Caramel
by Sivan Katerinakis
I gazed into my washroom mirror. The white walls surrounded me in the reflection. I saw my eyes, brown like mud. Framed by large eyebrows and lengthy eyelashes. My hair, black and bushy. Those traits I got from my Indian mother. But my bony facial structure, my big nose, and my pale lips are from my Greek father.
And my skin, a mix of brown and white to make a shade similar to peanut shells, empty and unnecessary. I got compliments on it all the time, especially by my cousins on my dad's side. “I sit in the sun for hours just to look slightly like you,” they would say. I had never realized it was anything important until people told me about it. It was always just flesh, nothing more.
“Priya, we have to leave for Krishna’s house!” my mom called up.
I checked my watch, which read 7:00, just about dinner time. I took one final look in the mirror before going to get my coat. I pulled on my boots and ran to the car, my feet crunching snow along the way. My dad sat next to my mom in the front, so I sat in the back with my brother George who, naturally, was playing on his phone.
The route had become second nature at this point, since we go to Krishna’s for dinner every weekend. Her mom, my Auntie Lekha, grew up with my mom in India, and they reunited after they both moved to Canada. Krishna and I had grown up together, and only became closer when the weekly dinners became a habit.
When we entered their home, the wonderful smell of spices of all kinds embraced me. I gave Krishna, Auntie Lekha, and Krishna’s sister Padma a hug. Then we made our way to their dining room, where we sat down together at the long wooden table. A variety of dishes made up of different flavours were sitting there in multicoloured bowls, waiting.
As we started to eat, I noticed a dish I couldn’t recall the name of. It was made of potatoes and onions, surrounded by a circular, hollowed out piece of fried batter.
“Auntie, what is this called?” I asked.
“Panipuri,” she replied.
“Paan-ee-poo-ree?” I said, enunciating every syllable.
“No, it’s PAH-nee-poo-ree” Krishna corrected, chuckling. “You’re so white-washed.”
My eyes widened and my jaw dropped slightly, but I quickly tried to cover up my shock, my mouth shut tight. But even though no one could see my feelings, sadness had turned my stomach into a knot. I really had not been expecting that.
The words, so little, had stung like winter winds blown into my face. Everyone else had already moved on, the kids talking about their school; the adults, recent politics. I just stayed silent. I did not say anything for the rest of the meal, as we left, or on the drive home.
When we arrived back, I went directly to my room. My mind was racing. I laid on my bed, staring at the ceiling as a wave of utter desolation overtook me. “Why do I even exist?” I whispered to myself as I curled up under the snow-coloured blankets on my bed, my face buried in a pillow.
Finally, the feelings I had been trying to hide all evening emerged. I allowed the despair to seize hold of me. My whole body felt weighed down with guilt. Large, salty tears poured from a tan face onto the white bedding, invisible. I sobbed quietly, careful not to wake anyone else up. Eventually, despite everything going on in my head, I fell into a deep slumber.
The next day, I woke up, heart still heavy. It was practically noon, but despite those numerous hours of sleep, I had hardly any energy. This state of misery had drained it from me completely. I forced myself out of bed, even though it felt pointless to do anything. To my surprise, I could hear the distant playing of music coming from outside my door. I made my way down the stairs, and walked to the kitchen. Just as I was about to enter, I stopped in the doorway.
There were my parents, slow dancing in the middle of our kitchen. The radio played “What Do I Do” by Sam Phillips. Arm in arm, hand in hand, they swayed slowly back and forth. It was as if they were in their own little world that simply belonged to them and only them. They held each other's gaze, and they both had the same huge goofy grins on their faces, expressions of pure love.
My dad raised his hand, still intertwined with my mom’s, and spun her around. Her orange sari twirled with her, the pink embellishments swirling. She laughed with complete joy. Light streamed in from the window, seemingly creating a spotlight on the couple. My father's blue eyes glinted in the glow, almost as bright as his smile.
They continued dancing as if nothing mattered. In that moment, time had simply stopped. A beautiful celebration of two completely different cultures, coming together to create the most wonderful thing of all: love.
Suddenly, it was as if the weight I had been dragging was lifted off my shoulders. The sadness evaporated just like puddles do on sunny days. And it was then I had a realization. Those two amazing people—one Indian, one Greek—had brought me into this world. That complete adoration had made me, a mix of the two of them, a girl fabricated from compassion.
I slowly walked backwards away from the kitchen, not wanting to interrupt them. I continued down the halls without a noise. Once I got to the stairs, I ran back up to my room. But when I reached for my door handle, I realized it was not there that I needed to go. I kept going down the hall to the washroom. I entered and shut the door.
I forced myself to slowly take a look in the mirror, just as I had the day before. I saw my eyes, brown like chocolate. Framed by thick eyebrows and long eyelashes. My hair, dark and plentiful. Those traits I got from my Indian mother. But my sharp facial structure, my strong nose, and my pink lips were from my Greek father. And my skin, a mix of brown and white to make a colour resembling caramel, gold and sweet. There I was in the mirror, an Indian-Greek girl, with a small smile etched on her face.