Red and Green

I’ve never seen so many Bengali people in the same space before, and for a moment, I’m not sure if I should feel happy or worried. But then I hear Priti’s voice, loud and commanding, breaking through the crowd of people.

“We have to have the red and green color scheme. No other color scheme is going to work!”

“Hi . . .” I interrupt Priti‘s aggravated conversation with a girl who looks a little taken aback by my sister’s passion for color schemes. “I’m Nishat, Prit’s sister.”

“Apujan, you have to tell her. A red and green color scheme is the only one that works. I mean . . . it’s a Bangladeshi festival,” Priti says adamantly. Ever since she decided to volunteer for the Bangladesh Association Ireland, Priti has become very passionate about a lot of things I didn’t realize people could be passionate about.

“I didn’t say no to the color scheme,” says the girl Priti has clearly been harassing for quite a while. She even gives me a smile, like she doesn’t want to kill my sister right now. “I just said I have to run it by my Dad.”

“I thought Mr. Khan said that I would be reporting to you,” Priti says, like she’s trying to catch this girl out.

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have to approve all the decisions, Priti,” the girl says. “If it was up to me, I would greenlight your idea already.” She shrugs, before adding, “I’m sure my Dad will too. You just have to be . . . a little more patient.”

Patience is definitely not Priti’s forte, so before she can start protesting again, I decide to step in.

“I hear that you needed more volunteers this weekend,” I say. “So I’m here. And I brought . . . my friend, but . . .” I glance over my shoulder, trying to find Flávia among the crowd of people. It shouldn’t be that difficult. We’re in a crowd full of Bangladeshi people. Flávia’s darker complexion and head full of curls should stick out clearly. But it’s not like there aren’t a lot of Bangladeshi people with skin just as dark as Flávia’s—or even darker—and hair that curls just like hers.

“We do need volunteers,” the girl says, her smile brightening somehow. “I’m . . .” she hesitates for a moment, like she’s forgotten her name. “Hani.”

“Nishat,” I repeat.

“She can run a henna booth,” Priti says, putting her hands on her hips with a little too much confidence.

“What?” I turn to her with a frown, but she’s not even looking at me. Like I’m not a key part of running my own henna booth.

“You can do henna?” Hani asks.

“Well, yeah but—”

“She’s amazing! She has her own shop!” Priti says.

“I mean, kind of. It’s—”

“She almost won the Junior Business Award in our school last year,” Priti finishes off with a grin. That one is such a lie that I have to turn to glare at my little sister. She seems completely unfazed though.

“Would you be okay running a henna booth?” Hani asks. “We do really need one, and nobody else has volunteered.”

Technically, I didn’t volunteer either, but it’s probably not a good idea to point that out right now.

“Sure, I can run the henna booth. Is it . . . okay if my girlfriend helps me out with it?” I ask. “She’s not Bengali.” I add as an afterthought, in case Hani and her dad have rules about who can help out in the festival and who can’t.

“We’re taking all the help we can get, so your girlfriend is more than welcome,” she says. She hands me the clipboard she’s been holding all this time. “Just give me your info, and I’ll make sure to e-mail you all the details.”

 I write down my name, e-mail address, and phone number and hand the clipboard back to her.

“Abbu will be so excited to have your henna booth,” she says with a smile. It’s kind of a contagious smile, so I can’t help but smile back.

“And what about—”

“Yes, Priti. I’ll talk to him about your color scheme idea, and I’m sure he’ll be excited about that too,” she says. “Now, can you finish going through the boxes?”

“I guess so,” Priti says, clearly not very satisfied that her idea hasn’t been immediately approved. While Hani shuffles off, Priti begins to dig through the pile of boxes next to her.

“Why do they have you digging through boxes?” I ask.

“We’re doing the whole charity drive, so people have been donating things. I have to go through them and make sure things are still intact. Good enough to donate,” she says. “Where‘s Flávia? I thought she was supposed to come with you . . .”

