Everything Was Good-Bye by Gurjinder Basran

her the truth that we all suspected—that since Harj’s departure we had become an even less suitable family to marry into.
    Tej turned back to me and put her hands on my shoulders, her eyes locked squarely on mine. “Meena, love is never a choice. You don’t get to choose who you fall in love with. You love who is chosen for you.”

1.5
    I sat cross-legged on the floor of the gurdwara, drawing crop circles in the carpet pile the way Harj and I used to. Behind me, most of the old ladies—the bibis who sat lining the walled perimeter—kept their eyes closed and pretended to listen to the scriptures when they were actually half asleep, pins and needles in their feet occasionally jolting them awake. The aunties sat in front of them, whispering to one another out of the sides of their mouths while their buttery-faced pre-adolescent daughters twirled about, their stiffcrinoline frocks opening and closing like lace parasols. Occasionally one of the aunties would reach over and slap her daughter on the leg, forcing the girl to sit down, while little boys dashed around, sliding into imaginary bases unfettered and unchecked.
    When I was these girls’ age I was allowed to play outside with the boys after the prayers. We played Simon Says in the empty parking lot and frozen tag between parked cars, and sometimes we climbed the balconies of the temple, pressing our fleshy cheeks against the windows to see inside. I’d wave at my sisters, who sat like ducklings on the carpet next to my mother, and wait for their stern disapproval before skipping offto join a game of tag. Once I darted into the parking lot so quickly that a car struck me. The driver was a woman my mother’s age; she emerged panicked and flustered, yelling at me that I should have been more careful. Adults gathered around me in a circle, protecting and scolding me, treating me almost the sameway they did the woman who’d hit me. After that, God and temple were no longer things to play at and I joined my sisters inside, learning how to be quiet and well behaved.
    Fortunately my mother made us go to the temple only when we were invited. Though she believed in God, she didn’t believe in lengthy prayers. She said they never helped. The only time I’d seen her pray was after Harj left, when for days she’d flipped through the Guru Granth Sahib, mouthing words and stopping only for food and water. Illiterate in two languages, she turned the pages too quickly and came to the end before her prayer recitation was complete. Like everything else, she knew God only by memory.
    Serena’s mother-in-law was standing before the Guru Granth Sahib throne, which was canopied in silk fabric and tinsel garland reminiscent of Christmas decor. She had put her money in the trough and stood with her eyes closed and hands clasped in prayer. After a minute she knelt, touched her head to the floor, rose and repeated the action—a theatrical display of faith that Tej and I snickered about. Serena kicked me in the back with her foot and when I turned around she raised her index finger to her mouth. Her mother-in-law made her way over and sat down next to us, forcing us into silence. She glanced my way and smiled until her eyes disappeared into slits. She smiled so hard I thought her gums would bleed. When I turned away, I could sense her kohl-lined eyes sizing me up and looking me over in the same measured beats as the tabla, until the music finally stopped.
    “Vaheguruji Ka Khalsa, Vaheguruji Ki Fateh.”
    The turbaned giani took his place at the podium and tapped the micro-phone. “Testing.” He smoothed his horsetail of a beard and cleared his throat before unleashing a prayer—a blessing for Tej’s engagement to Mandip and a wish for happiness, for sons. I nudged Tej. It was enough to make her blush.
    The giani continued, monotone and serious, his prayer mutating into a sermon on the danger of Western morals encroaching on Indian culture. He held his kirpan in his hand as if he