Aaron’s Trash

Nitya Gupta

An hour before the garba starts, I find a positive pregnancy test wrapped in a paper towel, buried in a Honey Bunches of Oats box. The box is tucked down deep in the trash bag, which sits square in front of my neighbor Aaron’s apartment door. On Sunday evenings, our building offers concierge garbage disposal, and all we need to do is place our trash bags outside our apartment. They’ll be gone within the hour.

I drop my Blue Bottle Coffee cup in Aaron’s trash and rush to my apartment. Priya banned coffee a few weeks ago because caffeine’s bad for you or whatever. I held out for three whole days. I’m pretty sure Priya suspects me of cheating, but she hasn’t said anything yet. Back in our bedroom, I don my dhoti kurta and run a comb through my hair. When I finish getting ready, I check the bathroom and see that Priya’s still blow-drying her hair. 

“Your hair smells burnt and we’re running late,” I tell her while scrolling through Aaron’s Instagram, although I’d know if he had a new girlfriend. We’ve worked together for eight years, since we were scrappy first-year analysts pulling one hundred-hour workweeks. To make matters worse, Aaron moved into our building two months ago. Our high-rise has over 500 units, but of course, he ended up in the one next door.

Priya glances over my shoulder. “You’re stalking Aaron? Ugh, he’s the worst.”

I exit out of the app. Priya wanders around our apartment in her bathrobe, watering our succulent collection, flicking on the electric kettle, and shuffling through the cupboard for her favorite IN MY DEFENSE, I WAS LEFT UNSUPERVISED mug. Nothing seems off with her, but I spend extra time staring at her stomach, gauging whether it looks rounder than usual. 

*

Navratri’s been my favorite time of year ever since high school. My girlfriend at the time, Diya, was the best dancer in our grade, and she taught me to focus on the underlying beat of the tabla as the guide for my movement. I lost myself in the music, finding a catharsis like none other, and emerged from Navratri a new man. (A week later, Diya dumped me because she was secretly hooking up with the pimply white boy who sat next to her in AP Calculus, but the damage was done; I officially loved garba season.)  

The night’s thick with song and dance by the time we arrive. My shoulders soften. There’s something that feels inherently right whenever I attend an Indian event. The scent of incense, sandalwood, and spices—India in its purest form—wafts faintly off our imported clothes. The mixed dialogue of Hindi and English feels like a secret code, meant just for us. At work, Aaron and all the other white guys think I’m the guy who’s good with numbers because he’s Indian. But here, we’re all the same.  

Priya tugs at her beaded dupatta and smiles at my friends, trying to keep up with our dance circle. Priya’s discomfort in Indian clothes was the first thing that stood out to me about her when we met at my cousin Manhoj’s wedding two years ago. All the Indian aunties whispered about Priya’s scandalous sari blouse that showed too much cleavage, the long string of non-brown hearts she’d broken. But I noticed the way she adjusted her duputta, as if she’d never worn one before. I’d already attended a dozen Indian weddings that season but had yet to see a desi girl look as out of place as Priya did.

“What’s Aaron doing here?” Priya asks. 

I turn around and sure enough, Aaron’s just walked in with Juhi Maholtra. She dated my friend Dhruv for a few months after we graduated college. Juhi hated how Dhruv and all his friends, myself included, were desi fuckbois who had the taper fade haircut, an obsession with Drake, and a penchant for skipping leg day. In Juhi’s defense, we were all little pieces of shit back then.

“What the fuck is he doing with Juhi?”

Aaron catches my eye and waves, heading in our direction. Priya and I step out of the dance circle, and she places her hand on my bicep to placate me, but it’s too late. I’m heated, sick of the fact that wherever I go, Aaron’s there.

“Eshaan, I thought I might see you here,” Aaron says, clapping my back.  

My eye twitches. “Hey, man. Hey, Juhi. It’s been a while.”

Juhi laughs, and Aaron tilts his head to the side. “Looks like you know everyone here.”

“I used to date Eshaan’s friend,” Juhi explains. “How do you know Aaron?”

“They work together,” Priya answers. “I’m Eshaan’s girlfriend. Nice to meet you, Juhi.”

