Happy Birthday!: And Other Stories Read Online Free PDF Page A

her, touching her blonde hair, holding her white hands, asking her what fairness cream she uses.
    Fatima—who’s won the game for her team without breaking into a sweat—tells Sara breathlessly, ‘You are beautiful, yellow like the sun.’
    To stand out among your own is beauty, I decide, and Sara is no beauty. Amidst Americans, Sara would blend in, be called unusual-looking at best, but not beautiful. Her limbs are long but spindly and she has no breasts, she slouches at the shoulders, and her wide-set eyes are sunk in a tight face. Her cheeks, still red from the mountain air of Vermont where she said she went skiing last weekend, will lose the girls’ admiration once they recede into their pale and rubbery countenance. It’s her earnestness they admire, I realize, for her face reflects a simplicity that they identify as their own.
    On the way back home Sara says, ‘I’m sorry your team lost.’
    I shrug my shoulders nonchalantly, meaning it. ‘No big deal. I still won my wager.’
    Before she can saddle me with another why or what, I go on, ‘After every game we Hoopsters check each other’s nails to see whose French manicure is still intact. I usually win because I go to the best nail salon. See—’ I hold up my fingers ‘—as good as new.’
    I look down at her fingernails, which I’ve seen her biting. They’re chipped and short, raw and slightly red at the edges. She’s looking at me when our eyes meet again and I know she can’t miss my triumphant look, establishing that my father still splurges on his real daughter.
    ~
    I wake up late the next morning and enter the kitchen to see Sara sitting on the floor with Mary, sipping tea.
    Mary looks in my direction, wide-eyed, and stands up.
    Sara turns to me, smiling from ear to ear. ‘I asked Mary if we could come to her house and she said yes. We’re going at six today.’
    I tell Mary in Hindi to leave. She unties her dupatta from the waist and I notice how frail she looks in a salwar-kameez; her agility and strength from last night seem implausible. Sara looks surprised that Mary is leaving but I want her to know that I’m used to waving people away, that I’m the sort of person for whom things are done.
    After Mary shuts the front door, I turn to Sara and say, ‘Look, you cannot sit with servants on the floor and visit their houses.’
    Sara looks genuinely surprised. ‘I don’t understand, Payal. Mary is such a nice person. She is funny, honest and smart. Do you know she’s the first girl in her family to graduate?’
    â€˜Sara, who cares?’
    â€˜She comes to your house every day and you play sports with her, but you know nothing about her. I think you keep her at a distance because she has less money than you. And that is … just … so … snobbish,’ she says with a clear-eyed superiority, as if she’s lived a life of wellmaintained morals.
    â€˜Sara, everything is not yours to understand.’
    â€˜Then make me understand, Payal,’ she says. I glare at her. ‘Please,’ she adds.
    â€˜Sara, there is a protocol for dealing with servants. Do you know that at any given time I know exactly how much money is in my pockets, my purse and my cupboard, so in case a single paisa is missing I can catch Mary? Lalit has to fill a mileage sheet before and after every drive, and I check this sheet weekly to know how much he’s actually spending on gas. We have a weighing scale in the kitchen so when the sabziwallah comes with kilos of vegetables I know he hasn’t hidden a tomato or two for himself. These are rules which the servants know as well as we do. You’ve grown up in a relatively classless society in the US, but here in India we live within boundaries that you must respect.’
    My last sentence comes out with more venom than I intended, and judging by Sara’s hurt expression I can see