“She was . . .” I glance over my shoulder once more, and finally catch sight of Flávia meandering through the crowd. Her eyes meet mine, and she smiles. I try to ignore the way her smile still makes my heart pitter patter in the most unnatural rhythms. “There she is.”

“Hey!” Flávia says, coming up to us in just a few short strides. She links her fingers with mine, the warmth of her hands immediately sending a tingle down my spine. “There are so many cool things here. Did you see the art collage they’re putting together?”

“Yeah, and they’re going to do a whole concert in Bengali!” Priti says, tossing what looks like a torn-up rag into a black bin bag. “That’s definitely not good enough to donate.”

“And Priti signed us up for the henna booth,” I tell Flávia.

“Hey!” Priti pauses, turning to me with a small glare. “I only signed you up. You signed Flávia up.”

I roll my eyes and sigh. Even though Flávia, Priti, and my friends had set up a website for my henna business, things have been slow. I guess I shouldn’t complain. I have my hands full with studying. After all, my Leaving Cert year is next year, and Ammu and Abbu are already pressuring me to think about university and what I want to study. The henna business hasn’t really been my top priority. But there’s something different about doing it in the corner booth of my Abbu’s restaurant—which is where I usually operate out of—and in a festival full of Bangladeshi people. I can’t help but think about the last time I was doing henna for so many people—it wasn’t the best experience of my life.

“What are you thinking about?” Flávia asks, giving my hands a squeeze and bringing me out of my spiraling thoughts.

“Just . . . how many henna tubes I’ll need,” I say.

“I think I still have some left over,” Flávia says with a grin. “This is going to be amazing.”

And I really hope she’s right.

The day of the festival is dreary. It’s not raining, but it’s gray. Depressing. Overcast. It looks like it might rain at any moment.

Still, Flávia and I start to set up my henna stall. Flávia strings up the brand-new banner she helped me make for my shop. It says “Nishat’s Mehndi” in bright red, and the same in Bangla behind it. There are floral henna patterns all across in a lighter orange color. It shouldn’t work, but somehow it does. All thanks to Flávia’s brilliant artwork.

“I seriously can’t wait for the food stalls to open,” Flávia says once we’re finished setting up. She’s looking behind us at the food trucks and stalls that are still setting up. I can already smell the familiar scent of spices floating above the park. Since Flávia and I got together last year, she’s become way too familiar with Bengali food, and I’ve become a little familiar with Brazilian food, too.

“I wish Abbu could have set up a stall here as well,” I say. “It would have been good advertising for the restaurant, but . . . he didn’t want to work today. He just wanted to enjoy the festival.”

“I’m sure he can set up a stall next time,” Flávia says. “Your Abbu’s food is the best, so it’s probably good he’s giving everyone else here a fighting chance.”

I bite down a grin as I think about the next time. Will there ever be a next time for this festival? After all, this year is the celebration of the 50th anniversary of our independence. It’s a big day . . . it doesn’t come around so often.

“Do you see this weather?” Priti asks, popping up behind us. She’s been here all morning, helping everybody set up. And even though she’s definitely the most energetic person I know, she looks tired already. She’s given a lot to this festival.

“It doesn’t look great . . .” I trail off, exchanging a glance with Flávia.

“As long as the wind doesn’t pick up, we should be okay,” Flávia says. Just then, as if the wind had heard Flávia and took her words as a dare, a gust of wind blows through all the stalls, ruffling banners and sending a shiver down my spine.

“As long as it doesn’t get any w—”

“Stop! Don’t jinx it!” Priti cuts off Flávia with a frown. She takes a breath. “It’s going to be okay . . . right?”

“I mean, you got your color scheme approved . . .” I say, nodding at all the green and red decorations placed all around the festival space. Even the stage at the front of the festival fits the color scheme, and a massive flag of Bangladesh hangs behind it. Nobody could mistake what this festival is celebrating—unless of course they have no idea what the Bangladeshi flag looks like. And that is a likely possibility for a lot of people in Ireland.

