Page 99 of TJ Powar Has Something to Prove
“No.” TJ sighs. This is so embarrassing now. “He got hacked. He didn’t even see that post.”
“What?” Chandani’s eyebrows fly up. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, we talked about it—”
Chandani waves this away impatiently. “Are you back together?”
“We were never— Shut up!” TJ hisses, even though the room is too loud for anyone to have overheard. “I amnotdiscussing this here.”
Piper brightens. “We can talk about it tomorrow. We need to tell you about the game, too. Sunday brunch?”
They haven’t had brunch in such a long time. The temptation is strong. But TJ thinks about a certain yet-to-be-composed email and shakes her head. “I have somewhere to be tomorrow.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
***
TJ switches position for the fifth time in as many minutes. She’s not used to sitting cross-legged on the floor for lengthy periods of time, unlike the rest of this congregation. She’s sweating and the fans on the ceiling are too high up and spinning far too lazily to help.
But not even her foot repeatedly falling asleep can detract from the experience of sitting in the grand hall, with its high ceiling and expansive space that make the music echo in the most ethereal way. It’s Sunday morning, and for the first time in years, TJ is spending it at the gurdwara.
On the stage sits Simran, with a lute-like stringed instrument in her hands. She holds it with the conscious, deliberate touch of someone new to playing it. The sound is lovely and haunting, unlike anything TJ’s heard, yet still familiar.
The woman beside Simran accompanies with a harmonium, and a young boy on the tabla on her other side. And when Simran opens her mouth to sing... TJ has to take a second to process it. Her voice is—there’s no other word for it, because the perfect one comes to mind immediately—beautiful.
Maybe there’s hope for the word after all.
Simran’s eyes flutter closed as she sings, her fingers dancing lightly along the strings, head tilted, easily sitting cross-legged like she was born to be here—she’s so clearly in her element,more than TJ’s ever seen anywhere else. Despite not understanding the words, TJ can’t look away from her skill.
When Simran’s finished, there’s a hush over the crowd as the next person moves into place to start their own performance. TJ feels indescribably, undeservedly proud of her cousin.
She waits until the morning’s proceedings are over—after parshad has been served, and people are drifting downstairs for langar—to tentatively approach Simran. She hesitates, because Simran is surrounded by people, the musicians she was playing with and members of the congregation, both young and old, and most of all people TJ just doesn’t know well. The longer she lingers on the fringe of the crowd, the more uncomfortable she gets. Maybe she should just go. Maybe Simran would hate TJ intruding here for no reason... making everything about her once again.
Just as she’s turning to leave, her masi passes by her, doing a double take. “TJ?” she says, quite loudly, drawing a few stares. Then she seems to get ahold of her shock. “How are you?” she asks in Punjabi. “Come have langar. It’s so good to see you here. Where’s your mom?”
“Uh, it’s just me and Dad today.” And he’s already disappeared downstairs.
She doesn’t realize how her masi was holding her breath until she visibly deflates. “Of course. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“She was tired from work yesterday,” TJ says awkwardly. At least, that was the reason she gave when TJ invited her.
A shrug. “Sure, sure. Come downstairs and eat.”
“Actually, I was hoping to talk to Simran first.”
“Well, I’m right here,” a voice says from behind her. TJ turns. The crowd has cleared in the time TJ was talking to her masi, and now Simran’s standing there, her hands clasped calmly in front of her. Her expression is inscrutable.
TJ’s masi looks between them. “I’ll see you downstairs.” And then they’re left alone.
TJ clears her throat. “I saw your email. Glad you liked... the tea.”
She instantly wants to slap herself, but Simran smiles. “Oh. Yeah. Thanks for that.”
A smile is good, right? Maybe TJ’s been imagining Simran avoiding her at school lately. She racks her brain for anything intelligent to say as the silence stretches. “You’re an incredible musician.”
“Thanks.” Simran doesn’t sound surprised to hear the compliment. She’s probably gotten it before.
“Seriously. Your voice is beautiful. You should record albums or something.” TJ pulls her chunni higher over her head, cringing internally at her own words. She clears her throat. “That stringed instrument—did you learn that at the music camp?”