by Saumya Dave
“That’s strange,” she says. “That actually looks like my fiancé’s mom.”
“Really?” Neil asks, stretching his neck to get a closer look. “Do you want to step out and say hi?”
Kunal’s mother, Meghna Auntie, and Simran have spoken several times since he’s left for Africa. She pictures Meghna Auntie’s face if she saw her here with Neil. No, thank you.
“No, no.” She shakes her head. “I doubt that it’s her. She never comes into the city. Usually stays at home.”
Meghna Auntie thrives off domesticity; the kind of woman who gets excited about a sale at the grocery store so that she can cook more for her three sons, an ideal candidate for a wife during Simran’s parents’ generation. It’s a matter of time before Simran will be expected to call her “Mom,” something that still seems forced but yet is another part of her heritage.
She hears her own mother’s voice: The relationship with the man’s mother is very important.
Once an Indian woman is married, she’s expected to embrace her husband’s family as her new one. Her mother-in-law becomes a dominant force, and pleasing her might even hold more importance than pleasing her husband.
While Meghna Auntie sometimes seems like the opposite of her mom, Simran can’t help but think that her future mother-in-law also finds Simran’s ways inadequate, her preference of books over boiling vegetables, candor over compliance, a dramatic contrast from what she would have picked for her son if they lived in India, where parents have a heavier hand in their children’s choices.
“You know,” Neil says, “you and your fiancé should go to this place called Marta. It’s mainly pizza, but they have good dessert, including a cannoli cheesecake.”
She makes a mental note of the place—to pass on to Sheila, Vishal, or her family—but refrains from telling Neil that she and Kunal probably won’t go there. Besides Kunal’s general apathy toward trying new restaurants, his busy schedule and financial constraints don’t allow him to truly take advantage of New York.
They saunter outside, and Neil makes a comment about the pleasant weather.
“Yeah. Ice-cream weather,” she says, thinking of the way her father used to make her feel better about the weather by equating it with something she liked. Hot chocolate weather. Good book weather. Long nap weather.
She gazes at the now-closed street carts, the empty bus stop, and the stacked black trash bags on the sidewalk. Certain corners of New York pacify around this time, while the sky balances day and night. Her favorite element of this hour is the apartment lights turning on, each one its own wink of comfort. People share sparkling cocktails at outdoor tables.
While they stand at the corner of Thirteenth Street and Second Avenue, she rummages through her tote for her phone, which is somewhere in the abyss of her massive handbag. There’s a text on their family group chat from her mom: Simran, we need to run through the list of potential wedding photographers tonight. They get booked very fast and if we don’t do this soon, we may have to get one of those terrible ones that makes every picture sepia-toned.
Of course, the text goes on with more anxious concerns, but she stops reading and tells Neil she’ll take a cab home. He walks to the corner and raises his arm. She forgot how lean his body was. It’s fit, with a defined collarbone and flat stomach, but not nearly as full as Kunal’s.
As a van cab slows down, she gives Neil a full hug (no handshake) and thanks him. He shakes his head and smiles before sliding the passenger door open for her. They linger against the cab. She wishes she had more days like this with people like Neil.
When she sits inside, he leans in and softly kisses her cheek.
“I had so much fun,” he says.
“I did, too,” she says, wishing she could brush her finger against his cheek. Instead, she finds herself stretching out of the cab and into another hug, this one tighter than the last.
“I’ll see you soon, hopefully,” she says with a sigh, wishing she didn’t have to go home. She presses her cheek against his for a split second.
From the corner of her eye, she notices someone standing outside the restaurant, facing her and Neil. She stretches her neck to get a better look. Her breath freezes.
Meghna Auntie.
She’s standing with Kunal’s brother, Mehul, with an expression on her face that anyone else might call serious but that Simran knows is angry. Livid.
Shit.
Simran steps out of the cab with one foot, considers saying hi first. But Meghna Auntie shifts her weight onto her heels and turns in the other direction, as though Simran was someone she didn’t even recognize.
Simran stands at the corner with Neil, not knowing where to go. Guilt isn’t always in the form of an upset stomach or elevated pulse. Sometimes it’s the smooth texture of a truffle or as light as a drained bottle of cereal milk.
Nandini
“You’re the doctor?” Sarah, a twenty-year-old new patient who came in for her annual physical, squints her eyes at Nandini.
“I am.” Nandini extends her hand. “Dr. Mehta.”
Sarah offers a weak laugh, as if to give away her own embarrassment. “Oh. Nice to meet you, too. I thought you were just the nurse.”
“No, you were with our nurse five minutes ago. Our very hardworking, smart nurse,” Nandini says to make sure Sarah knows “just the nurse” is an unacceptable phrase. “And I’m the doctor. Your doctor. Nice to meet you.”
Though her words are poised and polite, there’s a palpable firmness underneath them.
“I see.” Sarah shakes her head. “I’m sorry about my, er, confusion.”