“Yeah, but what if nobody comes to the festival? The weather is awful!” Priti complains.

“I don’t think any Aunties or Uncles would miss this celebration just because of some clouds,” I say.

Priti doesn’t look convinced. She shares a glance with Flávia, like they’re in on some kind of secret that I don’t know about.

“What?” I ask, my gaze flickering between them.

“Nothing,” Flávia says, a little too quickly. “Just . . . I think Priti thought it would be nice if there were other people here too. Not just Bangladeshi people. Like . . . I invited my Mom, and my Dad.”

“And I invited everyone in my class,” Priti says.

“I invited Chaewon and Jess too. And . . . it would be nice if they all came,” I confess.

“Priti, there you are!” Hani shuffles up to us, looking very flustered. Her long black hair is in disarray, and she’s juggling a clipboard, pens, markers, and even a poster in her hands. There’s a girl behind her carrying an entire box of even more things. I wonder if she’s Hani’s assistant.

“We have a problem,” Hani says, stopping in front of us. “We’re supposed to get hit with a storm today.”

Priti blinks like she’s not sure she’s heard. “A storm? Are you serious?”

“I did see something in the forecast about a storm, but I didn’t think it was supposed to hit Ireland . . .” I say, glancing at Flávia. It’s not like we’re not used to getting our share of storms, and rain, and windy days. But today of all days?

“Ishu just checked the weather forecast and . . . I don’t know what we’re supposed to do,” Hani says, sounding distraught. The girl beside her—Ishu—puts down her box of things with some effort, and lays a reluctant but comforting hand on Hani’s shoulder. That seems to make her feel at least slightly better. Maybe she’s more than an assistant, then. 

“Can’t we get like . . . a big tent or something?” I ask. Everyone turns to stare at me like I’ve grown two heads.

“A tent big enough to house an entire festival?” Ishu asks with a frown. “I don’t think a tent that big exists.”

“We could get a bunch of tents!” I say. “Like . . . one tent for all the food stalls, one for people selling trinkets, another for the stage . . . ”

Hani slowly shakes her head. “It’s a good idea, but it won’t work. It takes time to rent tents for these things and we need to fill in paperwork, and there’s licenses to be handled.”

“And the tents will all fly off as soon as the storm hits,” Ishu points out matter-of-factly.

“I think we have to cancel the festival,” Hani says, casting a sad glance around everything we’ve already done to set up. My heart sinks. I can’t believe our celebration will end before it’s even begun.

Abbu and Ammu were more excited about this festival than anyone else. Both of them had lived through Bangladesh’s war of independence. They are both older than the country of Bangladesh. It’s never just been a celebration to them. It’s a part of their history. It’s a part of our history.

Now none of us will get to celebrate at all.

“Abbu’s restaurant!” I say. The idea is still taking shape in my head, slowly but surely coming together.

“Apujan?” Priti asks with a worried expression.

“We can’t cancel the festival. We need to move it!”

“To a restaurant?” Ishu asks, like she hates the existence of restaurants or something.

“It would be a tight fit,” Priti says. “But . . . it could work.”

I glance at Hani. Her dad, after all, is the one who was in charge of the festival.

“I don’t know . . .” she says. “I mean, we would need to do a lot to get set up in a completely different venue. And how would people even know about the last-minute change? And what if people still don’t come? And—”

“We’ll get the word out,” Flávia says with a determined nod. “We’ll let everyone we invited know. We’ll post all across social media. We’ll even leave a message here, so if people come here they know where to go.”

“And the restaurant isn’t far. It’s in town, close by,” I say.

“It’s better than not having any festival at all, right?” Priti asks.

“I guess it’s worth a shot,” Hani says with a deep breath. “Can you ask your Abbu if it’s okay?”

