Free Serving Crazy With Curry by Amulya Malladi

in Sunnyvale. Joggers pounded on the beaten cement path while people with dogs hung around with plastic bags waiting for their pets to poop. There was a small pond shaped like a drop of water and a fountain at its base that spurted water at regular intervals. A few ducks pranced in the pond, while little children played in the sandbox as their parents watched them with delight and apprehension, enjoying the antics of the ungainly little ones even as they waited for the inevitable fall.
    Devi and Dylan had been wrestling for the football for weeks. The first few times Devi hadn't felt anything, but lately she could feel a tingle as his hand brushed against hers. She was just eleven years old and the mysteries of the world lay bare in front of her. All she wanted was to investigate and find out what lay beyond the tingling feeling brought by his hand against hers.
    It wasn't that she was unaware of the birds and the bees. She knew the basics, had known because Vasu, against Saroj's wishes, had shown and explained the facts of life to both her granddaughters with diagrams and images. But knowing the basics and “feeling” the basics were a million light-years apart.
    She knew it was wrong. She knew she was too young, but growing up was such a delight. Devi didn't even stop to look back at innocence, at lying against a boy, unaware of any sexuality, trying to pry a football from his hands.
    Then one day, while they lay sweaty on the grass, the other kids gone, twilight streaking in, coloring the California summer sky, Dylan put his hand on Devi's, firmly, not playfully. Saroj's daughter wanted to run home, but Vasu's granddaughter wanted to stay.
    Devi turned her head and awkwardly their lips met. She knew by instinct that she need only to open her mouth and the kiss would bloom, like it did in the movies, so she did and their tongues touched. Disgusted and excited by the intimacy ofthat first kiss and touching of tongues, Devi and Dylan didn't look at each other again for almost three days.
    But they soon found themselves on the edge of the slippery slope again. This time however, Dylan was less enthusiastic than Devi.
    When Devi leaned over boldly, even shyly, ready to slip into the delights of the forbidden, Dylan pulled away.
    “Father Thomas told me that it was wrong to kiss you,” he said solemnly, even though Devi could see that he was just trying to be mean. His lips were twisted, his stance arrogant. He had tempted her into reliving their previous kiss and had then jerked away with righteous fervor.
    “Who's Father Thomas?”
    “He's our father at our church and I told him that I kissed you and he said I should never ever do it again and … that you are a …” Dylan shrugged and looked away.
    “And I am a what?” Devi demanded, standing up now, her hands fisted, resting against her waist in offense.
    “A brownie slut,” Dylan said loudly and then ran away.
    For a second Devi wondered what chocolate had to do with slut and then realization sank in. She was embarrassed that she wanted to kiss again while Dylan did not. And she was furious that this Father Thomas called her a brownie slut.
    Devi never really noticed her skin color compared to those around her. She knew (and how could you not with Saroj talking about it all the time) that she was dark, not pale like the white girls and boys she played with and went to school with. She knew all that but it wasn't something she paid attention to. She didn't go to school every day thinking they were white while she was brown.
    But being told so crassly so accusingly that she was different and not worthy of being kissed tore open the color blinders she'd been wearing. Devi would learn as she grew older to not notice the color of a person, but from that day in her heart she always knew she was brown.
    Her legs were shaking as she found her way across the street to go home. Her body felt like it was burning. She could feel her heart pounding against her ears and her