Nandini nods. After all the years Nandini’s spent studying, all the patients she’s tested and embraced and saved, she is still questioned about being a doctor on a daily basis. Never mind that medical school classes now have more women than men. Never mind that she got the highest board scores in her class.
She’ll never forget the words from her first attending in residency, a chubby Russian man whose thin strip of hair provided a feeble attempt to cover his bald spot: “You have a lot going against you. First, you’re short. Second, you’re Indian. Third, you’re an immigrant. And last, you’re a woman.” He held up four sausage-like fingers to indicate how many traits she had to work against. Four, as if he was simply making a grocery list and not breaking down her identity.
Her phone rings as she listens to Sarah’s heart and lungs. It rings again as she tests her knee jerk reflex with the smooth, silver hammer. When she reaches into the bottom right pocket of her white coat to silence it, she sees five missed calls.
Meghna Ben has called her five times.
What could be so urgent? She almost apologizes to Sarah but notices that Sarah’s too absorbed in her own iPhone to even notice Nandini’s distraction.
Nandini steps into the cramped hallway that always smells like a mixture of antiseptic, pus, and the metallic tang of medical instruments. Her next patient, Melissa, is already checked in. She’s in her standard outfit of a short skirt and crop top. She’s also over three hundred pounds. Professionally, Nandini knows she’s supposed to counsel Melissa on the importance of routine exercise and a healthy diet. Personally, Nandini is in awe of Melissa’s self-confidence in the midst of a world that promotes women hating their bodies.
She waves to Melissa. “I’ll be with you in a couple of minutes.”
Melissa waves back and displays a fresh acrylic manicure. Nandini steps into the storage room that’s filled with forever-needing-to-be-shredded patient files and broken office chairs.
If she doesn’t finish Sarah’s appointment soon, she’ll be behind for the rest of her day. Her clinic books the doctors in fifteen-minute appointment slots. Nandini’s supposed to make every patient feel comfortable, cared for, and examined without even having time to review their medical records, let alone ask them about their lives. She never has
time to eat breakfast or lunch. Often, when she’s struggling to write notes at the end of the day, she remembers labs she forgot to order, doctors she didn’t have the chance to consult with.
Nandini still doesn’t know how the other four family medicine doctors do it. Their boss, the medical director of the clinic, meets with them monthly and pushes them to be “more efficient” and “a better team player,” all phrases that are code for “make the clinic more money.” When Nandini was hired, she asked why the female doctors made less than the male ones. He responded by asking her if she was going to go part time “the way all the female doctors do.”
Nandini clutches her stomach. She always has a pit of dread when her alarm goes off and she pictures the exhausting day unraveling in front of her. Every morning, she tells herself to stop feeling sorry for herself and start accepting reality. This is what her days look like. This is her life. There is no use dwelling on its difficulties.
It’s just that . . . she didn’t see her career turning out this way. In residency, she enjoyed making study guides for her co-residents and explaining complicated protocols to the interns. People told her she had a talent for teaching. She always saw herself as her own boss, splitting time between guiding residents and managing a private practice where she could spend quality time with each patient.
But after Ranjit set up his own private practice to see his surgery patients, there was no way for Nandini to establish a space of her own. Every day, a family member or friend needed her to look at their sprained ankle or recommend cholesterol medications or ask her what to take for a sore throat. She tried to discuss the situation with her husband, but his silence was enough. It was expected for her to take care of other people before cultivating her own ambition. Working for a larger clinic close to their house ensured she would have stable, predictable hours and be available whenever anyone needed her.
Over time, Nandini understood the difference between how people saw her husband’s career and how they saw her own. He was allowed to be consumed by his job. If he made it to Ronak’s baseball game, people lauded his devotion to his children. If she did the same, they accused her of not being focused enough on her career.
She stares at her phone again. What could this possibly be about? Did something happen to Meghna? To Kunal? Are they upset about the venue that was picked? Do they hate the photographers?
Nandini ignores the twisting in her stomach. Stop catastrophizing. While she was being treated for the postpartum depression only Mami knew about, Nandini started having panic attacks. First, they happened only in the hospital, but after a few months, they would catch her off guard throughout the day. She felt herself falling into an abyss, losing touch with her surroundings as her breathing shortened, her legs gave out, and she was convinced she’d die.
Her therapist taught her about how to control her thoughts when they spiraled out of control. Look at rational evidence. Focus on her breathing. Try to stay in the present.
Since then, a dormant panic continued to linger inside of her, intertwined with her spine or hooked below her sternum. She pictures it now, a collection of energy anchoring and growing roots. A threat.
She finishes seeing her last patients of the day and walks to the front desk to fill out billing forms.
One of the clinic nurses, Lila, stops her in the hallway. “I’m sorry, Dr. Mehta, but two people showed up, and they said they have to see you.”
“Me?” Nandini asks. “Are you sure?”
“I am. They’re asking to see you as soon as possible.” Lila gives her an apologetic smile. “Hopefully it won’t take too long.”