I don’t have a right to be bothered, but it pisses me off that Aaron’s dating a brown girl. I think about the months it took Aaron to learn how to pronounce my name or the time Aaron once told our Indian client that he loves Indian food, but I’d only ever seen him order butter chicken at Indian restaurants. And now this man’s dating Juhi?

Everyone behind us cheers as a new song starts. With Aaron and Juhi in tow, we head into the sticky crowd and dance until we’re sore.

*

“This is a weird question,” I say to Priya as we flick off the lights and climb into bed later that night. “But you’d tell me if you were…pregnant. Right?”

“That is a weird question.” Her voice is sleepy. 

“I was just wondering.”

“Why?”

I shakily breathe in. “I was thinking about the future.”

Our future, I want to say. 

The thing about me and Priya is that we’re always on uneven ground. After we met at my cousin’s wedding, we ran into each other again at a bar in Denver while I was on a work trip. Aaron and I were taking our client out for late-night whiskey sours. I’d been fake-sipping on my terrible drink, feeling out of place at the upscale bar filled with old white men and bougee millennial white guys. Priya, on the other hand, turned half the heads in the bar with her whiskey neat in hand, wearing a red dress that looked like it was made for her. 

I hadn’t thought I stood a chance in catching Priya’s attention. Every time I was out with Aaron, women would always approach him, eyes skipping over me. In fact, it happened when I was with any white guy, not just Aaron. It stung worse when Indian woman did it, as if they were rejecting me because I was brown. So when I saw Priya that night, I was mentally prepared to watch her flirt with Aaron or one of the other guys there whose entire personalities were centered around drinking whiskey.

Instead, when I got up to use the bathroom, Priya was waiting in the corridor. Everything about her was enticing, from the bare skin of her shoulders to her ruby-red lips. 

“I remember you,” she said. “From Manhoj and Preeti’s wedding.”

I tried to hide my shock. “Manhoj is my cousin.”

“I liked your outfit that day.”

I frowned. “You mean my kurta?” 

“Yes, your kurta. Green looks good on you.”

I sipped my horrible whiskey sour so I could have a moment to compose myself. “I should say the same about you and red.”

“Oh really?”

Priya’s coy smile revealed what she already knew: she could have anyone in this bar. She was in her element here, and I was a dumbstruck man.

It’s the same as the way we are right now. Priya could be pregnant and leave me in the dark. All I see is what she wants me to see.

“I would tell you,” Priya whispers before rolling over and drawing the comforter to her chin. “If I was pregnant.”

*

The second night of garba season, I’m crammed in an elevator with Priya, Aaron, and Juhi. We’re all wearing Indian clothes, bangles clinking and dhoti kurtas freshly pressed. 

“Which garba are you heading to?” Juhi asks Priya.

“The one at Chelsea Piers.”

“Same for us! Should we share an Uber?”

“Sure,” Priya responds politely before mouthing an apology to me.

I clear my throat and turn to Aaron. “Oh, are you bringing Pepper?”

Aaron’s mini-Pomeranian puppy is resting in his arms, eyes blinking sleepily. I’ll never admit it, but I fucking love Pepper. I melt every time I see his little butt wiggling down our hallways for his evening walk.

“Roger’s going to watch Pepper. Isn’t he such a great boss? Always willing to go the extra mile for us.”

Aaron scratches Pepper’s ears, and Pepper nuzzles into his touch. It’s weird seeing Aaron act affectionately. He’s the kind of man who worries about his protein intake and eats the same bland lunch every day: a kale salad with grilled chicken breast, dried cherries, and pine nuts. 

The elevator dings open, and Roger’s waiting in the lobby. He looks confused to see me, but masks it quickly.

“Eshaan, I should’ve known you’d be attending the garba too,” Roger says.

I force a smile. The other day, Roger gave me a new client, even though I’m already juggling three. I asked why, because the client’s a tech startup and I specialize in healthcare. Roger said he just thought I’d get along well with their senior leaders. Turns out half their leadership is brown guys. Funny how I was brown to him then, but not now.

I wonder what it’ll be like for mine and Priya’s kids, whenever we have them. Hopefully all the Rogers of the world will be retired and drinking scotch on their yachts by then.

*

“Is it okay if I skip tonight?” Priya asks on the third night of Navratri. “I’m sorry. I’m exhausted, but you’ll have all your friends there so it shouldn’t be too bad.”

