by Saumya Dave
BERKLEY
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
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Copyright © 2020 by Saumya Dave
Readers Guide copyright © 2020 by Saumya Dave
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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Names: Dave, Saumya, author.
Title: Well-behaved Indian women / Saumya Dave.
Description: First edition. | New York: Berkley, 2020.
Identifiers: LCCN 2019059243 (print) | LCCN 2019059244 (ebook) | ISBN 9781984806154 (trade paperback) | ISBN 9781984806161 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Mothers and daughters—Fiction. | Indian women—Fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3604.A9424 W45 2020 (print) | LCC PS3604.A9424 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019059243
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019059244
First Edition: July 2020
Cover art and design by Farjana Yasmin
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Acknowledgments
Readers Guide
Discussion Questions
About the Author
To Samir, for making every day an adventure and giving me the space, inspiration, and encouragement to write.
Prologue
Nandini
1989
Nandini, please think before you speak. Please. We need things to go well today. This is our only chance.” Mami fastens another row of safety pins into Nandini’s sari. Even one slip of fabric could mean disaster.
Nandini nods. “I know.”
She does know. She knows her family’s reputation depends on how she behaves today. She knows this is her only chance to fix everything she did last year, everything they’ve tried to forget.
“They’ll be here any minute. I’m going to make sure the chai is ready.” Mami puts the extra safety pins onto the wooden dressing table, next to a bottle of Pond’s talcum powder.
Ever since the incident, Mami was frantic when people came over to their house. Her energy was contagious. Their maid, Kavita, peeled ginger and cut mint leaves at record speed. The man who delivered vegetables scurried in and out of the house with trays of okra and bell peppers. Even the monkeys that roamed the trees outside their bungalow jumped from branch to branch as though they were in a rush.
Mami knocks on the bedroom door. “They’re here. Come out when I call you.”
“I will.” Nandini ignores the warm, tight dread that’s looming over her chest. She can’t let her thoughts race today. She won’t.
Nandini takes one last look into her mother’s chipped dressing-table mirror. Her hair is smoothed down with coconut oil and tied into a low bun. A silk peach sari is draped around her thin frame. Her large, almond-shaped eyes are lined with kohl. Three gold bangles are on each of her wrists. She looks like the type of woman who has nothing to hide.
Beads of sweat erupt on her forehead. Nandini dabs them with a tissue and turns on the ceiling fan. She takes deep breaths, the way her therapist—her therapist nobody except Mami knows about—taught her.
She pictures taking her past, putting it into a box, and shoving it under the bed. Just like that, and it would be out of sight. Gone. But time has shown her that this isn’t possible, that the past isn’t like an old journal she can hide. No, the past has blades and will rip her to shreds if she doesn’t handle it properly.
Nandini sneaks into the kitchen. From here, she can make out her parents’ voices.
“Nandini loves music,” she hears Papa saying.
“That’s nice. And Ranjit wants a doctor, so that’s good,” Ranjit’s mother says, as if her son isn’t sitting right next to her. “But does she cook?”
Nandini presses her bare feet against the smooth, cool stone in the kitchen. Everywhere she looks, there’s food. The counter is covered with tiny steels bowls of roasted peanuts, onions, and cilantro. Biscuits that Papa dips into his tea are arranged on a silver platter. An assortment of chutneys is on the small, wooden side table.
“And has your daughter, uh, learned from everything before?” Ranjit’s dad asks.
They know about what happened, Nandini thinks.
Of course they do. Everyone in this part of India heard about what Nandini did. There were people who made sure of it. Shame coats her in waves, a shame she’d tried hiding from but couldn’t. It lodged itself into her organs and never went away. It became part of her DNA.
“She is ready to move on,” Papa says.
He’s been getting short of breath just by speaking now. His ankles are always swollen, and every time he walks, there seems to be a weight across his shoulders.
“Nandini!” Mami yells.
Nandini takes a deep breath. She is supposed to walk in slowly, with her head down, her facial expression neutral.
Everyone is quiet as Nandini comes into the living room. Black-and-white photos of her grandparents are hanging on the walls, with garlands around them.
“Hi, beta,” Ranjit’s mother says.
Nandini nods. She catches Mami giving her a look of approval. She sits between her parents and gives one-word answers to all the questions from Ranjit’s parents. Yes, she likes cooking. Yes, she would like to have children. No, she has no concerns about moving to America. Of course she will be able to take care of her in-laws.
It takes everything she has to be docile and demure. An hour passes this way.
