Avasa (Part I)

I'm practicing guitar in the studio at college. I started playing a year and a half ago. It's not very common for girls to play guitar in India -- the underground rock 'n' roll scene is very male-dominated. So it was only a natural expression of my feminism for me to step forward and show the boys that I could rock as hard as they could.

"Not bad," I hear a familiar voice behind me. I whip around to see Avasa standing in the studio, cockily raising an eyebrow at me. She's wearing leather pants and a loose-fitting white shirt, her blue-tipped bangs flopping over her forehead. One word. WOW. She walks toward me. "We can be together," she says. For a second, I'm confused. Then I realize that it's not a come-on, just the name of the song I was playing.

"Jefferson Airplane," I stutter.

"Yeah," she says. "You have a nice voice."

"Thanks. Uhhh, how long have you been standing there?" I ask, slightly embarrassed. I'm not bad at music, but I have a fear of performing before an audience.

"Well, I came to find you, and your friend Mohan told me you'd be here," she says. "So, basically I've been here five minutes."

"Why'd you come to find me?" I ask stupidly, even though I know the answer.

She walks over and sits down on a chair next to me. "Because I wanted to apologize for yesterday," she says. "I was out of line. I didn't mean to insult Indian culture."

"No, no, it was my fault," I start babbling. "I obviously came across sounding self-righteous when I had no right to judge. No, you don't understand. I do this...I start popping off and I don't know when to stop...I'm pretty sure it's a disease, I've actually been considering therapy for a while now..."

She bursts out laughing, and puts a hand on my arm. "Relax, Nadya," she says. "It doesn't really matter whose fault it was." I smile goofily. "I play guitar, too," she says. Her face becomes mocking again. "But, uh, I'm surprised to find that you do. You didn't seem like the type."

"What did you think?" I ask with a smile. "Do I really look like the stereotyped 'good little Indian girl' to you?" Now it's her turn to smile. "So how good are you?" I ask.

"Pretty decent, I guess," she says, swaggering. "I know my power chords. I can do almost anything from Sonic Youth to Black Flag."

"Serious?" I exclaim.

"Serious as a fucking heart attack," she insists. She takes my guitar away from me and strums the opening chords to Sonic Youth's "Teenage Riot".

I give her my standard lopsided "I'm impressed" smile. "I'm in love with rock 'n' roll, but I'm partial to punk and indie," I say.

"Yeah?" she says eagerly. "And I thought I was the only Indian girl around here who loved that kind of music. What else do you listen to?"

"Well, lots of stuff," I say. "The local pop scene is a little too pop-y for me. The underground rock scene is better, but it's dying. I do like a lot of classical music, though. I also like qawwali music from Pakistan. You into that stuff?"

"Not particularly," she says. "I haven't even really tried it out."

"You're kidding me, right?" I'm appalled. "Classical music gives me a high."

"I was in the USA, remember?" she says. She sighs, beaten. "Yes, I'm a little, what you would call, burger." I smile. "What do you write about in the college paper?"

"Well, let's see," I say, starting to pack up my guitar. "There's a lot I want to say, but I have to sugar-coat my words so that I don't offend people. I'm tired of the patriarchal setup that Indian society entails, I feel stifled by a culture that largely treats women as baby machines, and I am sick to death of the religious divides, capitalism, and poverty that surrounds me. Most of my articles are based on issues like that."

She's listening to my outburst intently. I can tell she understands my rage. "By the way, you can call me Avi," she says pleasantly.

Avi. I like the sound of that.

"Does your family live here? In Mumbai?" she's asking.

"Well, no," I say. "My parents live in Allahabad. Papa's in public health. Mom's a doctor. Both are hopelessly bourgeois, of course." We laugh. I face her. "You look like you're from Goa."

"Am I that obvious?" she asks.

"Well, you do kind of stand out," I say, before I can stop myself. I start blushing. Nice faux pas, I chide myself. At this rate, the whole world will figure out that I'm gay.

She seems to be smiling a knowing smile. And she's looking at me out of the corner of her eye. Is she checking me out? I realize I'm looking like a mess, so I untie my ponytail and let my hair down. Not taking her eyes off me, she says, "So why aren't there more girls in rock in India?"

"Well, why aren't there more women in rock all over the world?" I counter. "It's a male-dominated area of music. Women are ghettoized. I have a Freudian theory about it having to do with there being a general guitar-as-phallus prejudice."

"I can see why Bhai likes you," she says, laughing.

"You guys are real close, huh?" I ask.

