the

Henna
Wa r s

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 BY ADIBA JAIGIRDAR

The Henna Wars

Hani and Ishu's Guide to Fake Dating

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 tthhee
H e n naa
WWar a r
s s
adiba jaigirdar

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 First published in Great Britain in 2021 by Hodder and Stoughton
First published in the United States in 2020 by Page Street Publishing Co.
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
Text copyright © Adiba Jaigirdar, 2020
The moral rights of the author has been asserted.
Cover design by Molly Gillespie, book design by Ashley Tenn
for Page Street Publishing Co.
Cover illustration by Nabigal-Nayagam Haider Ali
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly
in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to
real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in
a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without
the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated
in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published
and without a similar condition including this condition being
imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978 1 444 96220 8
Printed and bound in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, Elcograf, S.p.A.
The paper and board used in this book are made
from wood from responsible sources.

Hodder Children’s Books

An imprint of Hachette Children’s Group
Part of Hodder and Stoughton
Carmelite House
50 Victoria Embankment
London EC4Y 0DZ
An Hachette UK Company
www.hachette.co.uk
www.hachettechildrens.co.uk

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 To queer brown girls ,
This is for you

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 content warning

This book contains instances of racism, homophobia,

bullying, and a character being outed.

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 “I donate my truth to you like I’m rich
The truth is love ain’t got no off switch”

–Janelle Monae, “Pynk”

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 1
I decide to come out to my parents at Sunny Apu’s
engagement party.
Not because of Sunny Apu and her groom, or the buzz
of the wedding in the air. And not because everything
about a Bengali wedding is so palpably heterosexual that
it’s almost nauseating.
I decide to come out because of the way Ammu and
Abbu look at Sunny Apu, with a mixture of pride and love
and longing. It isn’t directed at Sunny Apu at all, really;
it’s directed at the future. At our futures, mine and Priti’s.
I can almost see Ammu and Abbu stitching it together in
their heads: Castles in the air, made of deep red wedding
saree dreams and lined with thick gold wedding jewelry
aspirations.
I’ve never thought of my parents as traditionalists

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 adiba jaigirdar

before this. I’d seen them as pioneers, people who made

things happen even when those things might seem
impossible. They’d broken rigid tradition, and have what
Bengalis call a “love marriage.” Though they’ve never told
us the story, I always imagine a movie-moment meeting,
exactly like in a Bollywood movie. Their eyes meet across
a crowded room, maybe at a wedding of distant relatives.
Ammu’s in a saree, Abbu in a sherwani. Suddenly, a song
starts in the background. Something romantic, but upbeat.
My parents’ “love marriage” is one of the reasons they
work so well here, despite the lack of family and support.
Without anything, really. They uprooted their lives one
day to come to Ireland. To bring us here. To give us a better
life, they said, even when in some ways they are stuck to
the past. To Bangladesh. To everything Bengali custom
tells them.
Unfortunately, one of those things is this: a wedding
consisting of a bride and a groom.
But my Ammu and Abbu did make it past the customs
that told them love before marriage was unacceptable,
and that love after marriage was to be hidden in a locked
bedroom like a shameful secret. So maybe—just maybe—
they can accept this other form of love that blooms in
my chest sometimes when I see Deepika Padukone in a
Bollywood movie, and not when I see her male love interest.
So that is how I spend Sunny Apu’s engagement,

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 the henna wars

trying to construct the perfect coming out moment, and

wondering if that even exists. I try to think back to every
movie, TV show, and book that I’ve ever seen or read with
gay protagonists. Even gay side characters. Each coming
out was tragically painful. And they were all white!
“What are you doing?” Priti asks when she spots me
typing on my phone in the midst of the engagement
ceremony. Everyone’s eyes are turned to the bride- and
groom-to-be so I thought this was the moment I could
Google “gay happy endings” without someone peering
over my shoulder.
I quickly slip the phone into my bag and shoot her a
wide-eyed, innocent smile.
“Nothing. Nothing at all.”
She narrows her eyes like she doesn’t believe me, but
says no more. She turns back to the bride- and groom-to-be.
I know Priti will try to talk me out of it if I tell her what
I’m thinking of doing. But I also know I can’t be talked
out of it now.
I can’t keep living a lie. I have to tell them at one point
or another.
And tomorrow is going to be that point.
It’s weird, but after I’ve made my decision I feel like
I’m on borrowed time. Like this is my family’s last day
together and something is about to break open between
us. When we’re driving home from the engagement party,