Nandini always appreciated the way Lila gave difficult news. She wasn’t sure if it was her purple-and-pink-flowered scrubs or big, Julia Roberts–style smile, but Lila could always say things in a way that made people feel comforted.
Her phone rings. Meghna again.
Nandini peeks into the waiting room and sees Ranjit’s brother Rajan. He’s sitting with a man Nandini doesn’t recognize.
“Hi,” he says when she walks toward him. “This is Arjun, my classmate from India. He’s visiting us for the week and wanted to talk to a doctor.”
Of course, she thinks. Of course you feel you can show up to my place of work and have my time the second you want it.
Just say no, a voice inside of her urges.
But she knows she won’t. As much as she thinks of herself as a woman who speaks up, she knows that at the end of the day, she gives into guilt, into what’s expected of her. And there’s no way she can do anything that would look bad when her daughter is getting married next year.
She makes a mental promise to finish the appointment as quickly as possible, call Meghna back, and go home.
Nandini clenches her fists and makes sure she’s still smiling. “Of course. Let me take you back to one of the rooms.”
As she predicted, Arjun wants to discuss his parents’ medical history and asks if Nandini has medications she can give him to take back to India.
After Rajan and Arjun leave, Nandini goes into her office. She brightens her phone screen. Her finger lingers over the name. Meghna Patel. A well-behaved name for a well-behaved woman. If they were both attending a Bollywood soap opera casting, Meghna’s heavier build and conservative salwar kameez would make her a shoo-in for the part of “nurturing housewife who makes twenty rotlis a day,” while Nandini’s white coat and under-eye circles would land her the role of “bitchy mother who chose to work full-time.”
Meghna picks up before the phone even rings.
“Meghna Ben, how ar—”
“Nandini Ben, I just saw your daughter.”
Meghna’s voice has a combative undertone. What happened to the quiet, docile woman Nandini saw just weeks ago?
“Oh, I see. Were you in the ci—”
“She was with someone. And I mean, WITH SOMEONE.”
Nandini tries to keep her voice down. “Could you clarify what you me—”
“YOUR DAUGHTER WAS HUGGING AND KISSING ANOTHER BOY IN THE MIDDLE OF THE STREET!”
Nandini presses her chapped hands against one of the broken chairs. This has to be a mistake. “Meghna Ben, you need to calm down. Now.”
Silence.
“Are you sure you saw Simran?”
“OF COURSE I’M SURE!”
A surge of anger, humiliation, and sadness starts to build in Nandini. But she squashes it. “Okay, Meghna, I’m sure there’s some sort of explanation. I strongly suggest that you take a couple of seconds to collect yourself.”
She hears Meghna take a deep breath, then another.
“Now,” Nandini says. “What exactly did you see?”
Meghna describes Simran, wearing the dress that’s Mami’s favorite, and the other boy.
As Meghna speaks, layers of panic mesh together until they form a weight Nandini can no longer ignore. She collapses onto the broken chair. It’s the boy from the party. She doesn’t even need any more description. It’s him. She’s sure of it. What is Simran doing? Why would she be so self-destructive? And at a time like this?!
The tingling in her fingertips returns as Meghna says, “If these are the values your daughter was raised with, then I don’t know if Kunal will be able to handle it.”
That’s it. This woman needs to be put in her place. “Excuse me, are you suggesting that Ranjit and I raised Simran to do this? That is completely inappropriate.”
Ranjit would tell her to calm down. The bride’s side is never supposed to create conflict with the groom’s. Even though the bride’s family is paying for everything, the groom’s side still holds the power and needs to be deferred to.
“All I’m saying is that children learn how to behave from their parents.”
“I think it’s best that I hang up the phone now, Meghna.”
“Hopefully, you’ll call your daughter.”
She hangs up the phone.
Years ago, in a part of India she’ll never visit again, a man made her feel small. Insignificant. After that, she learned all the ways a man could try to take her power. There was the senior resident who grabbed her butt every morning (when she tried to report him, she was told “that’s just the way things have always been”). There was the boss of the first medical practice she applied to who told her that to be accepted, she had to socialize with them at strip clubs. There were the countless men at national conferences who freely commented on her appearance as if she existed solely for that.
But this was different. Different from all those men and even the women who had gossiped about her over the years. This was a fellow mother doubting her. Doubting her daughter. And she wouldn’t let that continue.
She just had to figure out what the heck was going on with Simran.
Three
Simran
What were you thinking?!” Nandini barks to Simran just one hour later.
One hour. Meghna Auntie probably called her house before even boarding the damn PATH train.
“I wasn’t thinking anything, Mom. I was hanging out with my friend.”
Friend. That’s what she can almost call him. He’s no longer someone she just read about in the paper.
Despite her tone, Simran’s heart is still racing as she occupies a corner of a park bench. What exactly had Meghna Auntie seen? More importantly, had there been anything to see?
Her phone beeps with a text message.
Neil: It was really nice seeing you today. Keep me updated about your work!
A text from Neil? How is this happening? She ignores the excitement sprouting in her chest. She and Neil are now texting.
