Shali’s Closet

“It should really be easier, than this.”

Shali’s heartbeat began to quicken slightly. She could feel the tension setting into her jaw, and the silence of the inside of her closet becoming louder. This was panic, right? Had to be. Panic must be setting in. Or sheer frustration, at the minimum. Less because of the severity of the situation, and more because of how undone Shali was letting herself become over something so trivial...

At this point, she was 107 minutes into missing her own party. She stumbled home 20 minutes after the guests arrived, encountered this “grand” surprise from her parents in the courtyard and spent the next 45 minutes scarfing down enough leftovers to offset the champagne she inhaled at dinner.

Now if Shali could just find the right, understated outfit that made her feel like herself. Special and slinky, sticky, silky items that hangs off her chest but clings to her curves... Maybe she could make David regret that his new wife was already pregnant. Maybe, she could look so tempting he would regret showing up to this damn event altogether and rue the day he said “they should stay friends.” HA. Maybe, just maybe, Shali could even get her mum to feel a fleeting sense of pride about her daughter—even if just for a moment. You know, before all the jaw clenching, eagle-eyed judgment and guilt-tripping kicks in...

All set at this point, Shali was stunning. About 115 minutes into her 30th birthday party and Shali had spent all of it so far with herself. Her reflection in the mirror though felt worth it. It reminded her of what she sometimes suppressed or forgot. That although she’d picked up a few pounds in the last 2 years—she was still a stunner. Waist length, ultra shiny midnight black hair. Catlike, almond-shaped eyes that only became more pronounced with a flick of blue liner. The type of naturally plump and pouty lips that white women pay for, and the type of gently caramel colored skin that other Indian women woefully complimented.

Just one final swig of bubbly and Shali was ready to face the music. Thirty and unmarried, sure. But hot and as buzzed as respectably possible: a winning combination in Shali’s eyes.

Her phone... where was her phone? She flung crop tops, black pants, black jeans, and black skirts askew in the hopes of one final selfie before ascending onto her guests like magic. Instead, a crumpled Manila envelope came into view at the bottom of the closet pile. Weird, that wasn’t Shali’s. Or if it was, she either too drunk when she brought it home or too tipsy now to remember it. An unmarked envelope, at that. Was it her lease renewal, from before moving back home? Or maybe some old David memorabilia she couldn’t get herself to throw out?

Inside the lofty envelope was a thin and small clearly pre-loved notebook. Black and a bit dusty, it was unrecognizable: but the leather still bore the weight of something important. And next to it, yet another smaller white envelope. Shali grabbed the white envelope and tore it open. And there was...cash. One hundred, two hundred, maybe four thousand dollars?

Actually, wow, this was more than ten thousand dollars... maybe twenty???

Shali took another glimpse at the clock and indulged her impulses. She flipped open the accompanying notebook—glimpsing page after page filled with poetry and faded doodles and laborious letters. Each page addressed to “my beloved” or “my rose”— and the last page addressed to “Rutika.”

“Rutika,

How many years will this go on, unrequited?

How many days will we continue, together but divided?

This book is filled with love, but also desperation.

Our muted and hidden entanglement has left me with exasperation.

Your husband is not the answer, he is devoid and cold.

I do not want to be hurtful, but I now need to be bold.

Your son is a disappointment, your daughter is a disgrace,

and you write me of the days when I will wake up to your face.

You have lived years of solitude just giving, giving, giving.

I’m asking for the chance to love you, to bring you back to living.

Enclosed is enough for you to slip away, to me.

Let us bring back the days when you and I were “we”?

All my love and hope,

Rajesh”

The small black notebook slipped through Shali’s fingers—falling softly to the closet floor. The thud was cushioned by Shali’s innumerous sweaters, gifts from old boyfriends and purchases she made on her father’s credit card.

“SHALI. WHY ARE YOU MAKING THIS SO DIFFICULT? Your guests have been waiting for you for hours to give them some attention.”

Shali’s mum, Rutika, walked in.