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 adiba jaigirdar

it’s past midnight. The streetlights cast a strange glow on

the road ahead, marred by the bright, full moon in front of
us. It’s a clear night, for once. Priti is dozing in the backseat
beside me. Ammu and Abbu are speaking in a low hum,
so I can barely understand what they’re saying.
I wish I could bottle this uneventful moment—a flash
of time when we’re all at peace, together and apart at
once—and keep it with me forever.
I wonder if this is what things will be like tomorrow
too, after I’ve told them.
But then the moment’s over and we’re home and
stumbling out of the car. Our churis jingle against each
other, sounding too loud and bright in the dead-of-night
quiet on the streets.
Inside, I strip my face of all the heavy makeup Priti
carefully dabbed onto it just hours before. I slip out of
my itchy, uncomfortable salwar kameez and bury myself
in my blankets, where I pull up Google again and translate
the word lesbian into Bengali.
The next morning, Priti flits off to her best friend Ali’s
house with a smile on her lips. She’s promised to tell Ali
every detail she can about the engagement party, and the
upcoming wedding. With pictures.
There are still a few hours until Abbu has to leave for
the restaurant, so it’s perfect, really. I take my time making
my morning tea, stirring especially slowly and going over

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 the henna wars

the words I practiced last night. They seem lackluster and

silly now.
“Ammu, Abbu, I have something to tell you,” I finally
say, trying to breathe normally but somehow forgetting
how breathing works.
They’re sitting at the kitchen table with their phones in
their hands, Abbu reading the Bengali news, and Ammu
scrolling through Facebook—so reading the Auntie news/
Bengali gossip.
“Yes, shona?” Abbu says, not bothering to glance up
from his phone. At least my momentary breathing amnesia
isn’t obvious.
I stumble forward, nearly spilling my tea, and somehow
make it to the chair at the top of the table.
“Ammu, Abbu,” I say again. My voice must sound grave
because they finally look up, twin frowns on their lips as they
take me in, trembling hands and all. I wish all of a sudden
that I had spoken to Priti. That I’d allowed her to talk me
out of it. I am, after all, only sixteen, and there’s still time.
I’ve never had a girlfriend. I’ve never even kissed a girl, only
dreamed of it while staring at the cracks on my ceiling.
But we’re already here and my parents are looking at
me with expectation in their eyes. There is no turning
back. I don’t want to turn back.
So I say, “I like women.”
Ammu frowns. “Okay, that’s good, Nishat. You can

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 adiba jaigirdar

help your Khala with the wedding.”

“No, I’m . . . ” I try to remember the word for lesbian
in Bengali. I thought I had committed it to memory, but
clearly not. I wish I’d written it on my hand or something.
Like a cheat sheet for coming out.
“You know how Sunny Apu is going to marry Abir
Bhaiya?” I try again.
Ammu and Abbu nod, both looking equally bewildered
by the turn this conversation is taking. I’m right there with
them, if I’m being perfectly honest.
“Well, I think in the future I won’t want to marry a boy
at all. I think I’ll want to marry a girl instead,” I say lightly,
like this is a thought that just popped into my head, not
something I’ve spent years agonizing over.
There’s a moment when I’m not sure they understand,
but then their eyes widen, and I can see realization settling
into them.
I expect something. Anything.
Anger, confusion, fear. A mixture of all of those things,
maybe.
But Ammu and Abbu turn to each other instead of me,
communicating something through their gaze that I don’t
understand at all.
“Okay,” Ammu says after a beat of silence passes. “We
understand.”
“You do?”