"Yeah," she says, and for the first time I see her face soften and get a look of pure adoration on it. It was different from the lean, muscular look she usually sports. "My parents died when I was nine. Bhai took care of me ever since."

I'm not sure how to react. "I'm sorry," I say, wanting to kick myself for spouting the world's most overused cliché.

She senses my discomfort. "What do you study?" she asks.

"I'm majoring in economics right now, but I'll probably do social development in grad school." I zip up the guitar case and sit down next to her again. "The plan is to study and work abroad for a while, and ultimately come back to India to do social work."

"Sounds like you've got it all figured out," she says.

"Yep, that's me," I say. "Hyperintellectual, career-minded, oversexed, independent woman."

"Has this oversexed woman gotten a boyfriend yet?" she asks mischievously.

"Uhhh, well, let's not go there," I laugh nervously. "Okay, you got me. I don't have much of a track record with guys." The adorable crinkles appear at the corners of her eyes again. I'm getting a little sweaty, so I take off my denim jacket, revealing a sleeveless blouse underneath. Wait a second. Did she just stare appreciatively as my bare shoulders came into view? Or am I just imagining things?

"So Avi, you haven't told me what you do," I say.

"I majored in business studies," she says. "Right now I'm sort of in between things. I'm going to go to law school soon. I want to be a corporate lawyer."

"Really?" I ask. I'm very skeptical of corporate lawyers. "That sounds...uhhh..."

"Greedy, selfish and spineless?" she finishes. "Don't be so judgmental."

I smile at how well she can read me. "Why'd you come back?" I ask.

"Because of Bhai, of course," she says. "He wanted to spend a couple of years teaching here, so I just tagged along to keep him company."

"So no plans to settle in India," I venture.

"Why do you care so much?" she says in a frustrated voice.

"Because I feel an obligation to my country," I say. "I can't just leave. I want to change the way people think. Except if all the good people go, that's never going to happen."

"Ah, the dilemma of the liberal, alienated Indian," Avi says, smiling wryly.

"Welcome to my world. It's lonely here." I laugh.

"You're too idealistic," she says. "You're going to be disappointed."

"Maybe," I agree. "But I'd be more disappointed if I didn't even try. No plans to come back, like, ever?"

"Well, none at the moment," she says. "But I guess you never know." She winks at me. Our shoulders bump together, sending shivers down my spine. I'm sure she did it intentionally. My gaydar is beeping.

"Are you wondering if I'm flirting with you?" she asks, enjoying my shock.

"Uhhh, well, aaah," I begin hemming and hawing.

"Yes, I am." She's getting up to stand in front of me, and grinning ear to ear.

"Oh, okay, so you're...that way..."

"Yeah, like you."

"Oh, God." I jump up, and raise a hand to my forehead. "Wait...so this entire time you've known...how do you know...did Arjun tell you?" I'm guessing Arjun knows I'm lesbian. He is a psychologist, and I have been badgering him with questions about homosexuality, since, like forever. I open my mouth to argue, but start smiling and shaking my head in disbelief.

"The wheels in your head are turning," she says teasingly. "You're a smart girl, aren't you?"

In spite of myself, I find the situation hilarious, and before I know it, Avi and I are laughing together.

"You're evil," I say, finally.

"You can blame my brother for this," she says, still grinning. "It was all his idea."

"I should've known," I say, still a little taken aback. "And you really are too butch to be straight."

"I've been a big ol' dyke since I was five," she laughs. "But I'm not so much 'butch' as I am the more fanciful 'butchy'. You know, like a Necker cube. It plays with your mind." She winks again. I think I'm going weak in the knees.

"You could've just asked me, you know."

"Well, this was more fun," she says, cracking a smile.

We are standing up and facing each other. In a split second, she puts her hands on my bare arms, pulling them to her shoulders, letting her fingers brush against my skin, and evoking feelings I didn't know I could have. She slips one arm around my waist, and uses the other arm to brush away the hair from my face. She's looking into my eyes like she can see my soul through them.

"I'm going to kiss you." She isn't asking for my permission.

She moves in and kisses my mouth. My entire body throbs as I feel the sensation of her lips pressing against mine. My head is flooded with her scent...she smells like thyme and lemon and soap. And then her tongue enters my mouth...and I can't think anymore.

When we break off, I'm breathless. She's suave and calm and in control. This was better than anything I have ever fantasized about.

She gets up, runs a hand through her short hair and grins down at me. "Need a drink?" Boy, do I ever.