For the first time in five years, I belonged to a gang of friends again. On my way back from lectures and tutorials, I would stop by each of their rooms to check in, chat, make plans. On weeknights, two or three of them would pile into my room under the pretense of studying together. That usually ended with our textbooks stacked on the floor and used as makeshift tables to hold nail polish or takeout food. The day after essays were due, when no one felt like working, we would go out to a pub or the college bar to chat with other students, or cram ourselves into a twin bed to watch a movie on someone’s laptop.
I never went anywhere by myself. Even a routine trip to the grocery store felt more exciting with friends, getting their thoughts on shampoo brands and recommendations on frozen meals. When Yasmin needed new bras, we all tagged along and couldn’t stop laughing at the middle-aged dads on my security team trying to figure out where to stand in the tiny lingerie shop. They were supposed to keep eyes on me at all times, but eventually decided it was acceptable, in this particular case, to wait outside on the street.
We were hanging out in Anisa’s room one night when I opened my email to see a message from the Hindu Society. “Oh my god! The members-only pre-sale for the Diwali Ball is open,” I announced. “We should all go together! Say yes and I’ll get the tickets right now.”
“You’re in the Hindu Society?” Yasmin asked.
Cora laughed. “Remember when I told you she went wild at the Freshers’ Fair? It would be easier to list the clubs she didn’t sign up for.”
Most Oxford societies and colleges host balls every year. They begin with a fancy dinner, then live music and dancing until the following morning. I was dying to go to one, and the Diwali Ball, with its promises of an Indian food buffet and Bollywood music, sounded perfect.
Three weeks later, everyone gathered in my room to touch up their hair and makeup before we left for the ball. Anisa, Cora, and Hen opted for elegant strapless gowns in satin or crepe. I’d spent a lot of time perfecting my look: a black dress with sheer sleeves covered in sparkly beaded flowers and a headscarf with little pearls around the hem.
When Yasmin arrived in a sari, I thought she looked beautiful, but Anisa was not impressed. “Your pleating is all wrong,” she said.
“It can’t be!” Yasmin moaned. “I followed every step of the YouTube tutorial!”
“Yaz, I’m literally Indian. Let me fix it.”
Re-draping the sari—and a mad scramble for safety pins—took an hour, which meant the party was in full swing by the time we arrived. I felt lightheaded and giddy as soon as I stepped into the ballroom. Spotlights had turned the cream-colored walls of Oxford Town Hall into a pink and purple fever dream and the ceiling was covered in twinkly stars. Everywhere I looked, there were women in electric-blue lehengas and cherry-red Anarkali suits; gold bangles cascaded up and down their forearms, rattling as they danced. Onstage, a DJ was spinning Bollywood and bhangra hits with occasional Western pop interludes. The music was so loud I could feel it in my chest like a second heartbeat.
“Let’s dance!” Hen shouted.
“We just got here, and there’s a whole other room to see. With food!” I replied.
“You can eat anywhere—I’m hitting the floor!” And then she disappeared into the pulsing crowd.
The second room had a live band playing Indian folk and classical music, henna stations where guests were getting their hands painted, and a large buffet. As we picked up our plates, I realized we’d lost Yasmin. I scanned the room and saw a tall guy in a suit hovering over her, talking a mile a minute. “Poor Yaz, that guy won’t let her leave,” I said. “I’ll go save her.”
Cora put her hand on my arm to stop me. “Check out her face,” she said. “Not sure she wants to be rescued at the moment.” I put on my glasses and saw that Yasmin was smiling and running a hand through her hair. We’ve been here five minutes! How did she already find someone to flirt with?
After dinner, Anisa and Cora joined Hen on the dance floor. I wandered around the room, taking it all in. After a few minutes of eavesdropping on a group of women discussing South Asian soap operas, I took a step closer and said, “Mind if I join you?” We spent almost an hour cracking up over the ridiculous plotlines—vengeful daughters-in-law, reincarnated husbands who come back as six-year-old boys, random nuclear bombs in corner stores. “It’s like, I fully realize how absurd a show is, but then I’m also crying?” one of the women exclaimed.
A little after midnight, my friends finally got tired of dancing and were ready to go. Anisa went to find Yasmin, returning to report that she was at the bar, chatting it up with some boys, but would find us soon. Twenty minutes later, Anisa stomped off again and came back with an apologetic Yaz in tow.
This excerpt from Malala Yousafzai’s ‘Finding My Way’ has been published with permission from Atria Books.