HEMA‟S SMILE by Nadia S. Choudhury
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HEMA‟S SMILE HEMA‟S SMILE by Nadia S. Choudhury 1 HEMA‟S SMILE HEMA‟S SMILE a novel by Nadia S. Choudhury A thesis presented for the B.A. degree with honors in The Department of English University of Michigan Spring 2011 Readers: Keith Taylor and V.V. Ganeshananthan 2 HEMA‟S SMILE 3 HEMA‟S SMILE Dedicated to my parents, without whom I would have no fire to write with. 4 HEMA‟S SMILE ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS I could not have written this novel without the help of my professors and my friends. Specifically, it is my creative writing professors who have motivated, pushed, and helped me. Michael Byers, Tish O‟Dowd, Peter Ho Davies, Khaled Mattawa, Cody Walker, A. Van Jordan—each has left some groove in my writing. Simultaneously, without my friend Jennifer Jacobi and her voice of reason and objectivity, much of this story may not have been edited or added to. She has been with the novel from its first word. She has seen each word evolve. Without her, Hema would have been left standing at some subway stop in New York City, only to never have run across David. All I can say: Thank you. 5 HEMA‟S SMILE ABSTRACT This is Hema‟s story. And it‟s about the dual nature of American existence as a first-generation daughter. Choosing between her parents‟ happiness and her own desires. Bengali culture and American society. She learns to toe the line between two worlds as she paves her own way through New York City‟s streets. 6 HEMA‟S SMILE Birthed me in an alcohol-free wine bottle. Cries and fingerprints on glass— can you see why I‟m so entirely unhappy? Took so much care to make me, time to take me. I‟m going to shatter this entire fucking world. 7 HEMA‟S SMILE CONTENTS 8 HEMA‟S SMILE CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE 9 HEMA‟S SMILE I 10 HEMA‟S SMILE At the age of seven, Hema has unnaturally straight, smooth, mahogany-colored hair. Bangladeshi women in South Jersey coo over its texture and coloring. She is, after all, dark-skinned. Girls like her aren‟t fortunate in this way very often. Bangladeshis value, above all else, dark (as close to black as genetically possible), straight hair. But, this is a special circumstance. These particular women, living in South Jersey, dye their hair every six weeks at the salon. Their shades of hair color range from a reddish brown to a honey brown. They strive to be modern, moneyed, Westernized, Bangladeshi women. Of course, simultaneously, they‟re mortified by the idea of being caught wearing jeans and sweaters by any other Bangladeshis. They‟ve got to preserve their ethnicity. Or rather, seem like they‟re preserving their ethnicity. This is the world our protagonist lives in. *** Hema lies on the couch. Stares at the blank television‟s screen. There‟s never anything to do in this house. She sits upside down on the sofa, her neck hanging off the seat. Feet propped against the back of the chair, almost reaching the wall it stands against. Twenty minutes of this and her head begins to feel like it‟s going to explode. The blood pumps strong there. Hema thinks of what Chitra would do if she walked into the living room to find her 11 HEMA‟S SMILE head had exploded and stained the walls and furniture. Chitra would scrub the entire room, ridding it of all the gore. Maybe she‟d even cry a little. Sob. No...Maybe she‟d be hysterical. Though, a little stain would just have to remain on the television screen. And it would just refuse to come off. That way, she would always remain in the room. That is, until Chitra decided to get rid of the television and get a new one. Hema sits upright and sighs. Nothing ever happens how she wants it to. She stands up and goes to the television screen. Crouches down to look at her reflection in its dark window. Bleck. It‟s skewed. She walks down the hallway into her parents‟ bedroom and opens its door. White everywhere. Chitra‟s explained to her it‟s easier to spot dirt and keep the place clean this way. She looks into the body-length mirror to her left. Bleck (she imagines scrunching her face in disgust…as if she just ate cauliflower and cabbage). Long limbs. She hunches over, curls her hands in and waddles over to the mirror. No, she wouldn‟t be a good gorilla. She