Halfway Between Red And Magenta

Chapter Three (Daya) - Part 2

A/N: Video is Tom Odell singing Constellations (beautiful!)

Baasim is tall, and the first thing I notice is he's looking almost nervously at me. I cock my head up towards him, frowning and unapologetic. Baasim's— Baz's— eyes meet mine and quickly skitter away, as if he's afraid to look at me. My eyes narrow. I've seen enough men thrown towards my sister to recognise when they're starting to think about the possibility of me.

Baz must lose that idea very, very quickly.

He wears turban, and like his kurta, they're both a midnight blue with silver threads. His beard is dark, defining his young face and sharp cheekbones.

'Baz has just graduated in medicine,' Anika continues, 'He's been away for years, but he's now working here in the city. You might see him. Baz knows you're in your final year.'

I nod.

'You might even see him at placement. You're both in the same hospital, I think.'

My eyes can't narrow any further but this statement, if anything, confirms my suspicions. Anika is never uncertain. She never thinks something is correct. She confidently, and outright, states it. That's how she's such a good lawyer.

And apparently, a matchmaker.

'Well, it's nice to meet you,' I say, pointedly turning back to my sister. 'You wanted to see me?'

Anika blinks at my rudeness, but my eyes flash in annoyance. Introducing me to a young male doctor who is a good, practicing Sikh and is also wearing the same colour of clothes as me? I expect better of Anika. My sister's mouth settles into a grim line.

'Daya,' she says, and warning laces her voice.

Lakshmi, who had been politely stood behind, touches my arm. 'They're our guests, Daya.'

Dammit, I know! I want to snap. But stop trying to set me up with them!

'How about you dance with Baz to apologise?' Anika suggests.

My pupils dilate in challenge. What, does Anika think she will suddenly fall head over heels for a man like she has? Well, her sister would be waiting for that fall.

Forever.

My smile is acidic. 'Of course. My mistake. Baasim, would you care to dance?'

I make a show of gesturing to the dance floor, and back at Baasim, who nods, eyes skimming the ceiling. He, too, must be fascinated by lanterns, or not much of a challenge.

Anika beams.

I sigh.

In his defence, Baz is a good dancer. I expected to dance rings around him and he would back off, reading from my body language that I'm not interested in finding a husband. But Baasim isn't fended away easily. He dances bhangra almost as well as I do, and we are soon leaping and dancing in a contest of who has more stamina.

Somewhere along the way, I start to enjoy myself.

I lose myself in the music, in the movement, in the rush of the party. Dancing always renders together my broken soul. Whenever I feel guilty and secretive and unworthy, I throw my feelings into dance. And in that happiness, I remember that I should not be angry, for God has created me this way and he must have a design.

Baasim, opposite me, grins. And for the first time all night, I relax.

As the song comes to an end, I realise we have been dancing for much longer than I intended, and Anika has left, probably to brag about her matchmaking skills. I sigh again, the familiar weariness returning. Baasim still hasn't left yet, not running with his tail between his legs with a story of a would-be match that will become funny in time. I hate to be off-putting and rude, but unless he backs away, I'm stuck.

I prepare myself to be cruel and heartless, all things I'm not but wish I am. But when I turn around, Baasim is holding out a plate of strawberries and an aromatic drink.

Just for that, I can't hate him. After all, it isn't his fault he's male. So, I accept the offering, taking bites of strawberries in between gulps of tea.

At the side of the room, we stand in comfortable silence, listening to the music and celebrations and catching our breaths. I'm hoping Baasim won't ruin my moment of peace, that he won't mention love, or even worse, remark on the overused topic that is the party.

Sure enough, he does make his move when I put down my empty plate. Trying not to wipe my fingers on my dress, I squeeze them together, hoping the strawberry juice will dry or I'll spot a napkin. I'm only half listening, expected Baasim to talk about something dreary.

I couldn't have been more wrong. Baasim leans into my ear and whispers a sentence I'll never, ever forget.

'So, when was it you realised that you loved women?'