . . . He had a come to Jesus moment , all of that stuff. So this is my way of saying, Hey, maybe I believe something a little different . And every time someone asks me why ‘gods,' I get to explain Hinduism."
Dimple chewed on this, impressed in spite of herself. He actually had a valid point. Why was Christianity always the default? "Ah." She nodded, pushing her glasses up on her nose. "So what you're saying is, you're like a Jehovah's Witness for our people."
Rishi's mouth twitched, but he nodded seriously. "Yes. I'm Ganesha's Witness. Has a bit of a ring to it, don't you think?"
They cut across the lawn and headed west, toward the building marked by a star on the Little Comic Con map Rishi was holding. In the distance someone honked.
"I can't tell if you're exceptionally eccentric or just really passionate about the cultural stuff," Dimple said after they'd walked a little ways in silence.
Rishi chuckled. "My brother, Ashish, and I have had that conversation many times." He said it lightly, but something hard and dark flickered beneath the surface. "I don't know how I can explain it . . . it's just this need inside me. I guess I just feel it stronger than most people our age. I feel like I need to speak out, because if no one speaks out, if no one says, This is me, this is what I believe in, and this is why I'm different, and this is why that's okay , then what's the point? What's the point of living in this beautiful, great melting pot where everyone can dare to be anything they want to be?" He shrugged. "Besides, haven't you gone to India and just stood among your relatives and listened to their stories and felt like . . . I don't know, like you wanted to tell more people?"
Dimple fiddled with the zipper on Celia's hoodie, avoiding Rishi's eyes. "I don't know. I haven't been to India since I was twelve; the tickets are too expensive for my parents. But even when I did, the thing I remember most is feeling like I didn't belong. I mean, I was already going through that phase at my school where I felt like my family was weird and different and I just wished they'd be like all the other parents. But then I went to Mumbai and realized that to all the people there, I was American. I was still the outsider, and still strange, and I still didn't belong."
She tucked a curl behind her ear, feeling that pinch of realization again, just like when she was twelve. It had really been driven home when her cousin Preeti, who was the same age, had introduced Dimple to her neighborhood friends as her cousin from America. One of the girls, hearing Dimple's accent, had laughed and called Dimple firang , which Preeti had explained, red-faced, meant foreigner . Preeti stuck up for her, but she could see it was halfhearted. Even Preeti thought Dimple was a firang . She just didn't belong.
"Interesting," Rishi said, a small breeze lifting a tuft of his hair so he looked, adorably, like an Indian Dennis the Menace. "I guess I'm the opposite. I feel like an Indian American here, and when I'm in India, like just an Indian. I see them both as equal and valid for me."