can‟t make herself make the noises, though she‟s shaped her mouth into an “O.” She takes her mother‟s black scarf that‟s hanging off the mirror‟s edge. The mirror tilts up as her arm hits it. She doesn‟t bring it back to its proper position. Wraps the scarf around and around her neck. Her head looks detached from the rest of her body; her neck engulfed by the chiffon scarf. She tilts her chin up and looks down her nose into the mirror‟s reflection. All she can see‟s the bottom of her chin and the stretch of her neck. She looks big…like…tall. 12 HEMA‟S SMILE Hema tilts her chin down. Straightens the mirror. Remembers she‟s a girl. She could be pretty. If she tried. She leans in real close to the mirror. So close she can see the creases in her lips. She wishes Chitra would let her wear red lipstick. Hema sighs heavily. She turns away from the mirror. Looks to the closet door. Has an idea. Scampers over to the door. Sees herself tiptoe across the carpet in her mind‟s eyes. Looks down at her black socks and black pants. Looks down her right arm, black sleeves. Right, she‟s dressed all in black. Throws open the door, with that dramatic flair all her own. Breathes in deep. The air smells different. One more deep breath. She‟s sucked in the energy necessary for the task. Walks in. Looks along the shelf lining the top of the right side of the closet. Slow pace. Taking everything in. Then, she sees it. Her father‟s gray, wool fedora. She jumps up and tries to grab. Jumps up, again. Tries, again. Ok, one more time. One. More. Jump. She isn‟t able to grab the hat off the shelf. She walks back into the bedroom. Goes to the writing desk. Grabs its chair. Drags it into the closet. Steps on. And finally, she‟s got the fedora in hand. Hema breathes in deeply, one more time. Then she grins. Leaving the chair in the closet, she walks to the mirror. Places the hat gently around her hair. Tilts it like her father. The scarf‟s still detaching her head from her shoulders. No-necked woman. She grins at her reflection. 13 HEMA‟S SMILE She walks over to her mother‟s dressing table. Chitra will be angry with her. Nonetheless, she takes the red lipstick. The one in the gold tube. Takes off the top. Rolls it out of the tube. So red. Oh my. She brings it to her mouth. Then looks into the dressing table mirror. Chitra will be so angry. But it‟ll look so nice. She brings it closer to her mouth. She hears a door shut. Chitra must have gone to the bathroom. She rolls the lipstick back into its tube. Clicks its cover shut. Places it back in its place on the table. Tomorrow. Maybe. *** Hema‟s lying on the sofa, again, in the living room. From there, she can see Chitra walking back and forth between kitchen and dining room. She‟s preparing for dinner. Baba will be home soon. Chitra‟s tucked her achal in at the waist. Hema dangles her foot over the edge of the seat cushion. She pokes at her belly, lying on the sofa, feeling its pudginess. She lifts her shirt. Looks at her brown stomach. She slaps it. Imagines a ripple run through it. She does it again. Nope. No ripple. There‟s not enough pudge for that. 14 HEMA‟S SMILE She throws her arm away. It dangles over the sofa‟s edge. She runs her index finger over its microfiber. Maroon color must be plush. The sofa‟s dust begins to line the inside of her nail. She doesn‟t look at it; the nail may be turning red from the fibers. So. Boring. Hema lets out a scream. Shrill. She likes the sound of it. Just. Perfect. She waits for Chitra to rush over. Chitra does. “What happened?” “Nothing.” Hema looks away from her mother. That little bit of drama, she thinks, dripping off her voice, like a soap opera star. “What do you mean „nothing‟?” Chitra‟s holding a glass jug in her hand. It‟s dripping water droplets on to the carpet. Hema doesn‟t say anything. She sneaks a look at Chitra still standing there. She‟s frowning. Hema imagines herself grimacing. But she doesn‟t. Chitra interrupts her, “Hema! You are too much, sometimes.” She turns around, ready to go back to the kitchen. “Ma,” Hema whines. “I‟m bored. Don‟t you understand?” “Go read a book.” “I‟ve read all my books.” “Watch television.” “We don‟t have cable.” She shifts the jug from her right hand to her left. Hema sits up. “Watch a movie.” “I‟ve watched all my videos.” Chitra looks at Hema.