Free Hita by Anita Claire Page A

you won’t put this on Facebook. Not everything in our lives needs to be shared.”
     

Chapter 19 – Thanksgiving at Home
    Meredith plans a big Thanksgiving dinner at her place, but I’m going home. Not wanting to use my precious vacation days for visiting family, I fly to Chicago on Thursday, just in time for Thanksgiving dinner—Indian style. The table is set and a bunch of family friends are already over. I’m greeted with lots of hugs and kisses. My brother, who is currently in his senior year of college, is already there.
    Since everyone attending is a vegetarian my mom doesn’t roast a turkey. She has prepared all the American Thanksgiving specialties, including cranberry sauce and pumpkin pie, though most of the meal consists of vegetarian Indian specialties.
    On Friday morning I challenge my brother to a game of ping pong. All my practicing at work has paid off. I beat him easily, every game. Every time I beat him he gets a little bit angrier. His returns get harder, but not more accurate. I’m so used to playing with guys, the speed has no effect. He finally throws down his paddle and storms up the stairs.
    My mother comes over to me saying, “Men don’t like it when they lose, especially to women.”
    Furious at her for that comment, I respond, “Well then I think they have some work to do on their attitudes because I’m sure not going to swing a game to placate some guys ego.”
    “Hita, you need to tone down the feminism or you’re never going to be happy in a marriage,” she replies.
    “I’d rather be single than live with a man who doesn’t respect me and isn’t proud of my achievements,” I answer back.
    Shaking her head Mom says, “Hita, what am I going to do with you?”
    “Support me, be proud of me, but I’m not going to be sold down the river to some guy who doesn’t get me.”
    “Hita, how do you make it in California with that attitude?”
    Shocked at her thinking, I respond back, “I’m doing well. I have a great group of friends. I actually play ping pong against a group of guys. They like me, they even respect me, and I never would consider throwing a game for their egos.”
    “Are any of them nice Indian boys from a good family?”
    Exasperated I respond, “What is it with you trying to marry me off? Can’t I explore being single for awhile?”
    My mother’s arms are now crossed over her chest and she has a concerned look on her face. She runs a science lab. How can she be so sexist?
    Heading up to my childhood bedroom, I lie down on my bed. I pull out my phone and check Facebook, Instagram, and texts. There are pictures from Meredith’s Thanksgiving dinner. The other princesses were there. So was Sam’s friend, Ben. Good thing Isabelle is traveling. She had an on and off thing with Ben for years. By our senior year, just mentioning his name gave her hives.
    Thinking about Isabelle is good luck. She stopped teaching English in China and is now traveling around Australia. She posted a great selfie on a boat in Cairns with a whole story about diving in the Great Barrier Reef.
    Savi’s parents are having a big traditional dinner at their house tonight so everyone can meet Arav’s family, since now they’re engaged. With a party like this, everyone comes dressed up in their best traditional clothes. My mom calls me into her room. I follow her into her closet. She has all her saris carefully folded and stored. She pulls out a sari for me to wear. It includes a deep yellow silk slip called a pavadai and a matching short sleeve midriff baring blouse called a choli. The actual sari is nine feet of high quality saffron colored silk with elaborate sand script patterns embroidered in bright yellow along one side. Mom wraps the material twice around my waist with the loose end of the drape thrown over my shoulder, baring my midriff. I’m glad I’ve been riding my bike and playing ping pong all summer long because my stomach is completely showing, and I’d hate to have it