“To be honest, I don’t want to go either.” 

“Did I do something? I thought you love garba season.”

“No, it’s not you.”

“Is it Aaron?”

“I guess so.”

Priya sits next to me on the couch, bundling herself in our battered afghan. My mom crocheted it for me before I went to college. The poor thing’s been through hell, tattered at the seams and splotched red with wine stains, but I still bring it to every apartment I live in.

“Do you ever wonder if the next generation will be less fucked than us?” I ask.

Priya’s silent for a moment. “You already know that I grew up in a white suburb. We didn’t have a whole Indian crew like you had in Michigan. And have here.”

I nod.

“It sucked. But there was some good to it too.”

“Like fitting in better?”

Priya straightens. “Do you remember when we went to Dhruv’s wedding in the spring? And you had to help me tie my sari because I’ve never done it by myself?”

“For the last time, I didn’t mean to stab you with the safety pin.”

Priya doesn’t smile like she normally does when I bring that up. “Can you imagine me as one of those women with a closet full of Indian clothes and matching jewelry?”

I picture the sleek monochrome dresses and delicate jewelry in our walk-in closet. It looks nothing like my mom’s closet, filled with rows of ornate saris and gaudy necklaces.

“I like having the option of not being that woman. And it’s easier to be that way here, as an Americanized Indian.”

I’d never thought of it that way. 

“You’ve never asked me, by the way,” Priya says.

“About what?”

“If I want kids.”

I pause. “Do you want them?”

“I’m not sure.”

We spoon carefully that night, as though it’s our first time in bed together.

*

“What do you think about Aaron?” Juhi asks me on the fourth night.

I chew the inside of my cheek to stop myself from saying anything snarky. “We’ve worked together forever.”

“He told me that after we saw you on the first night.” Juhi raises an eyebrow at me.

I shake my head at her. “I’m not going to lie…I’m sorta surprised you’re with Aaron.”

“Why, because he’s not a desi fuckboi?”

“Fuck you,” I say, but I’m smiling. “Seriously though, he doesn’t strike me as your type.”

“I could say the same thing about Priya.” 

Juhi tilts her head in Priya and Aaron’s direction. They’re standing in the corner, taking a break. Aaron leans down to say something to Priya—a joke, a comment about me, a criticism of the garba?—and she lets out a hearty laugh. He’s wearing a dark green kurta, but the color washes him out, accentuating how he’s one of the few gora people at this event. They’re both outsiders in this setting, watching us from the outskirts.

Juhi strikes her dandiya sticks against mine, and we spin in circles. The back of my neck drips sweat, and I’m off-beat, the sound of the tabla too faint for me to hear.

*

On the fifth night of Navratri, Priya works late. Normally her corporate communications job has flexible work hours, but at the end of every quarter, she stays past dinner to help with her company’s earnings call.

The close of the quarter means I’m stuck at work too. My overeager first-year analyst, Lakshmi, needs caffeine based off the dark circles under her eyes. I take her to the Starbucks in our building and swear her to secrecy, because the last thing I need is Priya’s disappointment on breaking our caffeine ban, again.

Aaron walks past us in line. “Oh hey, Lack-smi,” he says, flashing her a bright grin. 

“Hi, Aaron.” She cringes when he butchers her name, but quickly smiles back. 

“I heard you did a terrific job on the Pullman briefing. Nice work!”

He fist-bumps Lakshmi, which she limply returns. 

“It’s actually pronounced Luck-shmi,” I tell Aaron.

“Oh,” Aaron says, frowning. “Fuck, I’m so sorry. Luck-shmi?” he says, testing out the syllables on his tongue.

“That’s perfect,” she responds. 

“Luck-shmi. Okay, it won’t happen again.” Aaron shakes his head, angry with himself.

 “Thanks, Eshaan,” Lakshmi whispers after he leaves. “He’s been saying it wrong for months.”

*

Nights six and seven pass similarly: we get dressed, meet Aaron and Juhi outside their apartment, and then Uber to the garba together. Juhi and I dance while Aaron and Priya stand off to the side near the trays of ladoos and halwa, with the old uncles and aunties and their rickety knees. 