Just when she thinks that the guests are getting ready to leave, Ranjit clears his throat and speaks for the first time. “Do you think we could sit outside together? Alone?”
Nandini raises her eyebrows in surprise. Is this allowed? She turns toward Mami and Papa.
Mami speaks before Papa can. “I think that’s fine.”
Nandini guides Ranjit to the wooden swing on her parents’ veranda. They sit down, and she’s hyperaware of everything. The small distance between them. His thick mustache. The way the warm breeze spreads his scent of Pears b
rand soap and talcum powder. His clean feet, with trimmed toenails and a smattering of hair on his big toe.
It has been so long since she’s been this close to a man. The last time, she found herself overcome with a consuming self-hatred. Never again, she told herself then. Never again will I let myself be put through this.
“You’re not like other women I’ve met,” Ranjit finally says.
Nandini faces him. “That’s probably true. Listen, I know you’re looking to get married to someone more tradit—”
“What are you trying to say?”
She looked him deep in the eyes. “I’m difficult. You won’t be able to handle it.”
He chuckles. “I like that you’re difficult.”
Nandini soaks in the lines around his eyes, the kindness of his smile. Is this man accepting her? Why? She isn’t sure about any of that, but she is sure about one thing: there’s something comforting about him, something safe.
An hour later, they go back to the living room and join their parents. There will be no diamond ring like the American movies they’ve watched, no requests for a private date. There are just their parents, enjoying cups of chai. But that is enough. The message is clear. And by moving to America, by uprooting her life and letting go of everything that is familiar to her, she will make sure things will be different for her children. They can have the types of romantic relationships that are based on a true connection, not a need to survive. She pictures her future self hearing about their first dates, and later, their happy, easy marriages. All of that makes this worth it.
Mami and Ranjit’s mom hug while the fathers shake hands. They all walk out of the house together, discussing plans for a small, religious wedding ceremony.
Ranjit turns to smile at her when he’s helping his mom get into a rickshaw.
Maybe the past could be put away after all.
Simran
2018
The first thing Simran hears is *NSYNC blasting through the speakers.
“What have you gotten us into now?” Kunal laughs; first at her, then at everything around them.
Roosevelt High School is transformed for their five-year reunion. The entire space is the perfect mixture of nostalgic and ridiculous. Banners reading, WELCOME, GRADUATES and REUNION in shimmering red and blue letters are hanging from the tiled ceilings. Teal lockers are covered with stickers of their mascot, Tim the Tiger. The posters haven’t changed. Some are inspirational quotes with pictures of eagles or waterfalls; others warn against the dangers of drug use. The air smells the same: a mixture of sharpened pencils, Elmer’s glue, and sweat.
“You’ll have fun. I promise.” Simran rubs the sides of her forehead. She shouldn’t have had that extra glass of red wine last night. Luckily, the thump of “Bye, Bye, Bye” is helping her forget about her headache. Boy bands would always have the power to distract her.
“I believe you,” Kunal says, raising his voice over Justin Timberlake’s. “And you were right before. It’s nice to get away.”
It’s clear. Her boyfriend needs a break. The first year of medical school has been even more grueling than he thought it’d be. His days are filled with a steady stream of worry and work. Work and worry.
“I just want you to relax. You deserve it,” Simran says.
She’s going to talk to him tonight about all of it, her growing worry about his lack of sleep, his preoccupation with his student loans, how he barely has time for himself, let alone them. She still doesn’t know how he’ll receive her concern. Kunal is, among many things, proud. It’s one of her favorite things about him, his certainty in himself, in his future, in everything. But it also means that he doesn’t always know when to make a change.
Kunal leans toward her and kisses her forehead. “You always make sure I do. I really don’t know what I’d do without you.”
Simran and Kunal’s classmates are in clusters around them, taking selfies for social media and exchanging blurbs of their lives. Some of them gained weight. The popular girls have started getting their first Botox injections. Others exchange pictures of their babies. Simran can’t believe there are people she graduated with who are real parents.
Josh, one of their classmates who is now an Instagram influencer, approaches them.
“You two! Still so cute together,” he says. “The real-life Cory and Topanga from Boy Meets World. You make the rest of us—especially the ones stuck in online dating Hell—sick.”
Kunal smiles, giving a sudden softness to his usual serious disposition. “We’ll take that.”
Josh pauses to take an impromptu selfie. “Are you both planning to stay in New York for the long term?”
Simran nods. She gives Josh an update about Kunal’s first year at NYU Med and her master’s in psychology program at Columbia. A wave of gratitude washes over her for this being her life, her choices. She and Kunal are on the cusp of real adulthood. Together.
