A Flame Yet To Burn

On one particularly chilly day in March, the rain left my hair a frizzy mess by the time I arrived at the new Indian fusion cafe in my neighborhood. They were hosting a screening of Fire by Deepa Mehta, which had been subject to massive protests and censorship in India back in the 90s due to its depiction of a lesbian relationship. Knowing that history made us viewers feel like we were, by extension, engaging in some kind of forbidden act even though we live in the bluest district in the United States. 

The furniture had been rearranged for our movie-viewing pleasure. I sat down on the impossibly comfortable couch and sucked on some Mr. Tom candies. 

“Hey, man, I love your shirt. What’s your name?,” I awkwardly tried striking up conversation with the person to my right while the cafe owner was figuring out how to work the projector. 

“Thank you. I’m Rayansh, and you are?,” he replied quickly, sipping on his masala lemonade in anticipation of my answer.

“My name’s Kavi. I’ve lived around here my whole life and I’m going to college in the city as well. So, uh, what are you up to?,” I settled for a harmless-enough open-ended question. 

“I’m doing my PhD at Penn in neurobiology.” Suddenly the tiredness weighing down on his face became ten times more pronounced.

“Oh shit! You’re way cooler than me, haha. What’s your focus area?,” I asked with genuine curiosity. 

“Well, I just started, but I’m basically doing research on the perception of different kinds of primates—” 

“IT’S ON!,” the cafe owner exclaimed as she finally got the movie displayed on the projector. She pressed play, and no sound came out.

“Sorry guys, give me a few more minutes,” she said underneath her breath, continuing to tinker around with the settings knowing full well it was already a half hour past the start time listed on the flyer.

Figuring I had already exhausted all the chapters of my small talk playbook, and honoring the reality that it was probably for the best to just leave Rayansh alone, I turned my attention over to the left side of the couch.

“Hey, I’m Kavi. What’s your name?”

“I’m Meenakshi. I observe things, and I like your energy. You know, I can tell you’re dying to connect with people, and I’m not too different. I’m getting my MFA in theater performance right now. Tapping into the psyche of an audience, getting them to think, feel, go on a journey with me…that’s the wavelength I operate on.”

“That’s kinda how I feel with community organizing. It’s like peoples’ minds and bodies are coming together towards this shared purpose—”

And the movie started playing, with audio this time. The cafe owner sat down and the whole group started following the story intently. 

“Let’s watch this and talk after, okay?,” Meenakshi whispered to me during the title sequence.

“I’d love that,” I whispered back with a smile.

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“Damn, people fought to get this off of movie screens in India? It wasn’t even risqué or anything!,” Meenakshi exclaimed an hour and 48 minutes later. 

“I know, right?!,” said the other patrons of the cafe. 

“It’s definitely not outwardly scandalous in terms of vulgarity, but it was interpreted as sacrilegious since it flips around the tale of the agni pariksha (trial by fire) in the Ramayana. Instead of Sita going through the flames to prove her purity and devotion to her husband, Radha embarks on that fiery journey to escape her arranged marriage and run into Sita’s arms,” I set the record straight.

“Ohh, I see,” my peers nodded their heads over the context I provided.   

“Damn, what are you, Wikipedia or something? Like, have you seen this movie before or do you practice Hinduism?,” Meenakshi seemed dumbfounded.

“No and nope! But I did read a film study on Fire by Shohini Ghosh. It was really good but kind of weird having read it without actually watching the movie, which is why I’m here. My very white but wonderfully gay and cultured professor recommended that book to me,” I said, looking outside. The sun had started to go down by now. 

“I have a professor like that, too. I remember reading Jhumpa Lahiri for the first time in college. I like how she tells the stories of ordinary people who don’t get a lot of fanfare or attention or anything. I’m fascinated by the mundane details of daily life and what trudging through them reveals about the human condition,” Meenakshi looked directly into my eyes. The other people in the room were talking amongst themselves but I couldn’t hear them at all.

“Now that you mention it, that’s exactly how Fire hits for me. Sometimes I think we stay trapped in the prisons we’ve found ourselves in because it’s easier to reinforce the bars than to break out of them. I mean, my mom is still going through the motions of a loveless arranged marriage. Ammu and Abbu see each other every day yet they’re not really seeing each other. They’re complete strangers who met three days before their wedding. I wonder all the time what it would’ve been like if she traded that long, quiet suffering for the short, intense pain of crawling through the fire and making it out to the other side. I guess I’ll never know.” The words just poured out. Meenakshi had sparked something within me.

“I get it, man. ‘Cause then the kid has to carry all the weight of uncertainty, fear, people pleasing, and whatever the fuck else so the prison just gets rebuilt on and on, forever and ever until—”

“Thanks again for coming guys! We’re closing up for the day. Everyone start shuffling out and hopefully we’ll see you again soon,” the cafe owner announced.

Meenakshi and I went outside. “Tell you what, let’s cross the street,” she led the way and I followed. It just made sense like that. She was older, taller, and her shaved head was badass. Plus her makeup looked even fiercer in the glow of the moonlight.

We continued giggling and trauma-dumping over a slice of cake and some milkshakes. 

“Let’s start heading back to your place.” I made the command this time.  

We could’ve walked much faster. We were gay and on a sugar high, after all. But we took our sweet little time and never ran out of things to unpack together. 

“Bend down and smell the roses,” Meenakshi instructed as soon as we touched down at her apartment. I stayed silent as I took in​ the aroma, getting so close that I could feel the wet petals tickle my nostrils. 

“Vengeance, fragility, socialism, love, or secrecy? If roses are a metaphor for life, what are you going to make of yours?,” Meenakshi gave her parting words before fading away into the dark of the night.