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 the henna wars

Ammu’s frown and the chill in her voice suggests

anything but understanding.
“You can go.”
I stand up, though it feels wrong. Like a trap.
The mug of tea burns into my skin as I grab hold of it
and carry it upstairs, stealing glances back the whole way
up. I’m waiting—hoping—for them to call me back. But
there’s nothing except silence.

“I told them,” I say as soon as Priti slips in the door. It’s

just past nine o’clock. I don’t even give her a chance to
breathe.
She blinks at me. “You told who what?”
“Ammu and Abbu. About me. Being a lesbian.”
“Oh,” she says. Then, “Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“What did they say?”
“Nothing. They said . . . ‘okay, you can go.’ And that
was it.”
“Wait, you actually told them?”
“I just said I did, didn’t I?”
“I thought maybe . . . you were kidding. Like an April
Fool’s joke or something.”
“It’s . . . August.”

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 adiba jaigirdar

She rolls her eyes and shuts the bedroom door behind
her before flopping onto the bed beside me.
“You okay?”
I shrug. I’ve spent the last few hours trying to figure
out exactly that. I’d spent years going through all of the
various scenarios of coming out to my parents. None of
those scenarios had included silence. My parents have
always been forthcoming enough about their thoughts
and feelings; why is now the moment they choose to shut
themselves up?
“Apujan,” Priti says, wrapping her arms around me
and resting her chin on my shoulder. “It’ll be okay. They
probably just need to think, you know?”
“Yeah.” I want to believe her. I almost do.
To distract me Priti pulls up a movie on Netflix, and
the two of us slip under my duvet. Our heads touch
lightly as we lean against the headboard. Priti loops her
arms through mine. There is something comforting about
having her there; I almost forget about the rest of it. The
two of us must drift off to sleep because the next thing I
remember is blinking my eyes open.
Priti is softly snoring beside me, her face pressed against
my arm. I push her off—gently. She groans a little but
doesn’t wake up. I sit up, rubbing my eyes. The clock on
my phone flashes 1:00 a.m. There’s a murmur of voices off
somewhere in the distance. That must be what woke me.

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 the henna wars

I crawl out of bed and push my door open a smidge,

letting in the air and the voices of my parents. They’re
speaking in low, careful voices just loud enough for me to
make out.
“Too much freedom and that’s what happens. What
does it even mean?” Ammu says.
“She’s confused, she’s probably seen it in the movies,
heard her friends talking about it. Let her work it out and
she’ll come back and change her mind.”
“And if she doesn’t?”
“She will.”
“You saw the way she was looking at us. She believes it.
She thinks she’ll . . . she’ll marry a girl, like that’s normal.”
There’s a deep sigh and I’m not sure if it’s Ammu or
Abbu, or what it means, or what I want it to mean.
“What do we even do while she works it out?” It’s
Ammu’s voice again, dripping with something akin to
disgust.
Tears fight their way up my body, trying to burst out. I
choke them down somehow.
“We just act normal,” Abbu says. “Like nothing’s
happened.”
Ammu says something else, but it’s lower. I can’t make
out the words.
Abbu says, “We’ll talk about it later.” And the night
descends into silence once more.

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 adiba jaigirdar

I push the door closed. My heart is going a million

miles a minute. But before I can even think, even process,
Priti flings her arms around me in an embrace. We both
stumble backward, making more noise than anyone
should at one o’clock in the morning after eavesdropping
on their parents’ conversation.
“I thought you were asleep.”
“I woke up.”
“Clearly.”
“It’ll be okay,” she says.
“I’m okay,” I say.
But I don’t think either of us really believes that.

10

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 Thank you for reading the first chapter of The Henna
Wars by Adiba Jaigirdar.
If you're itching to read the rest of Nishat and Flavia's
story then pre-order your copy using the link below!
Pre-order The Henna Wars

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