Two hours later, we’re all squeezed into Abbu’s little restaurant. The festival looks a lot different than it did out in the park, in the open with enough space for hundreds of people. Here, everyone is pressed together and there is little open space. There’s a makeshift stage at the very top of the restaurant—much smaller than the stage that had been set up in the park. And the green and red Bangladeshi flag pinned to the back of the stage is smaller too. But its colors burn brightly under the dim restaurant lights.

Each stall is curtained off, with banners displayed at the front. Every vendor has their own individual booth. People are basically on top of each other.

It should be a nightmare . . . but somehow, it’s not.

The beat of a Bengali song punctuates the humdrum of the now-indoor festival. Despite the rush in which we put everything together, people seem to love it.

“Welcome everyone!” It’s Hani’s Dad, Mr. Khan, who says this from up on the stage. Someone lowers the music so his voice carries through the mic and across the room. “I know there’s a storm raging on outside . . .” He pauses, and we can all hear the ongoing sounds outsider of the wind whoosing and the rain hammering against the restaurant. “. . . so it is amazing to have you all in here today, to celebrate fifty years of Bangladesh’s independence. Let’s begin . . . with a song.”

The music comes on again, but this time it’s familiar. The song that every Bangladeshi knows—Amar shonar Bangla. When Mr. Khan begins singing, so do the rest of us. The words of our national anthem float around the room, on everybody’s lips. Flávia looks at me with a raised eyebrow, but I just take her hands in mine and keep singing, glad that she’s here to share this moment with the rest of us.

After the national anthem and some words about our history from Mr. Khan, the festivities begin in full. A band takes to the stage and begins to sing out songs in Bengali. Every booth is crowded with people, including mine.

“Do you want to take a break from the henna stall?” Flávia asks, even though I’m in the middle of applying henna to a Bangladeshi Aunty.

“I’m a little busy, and there are other people waiting to get their henna,” I say, nodding at the woman waiting outside my booth. 

“All done!” I say to the Aunty. She untangles her hands from my fingers and looks over her hands approvingly.

“Who taught you to do henna? Your Ammu?” she asks with a frown.

“I kind of taught myself,” I say, grinning. She gives an appraising nod, pays me for my time, and shuffles off.

“Nishat is taking a little break before she sees any more customers,” Flávia says to the next person in line. “Can you come back in like . . . 10 minutes?”

The woman shrugs and slips away.

“I could have kept going,” I say as Flávia sidles into the seat beside me.

“I know, but you’ve been going for a pretty long time. You need to take a break and . . . have some food.” She pushes a paper plate of fuchka onto the table. And even though I want to be a little annoyed at Flávia for making me take a break, I can’t help that my entire expression changes at the sight of my favourite Bengali snack.

“They have fuchka here?” I ask, immediately pulling the plate close and stuffing an entire fuchka in my mouth. It’s the perfect combination of tangy and spicy.

“I wanted to get you some before they ran out,” Flávia says, observing me with a grin.

“I want some fuchka!” Priti says, appearing at the front of the booth and sliding into the seat on my other side. She’s already stuffing a whole fuchka in her mouth before I’ve even had the chance to say anything. “So good,” she mutters through a mouthful of chickpeas and spices.

“I wish we could have fuchka every day,” I say.

“Then you would get pet kharap,” Priti points out.

“I would risk it for really good fuchka.”

“Hi . . . Flávia?” A white woman stands in front us, looking very out of place in this Bangladeshi festival.

“Patricia, you made it!” Flávia says with a big smile.

“I wasn’t sure this would still be going on with the storm and everything but . . . wow,” the woman says.

“This is Patricia, a journalist for the Irish Times,” Flávia says, turning to me and Priti with a grin. “She . . . wanted to talk to you about the festival, about Bangladesh’s Independence Day.”

“Hi,” Patricia says with a smile of her own. “I’m Patricia O’Dowd. I’m very excited to hear about how this festival managed to find a home when there’s a storm raging outside.”

