Diwali

I remember how I waited for her under the long empty passageway that led to the church. For awhile it was just me and the balloon man. All at once, the parishioners arrived and the dirt floor was up around our heads in light puffs of sepia, turning the rays of afternoon sun into visible beams that children tried to grasp with their hands. She had wanted to celebrate her saint’s day. I hated catholic mass. So we compromised. This is why today, she helps me wash the windows, make sweets and light candles in preparation for Diwali. Days later she will vacuum what is left of the Rangoli I am so fond of creating outside our door.

I remember when she finally appeared from the end of the sunlit promenade in a light green silk sari trimmed in golden thread that caused the rays of light to gather around her head in a crown of stars. Her name was Aparna but she had been baptised at the age of 12, as Guadalupe.
She looked amazing and I felt pitifully under-dressed.
“Why are you wearing a sari?” I asked her in hindi.
“So you can take it off later.” she replied in spanish.
We loved our native tongues in each others mouths.