The more I see Aaron and Priya together, the more anger ferments in my gut. Every time I glance over, he’s leaning down to talk to her, and she’s stretching on her tiptoes to meet him halfway. Juhi doesn’t seem to mind. She’s been dancing freely, limbs loose and relaxed, the sweat making her hair go wild. I wish I could be carefree like her, like I used to be. 

But my attention keeps pulling back to Aaron and Priya. They’re both here because they have to be, not because it makes them feel alive.

*

On the eighth day of Navratri, Priya comes home weeping. 

“What’s wrong?” I ask, shutting my laptop. I’ve spent all day fixing the financial model Lakshmi messed up. It’s my fault. I was too distracted with my clients to give her guidance. 

“You didn’t hear the news?” Priya asks. “At work?”

“I don’t think so?”

“Pepper died in his sleep.”

“What? When?” 

“This afternoon.”

Aaron and I were supposed to meet at 1 p.m. to discuss the new client Roger forced on me, but Aaron rescheduled at the last minute. I didn’t think much of it at the time.

“Wait, how do you know?”

“Juhi texted me last night.”

“Why didn’t she text me?”

“Do you have her number?”

I grab my phone to check my contacts. “I do.”

“Well…you’re not the closest to Aaron.”

I frown. “Even if I hate him, he’s still my coworker.”

“You know, you’re so judgmental of Aaron,” Priya pauses. “But he’s not that bad.”

I grit my teeth. “You’re right. Because he’s the worst.”

Priya reaches out an arm to calm me, but I shrug out of her reach.

“You’re such a dick.”

“I’m just telling the truth.”

As Priya chews her nail, I realize our conversation isn’t about Aaron at all.  

“Is something else bothering you?”

Priya sits on the couch, pulling the afghan over both of us. “I’m pregnant.”

My head jerks back. I tug at a thread fraying from the blanket to steady myself. “Do you want to keep it?” I ask, trying to keep the hope out of my voice. Our future feels closer than ever before. 

“Do you think we’d be good parents?”

I’m quiet for a long time, reflecting on Lakshmi’s whispered “thank you” from the other night and Aaron’s genuine apology. Do I want any of that for my kids? Maybe things will get slightly better in the future, but still, will they end up like me, an outsider almost everywhere?

“Eshaan?”

“Hmm?” I tip my head down to meet her gaze. 

Priya’s cheeks are stained with mascara. “I’m trying hard with this garba stuff, but I really don’t want to go tonight. Maybe not ever again.”

“Okay,” I say. “That’s okay.”

I tell Priya I’m heading to the gym to clear my mind. But before I realize what I’m doing, I stroll past Equinox and into the Target next door. 

In the baby section, I inspect the tiny baby shoes, tiny socks, tiny onesies, tiny pajama pants, tiny dresses, tiny overalls. It’s not until I see a tiny peach frock decorated with monkeys that I picture our baby with Priya’s bright eyes and delicate nose. Thick, curly hair and milky smooth skin.

I pick up the peach frock and walk to the checkout line. The woman in front of me is rocking a small baby in her arms. She’s Asian, and her partner’s white. Both women watch their baby as it gurgles happily, and I recognize the tender expression on their faces. It’s the same way Aaron looks at Pepper. Looked at Pepper.

I buy the tiny frock and stash it in my gym bag. If not for now, then later.

*

“Do you need something?” Aaron’s in his pajamas, wearily blinking. 

I’m standing at his front door, too early in the morning for a socially acceptable visit. Priya was right yesterday; I was being a dick. I suck in a breath. “I’m really sorry about Pepper.”

We’ve worked together for eight years, and in that time, I’ve learned how Aaron only drinks tea on Mondays; every other morning he drinks black coffee. I can tell when Aaron’s fake laughing in client meetings because he opens his mouth wide, tips his head back, and crinkles his nose, but if he truly finds something funny, he laughs quietly, mouth closed. I understand why Aaron secretly fixes his first-year analyst’s mistakes, because it’s the same reason why I do: we want something better for the new kids instead of the bullshit we deal with. 

But I’m at a loss when he starts crying.

“Pepper was a good boy,” I say, and a tear leaks out the corner of my eye. “The best.”

Aaron slumps his head on my shoulder, and on the final day of Navratri, I hold the man I cannot stand.