American Betiya

He’s my mother’s worst nightmare. His intricate tattoos and the way he’s been covertly studying me from across the gallery would give her palpitations for sure. Dude does need some manners, I think as he stashes away several damaged portfolio sleeves before glancing over again. Avoiding his gaze, I turn to arrange my glossy artist’s statement cards. Seriously. Who is this guy? I take a long swig from my water bottle and at- tempt to refocus.
It’s my first-ever Gallery Night opening, and I’m still in shock that I was invited. My photographs-the ones I took with my grandfather in India last summer-pop against the burgundy walls. Artwork is hung floor to ceiling, and modern sculptures on pedestals are strategically placed and uplit like deities. I submitted my photos to this student art show on a whim, and amazingly, they were chosen. Framed, polished, and practically art, they’re gleaming images of India that I can’t stop looking at, despite having seen them a thousand times before.
Across the room, the guy’s eyes flicker to me again, and I flush when he catches me looking. I pretend to study a nearby sculpture. If only I could lurk behind my camera lens, I’d avoid all this nonsense. I need to recenter: I am calm. I am confident. I am legit. A fresh stream of gallerygoers comes pouring through the double doors, and I brace myself, flashing my brightest smile: some of them I know a little too well.
Close family friends I call my auntie-uncles spill in like a wedding baraat minus the horse. A sight in the prim atmosphere-a crowd blinged out in jewel-toned saris and yellow gold-they’re Indian Standard Time late but quickly make themselves at home. Calling my name, they come barreling into my corner, the aunties shrieking as they kiss and hug me, the uncles raising their glasses in a toast, having al- ready somehow descended upon the nearby refreshments. Eyes flicker to us, some shining in wonder, drinking in the scene, and others bemused, like we’re a comedy.
I love these guys, but God.
“Proud you’re showcasing our India with these photos, Rani,” Veena Auntie says, chucking me under the chin while making a smooching sound. “Goodness knows we need more representation in the arts.” Veena Auntie is my artsy auntie she’s a potter when she’s off dental duty-and probably the only one who gets the magnitude of my being here. I squeeze her hand.