If anyone had asked Simran at sixteen what she thought her life would be like now, she saw herself traveling and creating and jumping from place to place. Even when they were at NYU, while she floated in and out of classes, devouring novels and articles, Kunal went to the library on campus every night to study. He had a plan. He always did. Simran preferred to live in the moment and not worry so much about what was ahead. She would have never believed that all these years later, her favorite moments would still be when she wore pajamas and ate pizza with her boyfriend, when she felt simple and still and at ease.
Once Josh walks away, Kunal points to a glass display that’s filled with trophies, medals, and photos from school events. “Look, it’s us.”
Simran follows his gaze to a professional photograph of younger versions of them from senior prom. They’re wearing big, glittering crowns to match their big, glittering smiles. Kunal’s expression in the photo is a mixture of pride and amusement. He hated wearing a tux, much less a crown and sash that read PROM KING in bright blue letters.
“Look how young we look.” Simran takes note of their acned cheeks. “We’ve been together so long.”
“I know. It goes by so fast. This picture is unreal,” Kunal says. “Remember how I picked you up at your house and we were so nervous about your parents?”
“God, dating behind their backs was so scary,” Simran says. “I’m glad that part of our lives is over. But then again, sneaking around was kinda fun. It made me feel like some sort of rebellious Bollywood heroine. You know, taking a stand, living on her own terms.”
“You would say that.” Kunal shakes his head in amusement. He glances at the picture again and scans Simran in her gold, shiny dress. For weeks, she had begged Mom to buy it from the sales rack at Macy’s. Mom didn’t see the point of prom—or any school dance, for that matter. School dances didn’t exist in India. School is for studying, she’d said. Not thinking about boys.
“You’re so beautiful.” Kunal wraps his arms across Simran’s waist and then sneakily grabs her butt.
At first, the picture seems to cheer Kunal up. But then he slips back into himself for the rest of the day. He’s quiet while Simran and the other graduates cheer during the pep rally that’s in the gym, with its basketball hoops, shiny floors, and hooks on the ceiling where Simran used to climb the dreadful rope. She notices he doesn’t laugh during the presentation of everyone’s old yearbook photos. (Simran’s photos seemed to be about hair or the lack of it: the frizzy locks on her head, thick eyelashes, her threaded eyebrows.)
She tells herself that he’s stressed because of school, that they’re in the midst of an adjustment period. They’ve gotten through plenty of them before and will now.
“Let’s get back to the city before dinner,” Simran says. “I’m sure you have a lot of studying to do.”
“Yeah . . . that sounds good,” Kunal says.
“Are you okay?”
Kunal gazes at her. “I’m fine.”
“Are you sure? You seem preoccupied.”
Kunal sighs. “I’ve got a lot on my mind.”
“I can tell. Let’s just head back. Get out of here.”
Kunal nods. “Okay. But before we go, can we walk through the main hallway again?”
They pass through crowds of their old classmates. Kunal gives them polite nods while Simran asks them about what she’s seen from their lives on Facebook. The speakers are now playing a series of Usher songs.
Kunal stops once they’re at their old lockers. “They still look the same.”
“They do. Just as beaten up as ever.” Simran glances at them. They have the white residue of peeled-off stickers.
But on a second glance, she notices there’s a sticker with their names on it. “Hey, wait, our names are still on here.”
“They are?”
“Yeah . . . how is that possible? We haven’t been here in five years.”
“I don’t know,” Kunal says. “Do you think these are still being used?”
“They must be,” Simran says. “I wonder if they’re actually locked.”
She fiddles with the black combination lock. “It’s open.”
“I wonder if there’s anything inside.” Kunal stays behind her.
As the door swings open, it takes Simran a second to register the velvet, maroon ring box in the back corner of the locker.
“Look, there’s a—” Before Simran can finish her sentence, Kunal reaches over her to grab the ring box.
When she turns to face him, he’s bending down on one knee.
“Wait, what are you . . .” Her voice fades as she slowly registers what is happening. Is her mind playing tricks on her? Her boyfriend is on one knee? It can’t be real.
But it is real.
This is it, a voice in her head says. This is what you’ve always dreamed of.
“Simran, ever since you stopped me on the lacrosse field, I haven’t been the same. You’re the reason I’ve been able to accomplish anything. You inspire me every day, and I feel lucky to even be in your life. I know I’ve been acting weird lately, but it’s because I wanted—needed—this to go well. . . .”