I’d almost forgotten about the storm. The sound of the Bengali music had definitely drowned out whatever was going on outside.

“Well, we’re not the ones who organized all of this,” I say. “I think you should speak to the organizers. They’ve been working really hard to put this thing together, to make sure we get to really celebrate Bangladesh’s fiftieth anniversary.”

“Hani!” Priti calls. Somehow, she managed to spot her through the throngs of people. Hani turns around, and Priti waves her over. “This is the girl who helped organize everything!”

“It was mostly my Dad . . .” Hani says with a tentative smile. “Hi!”

“This is a journalist from the Irish Times. She wants to cover this festival!” I say.

“It couldn’t have been easy to come up with a new plan for the festival so quickly. But you managed to turn it around.” Patricia looks around the restaurant approvingly. At all the Bangladeshi food people are devouring, at the booths selling rickshaws, baby taxis, and even mini dhols and latims. She looks approvingly at all the people, Bangladeshi and not, taking time in the middle of a storm to appreciate our little country and how far it’s come.

“Honestly, it wouldn’t have been possible without Nishat,” Hani says with a smile. “It’s her Dad’s restaurant and . . . she wasn’t willing to give up on the festival just because there was a storm.”

“And why is that?” Patricia asks me this time.

“Well, it’s not just any Independence Day,” I say. “It’s our fiftieth anniversary and . . . it means the world to all of us.”

The festival ends in the blink of an eye, and before I know it, I’m bidding people goodbye with henna stained hands. Pretty soon, it’s just me, Flávia, Priti, and the rest of the volunteers.

There’s a lot of cleaning to be done before we can call it a day, but I pull Flávia away from everyone and into my little henna booth in the corner.

“Shouldn’t we be helping to clean up?” she asks with a raised eyebrow.

“In a minute,” I say. “Did you . . . invite that journalist here?”

“Priti suggested it,” Flávia says, glancing away like she’s embarrassed by it. She definitely shouldn’t be embarrassed by it. “She thought it would be nice if the festival could get some coverage in the media. That it would help, you know, boost its profile.”

“And you made it happen?” I ask.

“My dad has some connections,” Flávia says. She glances up to meet my eyes, a dimpled smile on her face. “It’s no big deal.”

“It’s a big deal . . . we were interviewed for the newspaper! About our little festival in my dad’s tiny restaurant!”

“It’s not that tiny,” Flávia says with a grin. I take a breath to steady myself, glancing around the booth. This was where it had all started.

“Do you remember our first kiss?” I ask.

“Like I could forget,” Flávia says, reaching forward and entwining our fingers. It was right here, in this booth. Surrounded by the earthy smell of henna. It was definitely a very different time though. I had no idea what we were to each other back then.

This time, when Flávia leans forward and presses her lips to mine, it feels warm and familiar.

Ireland’s Bangladeshi-Irish Community Continues 50 Years of Independence Celebration Despite a Storm!

“It’s not the headline I would have chosen, but I guess it’s okay,” Priti says when Abbu shows us all the newspaper a few days later.

“What headline would you have chosen?” I ask. “Because I think this is pretty perfect . . . especially with that first line.”

Priti shoots me a glare. “You just think that because it’s a quote from you.”

“And it’s a good way to start off the article.”

“What I said would have been—”

“Priti, Nishat,” Ammu interrupts us with a sigh. “You both said great things in the article . . . but it’s the picture that I love the most.”

I have to agree with her. We glance at the photo in the middle of the two-page spread. The one that manages to capture the festival exactly as it was. Full to bursting with people, smiling and laughing and enjoying, with the Bangladeshi flag right there in the background. And in a corner, there’s me and Priti eating our third plate of fuchka, with Flávia and our friends. And Ammu and Abbu are beside us too. Ammu in her red and green saree, Abbu in his gold-collared panjabi.

All of us together in our celebration, exactly as we’re meant to be.