Tara Ahuja's Golden Rules

1: Never Discuss Boys

We claimed that my father had died from diabetes, but he actually committed suicide as a result of me. You didn't hear it from me, however, since the Ahuja family would never divulge that knowledge.

Being the youngest girl in a Punjabi family comes with certain benefits and tons of drawbacks. It is impossible to mistake the culture's entrenched misogyny for anything else.

I assume you understand what I'm referring to. The nonsense about "serving men first," "cleaning up after men", and "expect nothing except total disrespect and contempt from a male." It's all bullshit if you ask me.

Being the youngest girl in a Punjabi family is hard work. Only a select few are chosen for that role because it requires work that not everyone is suited for. In my agonizingly long eighteen years of existence, I've discovered that these households often have one golden, unwritten, unbreakable rule that must be adhered to.

Never discuss boys.

Well, until you reach "marrying age," which is in your late 20s. It is highly forbidden before that and would only bring shame to the family. As it did, mine.

With the little knowledge I've given you up to this point, hopefully you can put two and two together. Bravo if you have. If not, don't panic; hopefully as we continue on, everything will become more evident. This shit show has only just started.

Higher education is an unquestionable value held by the Ahuja family and by the majority of Punjabi families. Which meant that, in my circumstances, attending college was a necessity rather than a choice. Which I had no arguments over, though; I also loved education.

Though I am sure he would never say it to my face, I was aware that my brother secretly despised the fact that I would be attending the same college as him in just one week. And it's not due to the typical sibling rivalry or self-consciousness issues. It was akin to the Ahuja family's golden rule.

Never discuss boys.

And, boy, would there be a lot of boys there. New boys. A lot of them.

And, yes, my brother cared about that, a lot, actually. After my father passed away, my brother Ajit annoyingly and needlessly assumed his role. He wasn't a cool sibling, (to whom I could confide my secrets), but rather he was another parent, stricter than my actual parents.

As for my mom, the best word to describe her would be absent. I'd share meaningless encounters with her on the weekends or at nights. She asked about school, grades, and friends, being mindful of the golden rule, of course.

My mom did reside with us, but after my father passed away, she really devoted herself to her career, disregarding everything else. We weren't that close before, so it wasn't too horrible.

So, yeah, being an Ahuja can be really fucking lonely. Especially being me, Tara Ahuja. My brother is an overbearing father; my dad is gone; my mom and I hardly communicate. Not to mention, the two friends I had moved across the country for college. I mean, both of them moved together. Even among my own friends, I was the third wheel. They always seemed closer to each other, despite the fact that I loathed to accept it.

These forces, I suppose, might be thought of as the catalyst for the Big Bang in my life.

Even now, everything feels bleak, like a life filled with dread and destined for unhappiness, but I have to keep telling myself that there is still hope. There was college. It was only a few days away. My brother had no control over this aspect of my life. Maybe it would be a new chance at life. New friends, new experiences, new... boys?

God, at times, in my family it felt like liking a boy was the ultimate sin. If that was the case, then I was the ultimate sinner, because I had liked tons of boys. The thing is, I (almost) never acted on it. Well except for that one time... of course.

Things were going to change, though. They had to. Life was just too fucking lonely. I wouldn't go about it in a dumb way this time, though. If that meant pulling undercover schemes to get around my brother, so be it. I was sick of living this dull life.