As a child, Marin still yearned for the celebrations in India, where the country shut down for the festivities. The streets would fill with those reveling in the occasion. Caste, color, and gender became irrelevant in the face of the joy. Marin would spend the nine days with her friends, and they rotated at whose house they stayed the night. Brent would tuck fifty rupees—a fortune—into Marin’s palm and tell her to go have a wonderful time.
Vendors lined the streets, their carts filled with sweets and toys. For Marin, the money was enough to keep her pockets filled for all nine days. Her friends envied the amount, their own fathers giving them only ten to twenty rupees. Marin was always quick to share, unable to enjoy her windfall if her friends suffered. The nine days of celebration were something Marin looked forward to all year, the happiness filling every part of her.
She assumed the celebrations in America would be the same, if not better. The first night, when she realized they were limited to the inside of a rented hall and that the festivities lasted only from evening to midnight, Marin lulled herself to sleep with memories of years past. It was only in the second year that Marin fully understood the difference—and what her life was now compared to what it had been.
After getting dressed and eating dinner, they all herded into their station wagon and Brent drove them the short distance to the church hall the Indian samaj had rented out for the occasion. After they parked in the lot, Marin jumped out, ready to run in and lose herself in the sea of hundreds of people in attendance.
“Marin,” Brent said, stilling her.
“Yes, Daddy?” Marin asked, wondering, hoping, for just a moment, that he was about to slip some dollars in her hand to buy succulent Indian sweets that some of the ladies sold to raise funds.
“I have a reputation to maintain. Remember that,” her father said as he lifted Sonya from her car seat.
“Yes, Daddy,” Marin said, her hands clasped in front of her, anxious to be on her way.
Marin spent the night playing with friends she had made within the Indian crowd, many of them having nothing more in common than the color of their skin. But like all children, they found whatever similarities they could as an excuse to play together. The night went quickly, Marin finding happiness in the game of hide-and-seek they played, while the adults and teenagers danced in the main hall. When her friends tired, they found an office in the back hall. Sneaking in cans of soda and bowls of ghatiya, they snacked while they played.
Two of the boys began to wrestle, knocking over three cans of soda. As the caramel color seeped into the beige carpet, they ran out of the office, refusing responsibility. Others followed, leaving Marin and one other girl. Ready to flee themselves, they were caught at the door by an adult who saw the stain.
“I expected more from you,” the man said, calling out for Brent and the other girl’s father.
“Please, Uncle,” Marin began, using the moniker as a sign of respect. Sweat started to line her blouse and upper lip. Fear made her voice tremble. “We were not at fault. The boys were playing and . . .”
Before she could finish, Brent arrived. He saw the stain and stepped forward to reprimand her, but then the other girl’s father arrived and assessed the situation. “Marin could never do such a thing,” he said. “Marin,” he continued, coming to lay his hand on her shoulder, the only acceptable touch from a man to a girl. “My daughter was telling us just the other day what an outstanding student you are. Have I heard correctly that you are skipping two grade levels?”
“Yes,” Brent answered for her. “The principal contacted me recently to recommend it.”